Chapter Thirteen
“T hank you for meeting with me, Mr. Enfield.” Sophie smiled as she greeted Ravenscroft Manor’s estate steward at the door of the drawing room she’d turned into her personal study three days ago, the morning after the sleigh ride.
Shay had no objections to her taking a more active role in the dukedom, or so he’d said, so that was exactly what she planned to do. And to do that, she needed a place to work. Shay certainly couldn’t object to her taking this one since the room had sat unused for two decades.
According to Mrs. Sexton, the yellow room with its delicate floral wallpaper and plasterwork that mimicked vines entwining around the ceiling, windows, and doorways had been the last duchess’s favorite. With its tall arched windows, French doors leading out to the terrace, and a sweeping view of the rear gardens, Sophie easily understood why, just as she understood why the family had stopped using it once she had left.
But now Sophie had claimed it as hers, without bothering to ask Shay’s permission, to turn it into a place where she could meet with tenants, staff, and others, complete with cabinets for storing papers and books. She’d even had the footmen move down an elegant desk in the Rococo style, painted cream with delicate swirls accentuated with gilding, from one of the guest bedrooms, and she’d positioned it in front of the row of windows so she could face the grand views while she worked. The space was everything she needed to take a larger role in running the dukedom. Or at least her small corner of it, anyway. And that small corner included the estate’s gardens, orchards, and fallow fields.
Which was why she had asked the estate steward to meet with her.
She held out her hand to him. “I appreciate your time.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He sketched a shallow bow over her hand. “I have to admit that I was surprised to hear you wanted to meet with me.”
“Why is that?” She gestured him toward the cream-colored silk brocade settee and two chairs she’d commandeered from the morning room to create a conversation area in front of the fireplace.
He waited for her to sit, then took a chair across the low tea table from her. “Because happenings at the house aren’t part of my position’s purview.” He gave her a condescending chuckle. “Fashion and functions are best left to the ladies, I always say.”
Sophie paused as she poured a cup of tea. Had he just laughed at her? My! That was not a good start to this conversation.
She passed the cup and saucer to him. “Then you’ll be relieved to know that our meeting has nothing to do with the house.”
“Oh?”
“It concerns the estate gardens, actually, and a fallow field on the southern edge of the village.” She poured herself a cup and added a splash of milk. “I have plans to renovate all the gardens, greenhouses, and orchards, as well as make that fallow field useful again.”
He smiled, taking a sip of tea. “That’s quite ambitious, ma’am.”
And that was quite patronizing. Perhaps, though, the man simply feared a second-coming of Capability Brown and a decade’s upheaval in the park. She certainly didn’t blame him. “Nothing as grand as Stowe or Stourhead, I assure you. No moving of earth or rivers required.” She took a sip of tea and enjoyed the way it warmed her throat. “At most, some fencing and perhaps two new entrance gates on the south end of the estate so the villagers can come and go as they’d like.”
He set down his tea as if afraid he would spill it. “New entrances? But that’s…that’s…” He sputtered like a boiling kettle as he failed to find the words.
“It’s letting the villagers know how important they are to the house and helping them a bit more with their day-to-day lives,” she finished.
The steward seemed suddenly horrified, as if he imagined villagers descending like locusts on the manor house. “Your Grace, that’s simply not done.” He pulled in a deep breath and said with exaggerated calmness, as if explaining a complicated concept to a small child, “Villagers and tenants should be given less access to the home park, not more. Why, they’ll soon believe they have a right to all its resources!”
“But they do,” she corrected gently. “Or at least, all the resources they need to live better lives.”
His mouth fell open, only to snap shut as he belatedly scrambled to his feet as she rose and crossed to her desk. She picked up a leather portfolio which held her plans.
“Here is the list of changes I would like to make.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “I’ve estimated that only a small crew of workers should be needed to carry them out. I know that spring is a very busy time on estates, and that’s why I’m hoping we can start right away this winter, at least with buying the materials so we’ll have them at hand when we’re ready to start the work.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head as he scanned her list.
“I want to make up for years of neglect in the park and for far longer than that with the villagers and tenants.”
She returned to her place on the settee and picked up her tea. She hid her smile against the rim of her cup as the stunned steward sank back onto his chair, his eyes still glued to the paper.
“So let me explain my plans, Mr. Enfield.”
As she enjoyed her tea, she informed him of what she’d decided for the neglected gardens and their empty greenhouses, the fruit orchards that produced bushels more than the manor house could ever use each year, and the field near the village that seemed to have no productive purpose whatsoever. The changes would cost very little but reap much reward for those people who needed help the most.
Mr. Enfield sat there, uncomfortably tense. He didn’t interrupt her, which pleased her, but he didn’t ask any questions either, which completely puzzled her. After all, the changes she wanted to make would have ramifications for the rest of the park and everyone who worked here, and tremendous benefits for those who depended upon the estate for their livelihoods.
She was resolved to make that happen. In the few days since meeting the tenants and villagers, she had become determined to take on a bigger role as Duchess of Malvern. So she would start with what she knew best—domestic agriculture. She’d driven the gardeners at her father’s estate half-mad with her love of gardening, from delicate exotic plants in the greenhouse to herbs in the kitchen garden. But she had a talent for it, and the grounds had thrived beneath her management. She wanted to do the same here at Ravenscroft and also help the villagers and tenants in the process.
So she would start with the gardens.
As she explained to Mr. Enfield, she had no intention of touching the formal parterres and terraces, many of which she could see through the windows right now, covered with a blanket of snow, hibernating until spring. But there were vegetable gardens scattered throughout the park that were not being used to their full potential, most of which had been untended and allowed to go to seed. Those could be cultivated again and the excess produce given to the tenants and villagers who couldn’t grow enough of their own vegetables or afford to purchase them from the market. They would plant extra herbs in the kitchen garden, too, then dry and bag them. Then, Mr. and Mrs. Jones at the mercantile could hand out the vegetables and herbs to anyone who wanted them. Sophie had already asked Mrs. Jones if such a scheme would be possible, and the woman had nearly bounced with joy at being able to help, assuring her that she would take personal responsibility herself for their distribution.
Sophie had special plans for the orchards, too.
The home park contained several large orchards, including apples, cherries, plums, figs, mulberry, and most likely several more types of trees Sophie hadn’t yet discovered, along with berries of all kinds—blackberry, sloe, wild strawberry, gooseberry… Yet as with the vegetable gardens, they had been allowed to turn wild. Oh, certainly, the household staff would pick enough fruits and berries to put up several dozen jars of each for the manor every year, but the rest were left to rot. Such a waste! Sophie wanted to give the tenants and villagers a stake in the orchards; whoever helped with clearing and tending the trees and berry bushes would be allowed to fill their baskets with fruits during the harvest. Those who were too sick or elderly to work would receive baskets picked by the village children, who would be paid shiny new pennies for their help—coins that would then help to support their families.
It was a new purpose for the fallow field at the edge of the village, though, that thrilled her the most.
The meadow would become a commons, divided into lots and given to whomever in the village wanted a patch of land to work. Then the villagers would be able to grow their own vegetables, raise a few chickens, or perhaps even keep other livestock. The little plots of land would be theirs to do with as they wished, as if they were true landholders. More than just a way to grow a little extra food or a place to keep a milk cow, the plots would give them a sense of pride and ownership.
If everyone had a stake in the estate, from the smallest chive to the tallest tree, then they would be proud of it and work together to make it better. At least Sophie hoped so.
She fell silent, held her breath, and waited for a response from Mr. Enfield.
From his grim expression, however, he didn’t share the same enthusiasm for her plans. “Does His Grace know of this, ma’am? He hasn’t said anything to me.”
“No, he doesn’t.” And she wouldn’t let that stop her.
Sophie had hoped that Malcolm’s visit would have improved her marriage, but it hadn’t improved it so much as shifted it. Shay continued to spend as much time away from her as possible, but now he spent his days mostly shut up in his study, pouring over the account books and dealing with repairs, contracts, and equipment problems that had been neglected since he’d inherited. In that aspect, at least, their marriage had been good for the estate—although whether because he realized he could no longer live like a self-imposed hermit or because he needed an excuse to keep busy and away from her, Sophie was afraid to guess. He ate dinners with her now, too, but always in the massive dining room and never without Henley present. He had made no attempt to come to her rooms.
So she’d come to a decision. If she couldn’t be a proper wife, then she would at least be a good duchess.
“This project is mine to oversee,” she informed him. “Malvern has no part in it.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Mr. Enfield sat back on the settee, smiling like the cat who’d gotten into the cream. Which meant he must have found a way to wiggle out of helping her. “I simply cannot carry out any work like this without His Grace’s authority. Once you speak with him—and gain his full permission—then I’d be happy to do whatever His Grace instructs me.” Relief shone in his eyes. “I’m certain you understand my predicament.”
“Yes, I do.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I understand that Ravenscroft Manor has been without a duchess for so long that you’ve seemed to have forgotten the role she can play in improving the estate.”
His mouth fell open. “Your Grace, that isn’t at all—”
“Isn’t it? You’re hoping the duke will set my plans to rights by ending them, and you believe women have no business interfering in the running of the home park and certainly not in something as masculine as agriculture or gardening. We should keep ourselves to—what did you call it?—fashion and functions.”
The instant flush on his face confirmed her suspicions.
Sophie let out a long-suffering sigh. Why did men always assume women were nothing more than precious little dolls who where incompetent in all matters not related to entertaining or needlepoint?
She rose to her feet to return to her desk and the work awaiting her. “You have my list, Mr. Enfield, and the dates by which everything needs to be finished. Please keep me apprised of your progress.”
“Your Grace.” His back stiffened, and she would have sworn she could see a sheen of perspiration break out across his forehead. “As I said, I would be happy to do whatever His Grace instructs me. Until then, you must take it up with your husband yourself.”
He placed her list on the tea table, then inclined his head in deference as he made his way to the door to take his leave.
“Good day, ma’am.”
Sophie stared after him, her slender shoulders slumping. But not in defeat. This battle she planned on winning. She might have a husband who didn’t love her and refused to take her into his bed, who promised her everything but his affection, who wanted nothing more than the pretend marriage his uncle accused them of having—
Yet she would make her life as productive as possible, despite that.
“Starting now,” she told herself and snatched up her list.
She hurried through the house to Shay’s study, hoping to find him. The door was open, and she stopped in the hallway, a smile for him on her lips. But the room was empty, the fireplace cold. Her heart sank, and not just because she wanted his help with Mr. Enfield. She’d also simply wanted to see him.
“Henley,” she called out to the butler as he approached in the hall. “Where is His Grace?”
“He’s gone out, ma’am. He’s visiting Mr. Jansen’s farm to check on repairs.” He gazed at her with concern. “Should I send one of the grooms to take a message to him?”
“No, it’s nothing that important.” Then her shoulders truly did sag with defeat. “When you have a moment, would you please collect the tea things from the garden room? My meeting with Mr. Enfield is over.”
“Of course, ma’am.” With a nod, he hurried away.
Well, she might as well leave her list of plans for Shay anyway, she decided, since she had no chance of them being carried out without his approval. So she stepped into the room and placed the paper on his desk. The sad truth, though, was that she had no idea when he’d be back, and if past were precedent, he probably wouldn’t return until long after sunset, long after she’d dined and went to her room for the night.
“I should tie a bell around his neck,” she muttered to herself, “like a cat, so I can hear him come and go.”
But she’d have to settle for a note to explain today’s meeting with Mr. Enfield.
She grimaced as she reached for the quill set on the desk, only to find it empty of paper. The notepaper must have been in one of the drawers, so she pulled each one open to search for it. The bottom drawer slid open, and she froze as she peered inside.
Not notepaper.
It was a treasure trove of all the gifts she’d sent him during the years they’d communicated by letter. Since they married, he’d not mentioned them. Not once.
Yet here they all were, every insignificant little bit and bauble. He’d kept them, all these years. Her hand trembled as she reached to touch the little odds and ends, with her letters resting on the bottom of the drawer, all tied in stacks with ribbons. Her eyes stung as hot tears blurred her vision, but she knew exactly what the top piece was. The little metal bird she’d slipped into his pocket during their sleigh ride.
She picked it up and pressed it to her chest.
A tear slipped free. She brushed the back of her hand against her cheek to wipe it away, but she couldn’t stop more from following after. A knot of anguish filled her chest as a cold realization hit her…
He loved her, and this proved it.
But the joy she should have felt at that was nothing but bitter anguish. Because she also knew he would keep his feelings hidden away from her, just as he had hidden these gifts.
He would never let himself bring them out into the light of day.