Chapter Seven
Later that afternoon, Harbury spent time reviewing the estate records in his study while Cassandra finished dressing for their visit to Townsend farm.
Since returning to Harbury Hall to be wed, he’d developed a better understanding of the way his staff worked in seamless cooperation.
Sally, for instance, was far more aware of her mistress’s needs and schedule than himself, as Marsden was his.
Even now, when his wife was ready, she would tell Sally, Sally would tell Marsden, and then Marsden would tell him.
Although Harbury had never pondered the details, he supposed the staff had always functioned this way.
On more than one occasion, he and Adrian had tipped his father’s valet to forewarn them when his parents would both be occupied.
Far easier to execute covert and often reckless adventures when his father’s wary eye would not be turned in his direction.
But shouldn’t a man be able to speak directly to his wife? Shouldn’t he have a sense of the cadence and flow of Cassandra’s day?
And she, his?
She’d made clear she expected him at breakfast, and he enjoyed beginning the day together. He only wished they could end the day together, too.
Though he’d been the one to suggest delaying further intimacies, the etiquette involving the doorway separating their chambers had become an increasingly difficult conundrum.
That first night, Marsden had told him Cassandra was ready for him to enter her chamber. For the sake of his future heirs, his marriage had to be unassailable, and, for that, he’d needed proof of consummation.
But surely, the whole household needn’t know every time he and Cassandra wished to be intimate.
Harbury shifted in his seat, all too aware of his ever-present, frustrated desire.
He shook his head and refocused on the task he’d set himself—going over the income and rents generated specifically by the Townsend farm.
So far, he’d discovered Towsend was the second largest tenant, and his family had been working the land for several generations.
On paper, things appeared balanced. The farm’s income, though down considerably from prior years, more than covered the recorded expenses.
Still, he hoped his visit would shade in areas of understanding that mere numbers left devoid of life and breath.
Did Townsend consider his treatment fair and reasonable? Had there been any recent issues left unattended? Had unkept promises been made? In other words, did Anderson continue to be a reliable intermediary?
Harbury would have to find some way to answer the latter question without directly asking.
Although he’d received a second anonymous letter this morning, he still felt duty-bound to give Anderson the benefit of the doubt.
Not only had an Anderson family member been stewarding the estate since his great-grandfather’s time, but the man himself had always treated Harbury with civility, even when Harbury had given Anderson very good reason to be angry.
But cracks had appeared in Harbury’s trust. The other morning, Anderson had seemed reluctant to leave the books with him.
Not a major slight, but an odd one. How much concern the slight should cause wasn’t clear.
That morning, Harbury had been tired and vexed, both by the letter’s allegations as well as the vivid memory of his father’s censure.
Harbury wanted to believe his father had been wrong.
He wanted to believe he’d a good head for business and a solid understanding of human nature. He’d need both to successfully navigate these harder times, and to resolve the questions precipitated by the letters without increasing discontent or creating loyalty factions.
Marsden entered the room through a servants’ door. “The duchess is ready to depart.”
“Please let her know I will meet her at the bottom of the stairs in the hall.”
“Shall I call for the carriage?”
Harbury considered. “I think not. I think it best to avoid ostentation.”
“Very good.” Marsden nodded.
“Have a stable hand ready Trusty and…” After mentioning the horse, his voice trailed as a sudden awareness prickled beneath his skin.
“The cart?” Marsden supplied, sending him a significant glance.
Harbury nodded grimly. “The cart.”
Yes, he’d been about to call the damned thing Viv’s cart.
Not because of any fondness, but because his father had the conveyance built so that Vivianne and Sarah could travel around the grounds on their own. At present, the cart was mostly used by servants for errands, but the name had stuck.
Memory snares of Vivianne littered Harbury Hall…more than he’d ever consciously noticed before Cassandra had arrived. Something of Viv lurked in every room, every outbuilding, every oft-visited site.
Had those memories influenced how long he’d held onto the hope she would eventually return to him?
Looking back, he’d had no rational reason for staying true to Vivianne other than longstanding infatuation—one that predated his ability to reason.
His stubborn infatuation had begun when he’d first became aware of the fairer sex.
Ten years his senior, Viv had never noticed him as a man until he’d become one in her eyes the summer before he’d entered Cambridge. However, as Sarah’s governess, she had been present—and fascinating to him—for as long as he could remember.
Slowly, he made his way to the hall to await his wife.
Viv was his past, but Cassandra was his present and future. She was unlinked to an untested version of himself he was coming to despise.
Before his marriage, he’d been occasionally reckless and well on his way to becoming permanently morose. Now, he was a husband, a responsible landowner, and God willing, a future father. The more time he spent with Cassandra, the more rooted in those values he became.
Moreover, he liked that she’d reoriented him.
He liked the man he was becoming.
Cassandra appeared at the top of the stairs. Again, she took his breath away. The sight of his wife was as cleansing as a breeze on a spring morning.
She studied his clothing as she descended. Breeches, not trousers, serviceable boots, not buffed hessians, and a simple knotted neckcloth, rather than an elaborately fashioned cravat. Her shyly flashed smile suggested she approved.
She had chosen well, too.
She wore a dress of muslin…good quality, but simple. Around her neck she’d tied an unembellished, but pristine white neckcloth. The cap beneath her sparsely decorated hat was gathered but not edged with expensive lace. On the whole, she appeared elegant and stylish but not condescending—
As she reached the bottom, he peeked into the basket she had hanging from her arm.
“What’s this?”
“Oranges from the Orangery.” She laid a hand protectively over the contents. “Calling without a gift didn’t seem the thing. So, I consulted Cook, who suggested these would be welcome. Mrs. Townsend, apparently, loves them.”
Though he appreciated her thoughtfulness, he frowned. “Why would our cook be aware of Mrs. Townsend’s preferences?”
Cassie gave him a look he’d seen often enough on his older sister—longsuffering, but indulgent. “Because she trades what she cannot use from our kitchen gardens. In Mrs. Townsend’s case, oranges for—” She stopped abruptly. “…for a certain tincture. One favored by the undermaids.”
Female concerns, he decided from her blush. “I didn’t know.”
Cassandra shrugged. “Why should you?”
Why should he, indeed. Shouldn’t he be familiar with the ways in which his household staff interacted with other parts of the estate?
Minor bartering might not make the record books, but the relationship between his cook and his tenant’s spouse struck him as essential. Longstanding, trustful exchange formed an excellent foundation for lasting relationships. He should be aware of these kinds of connections.
In fact, he should be encouraging them.
He wondered if his father had.
Unlikely.
His father had been of a strict hierarchical mind. Since bartering circumvented wages, his father would have been wary. Anything that threatened the servants’ dependence would have been treated with great misgiving.
Perhaps he had never won his father’s approbation not because he was inherently unworthy, but because he had more reformist inclinations.
And who was to say his ideas, once implemented, would be less effective?
“I am sure your gift will delight Mrs. Townsend.”
Feeling hopeful, he waved away the porter and held open the door for her himself.
As requested, Trusty—the most steady and docile stepper in the stable—had been harnessed to the Hall’s lightest and smallest gig.
Though gig, truthfully, was a generous description.
The conveyance was a little more than a well-crafted pony cart, low slung and stable, specifically designed for light, safe transportation about the estate.
“Your chariot awaits,” he said teasingly.
“What’s this?” she exclaimed.
“A pony cart.” He laid a hand on the seat. “I learned to drive on this cart.”
Soon after, he’d used his newly acquired skill to steal the cart from Vivianne when she’d been inside a shop, though revealing that attention-seeking prank to his wife didn’t seem wise.
In fact, had he ever expressly told Cassandra Lady Pennington had once lived on the estate? He’d told her he’d been in love with her. He’d told her they had planned to marry. But he wasn’t sure if he’d told her about Vivianne’s connection to Sarah and to his home.
And he couldn’t simply ask.
Bringing up his former love felt dangerous now.
Hold on a moment! Former?
“Harbury, did you hear me?”
He blinked.
“I asked who uses the cart now.”
He brought his wife into focus. “The gig’s been primarily used by staff for errands.”
Cassandra continued to gaze at him in expectation, as if he should say more. He cleared his throat. “After you suggested we take care with how we dress, I thought arriving on the farm in a glossy, ducal carriage replete with crest would also be at odds with our purpose.”
Again, her eyes lit with gratitude.