Chapter 13
“The drainage system is working better than we could have imagined.” Alaric grinned at Ewan from across the ditch that he was helping to build. Ewan leaned against his shovel, shading his eyes to better see his friend, who had just ridden up from the southern fields.
Alaric was still winded from the ride, but it didn’t seem to take any of the excitement out of him. “Roland said that this was the best drainage he has ever managed, that the crops actually look as if they will survive the wettest part of the season.”
“Did he really say that?” Ewan still could not quite believe his ears.
To get this news so soon after installing the new system seemed beyond belief.
He had been expecting at least several seasons to go by before they would be able to tell how effective it was.
But from the grin on Alaric’s face, he got the sense that his friend was not exaggerating. He looked practically buoyant.
“He really said that,” Alaric said. “He would have come himself, but you know how he is. Does not like to give a compliment unless he absolutely has to.”
Ewan laughed. The old farmer Roland Pierce was one of his most taciturn farmers. Which also meant that if he was complimenting the drainage system, it was truly excellent.
“That was the system that used the stone pipes for run-off,” Ewan said, his mind already going to all the drawings and sketches that he had created when designing the system.
He could see them now in his mind’s eye, could see the book that he had based them on, which had been a detailed study of the Roman aqueducts.
“You should be very proud, my old friend,” Alaric said. “You are devising a system that could revolutionize farming in the Highlands. And once you patent this and sell it to other farmers…”
Ewan shook his head. “I have no plans to patent it,” he said. “I do not want farmers to have to pay for a system that will improve their yields. I want them to have it for free. Improving the conditions of farmers in the region is reward enough for me.”
Alaric shook his head, but he looked pleased as well. “I can only imagine what Christopher would say if he was here,” he said, looking away across the fields. “He would not be pleased about that.”
“No, he would not,” Ewan said ruefully, and he allowed himself a moment to imagine the way his brother would rage if he knew Ewan was giving away his designs for free.
Christopher had always been able to find ways to squeeze money out of any situation.
He would insist upon Ewan patenting the drainage system, would probably already be hopping on a horse to ride to Edinburgh to see a solicitor.
“But that is how we make the Highlands better.”
He thought, then, of his wife, of what she would say once he told her about the drainage system.
Her project to improve the house after she moved in reminded him so much of his own to improve the farmlands, and as he imagined how excited she would be by his news, he felt a surge of energy move through him.
“I need a sketchbook,” he said. “Now.”
New ideas were coming to him, new improvements to try out in the next design.
“What if we increased the elevation of the drains?” he said, as Alaric handed him a sketchbook “And we could also add new lines, maybe increase the number of points where the water runs off. It will take more time and money, but if we move quickly, they could be ready in time for the winter.”
He was already beginning to draw when he looked up. Alaric was watching him with an amused expression, one eyebrow arched heavenward.
“What?” Ewan said, frowning at him. “Do you think it a bad idea?”
“It is not that,” Alaric said. “It is you. You are so animated.”
“Of course I am animated,” Ewan said. “My designs worked! This might be the first season that Roland’s farms do not completely drown during the rainy season. He might actually be able to plant new crops.”
“But it is not just that,” Alaric said, shaking his head. “I know you, and you are not usually this verbose.”
Ewan waited. He knew his friend had more to say. And indeed, Alaric took a step closer, the grin on his face growing wider.
“It is the duchess,” he murmured. “She is the reason you are so animated.”
“The duchess?” Ewan arranged his face into an expression of polite surprise. But inside, his heart was hammering. “What does she have to do with anything?”
“I saw the two of you at the Midsummer Festival,” Alaric said. “The way you were holding her while she attempted the bow and arrow.”
“Holding her? I was helping her!”
“You were holding her,” Alaric said with a snort. “I have eyes, Ewan. I can see when a man is positioning himself so that he is closer than is usually appropriate with a woman.”
“I do not think you want to talk about positioning oneself close to a woman,” Ewan countered. “You were very close to Miss Ashworth yourself.”
Alaric shrugged. “Miss Ashworth is an amiable young woman. But the duchess is your wife. And it excites the locals when they see their duke and duchess so cozy with one another.”
This time, Ewan felt his cheeks burn. “Cozy?” he repeated, and Alaric laughed.
“Yes, Ewan,” he said, his expression sobering as his voice turned stern, as if he were lecturing Ewan for being a bad student. “It raises their hopes and expectations of a child. An heir…”
Ewan’s throat went dry. “Is that the gossip that you heard?” he asked. “Are the farmers and villagers expecting an heir?”
“Of course they are,” Alaric said, staring at him in surprise.
“With Christopher gone, and your only other child a girl, the future of the dukedom is now uncertain. The villagers and farmers trust you, Ewan. Look at what you have just done for Roland’s drainage system!
They know you are a generous duke who works hard to ensure their prosperity. That is not always the case.”
Cassandra, Ewan remembered, had something very similar at the festival.
“If you do not produce an heir, no one knows whom the duchy will pass to next, and there is no guarantee that the next duke will be as generous. That is why they are excited to meet the duchess, to see that she shares your generosity of spirit. And they are hopeful that there will be a new heir by the time the next season is planted.”
Ewan said nothing. But he did put the sketchbook and charcoal back in his saddlebag. All his earlier animation was gone now, and he silently turned away from his friend and returned to the ditch and his shovel.
An heir. He knew what an heir required. It was precisely the thing he had been avoiding.
But when he had told Cassandra that he did not plan for them to have that kind of marriage, he had feared he was only harming himself.
It had not crossed his mind that he might be harming his tenants as well and the future of his estate.
But it was true what Alaric said. With Christopher gone, and Annabelle unable to inherit, the dukedom’s future was uncertain.
How could he ensure that the next duke was someone who kept his drainage systems in place?
Who worked to improve the lives of his tenants instead of viewing the lands merely as extractive profit?
The best way to do that, of course, was for the heir to be his own son. Someone he raised to share his values and ideas.
This preoccupied his mind for the rest of the afternoon, and by the time he returned to the house and bathed, he was feeling much more subdued, and was struck by a deep longing to see his daughter. So after a quick supper in his study, he made his way upstairs to her bedchamber.
Inside, he found Annabelle already in bed, Cassandra sitting by her side reading to her.
The moment he came in, Cassandra lowered the book, her eyes snapping to his. He hesitated in the doorway, his throat suddenly constricted.
“Papa…” Annabelle murmured drowsily from the bed, reaching out a hand to him. He crossed to her and sat down on the other side of the bed, taking his daughter’s hand.
“Have you been enjoying your story?” he asked, and his daughter smiled sleepily up at him.
“Very much so,” she said. “Cassandra is ever so good at reading out all the different voices.”
Ewan glanced at Cassandra, who was smiling. “I enjoy doing them,” she said. “But now it is time for you to get some sleep, little one. I let you stay up too late already with this second story.”
Ewan smiled. “She is very good at talking you into a second story. I myself have fallen for it many times.”
He kissed his daughter on the forehead, bid her goodnight, then blew out the candles on her nightstand. He and Cassandra then made their way out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind them.
The silence of the corridor pressed in around them, and Ewan was suddenly infinitely aware of how close he was to his wife. Her skirts were brushing against his legs, her arm just several inches from his own.
She was dressed in a simple white muslin dress, her hair in a loose coif, strands of her copper hair escaping from it and curling down her neck. Her neck, which was so long and elegant, made him want to trace a finger down it…
He blinked and looked away from the graceful curve of her neck. Unfortunately, from the small smile on her lips, he had a bad feeling she had noticed where he was staring.
“Well,” she said at last. “I suppose you and I should get some sleep as well.”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “I suppose we should.”
And yet, he did not move. Another long moment of silence passed. Then Cassandra stepped closer.
“What was she like?” she murmured. She tilted her head toward the door. “Annabelle’s mother.”
The question caught him off guard, and for a long moment, Ewan just stared at her. Then he cleared his throat.
“She was…” In love with someone else. Bitter. Angry. “Strong.”
“Strong…”
“She did not like the Highlands,” he explained.
This was true enough. “But she adapted as well as she could. It is a tough place for many who have spent their childhoods in London. I admired how hard she worked to find a place here. And then, when she was expecting, she was very eager to become a mother.”
Cassandra smiled softly. “You said she wanted Annabelle to be a proper young lady.”
“Yes. She had many ideas for how to raise our daughter, if the child was indeed a girl. But then, of course, she did not get to do so…”
It had been in this very corridor where he had paced back and forth, listening to her screams. Even now, five years later, the memory of it sent a shiver through him, made his stomach churn and his hands begin to shake. He clasped them behind his back.
But it was too late. Cassandra had noticed his distress. She took another step forward, and he instinctively stepped back.
“She died in childbirth, did she not?” she asked.
Ewan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“I am very sorry.” Cassandra looked down at her own hands. “That must have been terrible.”
“It was,” Ewan said. He hesitated, then, “They would not let me into the room. I think they were afraid I would make things worse. Maybe I would have. But I did not get to help. I was entirely useless…”
“But there was nothing you could have done to help,” Cassandra said gently. “You are not a physician. And childbirth is very dangerous. Every woman grows up knowing that. Fearing it.” She swallowed. “I am sure that she knew you were with her. In… spirit, at least.”
Ewan did not respond. He was not sure Margaret had known that, or that she would have wanted that. She had never been interested in having him with her, in body or spirit.
But he did not want to tell Cassandra that; not when she was looking at him with so much gentleness, perhaps even admiration.
“It was difficult, after she passed,” he said. “I am sure you heard from Miss Ashworth that I do not usually attend the Midsummer Festival.”
She blushed and looked down, confirming his theory.
“It was difficult for me, and I withdrew much from public life,” he said.
“My focus became my tenant farmers, working on their fields, and of course, Annabelle. I threw myself into raising her, into giving her as much love and care as she could get. There was so much that was out of my control, but those two, Annabelle and the estate. Those I could try and control.”
Cassandra nodded. “Annabelle is very lucky to have a father like you,” she murmured.
“Many gentlemen would hand their daughter off to a nurse or a distant female family relation, rather than raise a child themselves. I know many such cases in London, of little girls brought up by aunts and cousins, rather than their fathers, after the deaths of their mothers.”
“There were some who counselled me to do the same,” Ewan admitted. Christopher was one of them, but he had chalked that up to his brother’s youth and immaturity. Now, he was not so certain. “But it never crossed my mind to let Annabelle be raised by others. I wanted her here, with me.”
“And now that she is older,” Cassandra, “are you discovering that she is actually just as difficult to control as the rest of life?”
Ewan laughed. “Yes, I will admit, it gets harder and harder by the day.”
They had walked all the way together down the corridor to their adjoining bedchambers, and they stopped in front of Cassandra’s. For a long moment, they simply gazed at one another, then Cassandra curtsied.
“Goodnight,” she murmured. She had just pushed open her door when Ewan stopped her.
“Wait.” The word sounded clumsy and rushed. “Before you go. I wanted to ask you not to make plans for tomorrow.”
“Really?” Cassandra’s eyes were wide. “Why not?”
“There is something I want to show you,” he said.
Her eyes lit up, and another smile stole across her lips. “What is it?” she asked, but he shook his head.
“You will just have to wait and see.”
She laughed, a glimmer of hope igniting in her chest. This playfulness from Ewan was new, and perhaps it meant that his heart was beginning to open.