A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(94)
“I want to thank you,” she said, casting Sherbourne an unreadable glance. “I mean that. I am happy to express my gratitude for what you did for those women and that tiny boy. That was decent of you, and I hadn’t thought to ask it of you.”
So absorbed was Sherbourne in assessing his wife’s mood, that making sense of her words took him a moment.
“I wrote a simple letter, gained permission from the ladies to send it, and that was that. I will cheerfully send another such letter if it becomes necessary.”
Charlotte snatched a sheaf of papers from the table and stared at them. “Haverford didn’t think to send that letter, and neither did the vicar or Lord Radnor. They’ve known of Maureen’s circumstances for months. Griffin kept a roof over their heads, but that doesn’t solve the real problem, does it?”
“For the boy, a roof over his head solves at least one problem. Have you eaten luncheon?”
She slipped the top paper behind the others. “I have not. I have a few pears and some cheese in the gig along with a flask of tea. The tea won’t be very hot.”
Pears and cheese with lukewarm tea sounded like a feast, provided Sherbourne could share his repast with Charlotte. She typically sat at her end of the dining table, a marital disaster masquerading as a portrait of fine manners.
Sherbourne found an orange rolling about in the back of the gig, along with the parcel Charlotte had described. A snow flurry danced down from above, and the horse—a fat, furry piebald cob named Nelson—blew out a white breath and cocked a hip.
“Thank you for the food,” Sherbourne said, passing Charlotte the orange. “If you’d peel that, I’ll find a knife and deal with the rest.”
Charlotte set aside the figures she’d been studying and rolled the orange between her palms. “I cannot decipher two consecutive lines of those calculations. Either Mr. Jones needs new spectacles, or he’s writing in a code known only to mining engineers. Griffin thinks we’re in for snow.”
That was more than Charlotte had said to Sherbourne at once for nearly three weeks.
“He and Biddy paid a call?”
Charlotte tore off a thick piece of orange rind. “He was out rambling, and accompanied me to the Caerdenwal cottage. I’m not welcome to return there.” She took a bite from the rind and chewed for a moment. “I’ll send along the occasional basket, though, and Griffin is prevailing on Radnor to provide a fall heifer.”
“Griffin is kind.” As I am not. Why hadn’t Sherbourne given his wife a kitten when the gesture would have been seen as something other than manipulation? “How are you, Charlotte?”
She munched another bite of orange rind, which made Sherbourne’s teeth ache. “I miss you. I suspect I would miss you regardless, because you work so much, but I miss you here.” She tapped her heart. “I hate that you must work so hard. I hate that much of your hard work will go to benefit a monster.”
Did she expect him to lounge about on his rosy arse all day? “I cannot abide idleness any more than you can, and my hard work will go mostly to benefit myself and those who depend on me.” But he missed her too—in his heart, in his arms, in his dreams. “I’ve been meaning to bring you Jones’s figures to review, but the moment hasn’t been right.”
Charlotte tore the orange in two and gave him half.
“I can’t read his writing, Lucas. A month ago, his hand was crabbed, but legible. This,”—she waved the papers she’d been studying—“it’s nonsense.”
Sherbourne took the papers from her. Pencil scratchings covered much of the top page. As Charlotte said, the occasional digit was decipherable—a seven, a five, a four—but nothing like an equation or column of figures emerged from the confusion Jones had wrought.
“Perhaps he wrote this when in his cups.” Though Jones hadn’t at any point in recent weeks seemed tipsy, despite Radnor’s gossip to the contrary.
Charlotte separated a section of orange and ate it. “Mr. Jones wears spectacles. Maybe he wrote it when he couldn’t find his eyeglasses. My sister Megan is nearly blind without her eyeglasses, particularly as she grows fatigued.”
Nearly blind…
Memories assailed Sherbourne, of Jones rubbing his temples, taking anything he had to read outside into bright sunshine, of Jones taking off his spectacles and holding them several inches away from a treatise Sherbourne cited regarding the optimal elevation of tram lines.
Several of the various stacks of documents were weighted down with quizzing glasses.
“Eyesight wanes as we age,” Sherbourne said, though he suspected the reality was worse than that. “Jones might be having difficulty with his vision.”
Charlotte looked up from her orange. “That would make sense.”
That would make…a disaster. Sherbourne ate his orange, cut the cheese and a pear into slices, and made a trencher out of a book about building terrace homes. Charlotte deserved better, but he hadn’t better to offer, which made him perversely annoyed with her.
“I could ask Mr. Jones to reconstruct his calculations.” Charlotte took a slice of proffered cheese and got up to pace. “I could ask him to explain the engineering to me. That wouldn’t be any bother.”
“Then you too would be contributing to the enrichment of the Earl of Brantford. Will you blame me for that as well?”