A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(50)

Brooding, which would not do. This bewildered, angry specimen was the same man who’d been so patient with Charlotte last night, so generous, and intimate. She untied the tent flap and put her arms around her husband.

“The rains have been severe,” she said. “Mining engineers probably design many retaining walls, but not above ground. Shall I have a look at his other calculations?”

“He’ll quit on the spot, and I’m tempted to let him go.”

“Then you’ll get an undeserved reputation for being difficult to work for,” Charlotte said. “May I bring you some lunch?”

Let me help. Let me matter to you. She would not beg, neither would she give up.

Sherbourne smelled of wet earth and coal smoke, a far cry from the freshly bathed, scrubbed, and shaved husband Charlotte had shared a bed with last night. His shape was the same, all lean muscle on long bones.

“You are cosseting me,” he groused, propping his chin on her crown. “You need not have come, Charlotte.”

As scolds went, that hardly qualified, and relief had Charlotte sagging against her spouse.

“I’m your wife. One wants to be useful.” Useful was a reasonable aspiration. Charlotte had long ago given up on many others—popular, liked, accepted. They’d been the pointless longings of an awkward girl. She was good at numbers, she was useful to her various Mrs. Wesleys, and she could learn to be a good wife.

The figures covering half the papers Charlotte saw called to her, though an assistant could check the math. Nobody else could hold Lucas Sherbourne when he was plagued by frustration.

“You took no food with you when you left the house,” Charlotte said, “not even a half-full flask. Regular sustenance is not cosseting, it’s necessary for survival.”

Outside the tent, men laughed and joked as they waited for a turn at the keg of ale. Some teased Heulwen, another asked Morgan if he was handy with a shovel. Spoons scraped against bowls, and somebody complained about another fellow stealing too much cheese.

“Now that I can smell food,” Sherbourne said, “I’m hungry.”

“Then let’s feed you. I’m surprised you’re not letting the earth dry out before you set the men to excavating.”

Sherbourne peered down at her, his expression disgruntled. “Jones had them digging before I arrived, but you’re right, a few days to dry out will make the work go more quickly, assuming the rain is done with us for a while.”

Which, in Wales, was not likely. “Food,” Charlotte said. “Before the men eat every last crumb.”

When she emerged from the tent with Sherbourne, she found a group of rough, muddy fellows gathered around the back of the landau. Every male present yanked his cap from his head and ceased eating.

“Mrs. Sherbourne, I have the honor of introducing to you my masons. Gentlemen, Mrs. Sherbourne.”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. One fellow near the keg chewed slowly, then swallowed. The same awkwardness that had plagued Charlotte from childhood threatened to silence her, but Sherbourne apparently expected her to know what to say.

My gracious, that mud does stink.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Charlotte said, trying for the kind of smile Aunt Esther wore so easily and often. “I hope the soup was still hot?”

She was earnestly assured the soup was quite hot and very good.

One youth with white-blond hair aimed a shy grin at Heulwen. “I could do with a bit more in fact, if there’s enough.”

“We brought plenty,” Charlotte said. “Please do save some for Mr. Sherbourne. He’s easily annoyed when peckish.”

Well, he was. Wasn’t everybody?

“Oh, he is that,” said the man near the keg. “Meaning no disrespect.”

The grinning lad accepted a spoon and steaming bowl of stew. “Perhaps you’d like some bread and butter, Mrs. Sherbourne?”

He got cuffed for his forwardness, but good-naturedly, and Charlotte was soon sitting on a stack of timbers beside her husband, holding his buttered bread while he devoured his stew.

“Is this a serious setback?” she asked.

“Yes and no. This is good cheese.”

“You buy it from Haverford.”

“On second thought, it’s overripe.” They shared a smile, though Sherbourne’s contribution was wan. “The problem is time, Charlotte. Once the ground freezes, we can’t lay foundations. If we can’t lay foundations, then we can’t raise houses, and we can’t bring in full crews. If I can’t bring in crews, sinking a shaft is pointless, and this whole exercise has been an example of how to spend a fortune and have nothing to show for it.”

Charlotte huddled close to her husband, who made a fine windbreak. “You have three empty tenant cottages. Knock them down and build a dormitory.”

Sherbourne finished his soup and set aside the empty bowl. “A fine idea, but the only crew I have now are my masons. Jones wants them to build his tram line, I want them to build houses, now you want them to build a dormitory. If I hire more workers, I spend more money without having any revenue coming in, and at some point, I must show a profit. I took on a partner of sorts, and he expects a return on his investment.”

Charlotte passed over the buttered bread. “Brantford?”

“Yes, Brantford. I owe him regular progress reports, and I’m loath to send him word of this development. That retaining wall took weeks of labor, and that was before the hillside decided to relocate itself where front parlors and kitchens were supposed to be.”