Chapter Six
Charlotte examined the methodically arranged household accounts spread before her.
Two weeks of careful study had revealed much about the estate’s operations, but numbers alone could not capture the pulse of her new home.
Each column of precise figures represented real lives, real needs, real responsibilities that now rested partially in her hands.
The thought both thrilled and terrified her.
In her father’s house, she had observed his management style with keen interest, but observing was not the same as doing.
Now, as Duchess, her decisions would affect hundreds of lives.
The weight of that duty pressed against her chest, making each breath feel momentous.
She had thrown herself into this with great determination, for it distracted her from thoughts of William – and the continuing distance between them.
Perhaps, if she could achieve something here, not only would it help their tenants, and the estate, but it might bring her closer to William.
She ran her finger down another column of expenditures, her mind drawing comparisons with similar entries in her father’s books.
The Earl of Westbridge had always emphasised that estate management was as much about people as profits.
‘A happy tenant is a productive tenant’, he would say, his eyes twinkling as he reviewed the quarter’s accounts.
Would William see it the same way? Their argument over the Morris cottage still stung, not just because of his dismissal of her concerns, but because of the glimpse it had given her of the burden he carried.
Six years of struggling to restore Alverton’s prosperity had left deep marks on his character, showing in the tightness around his eyes whenever money was discussed.
“Mrs Walden,” she said finally, setting aside a ledger with careful precision, “I should like to make a more thorough inspection of the tenant holdings today.”
The housekeeper looked up from her own work, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes held a spark of interest.
“Of course, Your Grace. Shall I have Thompson ready your mare?”
“Not today.” Charlotte rose, smoothing her muslin morning dress as she considered her approach.
A formal riding party would create barriers between her and those she wished to understand.
“I believe we might learn more on foot. I would ask that you accompany me – I know that this is not a task that a Housekeeper would normally be expected to take on, but your long knowledge of the place and the people…” she looked at Mrs Walden hopefully, and when the woman nodded, went on.
“A groom can accompany us, naturally, but I wish to speak with the tenants directly.”
Mrs Walden’s eyes held a glimmer of approval that warmed Charlotte’s heart. In the weeks since her arrival, she had come to value the housekeeper’s quiet wisdom and deep understanding of Alverton’s complex social fabric.
“Very wise, Your Grace. The people are more likely to speak freely when not overwhelmed by ceremony. Though perhaps...”
She hesitated, and Charlotte recognised the careful way that she chose her words – the same diplomatic care that had helped smooth countless small difficulties in these early weeks of Charlotte’s tenure as Duchess.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps a simpler gown might be advisable? The lanes can be quite dusty, and I do believe that you wouldn’t wish to alarm the tenants with too fine an appearance.”
Charlotte nodded, grateful for the tactful guidance.
In her eagerness to understand her new home, she had almost forgotten how her position might intimidate those she wished to help.
Her father had always stressed the importance of making tenants comfortable enough to speak honestly about their needs and concerns.
“Indeed. Sarah can help me change into my blue walking dress. Will you be ready in half an hour?”
As she climbed the stairs to her chambers, Charlotte’s mind raced with possibilities.
This walk could be more than just an inspection – it could be her first real chance to establish herself as more than just William’s wife.
The thought of him brought a familiar flutter to her stomach, a mixture of attraction and frustration that she was learning to live with.
In her dressing room, Sarah helped her change with practiced efficiency. As the maid’s deft fingers worked at the fastenings, Charlotte studied her reflection in the pier glass.
The blue walking dress, though of fine fabric, was subdued enough not to emphasise the distance between her station and that of those she meant to visit. Yet it still maintained the dignity her position required – a delicate balance she was learning to navigate.
“The blue ribbon for your bonnet, Your Grace?” Sarah suggested, holding up two options. “It’s more practical than the silk.”
“Yes, perfect.”
Charlotte smiled at her lady’s maid’s understanding. Every detail mattered in establishing the right tone for these visits. Her mother had taught her that a lady’s appearance should always be appropriate to the occasion, neither too grand nor too simple for the task at hand.
The thought of her mother brought a familiar ache to her chest. How she wished she could seek her counsel now!
Lady Westbridge had been beloved by their estate’s tenants, known for her practical compassion and careful attention to their welfare. She would have known exactly how to approach this delicate situation. But her mother was gone, and Charlotte must find her own way.
As Sarah pinned her hair simply beneath her bonnet, she squared her shoulders, drawing strength from the memory of her mother’s example.
She selected a practical reticule rather than her usual beaded bag, tucking in a small notebook and pencil for any observations she might need to record.
Mrs Walden awaited her in the entrance hall, her own dress as precisely proper as always.
Thompson stood ready at a respectful distance, his livery immaculate, despite the casual nature of their planned excursion.
Charlotte noted with approval that he had chosen to wear his simpler everyday uniform rather than the more formal attire sometimes required.
The morning air held the first hints of autumn’s approach as they set out along the estate’s main path.
Charlotte breathed deeply, taking in the mingled scents of ripening wheat and late summer flowers.
Her father had taught her to read the health of an estate in such details – the condition of the crops, the maintenance of the hedgerows, the general atmosphere of the place.
Their first stop was at the dairy, where Charlotte immediately noticed something amiss.
The dairymaid’s cheerful greeting seemed subdued, her movements lacking their usual brisk efficiency.
As Mrs Bennett demonstrated the morning’s butter churning, Charlotte studied her more closely, noting the reddened eyes and slight tremor in her hands.
The sight stirred memories of her mother’s careful attention to their own estate’s servants.
Lady Westbridge had always insisted that a gentlewoman’s duty included attention to the welfare of those in her care.
‘They give us their loyalty and labour’, she would say.
‘In return, we owe them more than just wages’.
“Is all well with your family, Mrs Bennett?” Charlotte enquired gently, trying to strike the right balance between concern and authority.
The dairymaid’s obvious distress worried her, but she must be careful not to seem like she was prying.
“Yes, Your Grace. Though...” Mrs Bennett hesitated, her hands twisting in her apron. The gesture reminded Charlotte painfully of her own nervous habits when facing William’s stern disapproval. “My youngest has been feeling poorly these past few days. Nothing serious, I’m sure.”
Charlotte exchanged a glance with Mrs Walden, reading similar concern in the housekeeper’s expression.
“Perhaps Physician Morton should look in on the child?”
“Oh, no, Your Grace!” The dairymaid’s protest came quickly, tinged with both pride and fear. “We couldn’t possibly trouble His Grace’s physician for a simple childhood fever.”
“Nonsense,” Charlotte said firmly, channelling her mother’s gentle authority. “The health of Alverton’s people is very much our concern. Mrs Walden, please make a note to send word to Physician Morton this afternoon.”
As they continued their rounds, visiting the home farm and several outlying cottages, Charlotte’s initial concerns deepened into genuine alarm.
At each stop, she observed similar signs of illness – pale faces, lingering coughs, children confined to bed.
The pattern was too consistent to ignore, and each new case added to the weight pressing against her heart.
Most troubling was their visit to the Morris cottage, where Tom and Mary Fletcher lived with Mary’s mother, Widow Morris.
The roof’s condition had worsened since Charlotte’s first ride past, and now she could see how the damp affected the family’s health.
Mary Fletcher’s infant daughter fussed in her cradle, her small face flushed with fever, while her mother hovered anxiously nearby.
Charlotte’s chest tightened at the sight.
The baby’s crying held that peculiar weakness she remembered from the year that influenza had swept through their village at home.
That outbreak had claimed three lives, including the baker’s wife, despite her father’s prompt action in summoning physicians and providing care.
“How many others are ill?”
As she walked between cottages with Mrs Walden, her mind raced with calculations of what might be needed. The estate’s carefully managed finances could surely stretch to cover medical care, but would William see the necessity?