Why Dukes Say I Do (13 page)

If the woman found his explanation for Isabella’s presence at his side odd, she did not say so. “Welcome, Your Ladyship. I hope you will come in for a cuppa tea. My girls and I were just about to have some ourselves. And you as well, Your Grace, of course.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” Isabella said, following her into the thatched-roofed cottage, which was smaller than her bedchamber in London. Trevor followed close behind, so close she could feel him brush against her as he ducked beneath the low sill of the doorway.

At a worn but clean kitchen table, three girls in varying degrees of age stood and offered curtsies to the newcomers. When Isabella neared the table she saw that they had been working on their letters.

“My Mary has been teaching Lizzie and Rose here their letters,” Mrs. Jones said with an air of pride. “I made sure the chickens and the pigs was fed first, mind you, but my Joe and me know it’s important for them to be able to read and cipher, too.”

“And you do remember, don’t you, Mrs. Jones,” Trevor said, seeing to it that Isabella was seated before he took his own seat, “that the girls are welcome to attend the village school as soon as they are able?”

The woman placed three chipped but clean mugs on the table along with a small pitcher of milk and an even smaller bowl of sugar. Isabella knew without being told that she and Trevor were being presented with what was likely a very dear supply of tea and sugar. But she also knew that to refuse Mrs. Jones’s hospitality would be a grave insult. So Isabella assured the woman that she did not care for much sugar and sipped at her tea.

“I do thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jones said to the duke. “But we simply cannot spare them just now. It was hard enough to let Mary go last year. For now, we’ll make do with her teaching the littler girls when she’s got a moment.”

“Is the school something that has been here long?” Isabella asked, intrigued that the duke would offer his tenants’ children a means by which they might remove themselves from the countryside he seemed to hold so dear. “I had heard of schools being operated by churches and the like in London, but it had never occurred to me that a country village might also benefit from such an endeavor.”

“I hardly think it in my best interest to keep my tenants and their children in complete ignorance,” Trevor said dryly. “Indeed, I have found that such instruction makes for not only more engaged tenants but also more ambitious ones. It does me no harm for them to learn to read and write and manage their own funds when necessary.”

“I know my girls are ever so grateful for it, Your Grace,” Mrs. Jones said with sincerity as she poured her own mug of tea. “Should something happen where they cannot stay on here on the estate, knowing their letters and numbers could see to it that they could get a position in a shop in York or Manchester.”

Isabella sipped her tea thoughtfully. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of the duke’s interactions with his tenants, but somehow she had not expected this sort of concern for their welfare on or off his land. “I think it’s an admirable notion,” she said, smiling at her hostess.

Any further conversation was forestalled by a hectic cry from the other side of a curtained alcove. Mrs. Jones stood. “It’s the little one awake from his nap. If you’ll pardon me, my lady, I’ll just go get him settled.”

“Do bring him out for a visit,” Trevor said with more relish than Isabella would have expected. “We men must stick up for one another, after all.”

To her amazement, when the housewife emerged carrying a pink-cheeked toddler with golden curls the duke reached out to take the lad in his arms. And far from being annoyed by the change in his caretakers, the baby issued a gurgle of approval and went readily to the duke.

“There’s a good lad, little Joe,” Trevor said with approval to the boy. “Now, you must tell me what these women have been getting up to while your papa is off tending the sheep.”

If she hadn’t seen it with her own two eyes, Isabella would never have believed it if someone had informed her that the Duke of Ormonde would spend the better part of fifteen minutes conversing with an infant. But he certainly did.

Noticing that Isabella could not take her eyes off the duke, Mrs. Jones said in an undertone to her, “He’s always been a sweet lad, the duke. Even when he were a young ’un himself. Did whatever it would take to please his papa, learned whatever he could to follow in his footsteps. And then when it came his time to take over duties as the lord of the manor he not only did as his father trained him to do, but did him one better. A kinder, more dedicated master we could not have asked for.”

Isabella, unable to remove the image of Trevor as a young boy hanging on his father’s every word from her mind’s eye, simply nodded.

“He’ll make some lady a fine husband one of these days, make no mistake,” Mrs. Jones said with a twinkle in her eye.

Stopping in mid-nod, Isabella blanched. “Oh no, Mrs. Jones. There’s nothing like that between us. I’m simply here to observe the estate. That is all, I assure you. Indeed, I cannot think of a worse pair in all of…”

Realizing that her hostess was still grinning, Isabella paused. “Really, I assure you,” she said again.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Lady Wharton,” the woman said, “I think you could do a sight worse.”

Isabella felt color rise in her cheeks. Trevor, meanwhile, was oblivious to the conversation going on beside him and instead had lowered himself and baby Joe to the floor, where they were playing with a stack of blocks. It was difficult to imagine any other gentleman of her acquaintance risking his breeches by sitting on the floor to play with an infant, much less an infant who belonged to one of his tenant farmers. If Trevor was this open and affectionate with a child to whom he was not related, she could only imagine what he would be like with a child of his own.

Unbidden the image rose in her mind of herself holding a baby, both of them tucked in the circle of this man’s arms. Isabella felt her heart clench with longing at the notion. Then, confused by her daydream, she shook her head and recalled her surroundings.

“There is no such bond between the duke and myself,” she reiterated to Mrs. Jones. “We are merely relatives by marriage. Only that.”

Mrs. Jones looked as if she’d like to argue but did not.

Any further discussion was forestalled by the arrival of the master of the house, who greeted the duke with apparent relief. “Yer Grace, I’m that glad ye’re here, for I’ve just had news from the village that Mary’s brother Jacob has been taken up by the bailiff for poaching on Mr. Palmer’s land.”

The news was met by a gasp from Mrs. Jones. “Oh, Joe! Are you sure it was Jacob? He knows better than to cross Mr. Palmer. Especially since what happened last year with young Robbie Martin.”

“What happened to Robbie Martin?” Isabella asked before she could stop herself. Everyone else—even the babe—had quieted as soon as Joe Jones began to speak.

“It was a bad business,” Ormonde said, his forehead creased with concern. “Martin was caught poaching on Palmer’s land and Palmer chose to swear out the warrant with a magistrate on the other side of the village, who is known by folk hereabout as Hanging Harry for the stiff penalties he metes out.”

Isabella had heard that there were some members of the judiciary who saw it as their duty to punish all who came before them as harshly as possible.

“In this instance you might be right that the system in London is superior to that here in the country. It is quite possible for a country magistrate to abuse his authority with little or no consequence for it. And I’m afraid Palmer took advantage of it in that instance.”

“Which magistrate has Mr. Palmer chosen to approach with Mrs. Jones’s brother?” Isabella asked, though she had a sinking feeling that she knew the answer.

“Mr. Harry Pinchingdale,” Mr. Jones said, his face tense with worry. “I wish there was some way to make sure that the bailiff brought young Jacob before a different magistrate.”

“I shall look into the matter,” Ormonde said, grasping the other man’s shoulder in support. “For now, you need to see to Jacob’s family. Let my housekeeper know if you need provisions for them.”

“Ye’re a good man, Yer Grace,” Mary said emphatically. “My family thanks you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ormonde said quickly. “I may not be able to do anything at all.”

“But ye’ll try,” Mary said, leaning into her husband’s protective arm. “That’s more than some would do in the situation.”

“We’ll leave you to deal with your family, Mrs. Jones,” Isabella said, squeezing the other woman’s hand. “I shall keep you all in my thoughts.”

The duke and Isabella said their good-byes and were soon on their way to visit the rest of the cottages on the lane.

It was some three hours later that they retraced their steps and headed home.

“I must admit,” Isabella told the duke as they approached the last rise before they entered the park surrounding Nettlefield House, “my notions of what your tenant farms must be like were rather more medieval than what I found today. I suppose growing up in town as I did has left me with a rather limited understanding of what it is that the great estates of the landed aristocracy actually do.”

“Oh, do not mistake the matter, Isabella,” the duke said, expertly steering his mount alongside Dolly as they approached a narrow bit of trail. “Many of the estates hereabouts and elsewhere across England are indeed in medieval conditions. Like Palmer’s for instance. It is an unfortunate fact that a great many landowners have about as much interest in caring for their estates as they have in sailing to the Antipodes. They raise rents when they need a bit of extra cash, and they work the land until it is so devoid of nutrients that it can no longer grow the sort of crops that will enable them to pay said rents.

“It is an abomination,” he said fiercely. And for a moment Isabella could see past the affable gentleman farmer to the conscientious caretaker of people beneath. It was far more attractive than she could allow herself to admit.

“I wish that there were some way to insist that landowners took better care of their people,” he continued. “But there is not. So I will content myself with ensuring that my own people are well looked after and leave it at that.”

Thinking that this might be a means of making the dowager’s case, Isabella asked, “What of the tenants of the Ormonde estates? Are they to be left to the wolves simply because your father was treated badly by his parents? That is not the tenants’ fault, after all.”

Immediately his gaze shuttered and Isabella could see the muscle in his jaw tense with temper. “That has nothing to do with what we were discussing,” he said finally. It was easy to see that her words had annoyed him. But Isabella could not allow a bit of anger to keep her from her purpose. She might have found his treatment of his tenants here to be admirable, but she could not allow having seen the duke in a favorable light today to keep her from her purpose.

Just as he cared for his tenants and his sisters, so, too, did she care for her own sister. And after the hell of Perdita’s marriage to Gervase, she deserved happiness with Coniston.

“But I do not see the difference,” she pressed on as they neared the stables of Nettlefield House. “Surely the tenants of the Ormonde estates are just as deserving of your care as your tenants here are. Surely they, too, have a need for schools and oversight and compassion.”

“You know nothing of the matter,” the duke said sharply. “Now, let us speak of it no more. I believe you have agreed to accompany me to my magistrate’s duty two days hence, have you not?”

“But, Your Grace,” she said, her voice high with frustration, “I do not understand how you can say such a—”

“Enough, Lady Wharton,” he barked. “Enough. My responsibilities at the Ormonde estates are my affair and I hope that you will allow me to be the best judge of how to manage them.”

Knowing that she had pushed him far enough, Isabella did not speak. She simply nodded and allowed the mare, who had seen that they were close to home, to hurry down the rise to the stables below.

Isabella might have allowed him to silence her now, she thought, staring at the duke’s back as he and his mount led the way, but this was not the end of their discussion of the Ormonde estates. She might have become distracted by their visit to the tenant farms today, but no more. She was here to convince him that his place was with the Ormonde estates, and she would not stop until she had gained his agreement.

*   *   *

After a quick change from his riding clothes, Trevor retired to his study to go over some correspondence with his steward. Though he tried to keep his mind on the business at hand, he could not help but remember some amusing tale Lady Isabella had told him on their ride and how easily she’d interacted with his people on their visits with the tenants. Her compassion for the Joneses’ situation had touched him. She might seem on the surface to be a selfish beauty, but there was genuine interest in people beneath her veneer of sophistication.

His mother, who had been brought up not terribly far from Nettlefield, would have liked Isabella, he thought. She had always been welcomed by the locals as one of their own, but there had also been just the slightest bit of resentment from the people who thought she’d gotten above herself. Though Isabella was clearly not from the local stock, she had a way about her that set people at ease, just as his mother had. It was an odd thing considering how cold he’d thought Isabella when they first met, but he supposed that might have been chalked up to nerves.

When he’d left off the same column of figures for the third time, Trevor decided it was time to quit for the day. He hadn’t been so distracted by a woman in a very long time. Perhaps it was time he took a trip to York on his own to visit the discreet widow he sometimes called upon when the need for female companionship became too pressing. He disliked the notion, but it was a practical enough arrangement and there was no danger that either of them would get emotionally entangled.

He’d just poured himself a much-deserved brandy when a knock sounded on the study door.