“We hide all of it. Let them eat trout, charred haunch of bunny, or pigeon. But let’s get out of here before they fall upon us.”
The boys having made a habit of eating in the springhouse, Val and Darius took their hamper up to the carriage house.
“For what we are about to receive,” Val intoned, “we are pathetically damned grateful, and please let us eat in it peace. Amen. How good are you at designing greenhouses with windows in the roof?”
“Could be tricky,” Darius said, piling bread, meat, and cheese into a stack, “but interesting. I’m surprised Ellen will let you do this.”
“She probably thinks I’ll forget.” Val accepted a thick sandwich from Darius. “I won’t. Between her butter and her cheese and supervision of the boys and her… I don’t know, her neighborliness, I am in her debt.”
“I was wondering if her neighborliness was responsible for reviving your spirits this past weekend,” Darius said, tipping the cider jug to his lips.
“She went with us to Candlewick,” Val began, but then Darius caught his eye. “Bugger off, Dare.”
Darius passed him the jug. “I see the improvement in your mood was temporary. I did hear young Roxbury eloped for his country seat. Seems our boy did not take his reprieve to heart but has been running up debts apace.”
Val shrugged. “He’s a lord. Some of them do that.”
“I dropped in on my brother Trent.” Darius passed over the cider jug. “He mentioned Roxbury is an object of pity in the clubs.”
“Pity?” Val wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “His title is older than the Flood, the Roxbury estate is legendarily well run, and he’s yet to be snabbled by the matchmakers. What’s to pity?”
“He has no income to speak of.” Darius withdrew a cobbler from the hamper. “If he remains at Roxbury Hall, he can enjoy every luxury imaginable because the estate funds can be spent at the estate, on the estate without limit. His own portion is quite modest, though, and the previous baron tied most of the rest up in trusts and codicils and conditional bequests. Seems all that good management is a function of the late baron’s hard work and the present army of conscientious solicitors.”
“That would put a crimp in a young man’s stride.” Val frowned at the last bit of his sandwich. “How fortunate we are, not to be burdened with peerage, though such a sentiment sounds appallingly like something His Grace would say.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Darius took another pull from the jug.
“I am not. I see what Westhaven has to go through, now that he has financial control of the duchy, his life hardly his own for all the commerce and land he must oversee. It’s a wonder he had the time to tend the succession, much less the requisite privacy. And now St. Just is saddled with an earldom, and I begin to see why my father has said being the youngest son is a position of good fortune.”
“I’ve wondered if Trent shares His Grace’s point of view.” Darius said, relinquishing the jug again. “How soon do you want to get busy on Mrs. FitzEngle’s addition?”
“As soon as the roof is done. Probably another two weeks or so, and I will prevail on the Belmonts to invite her for a weeklong visit. If the weather cooperates and we plan well in advance, we should be able to get it done in a few days.”
Val repacked the hampers and left Darius muttering numbers under his breath, his pencil scratching across the page nineteen to the dozen.
The hamper in Val’s right hand he lifted without difficulty. His left hand, however, protested its burden vociferously all the way down the stairs. A morning spent laying the terrace slates had left the appendage sore, the redness and swelling spread back to the third finger, and Val’s temper ratchetting up, as well.
Ellen, blast the woman, had been right: Resting the hand completely apparently had a salubrious effect. Working it, no matter how mundane the task, aggravated the condition. Val eyed the manor house, deciding to forego his plan to spend the afternoon with the masons on the roof, and turned to make his way through the home wood.
He emerged from the woods at the back of Ellen’s property and scanned her yard. In the heat of the day she was toiling over her beds, her floppy hat the only part of her visible as she knelt among her flowers. Val stood at the edge of the trees, watching silently, letting the peace and quiet of the scene seep into his bones. Through the trees he could still hear the occasional shout from workers on the roof of the manor, the swing of a hammer, the clatter of a board being dropped into place.
In Ellen’s gardens, the sounds were a distant, mundane chorus, detached, from another sphere entirely. The scent of honeysuckle was more real than those sounds or the industry producing them.
She looked up, like a grazing animal looks up when sensing a possible intruder to its meadow. Val walked forward out of the shadows, knowing without being told she’d hate being spied on. Fear it and resent it.
“Good day.” He smiled at her as she rose, seeing she was once again barefoot and back in one of her old dresses. Her hair was in its customary braid, and old gloves covered both hands.
She returned his smile and Val let himself enjoy the sensation of physical warmth it bestowed on him. “Mr. Windham. I hope you’ve had a pleasant morning.”
“I most assuredly have not.” Val’s smile faded slightly. “Soames was, as usual, late with his deliveries, Darius is in a brown study about something to do with his brother, the Visigoths discovered the cobbler, and my hand hurts.”
“Come along.” She pulled off her gloves and held out a hand to him.
“I am to be taken to the woodshed for a thrashing?” Val asked as he linked his fingers with hers.
“You should be. You no doubt spent the morning mending stone walls, laying slate, unloading wagons, and entirely undoing all the benefit you gained resting over the weekend. You are stubborn, sir, but I did not take you for stupid.”
“That smarts a bit, Ellen.” Val peered at her, trying to ascertain if she were truly angry.
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Ellen sighed gustily. “I shouldn’t complain. Your excesses give me an excuse to get out of the sun and to hold hands with a handsome fellow, don’t they?”
She retrieved her tin of salve from a pocket and tugged him back across the yard to where the stream at the edge of her property ran next to a single willow. Pausing to part the hanging fronds of green, she led Val to a bench in the shade, one sporting both pillows and an old blanket.
“Come, naughty man.” She sat on the bench. “Lend a hand.” Val complied, bracing himself for a lecture when she saw the damage he’d done in a single morning.
“You must be in a desperate tear to finish your house,” she remarked, opening her tin and frowning at his hand. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Ellen?”
“Hmm?”
“Could we just now not take too seriously to task one Valentine Forsythe Windham?” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “It’s a pretty day, the morning was… disappointing, and I would enjoy this respite with you.”
She fell silent, and he let out a sigh of relief. Her hands on him were gentle but thorough, working all over his palm, fingers, and knuckles, up his wrist and forearm, and then simply clasping his hand between her two. The stream gurgled, the breeze soughed, a faint buzz of insects came from the gardens, and Val felt a pleasant lassitude replacing his earlier ire.
“You’ve worked magic,” he said, opening his eyes. Beside him, Ellen’s expression was grave, uncharacteristically devoid of the special lightness he associated with her. “What’s on your mind, Ellen FitzEngle? You look most serious.”
“I get in these moods.” She smiled at him, though there was a forced quality to it.
“Broody.” Val nodded. “All the Windham men are prone to it. Maybe you are tired? We were up early this morning, and I know I could use a nap. Shall we?” He stood and grabbed the blanket folded over the back of the bench. “If we spread it here, nobody will know Val Windham, Slave Driver and Scourge of the Huns, has caught forty winks with his pretty neighbor.” He flipped the blanket out before Ellen could argue then extended a hand to her.