Chapter 19
The smell of wood and smoke was the first thing that settled across Tristan’s senses as they walked into the inn. His eyes looked around the reception area, taking in the accommodations. He stared at the decent floorboards, the walls that seemed to look all right for their age.
At least, he polishes them regularly, he thought to himself. A few lanterns burned softly at the edges of the walls, casting a somewhat flickering glow on the floorboards themselves.
“This does not look that bad,” Eliza commented.
“I was going to say the exact same thing.”
He was still inspecting the room when the side door by the wall opened and Mr. Kale stepped out with his daughter. His features, for some reason, were more defined under the candlelight. Tristan could see the glow of his beard clearer now.
“Well now,” Mr. Kale said, smiling at both of them as he moved closer. “It is good to see you both again.”
Tristan offered a nod, but his eyes followed Eliza instead. She had already knelt down, her dress spilling softly across the worn planks, to greet Kale’s daughter.
“And you must be Jane,” Eliza said, her tone bright with playfulness.
Jane clutched Lemon close to her chest. “I am Jane, my lady,” she said, eyes wide with a mixture of shyness and pride. “How do you know my name?”
“Well, let’s just say your father loves to talk about you,” Eliza replied, pretending to pout.
Jane’s eyes widened. “Thank you, my lady. What is your name?”
“Jane, you cannot ask the lady—”
“Please,” Eliza interrupted, raising her hand. “I don’t mind answering her questions. My name is Eliza.”
“You have a lovely name, too,” Jane replied, her arms tight around the purring cat.
Eliza gasped softly, as though Jane had just paid her the grandest of compliments. “Do you think so? Then I shall believe you, because you seem to be a very honest little girl.”
The child giggled, her shoulders lifting as if she had just been handed a secret treasure.
Tristan stood a pace behind, watching it all unfold. The way Eliza tilted her head when she listened. The way her hands hovered near the child, not too close, not too far, gentle in their steadiness.
Jane pulled at Eliza’s glove and held Lemon out into the firelight. “Would you like to hold him?”
“Oh my, are you certain?” Eliza asked.
Jane nodded firmly.
Eliza gathered the cat into her arms. Lemon purred, curling into the crook of her elbow as though he had known her all his life.
Eliza laughed, her soft voice carrying gently through the reception. “He is much heavier than I thought.”
Jane leaned close, whispering with mock seriousness. “He eats too much.”
“Let me tell you a secret,” Eliza teased, leaning closer to the girl and dropping her voice. “So does my husband.”
Tristan’s mouth curved before he could stop it. He shook his head, but Jane burst into giggles, and Eliza laughed along with her.
Mr. Kale returned with a key in hand. “I have found you a room. One of our best. You will find fresh linens and the fire already set.”
Eliza rose carefully, returning Lemon to Jane. “You knew we would be spending the night here?” she asked, her brow lifting.
Kale shrugged with easy humor. “This is the only inn for miles. And it does not take a clever man to look at the sky and know rain is coming.”
Eliza turned toward Tristan, a sly smile tugging her lips. “Did you hear that?”
He raised a hand. “Do not.”
Her laugh answered him, light and bright against the deepening storm outside.
Kale gestured toward the stairwell. “This way. You will be comfortable here for the night.”
He walked them up to the second floor, the stairs creaking beneath his boots. At the door, he turned the key and pushed it open. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said.
Once the man and his daughter left, silence settled. Nothing could be heard except the brewing storm lashing hard at the shutters. Tristan slipped out of his coat and hung it on the peg by the door, and Eliza crossed to the fireplace, crouching low as she held her hands toward the flames.
“Mr. Kale seems kind,” she said over her shoulder.
Tristan nodded. “He does. A man who loves his work.”
Her gaze lingered on the fire, but her voice had grown quieter. “It is such a shame all of that may soon be taken from him.”
Tristan exhaled. The words pressed against something heavy in his chest. He joined her near the fire, though he remained standing, watching the way the light brushed against her profile.
“I wish there was something we could do,” Eliza murmured. “Something that could help him now and not later.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. “I wish the same.”
For a time, neither of them spoke. Tristan eventually broke the silence by turning away from the fire. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head, a small smile forming. “No. The fire is enough.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes. Quite.”
He studied her for a heartbeat longer, then nodded. “Very well.”
The bed was ready and made enough for the two of them. Tristan sat at the edge and stared off at the wall. He tried to think of anything. The storm outside, the cat Eliza had been playing with, but nothing fully replaced the burrowing thought of the Berkeley Project in his mind.
Eliza crossed the room and sat on the opposite edge of the bed. She did not speak; instead, she folded her hands in her lap and let her eyes settle on the flames.
Tristan’s mind, on the other hand, would not grow quiet. What truly was the Berkeley Project? A plan of progress, or a mask for greed? Who stood to gain, and who stood to lose?
“Goodnight,” Eliza offered, planting her back on the cushion, her hands resting gently on her stomach. Tristan looked at her and nodded.
“Yes. Goodnight,” he responded and turned back to the wall. Something told him the thoughts in his head wouldn’t leave him soon.
Not until he did something about it.
The rain was most definitely what the world needed. The next morning came with the kind of clean air that made people appreciate life even more, especially Tristan. He stepped out of his room and walked down the stairs, fastening the last button of his coat.
Down in the reception room, Mr. Kale sat behind his desk. Lemon, smug as ever, was perched on the table, his tail swishing lazily back and forth.
“Good morning, my lord,” The older man said, rising half a breath as Tristan approached.
“Good morning,” Tristan answered, giving a brief glance to the cat before meeting the innkeeper’s eyes. “I suppose you had a good night and there was no trouble at all?”
“No trouble at all,” Mr. Kale responded. “Does the lady require anything?”
“Eliza is still asleep,” Tristan said. “She seemed tired after last evening.”
Kale nodded, scratching behind Lemon’s ears.
Tristan hesitated for a moment, then spoke up again. “Would you mind walking me round the back of the village? A small tour, nothing more.”
Kale’s brow lifted. “Of course. Let me just put these ledgers back in the drawers, and I will be with you shortly.”
Tristan swallowed. “Who will mind the desk?”
Mr. Kale laughed. “Whoever is in need of a room will wait. A roof and a bed do not vanish in an hour.”
Tristan gave the faintest smile. “Very well then.”
They stepped out into the cool morning, the air soft and fresh against their faces. A few yards beyond the inn, the land seemed to open into softer fields littered with trimmed hedges and oak trees.
The village seemed quieter around these parts, just like it had been back in the hunting lodge. The thought made him miss his serenity just briefly.
As they walked, he watched Mr. Kale stretch out his hand and call out to a farmer leaning over a fence.
“Robert! Morning to you.”
The man straightened, wiping soil from his hands onto his breeches. He bowed low when he saw Tristan.
“My lord.”
“Robert,” Tristan acknowledged. “How goes the work?”
Robert climbed over the fence to join them, falling into step. “Better than last Season, thank God. The festival has given men spirit again.”
“Has it now?” Tristan asked, his voice clear.
“Yes. A man plows straighter when he knows the grain will feed his children.”
“That is encouraging,” Tristan said. “And the harvest itself?”
Robert gestured toward the land rolling ahead of them. “See there? The wheat is nearly ripe. The soil still fights us in patches, but it gives enough to live. A few more weeks, and we shall fill the barns.”
Tristan nodded, listening carefully as Robert continued to talk.
“There—” the farmer pointed to an oak tree with gnarled branches stretching wide “—that tree has stood more than fifty years. My father’s father tied horses to it when he first took up the land.”
“That is quite interesting,” Tristan responded.
Robert’s voice softened. “Families have worked these fields since long before I even drew breath. Over there—” he pointed to a row of cottages “—that is where the Collinses live. Generations of them. They keep cattle. Not much, but enough. Their boy, Thomas, served in the military. He came back with a limp but took up the plow again, all the same.”
Tristan’s gaze followed the gesture. The cottages were plain but sturdy, smoke drifting from chimneys. These were lives stitched quietly into the land.
“And there … orchards tended by the Lane family. They grew apples, pears, oranges, you name it. When my wife was still alive, she used to trade preserves with them. Sweetest you could taste.”
Mr. Kale grunted softly. “And this is what the others want to take away from us.”
Tristan said nothing at first, but his jaw tightened. The speeches of the lords yesterday paled in comparison to Robert’s heartfelt speech about hard work.
Robert seemed to read his silence. “If this project of theirs takes root, my lord, we may as well say farewell to it all. The cottages, the fields, even that oak. Once men in velvet coats take measure of a place, they leave little behind for the rest of us.”
Tristan exhaled slowly. “You may be right.”
The weight of those words pressed hard on him. His title might have been inherited, but his loyalty to these people had to be chosen.
He could not pretend otherwise.
They walked on for nearly two hours while Robert spoke of repairs needed for a barn roof and tenants who worked through pain because no one else could manage the soil. Tristan listened as attentively as he could to everything.
By the time they turned back toward the inn, Tristan’s thoughts were heavy, circling round the same truth. What Marcus called progress would come at a cost too steep for the people who had the least.
As they approached the inn, voices carried through the open windows. The high, bright tones of children’s laughter. Tristan slowed down, immediately drawn by it.
Beneath the wide tree in the yard, Eliza sat with a book open in her lap, surrounded by a circle of children.
They all leaned in and listened as attentively as they could as she read aloud.
Jane sat behind her, as well, her face completely filled with concentration.
She was braiding Eliza’s hair, but it was clear she was making a rather huge mess of things.
Eliza laughed when the braid tangled for the umpteenth time. “You are far braver than I am, Jane. I should have given up long ago.”
The little girl grinned. “It is almost perfect.”
“I believe you,” Eliza said warmly, and turned to another page of her book.
Tristan stopped at the edge of the yard, watching. Something in his chest shifted, unsettled and steadying all at once. She looked so natural there, her voice carrying over the laughter.
Mr. Kale leaned closer. “Children suit her, my lord.”
Tristan’s throat tightened before he answered. “They do, do they not?”
He walked forward at last, and the children scrambled to make room. Eliza looked up, her eyes meeting his with a spark he had not seen before.
“Come,” she said, patting the space beside her. “You must help us decide which story is best.”
He sat down, still in his coat, and for a few minutes, they spoke of nothing and everything at the same time.
He let the children teach him things like the foolish endings of stories, the stubbornness of cats, and the best way to climb a tree without tearing breeches.
The children laughed, and the book lay forgotten.
However, one thing burned itself into Tristan’s thoughts, and that was Eliza’s smile.
The realization dawned on him in the middle of the children, and he couldn’t help but admit it, at least to himself. He wanted children.
And he wanted them with no one but her.