A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(41)

“If you say so, Miss MacPherson.” Morgan’s words were deferential, while his ironic tone argued the point.

“I’m bringing honey and tea to a neighbor,” Miss MacPherson said. “I’ve only another mile or so to travel.”

“That mile will be muddy going. Morgan, please assist Miss MacPherson into the gig.”

The groom heaved a put-upon sigh, wrapped the reins, and hopped down. Miss MacPherson passed Charlotte her basket—laden with bricks from the weight of it—and climbed onto the bench.

“Very kind of you, Mrs. Sherbourne,” Miss MacPherson said. “I’ve avoided a soaking so far, but the sky promises more rain.”

“This is Wales. Without the rain, the land couldn’t be so beautifully green.”

“With that attitude, you’ll get on well here. Everybody’s dying to meet you.”

Charlotte was not dying to meet everybody, though for Sherbourne’s sake, she’d become the most gracious hostess in the valley, if need be.

“You must assist me,” Charlotte said, for a vicar’s daughter knew every household in the parish. “Upon whom should I call first?”

As the horse plodded along, Miss MacPherson verbally sketched a whole rural community. The Duke and Duchess of Haverford sat at the apex of the valley’s society, though the Marquess of Radnor and his lady—Haverford’s sister—were also much respected and well liked.

Beneath the duke and marquess were squires and farmers, the old feudal pattern in a modern setting. The village included various trades—a blacksmith, carpenter, apothecary, bakery, and the usual assortment of lesser commercial establishments.

“We also have a lending library, of course,” Miss MacPherson said. “Her Grace stops in frequently, though she delivers books more often than she borrows them. But then, she’s your sister. You’d know that about her.”

“Her Grace has made lending libraries a passion, and enlisted my husband’s support for her cause.”

Charlotte made that comment in hopes Miss MacPherson would pounce upon mention of Sherbourne, for he’d been notably absent from her recitation.

“Her Grace was clever, putting the Sherbourne resources to use in such a fashion,” Miss MacPherson said. “We were all pleased to see her pull that off. Hector, I’ll get down at the crossroads.”

Pull that off. As if Sherbourne’s coin was hard to access, despite the fact that he was sinking a fortune into a local mine.

“Miss MacPherson, my husband would like to remark the occasion of our marriage with another charitable endeavor, besides the libraries he’s financing all over Wales. Could you suggest a suitable gesture? He wants to undertake a project to benefit the whole community, something in addition to establishing a model colliery.”

One he’d said would not make him rich, but would be managed according to enlightened standards established by the damned duke.

The dear duke, rather.

“A charitable endeavor?” Miss MacPherson asked as the gig slowed. “You mean, like purchasing new hymnals?”

“No denizen of Wales over the age of seven needs a hymnal. Something enduring.”

As a marriage should be.

“Haverford keeps most of the valley in good trim,” Miss MacPherson said. “He sees to the roads and ditches about his estate, which is the majority of the arable land. Lord Radnor’s papa bought us an organ not fourteen years ago, so we’ve no need in that direction. Perhaps you might walk with me for a bit and we can discuss this topic further?”

The crossroad was a quagmire. “If you’ve only a short way to go, we’ll take you.”

Morgan apparently knew Miss MacPherson’s destination because he took the left turning and drove on in silence for a few hundred yards, then turned again onto a narrow pair of ruts barely deserving of the term lane.

He handed Miss MacPherson down at a small stone cottage with a thatched roof and a door bearing a peeling coat of red paint. A waist-high stone wall surrounded the yard, though no chickens were in evidence.

“Who lives here?” Charlotte asked, as Morgan handed her down.

“Maureen Caerdenwal and her mother,” Miss MacPherson said. “I’ll not be introducing you.”

A baby’s squall pierced the chilly air. A healthy child, though not at the moment a happy one.

“I see.”

Miss MacPherson’s gaze was not so friendly now. “She’s sixteen, Mrs. Sherbourne, and took her first job in service in Cardiff working as an upstairs maid for a man who owns several ironworks. Somebody has to support Mrs. Caerdenwal, because her husband and son were both killed in the mines over by Swansea. Maureen came home in less than six months, and six months later the baby showed up. That was in spring.”

To lose a father and a brother, and one’s respectability…“And the child?”

“Half a year old, more or less. A boy.”

The baby had stopped crying, and a curtain had twitched.

The household had curtains. The yard was tidy, the steps swept, the roof in good repair. This had been a respectable household until some iron nabob hadn’t been able to keep his footman, or himself, or his son, in line.

“Has she told you who the father is?”

“He promised to marry her. A rich man like that, twice her age and more. He was lying, of course. Maureen is a hard worker, not that bright, and too pretty for her own good.”