Chapter 6
“William, I do hope you understand how improper the entire situation is,” Lady Spencer said the moment the carriage door closed. “A young woman with a child, living under Lady Vane’s roof. It is extraordinary that she allows it.”
William settled back in his seat and looked out the window. “Aunt,” he said quietly, “I have heard your thoughts already.”
She continued anyway, her voice sharp. “It reflects poorly on Lady Vane, and it reflects poorly on anyone who tolerates such arrangements. People will talk. They always do.”
Lady Spencer adjusted her gloves with sharp, deliberate movements.
William kept his gaze on the passing hedgerows, noting how Henry’s posture stiffened beside him.
The carriage swayed gently as it moved along the road, the quiet inside broken only by Lady Spencer’s steady stream of disapproval.
William let her words pass without response, choosing instead to keep the ride calm for Henry’s sake.
Lady Spencer went on, listing every possible impropriety she imagined. She spoke of reputations, of households with standards, and of how Lady Vane’s generosity could be mistaken for carelessness.
She insisted that a young woman with a child would invite speculation, and that William ought to be more cautious about the company he allowed near his son. Her voice sharpened each time she said, that woman, as if the words themselves proved her point.
William listened without reacting, though the repetition of her concerns grew tiresome. He knew his aunt valued propriety above all else, often to the point of ignoring kindness or circumstance.
The carriage slowed as they turned onto the long drive of the estate. The horses came to a full stop, and the driver climbed down to open the door. William stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand to his aunt.
Lady Spencer accepted William’s hand and descended with careful steps. She paused to arrange her shawl, then looked up at him with a pointed expression.
“Do think carefully about the company you keep,” she said. “It reflects on more than yourself.”
William gave a short nod. “Good day, Aunt.”
Henry followed his father’s example, giving a small bow. Lady Spencer acknowledged him with a curt nod before turning toward her front steps. William walked beside her only long enough to see her reach the door, where a servant opened it from within. She went inside without saying another word.
Once the door closed, William turned back toward the carriage, crossed the short distance, and climbed in beside Henry. The driver shut the door and took his seat, and the horses started forward again toward home.
Once they were moving, Henry let out a breath he must have been holding.
“Papa,” Henry said, “who was that woman?”
William turned his head, realizing that Henry was repeating his great-aunt’s words. He kept his voice calm. “Do you mean the friendly lady we met in the garden?”
Henry nodded. “Yes. Her.”
“Her name is Mrs. Shaw,” William said. “And it is better to use her name, Henry. Not ‘that woman.’”
Henry accepted the correction without hesitation. “Mrs. Shaw,” he repeated softly. “She was kind. And Clara was kind too. And she liked the flowers. And she listened when I told her their names.”
William glanced down at his son. Henry’s face was open and earnest, the way it always was when he spoke of something he enjoyed.
“Can we see them again?” Henry asked, his expression hopeful.
William looked ahead at the road stretching toward their own estate. He did not know how to answer. The memory of Mrs. Shaw’s quiet composure, her gentle voice, and the way she had looked at him in the drawing room filled his mind. He also thought of her somewhat teasing comments in the garden.
He kept his tone even. “I do not know, Henry.”
Henry accepted his father’s words without complaint, leaning lightly against his arm as the carriage rolled on.
They reached William’s estate and turned through the gates.
The horses slowed to a steady walk, then came to a full stop before the front steps.
The driver climbed down, opened the door, and stood aside.
William stepped out first, the gravel crunching under the weight of his boots.
He turned and offered his hand to Henry, guiding him down with the same quiet care he always used.
Henry straightened his coat once he reached the ground, copying the small motions he had seen his father make a hundred times.
They walked inside together. The entrance hall was cool and orderly, and the servants moved toward Henry at once, bowing to William before turning their attention to the boy. One reached for Henry’s coat. Another asked if he wished to wash his hands before supper.
William gave a few instructions for the evening. He told the servants what his son should eat and reminded them of the reading that needed to be finished. He asked that the usual routine be kept and reminded Henry that there was to be no lingering once supper was done.
The servants nodded, guiding the boy toward the dining room.
Henry looked back once. William walked forward and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Goodnight, Papa.”
William’s expression softened. “Goodnight. Finish your chapter, and I will look in on you before you sleep.”
Henry nodded, reassured, and followed the servants without hesitation, already speaking to them about the book he planned to continue.
With Henry settled, William turned toward the door and stepped back outside.
Instead of calling for a groom, William walked the short path to the stables himself.
The doors were open, and the scent of hay and leather filled the air.
His horse lifted its head when he approached, his ears flicking forward in recognition.
William ran a hand along the horse’s neck, then set about saddling it. He worked quickly, tightening the girth, checking the straps, and adjusting the bridle. It was a quiet task and one he preferred to do himself. Once everything was secure, he led the horse out into the yard and mounted.
The ride toward the village was comforting and familiar. The road curved between hedges and low stone walls, the fields stretching wide on either side. The rhythm of the horse’s gait soothed his tension and allowed him to clear his mind.
The village came into view as the lamps were being lit.
Children lingered near doorways, finishing their evening chores.
A few shopkeepers stood outside their storefronts, speaking in low voices as they prepared to close for the night.
William guided his horse through the narrow lane, noting how the activity in the village never seemed to change.
Up ahead The Fox & Lantern’s warm glow stood out against the dimming street, offering steady refuge from the day’s earlier tension.
The sign above the door swayed gently, and the lamplight from inside spilled across the threshold.
William dismounted, handed the reins to the stable boy waiting near the post, and stepped through the door.
He paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust to the warm light. The Fox & Lantern was modest but well kept. A few men sat at the tables near the hearth, speaking quietly over their ale. One older fellow read a newspaper with his spectacles pushed low on his nose.
Two younger men played a slow game of cards at a corner table, their voices low, their movements unhurried. The air smelled of roasted meat, wood smoke, and the faint sweetness of cider.
The floorboards were worn smooth from years of use.
Lanterns hung along the walls, their light soft and steady.
A serving girl moved between the tables, carrying a tray of ale and bread.
No one paid William more attention than a brief glance.
They were used to seeing him there, and he preferred it that way.
He looked toward the counter. Mr. James Mercer stood behind it, sorting papers with calm precision, his sleeves rolled neatly, his posture relaxed. He glanced up when William approached, his expression shifting into a genuine, uncomplicated smile.
“Evening,” Mercer said.
William approached him, grateful for the simple greeting.
Mercer never bowed, never fussed, and never treated him as anything but a man who had come in from a long day.
They had been friends for five years, and Mercer had never once betrayed his confidence.
That was why William trusted him, and why he returned again and again.
“You look as though the world has personally offended you,” James said, already reaching for the duke’s usual glass without asking. He poured, set it on the counter, and watched William pace instead of taking his seat.
“That is new,” James remarked. “You never walk around when there is a drink waiting.”
William stopped, realizing he had been moving without thought. He sat, finally giving James his attention.
James leaned his elbows on the counter. “All right. What happened?”
William considered how to begin, aware that James would notice any hesitation. He set his glass down as the tavern’s background noise created a steady hum, giving him a moment to gather his thoughts.
Finally, he let out a slow breath and looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “I went with my aunt to visit Lady Vane,” he said. “And while I was there, I met a rather intriguing young woman.”
James’ mouth curved into an amused smile. “Ah. Now I understand your expression. I was beginning to fear Henry had finally learned how to outwit you.”
William shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.
James leaned a little closer over the counter. “I may already know who you mean,” he said. “There has been talk in the village. They say she is a widow, forced to work to support her child.”
William’s head lifted at once. “You have heard that?”
James shrugged lightly. “It is only gossip. You know how quickly people invent stories when someone new arrives.”
William looked down at his glass, unsettled by how easily James could repeat details he himself did not know.
I should not care about this, he thought. I barely spoke to her. It is none of my concern.
James watched him closely. “So, tell me,” he said, “is she pretty, or clever, or both?”
William exhaled through his nose, knowing James would not let the matter go without an answer. “Both,” he said quietly. “But she is not my concern.”
No woman is, he thought. I do not have the time or the energy for one. Not with Henry. Not with the estate. And not with everything else that requires my attention.
James nodded, though the amused look in his eyes did not fade. “If you say so.”
William took a slow drink, letting the familiar taste calm him.
James shifted the conversation easily, as though the earlier subject had never been raised. “You heard about the new baker?” he asked. “Young fellow from the coast. People say his bread is better than the last man’s by a wide margin.”
William gave a small nod. “Henry liked the rolls we bought last week.”
James smiled. “Then the village will keep him busy.” He reached for a ledger, flipping it open without really looking at it. “There is trouble with the mill wheel again. Turner says it will need a full repair before autumn.”
“He has said that every year,” William answered, lifting his glass and taking another slow drink.
“That he has,” James agreed, amused. “But this time he claims the wheel is dragging. I suppose we will see.”
He closed the ledger and leaned his elbows on the counter. “There is also talk that the magistrate will plan a gathering before the Season ends. Something small. Music, perhaps. A chance for people to pretend they enjoy one another’s company.”
William’s mouth lifted slightly. “He enjoys hosting.”
“He enjoys being admired,” James corrected, though his tone stayed light. “But it gives the village something to speak about, so I suppose it serves its purpose.”
For forty-five minutes, their conversation continued in the same easy manner.
James spoke about the brewer’s son who hoped to take over the family business, the dispute between two farmers over a boundary hedge, and the rumor that a traveling bookseller might pass through the village before summer ended.
James spoke with an easy confidence, occasionally pausing to refill a glass or acknowledge a patron. William answered only when he wished to, listening more than he spoke, and enjoying the friendly interaction.
After a quiet pause, William set his empty glass aside. “I should go.”
James gave him a knowing look but did not press. “Safe ride home.”
William rose and left the inn.
Outside, the air had cooled. William mounted his horse and set off toward home, the village lamps fading behind him as he rode.
The road stretched ahead in steady silence, the fields darkening at the edges and a faint glow dotting the landscape.
He tried to turn his thoughts to the estate, to Henry, and to the work waiting for him in the morning, yet the same truth kept returning.
I am already looking forward to seeing her again.
As much as he tried to dismiss her from his mind, he could not. He found himself curious about her, about the life she had lived, and about the past she guarded so carefully. But beyond the mystery of her background was something else he just could not ignore.
He was not used to speaking with women who challenged him.
Or teased him.