Chapter Eight
After Cassandra and Mrs. Townsend returned from touring the kitchen garden, Mr. Townsend moderated his manner. Harbury sent up a short prayer of thanks. However, as the visit went on, both wives continued to flutter nervously. And throughout the tea, they exchanged more than one covert glance.
He’d been afraid Mr. Townsend’s booming voice had seeped through the walls. Just how much had Cassandra heard? Mr. Townsend had made shocking accusations.
According to Townsend, Anderson had refused every concession requested, even those made by the most loyal and productive of tenants. Instead, Anderson had threatened every one of them with eviction in Harbury’s name.
Harbury had made Townsend what assurances he could without completely defaming his steward.
When times were hard, rumors proliferated, and tempers flared.
Anderson had been with the estate for too long, and Harbury owed him too big a debt for him to take the part of a single tenant, no matter how upstanding.
On the other hand, he could no longer dismiss the anonymous letters. The warnings appeared to have at least some merit.
He and Cassandra took their leave, and Cassandra thanked the Townsends for their hospitality, going so far as to grasp the older woman’s hand in a warm and friendly gesture.
He admired the way his wife put the people around her at ease, the way she easily facilitated conversation. She not only realized Townsend had something to say but would not speak freely with his wife present, but she had also acted to remove the obstacle.
He was grateful.
With an affectionate smile, Harbury settled his wife into one side of the cart and then climbed onto the other side. He ordered Trusty to walk, lifting on the horse’s right rein as he navigated around a bend in the road.
If Anderson was, for reasons he could not fathom, intentionally undermining him, he had even greater cause to be appreciative of his wife. If Harbury hadn’t come home when he had, the estate could be facing a much bigger crisis. Now, he’d a chance to find the problem’s source.
He was glad he’d suggested they make the visit together, even if Cassandra had overheard some of Townsend’s bile. Maybe he should also ask her opinion about the letters?
Briefly, his gaze flitted to Cassandra before returning to the road.
Revealing the letters’ existence now would also make plain his initial reluctance to take the warning seriously, necessitating, in turn, an explanation he was not yet willing to give, at least not until Cassandra was more certain of her position and her role.
And after they’d reached a resolution on the matter of bedchamber doorway etiquette.
As they reached an area of fallow, but open field, he called for Trusty to stop.
“I think we should be well out of earshot of any of the farms by now.” He waited for her to volunteer something…anything… of what had passed between herself and Mrs. Townsend. Instead, she fidgeted with her skirts.
“How much did you hear?” he asked.
“Mr. Townsend’s voice certainly carries.” She hesitated. “Yours, however, does not. But I didn’t have to hear much to understand he was upset.”
“Yes, well…” Harbury cupped the back of his neck and winced. “The details are complicated.” A plausible enough explanation. “I must consult the records more closely, else risk a false conclusion. I intend to look over the ledgers going back a dozen years or more.”
She frowned. “Does the problem stem from your father’s time?”
“I am inclined to believe the problem is mostly due to market conditions, but his notes in the margins of Anderson’s reports could suggest a solution.”
“Why don’t you simply ask Mr. Anderson?”
“Oh,” he kept his voice light. “I intend to consult him, of course.”
She offered a slight smile. “I am sure you will find the root of the problem. And you’re not alone, either,” she added carefully. “Allies, remember?”
“Yes, allies.” But not the kind of ally he’d expect to take the brunt of battle. Or the kind who needed to know every detail about the problem’s potential source. “Did Mrs. Townsend mention any specific problems? Did she complain to you?”
“On the contrary. She…” For a puzzling moment, Cassandra just stared. Then she turned her face away before continuing, “Mrs. Townsend has invited me to come back next week and help with the preparation of her fenugreek tincture.”
He frowned. “Have you any interest in the preparation of fenugreek?”
“Yes! I’m very eager to learn.” She spoke with heightened enthusiasm. Though he’d asked for no explanation, she added, “My mother was known for her salves, but she prepared them covertly, because my father disapproved of witch-like ways.”
“We’ve a still room at the hall,” he said, somewhat absently. “I’m sure Cook would—”
“As I told you,” she interrupted, “even Cook prefers Mrs. Townsend’s tincture.”
“Very well.” He blinked. “Attend if you wish.”
She worried her lip. “Some of the wives of your other large tenants will be attending as well.”
Other tenants? That couldn’t be good. If discontent had taken root, a gathering was the last thing he needed. Gatherings were perfect for inflaming tensions.
He rested his gaze on the horizon.
Then again, if the group contained only ladies, what harm could be done?
“Will the husbands be meeting as well?”
“No. I made—” she stopped herself again. “What I meant to say was Mrs. Townsend assured me the group would consist strictly of wives.”
“And do you think they would be comfortable with you in their presence? You are a duchess.”
“I’m also the daughter of a country squire. I’m far more accustomed to farmers’ wives than you’ll ever be.” She looked down at her hands and scowled. “And you needn’t repeatedly remind me of my station. As if I needed to be reminded. As if I were likely to forget!”
Perfect.
Now, along with Townsend’s, he’d set his wife’s back up, too.
“Cassandra…” He dipped his head, attempting to catch her gaze. When he had no success, he placed his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her face.
“What do you want?”
“I just upset you. I want to tell you I’m sorry.”
This time, the apology had slipped with surprising ease from his mouth. His eyes widened of their own accord, a mirrored expression of her own.
“I understand. This afternoon must have been difficult for you. And I appreciate your apology.”
Her skin’s warmth at the point of contact seeped through the layers on his glove. Combined with the brush of their thighs, any chill he’d been feeling melted.
“You must be exhausted,” she continued in a softened voice. “Let’s not talk through everything now. You promised me a driving lesson. Why not give me one?”
Ah yes, the driving lesson.
He’d been in a merry mood when he’d suggested the diversion. Seemed like ages hence.
“Are you sure you’re up for the challenge?” he asked, trying to find the teasing note he’d used.
“You said I had a fighting spirit.”
“So, I did.” And she had remembered.
…Which meant his approval meant something to her, did it not? Progress. The afternoon’s prospects brightened.
“If you sit to my right,” he offered, “I can more easily assist if needed.”
“Very well, then.”
Mindful to keep the balance and not to startle the horse, they stood and carefully switched sides. She held his forearms while he steadied her by the waist as if executing a country dance move.
While he wasn’t extensively familiar with women’s undergarments, he’d seen enough sketches and paintings to realize her flesh’s pliancy beneath his hands meant she had donned stays of the shorter variety.
He wondered if they had serviceable ties attaching the arm straps, or if she fashioned them with pretty bows like—
“You may let me go, now.”
Oops. She was staring at him as if he were an oddity.
“Yes, of course.” He released her, steadied himself on the cart’s spindled back, and then took his seat. He really had to find a way to open the door between their chambers.
And soon.
He lifted the reins and laid them across her open palm. “As I said before, you may keep the ribbons in separate hands as you learn, but once you develop a feel, you should be able to hold them both in your left hand while using your right to steer.”
She tested each method. “One hand feels better.”
“Good,” he approved.
She braced her feet against the board. She appeared calm, confident, but she was sitting too stiffly for him to be easy. He withheld criticism of her posture, hoping she’d find her way.
“Walk on,” she called.
Trusty didn’t move.
“Deeper,” he suggested. “And louder.”
Her quelling look caused him to purse his lips, suppressing his smile.
“Trusty,” she said in a commanding voice, “Walk on.”
Trusty pulled ahead at a slower pace than if she’d been stepping. Apparently, neither he, nor Trusty, had developed full confidence in Cassandra’s skill.
He turned forward, so as not to increase her nerves by watching too closely. But he studied her technique with the occasional surreptitious, sideways glance.
She was doing well.
Better than he’d expected, in fact. Eventually, Trusty, too, let down his guard and moved from a walk to a trot. Cassandra’s whole body tensed at the horse’s increased pace.
“Loosely,” he reminded.
“I am holding loosely.”
“Trusty, slow,” he called out.
The horse slowed.
Cassandra glanced heavenward. “If he responds so well to voice commands, why do I have to keep hold of the reins at all?”
“He would likely find his way home on his own, but what if the Hall was not your destination? He cannot read your mind. And once you learn to drive, you can take the cart anywhere you wish to go.”
Cassandra wrinkled her nose at him.
She was terribly cute, even when flabbergasted.
“Besides,” he added, “learning to drive is much easier when you can practice on a well-trained horse.”
Despite his attempts at reassurance, she remained stiff.
“Trusty, stop,” he called out.
The animal stopped. He took the reins and laid them carefully down.
“Give me your hand.”