"We cannot release more grain," Mercer murmured. "Not until the accounts are settled."
A farmer near the gate shouted, "We were promised seed!"
Another answered, "No planting means no autumn rent!"
Nathaniel raised his hand. The crowd quieted, but only because he was the Duke. He could feel the difference. Silence was not trust.
Eleanor appeared at the edge of the gathering beside Samuel, carrying a narrow notebook.
Mercer exhaled sharply. "Why is she here again?"
Nathaniel ignored him. "Miss Reed."
She approached. "Your Grace."
"Can we release the seed?"
"Not under the present allotment."
Mercer gave a satisfied nod.
Eleanor continued, "The present allotment is foolish."
His satisfaction vanished.
Nathaniel folded his arms. "Explain."
"The western farms need less seed because three fields are lying fallow this year. Their allocation was copied from last spring." She opened her notebook. "Move that excess east. Combine the two smallest tenant plots for planting purposes and delay barley on the north acreage by twelve days. Everyone plants. Blackmir purchases nothing."
Mercer stepped closer. "You would reorganize tenancy practice in front of the tenants themselves? They are the people expected to do the planting. These decisions belong in the estate office."
Eleanor looked toward the anxious families. "Hunger rarely waits outside while gentlemen finish meetings."
A few farmers heard her. Nathaniel saw mouths twitch.
Mercer lowered his voice. "Your Grace, if you allow this woman to dictate policy publicly, you will undermine your own authority."
Nathaniel looked at Eleanor. The wind had loosened one strand of chestnut hair near her cheek. She did not plead. She simply waited, notebook held against her coat, prepared to be dismissed because she had clearly been dismissed before.
Nathaniel turned toward the tenants. "We follow Miss Reed's plan."
Mercer went rigid. Eleanor's eyes lifted sharply to Nathaniel's.
He continued, "But the responsibility is mine. If it fails, you bring your complaints to me."
Eleanor spoke before anyone else could. "No."
Nathaniel looked at her.
"No. If my calculations fail, they bring that part to me. You do not get to trust my judgment and then politely confiscate the risk."
Several farmers stared. Samuel suddenly became very interested in his boots. Nathaniel felt something dangerously close to amusement.
"Very well." He stepped aside. "Tell them."
Eleanor faced the crowd. She did not raise her voice. Within minutes, anger became questions. Questions became assignments. She knew which farmer had an injured son, which field flooded first, whose plow horse could manage another acre.
Nathaniel stood three steps behind her and watched people obey a woman none of his dinner guests had considered worthy of a chair. Not because of her birth, not because he had ordered them to—because she knew what they needed and expected them to know something in return.
When the last farmer left, Eleanor closed her notebook. "You are staring, Your Grace."
"I am reconsidering several things."
"That sounds expensive."
"So far, knowing you has saved me money."
Her mouth curved before she could stop it. The expression altered her whole face, and Nathaniel forgot his reply. The moment lasted barely a breath. Then Samuel hurried from the house holding a sealed packet.
"Your Grace." His face was pale again. "We found the original correspondence from Henshaw."