Chapter Eight #2
A knock at the door interrupted whatever admission he’d been about to make. Peters entered with a stack of urgent messages, and the moment shattered like fine crystal dropped on a marble floor.
“Your Grace, Physician Wilson requests instruction about the quarantine arrangements, and Lady Margaret asks what you wish her to do to assist...”
William’s expression shifted back to its usual businesslike mien, though something softer lingered in his eyes when he looked at Charlotte.
“Rest,” he repeated firmly. “I will manage things until you wake.”
As Charlotte made her way upstairs, she found herself remembering how he’d looked in the Fletcher cottage – strong yet gentle, authoritative yet kind. The William she’d glimpsed this night was a man she could admire, perhaps even love, if he would only let her see more of his true self.
But that was a thought for another time.
For now, she would rest, gathering strength for the challenges ahead.
They had made progress this night, not just in managing the crisis, but in finding ways to work together – it gave her hope for her life ahead, a ray of sunshine where before, things had been mostly grey.
It was, she reflected as she drifted towards sleep, a beginning. And beginnings, her mother had always said, were the most important part of any journey.
Through her window, the rising sun painted Alverton’s grounds in growing light, promising another day of trials and opportunities. But for the first time since her marriage, Charlotte felt truly hopeful about what that day might bring.
The last thing she remembered before sleep claimed her was the warmth of William’s hand on her elbow, and the way his voice had softened when he called her name.
*****
Early September 1817
The stillroom at Alverton Grange had never been so busy.
Charlotte stood amidst organised chaos as maids sorted medicinal herbs and prepared treatments under Mrs Walden’s watchful eye. The pungent scent of dried yarrow mingled with fresh mint and the sharper note of willow bark, creating an atmosphere both medicinal and oddly comforting.
“The feverfew supply runs low, Your Grace,” Mrs Walden reported, consulting her carefully maintained inventory. “And we’ve barely enough willow bark to last the week, should new cases arise.”
Charlotte made a note in her own ledger, trying to ignore the weariness that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her bones. A fortnight of tending the sick had left its mark on everyone involved in the crisis, though thankfully the number of new cases had begun to slow.
“Perhaps we might send to York for more supplies?” she suggested, rubbing her temple where a headache threatened. “The apothecary there usually—”
“Your Grace should sit down before she falls down,” Mrs Walden interrupted with the particular tone that meant she would brook no argument. “You’ve been on your feet since dawn, and it’s nearly noon.”
“There’s too much to be done,” Charlotte protested, though she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “The inventory must be completed before—”
“Before His Grace returns from his morning ride and finds his Duchess has exhausted herself yet again?” The housekeeper’s raised eyebrow held volumes of meaning. “I think not, Your Grace. The maids and I can manage the counting well enough.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to object, but movement in the doorway caught her attention.
William stood there, still in his riding clothes, his cravat slightly loosened from his morning exercise.
Something in his expression made her heart flutter – concern, perhaps, or that particular softness she’d begun to glimpse more frequently since the night they’d spent tending little Emma Fletcher.
“Mrs Walden appears to have the right of it,” he said quietly, stepping into the room. “You look pale, Charlotte.”
The use of her given name, still rare enough to send warmth spreading through her chest, suggested real worry rather than mere courtesy. Charlotte straightened in her chair, unwilling to admit to the fatigue that made her head spin.
“I am perfectly well,” she assured him, though the slight tremor in her hands as she reached for her ledger betrayed her. “There is simply so much to be done, and with supplies running low—”
“Then perhaps an extra pair of hands might prove useful?” William moved further into the room, his presence somehow making the familiar space feel different – more intimate, despite the bustle of working maids.
“I find myself at leisure this morning, and I do know something of inventory management.”
Charlotte stared at him, wondering if fatigue had begun to affect her hearing. The Duke of Alverton, offering to help count medical supplies? Surely she must have misunderstood.
But no – there he stood, his grey eyes holding that new warmth she’d begun to treasure, one eyebrow raised in silent question as he awaited her response.
“I... that is...” Charlotte gathered her scattered thoughts. “Your assistance would be most welcome, Your Grace, but surely you have more pressing matters to attend to?”
“The estate’s prosperity depends upon the health of its people,” William replied, removing his riding gloves with deliberate care. “I can think of no more pressing matter at present.”
The simple statement, delivered in his deep voice, sent an unexpected warmth through Charlotte’s chest. This was a side of William she’d seen emerge more frequently since the night at the Fletcher cottage – thoughtful, considerate, unexpectedly gentle.
Mrs Walden’s quiet ‘Very good, Your Grace’ held approval as she directed two maids to bring another chair.
The Housekeeper had witnessed their gradual shift from cold formality to cautious partnership, and Charlotte had not missed her subtle efforts to encourage such moments of cooperation.
“Perhaps His Grace might assist with the medicinal herbs?” Mrs Walden suggested. “They require careful counting, and Your Grace’s experience with estate ledgers would be most valuable.”
Charlotte watched as William settled himself at the worktable, his tall frame somewhat incongruous among the bundles of dried herbs and neatly labelled jars. Yet he showed no sign of discomfort, accepting the task with the same quiet competence he brought to all of his responsibilities.
They worked in companionable silence for a time, broken only by the soft rustle of herbs and the quiet murmur of maids at their tasks.
Charlotte found her attention drawn repeatedly to William’s hands – strong and capable, yet surprisingly gentle as they sorted through delicate stems of feverfew and chamomile.
“I had no idea that you knew so much about medicinal herbs,” she ventured finally.
“My mother maintained an extensive herb garden,” William replied, his voice holding an undertone she couldn’t quite interpret. “She believed that every master of an estate should understand the basic principles of caring for those under his protection.”
The admission startled Charlotte. William rarely spoke of his parents, and never with such quiet reverence.
“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”
“She was.” His fingers stilled briefly on a sprig of lavender. “She would have approved of your efforts here, I think.”
The praise, indirect though it was, brought heat to Charlotte’s cheeks. Before she could respond, however, a commotion at the door drew their attention.
Phillips stood there, his usual composure somewhat ruffled.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace – both Your Graces – but the supply wagon from York has arrived early. With rain threatening, we thought it best to unload immediately, but there’s quite a lot...”
“Indeed there is,” came another voice from the corridor, and Lady Margaret appeared behind the flustered groom. “Really, William, did you order half the apothecary’s shop?”
William rose smoothly from his chair.
“Better to have supplies in excess than to find ourselves lacking.” His glance at Charlotte held something that might have been apology. “I took the liberty of sending to York three days ago, when you first mentioned our dwindling stocks.”
Charlotte stared at him, warmth blooming in her chest. He had listened, then, to her quiet concerns. More than that, he had acted on them without feeling the need to inform her – not out of high-handedness, she realised, but from a genuine desire to ease her burden.
“We should help with the unloading,” she said, rising perhaps too quickly. The room swam alarmingly, and she might have stumbled had William not been suddenly there, his hand beneath her elbow.
“You,” he said firmly, “will remain seated and continue your inventory. I believe that I can manage to count boxes without requiring supervision.”
His tone held that note of command which she had once found so off-putting, but now she heard the concern beneath it. When she looked up to protest, the warmth in his grey eyes stole her breath.
“I assure you, I am perfectly capable—” Charlotte began, but William’s slight tightening of his fingers on her elbow silenced her protest.
“You have done more than enough these past weeks,” he said quietly. “Allow others to share the burden occasionally.”
Something in his voice – a gentleness she’d never expected to hear from the stern Duke of Alverton – made her throat tight with emotion.
Before she could gather her thoughts to respond, Lady Margaret stepped fully into the room.
“The clouds look positively threatening,” she announced, her dark eyes moving knowingly between her brother and his wife. “We really must hurry if we’re to get everything inside before the rain begins.”
“Then we shall make haste,” William replied, though his hand lingered a moment longer on Charlotte’s arm before he stepped away. “Phillips, get Thompson to have the stable boys assist with the heavier crates. Margaret, perhaps you might help Mrs Walden determine where best to store everything?”
Charlotte watched him take command of the situation with his usual efficiency, though there was a new quality to his leadership – less stern authority, more considerate partnership.
When had that change begun? She could not pin down the exact moment, yet somehow the cold, distant Duke she’d married had started to transform into someone else entirely.
The next hour passed in near chaos as servants hurried to unload the wagon before the threatening storm broke, yet somehow, everything stayed as it should be, and everything was unloaded quickly.
Charlotte remained at her inventory, though her attention frequently strayed to the corridor where she could hear William’s deep voice directing operations.
When the first heavy drops began to fall, she rose to close the stillroom windows. The motion set her head spinning again, but she forced herself to focus on the task. She would not prove William right about her exhaustion, no matter how her limbs trembled.
“Charlotte!”
His voice came to her, sharp with alarm, just as her knees buckled. Strong hands caught her before she could fall, and she found herself pressed against the solid warmth of his chest.