Jane let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "The Duke? He's probably choking on a quail bone at some lavish breakfast in Mayfair. He inherited this land 2 years ago and hasn't stepped foot on it once. Men like him don't care about dirt and timber. They care about tailor bills and mistresses. He's a parasite."
Tom took a slow sip of his tea. His jaw flexed slightly. "Parasite. A strong word."
"An accurate one." Jane snapped, suddenly angry though not at him. "He bleeds this land dry to fund his city life, while the tenants here patch their roofs with mud. If I ever met his grace, I would gladly pour this boiling tea straight into his lap."
Tom lowered his mug. He looked down at the dark liquid, his expression completely unreadable. Then he let out a short, quiet breath that might have been a laugh. "I'll be sure to warn him," Tom said, "if he ever shows his face."
Jane pushed off the post. "I need to go. Mrs. Gable will be awake and she burns the porridge if I'm not there to watch her."
She reached out her hand. Tom handed back the chipped mug. He didn't let go immediately. For a fraction of a second, the weight of the cup was suspended between them.
"Get some sleep tonight, Jane," he said.
It was the first time he had used her given name. The sound of it in his low voice sent a strange, unfamiliar jolt through her chest. She pulled the mug away, her defenses instantly snapping back into place.
"Sleep doesn't pay the debts, Tom. Have Barnaby brushed by noon." She turned and walked out of the warm stables, back into the freezing frost.
Two weeks later, the sky broke open. It wasn't a gentle English drizzle. It was a torrential, angry downpour that turned the courtyard into a swamp and battered the slate roof of the manor like artillery fire.
Jane spent the morning running up and down the main staircase with metal buckets, catching the leaks that sprang up in the grand gallery. The faded portraits of long-dead aristocrats looked down at her mockingly as she hauled sloshing buckets of dirty rainwater out the back door.
By 3:00 in the afternoon, her shoulders were screaming, her dress was soaked to the knees, and a profound, cynical despair had settled in her bones. She dragged the last bucket down the hall and stopped. The heavy oak doors of the library were slightly ajar.
Jane pushed the door open. The library was the only room in the house she fiercely protected. It held thousands of volumes, smelling of old paper and dust. But today, the sound of rhythmic dripping echoed near the back window.
Tom was there. He had hauled a heavy wooden ladder from the shed and was standing near the top of it, working a piece of heavy canvas over a crack in the plaster ceiling. Rainwater dripped steadily onto his shoulders, soaking through his linen shirt, plastering it to his back. The muscles in his shoulders shifted and pulled tight under the wet fabric as he hammered a nail into the joist.
Jane stood frozen in the doorway. She had not asked him to do this. His job was the horses. He struck the nail one last time, tested the canvas, and then paused, looking down. He saw her standing there, a dripping bucket in her hand, her hair plastered to her forehead.
"It won't hold forever," Tom said, descending the ladder with a fluid, easy grace. "The flashing on the roof is completely rotted, but it will keep the books dry for today."
He stepped off the bottom rung. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. His dark hair was soaked, curling slightly at the ends. Up close, in the dim light of the library, Jane noticed a thin, faded scar cutting through the rugged line of his jaw.
"You shouldn't be in here," Jane said. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. She was exhausted, and his unprompted kindness felt like a threat to the walls she had carefully built around herself.
Tom didn't flinch. He picked up a rag from the floor and wiped his hands. "I saw the water pooling outside the window. Knew this room sat beneath it."
"It's not your job. Your maid is 70 years old, and your cook has a bad hip," Tom said evenly, closing the distance between them. He stopped a few feet away, towering over her. "Who else was going to carry the ladder? Jane. You?"
"I managed just fine."
"I know you do." Tom's voice dropped, losing the hard edge. "I see how hard you work. You don't have to carry the entire house on your back."
"If I don't, it collapses." She set the bucket down hard. The clatter echoed in the quiet room. "I have to catalog these books. The Duke's men are coming next month. They sent a letter this morning. They want an inventory of the library. They're going to sell it."
Tom froze. The rag in his hands went still. "Sell the books?"
"Everything of value," Jane said, turning her back to him to look at the massive shelves. She crossed her arms, shivering as the dampness of her dress seeped into her skin. "They need to liquidate assets to cover the estate's arrears. It seems his grace is tired of carrying a dead weight in Yorkshire. He wants cash."