A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(42)
She wouldn’t be pretty for long, not trying to eke out an existence with no help and no coin.
“Who owns this land?”
“Griffin St. David, the duke’s younger brother. He’s…”
“Different, I know. I am fond of Lord Griffin.” Some might call Griffin simple, but to Charlotte he was honest, friendly, kind, and decent.
Very decent. He was likely charging the women no rent.
Hector Morgan stood by the horse’s head, his expression severe. He might not personally judge Miss Caerdenwal for her fall from grace, but if Sherbourne disapproved of this detour, Morgan could lose his job.
If I weren’t married…But Charlotte was married, and Sherbourne’s standing in the community mattered to him, as it should.
“I would not want to intrude on the family’s privacy without warning,” Charlotte said, “because I am a stranger to them. I will send a basket to the vicarage tomorrow, and ask that you see it delivered where it will do the greatest good.”
The curtain twitched again.
“I can do that,” Miss MacPherson said slowly. “I can do that as often as the need arises, Mrs. Sherbourne.” Her gaze was more than friendly now; it was conspiratorial.
“My thanks,” Charlotte said, “and you will consider what charitable project my husband might undertake in addition to the libraries?” And the mine.
Miss MacPherson set down her basket on the garden wall. “Something enduring? I will think on this, Mrs. Sherbourne, and put the question to my father as well, but Haverford has always taken quite good care of us.”
By the grace of Lucas Sherbourne’s generosity. “We can discuss charitable projects further when my husband and I call at the vicarage. Please give my neighbors my regards.”
Miss MacPherson beamed at Charlotte, a blessing of a smile that turned a dreary day sunny, and reminded Charlotte very much of Fern Porter.
“I will do that. Good day, Mrs. Sherbourne, and thank you.”
“One does what one can, Miss MacPherson. My husband and I will call at the vicarage in the near future.” Not a word of the Caerdenwals’ situation would be discussed at that visit, all would be tea and shortbread, the weather, and the latest local wedding.
Miss MacPherson waited by the gate while Morgan assisted Charlotte back into the gig.
“We put Miss MacPherson down at the crossroads,” Charlotte said. “She insisted.”
Morgan’s expression eased. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“I do, and Miss MacPherson will say so too.”
They rattled along in silence all the way to the castle drive. The sun made occasional attempts to poke through the clouds, but the overcast soon swallowed up errant sunbeams.
“I won’t be long, Morgan. Two cups of tea for you in the kitchen, and I should be ready to go.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Charlotte wanted to spend time with her sister, of course, but she also wanted to get back to Sherbourne Hall, where she would find the biggest basket on the premises and set about filling it before her husband came home from the colliery.
*
“I’m sorry,” Sherbourne said, closing the front door on a sharp gust of wind. “I should have asked you when you’d scheduled dinner.”
Charlotte did not look happy to see her husband, and Sherbourne was guessing at the reason. Darkness had fallen before he’d left off tramping about the works, Hannibal Jones jabbering at his elbow.
Charlotte whisked Sherbourne’s top hat from his head. “Your apology is not accepted. I should have asked when you planned to return from the colliery.” She passed the hat to Crandall, then started on the buttons of Sherbourne’s greatcoat. “You are soaked to the skin, sir. Might I suggest a hot bath before we dine?”
He’d fall asleep in the tub, had done so on many occasions and awakened all the more stiff and cold, because Turnbull allowed foolish employers to reap the results of their decisions.
“My horse slipped in the mud and came up lame,” Sherbourne said, as Charlotte worked her way down the front of his greatcoat. “I had to walk him most of the way back.” In the dark, in the cold, in the pouring rain, cursing like a schoolboy given extra sums to do in detention. “I’m more interested in food than a bath at present.”
“Thank goodness the beast didn’t send you into the ditch. Crandall, you’ll need to hang Mr. Sherbourne’s coat in the kitchen if it’s to dry by morning.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“And please have Mr. Sherbourne’s warmest dressing gown brought to the library. We’ll take trays there, and a toddy wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”
She peeled Sherbourne’s sodden coat from his shoulders, and the chill of the unheated foyer penetrated to his bones.
“The fire in the bedroom must be built up as well,” Charlotte went on, “for Mr. Sherbourne will have a bath after we’ve eaten.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Don’t just stand about looking dignified, Crandall. Please take Mr. Sherbourne’s coat to the kitchen this instant.”
Crandall bowed and withdrew, the sopping coat leaving a damp trail on the carpet.
“What are you grinning at,” Charlotte asked, fussing with Sherbourne’s hair. “You’d think he had nothing better to do than eavesdrop.”