A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(97)
The weather was growing dire. The snow had already left a white coating on the grass, bracken, and rooftops, and now it was sticking to the rutted lane as well.
“I don’t know if it’s dire or not, but I’ve done it, and there’s no undoing it.”
The village came into view, a tidy collection of Tudor, stone, and thatch buildings, with the church steeple forming a focal point among the rooflines. The village was pretty in warmer weather, but now the shuttered dwellings and snowy streets looked bleak and empty. A lean tabby cat whose fur was dotted with melting snowflakes skulked along the top of a garden wall, then disappeared over the far side, leaving a trail of paw prints in the dusting of snow.
“You might as well tell me what you’ve done, Charlotte. We have privacy, and I must remain attentive to the horse rather than shout and pace about in an undignified manner.”
“I’ve written to my family.”
He brought the horse to a stop right in the middle of the lane and sat very straight on the bench beside her.
“What God has joined together, Charlotte Sherbourne, no meddling Windhams will be putting asunder. I know we’re having a rough patch, but I will deal with Brantford eventually. I’ll sell the whole damned mine once it’s turning a profit, or I’ll liquidate other assets to buy him out. You will keep your family away from our marriage.”
Indignation vibrated through every syllable, which warmed Charlotte’s heart, despite her hackles rising at Sherbourne’s preemptory tone.
“Windhams are born to meddle, which you should have realized before you married one, but I haven’t written a word to my cousins about the situation between us.”
The snow came down, the wind soughed. The horse gave the harness a shake, sending frigid droplets in all directions.
“If you’re not airing your grievances against me, then why write to your family?”
Still he would not spare her a glance.
“I didn’t know what else to do. Elizabeth chastised me weeks ago for not confiding in her regarding Fern Porter’s situation. It never occurred to me to tell my own sister, never crossed my mind.”
Sherbourne peered down at her. He was being the shrewd, inscrutable investor, the self-contained nabob who knew many secrets and shared none.
“You told me about your friend before we’d even finished our homeward journey. Whatever does she have to do with this?”
“I tell you everything. You listen to me, you notice me. You are my husband, to have and to hold, and to disagree with.” I love you.
Charlotte kept that admission behind her teeth. Sherbourne had been none too impressed with it on first mention, so why add insult to his indifference?
He gave the reins a shake and the horse plodded forth. “Your description of holy matrimony is more accurate than the vicar’s. So what did you write to your family about?”
“How the mine is progressing, how you envision using steam for the tram and eventually at the mine itself. How Haverford is watching the whole project closely and Radnor has made a regular pest of himself as well.”
She’d said a bit more than that, actually.
The gig passed between the houses at the edge of the village. The posting inn, which sat across from the church, came into view.
“You are taking preemptive measures,” Sherbourne said. “If Brantford should slander me in the clubs, you have nocked your familial arrow and are ready to let fly.”
Was that what she had done? “I expect Haverford and Radnor will do likewise with their associates. Brantford can go to the courts if he’s truly intent on scandal, but in the clubs and committees, he won’t get very far.”
“Not with a dozen Windhams arrayed against him.” Sherbourne brought the horse to a halt in the inn yard, and a boy swaddled to the ears in a wool scarf came to hold the horse. “We are alike in many ways, Mrs. Sherbourne. I would never have thought to enlist your family’s aid.”
Was that a concession, a flag of truce?
Sherbourne climbed down and came around to Charlotte’s side of the gig. He was tall enough that Charlotte was eye to eye with her husband as she sat on the bench.
She tucked the end of his scarf over his shoulders. “I didn’t enlist their aid when it would have done Fern some good. They could have given her money for a physician, convinced her parents to take her in so she wasn’t banished to a Welsh backwater. I did not ask for help for Fern. I relied only on myself. I was wrong. I see that.”
Sherbourne’s gaze was bleak. “Now you need to rely on me, and I’ve disappointed you.”
He had disappointed her, but not in the manner he thought. “The problem Brantford poses is one of funds,” Charlotte said, “not of integrity. I wish I had reached that conclusion sooner—I do enjoy working with figures—but we will contrive, Mr. Sherbourne.”
He stepped back, out of fussing range. “What are you saying, Charlotte? That you married a climbing cit whose actions are driven by greed?”
“Not greed, pride. Didn’t I just say as much? I have married the most diabolically stubborn, clodpated, determined, thickheaded—”
A movement against the silently falling snow caught Charlotte’s attention. From the belfry in the church steeple, a flash of red fluttered where no bird should be on such a wintry day.
“Somebody’s up there,” Charlotte said, using Sherbourne’s shoulder to steady herself as she clambered from the gig. “Would the masons be working in this weather?”