The handwriting was bold, slightly angular, and entirely different from the elaborate script of the letters she had received.
She broke the seal.
Miss Langley,
I have compared the correspondence in my possession with the letters you showed me this afternoon. I now believe that neither of us has received a genuine letter from the other.
I should be grateful if you would meet me in the library tomorrow at nine. There are matters in the estate accounts which require examination, and I suspect your knowledge will prove more useful than my steward's assurances.
I must also repeat my apology for this morning.
You were correct to object to my judgment.
I had no right to form an opinion of you upon evidence I had not tested.
Yours sincerely,
Alderwick.
Clara read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
Mrs. Porter watched her.
“Bad news?”
Clara folded the paper with unusual care.
“No.”
“Then why do you look so troubled?”
Clara gazed toward the rain-dark windows.
“Because I am beginning to think I was wrong about him.”
Mrs. Porter smiled.
“That ought to be a comfort.”
“It would be.”
Clara looked down at the note.
“If I did not suspect that being wrong about the duke may place us both in considerable danger.”
The following morning, Julian discovered that Miss Clara Langley was even more troublesome when properly dressed.
At precisely nine o'clock, she entered the library carrying a leather portfolio, three sharpened pencils, and a stack of papers tied with green ribbon.
Mrs. Porter followed with her embroidery, settled herself at a table near the window, and immediately began to behave as though she were entirely deaf.
Julian rose from behind his desk.
“Good morning, Miss Langley.”
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
“You are punctual.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Not particularly. I had rather expected you at eight.”
“I considered it. But I thought you might require another hour to recover from yesterday.”
He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup.
“I have survived worse.”
“Then we shall hope your constitution continues to improve.”
Clara placed her portfolio upon the desk.
Julian glanced at it.
“What have you brought?”
“Copies of my mother's settlement, the school's original endowment, three letters from Sir Edmund Cross, and a list of questions.”
“How many questions?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Julian stared.
“Good God.”
“Twenty-eight, if you count the question I have just asked myself regarding whether Your Grace intends to be cooperative.”
He pushed a chair toward her.
“I begin to see why the woman in the letters was described as unbearable.”
Clara sat.
“And I begin to see why your servants found the coal scuttle preferable to your company.”
Julian laughed.
Mrs. Porter's needle paused briefly.
Then continued.
For the next two hours, they worked through a formidable collection of papers.
The library at Alderwick House had been designed by Julian's grandfather, a gentleman who apparently believed that knowledge was best acquired beneath a ceiling painted with mythological figures of questionable propriety.
Tall windows overlooked the eastern lawns. Shelves of dark walnut rose toward the ceiling, and an enormous globe occupied a corner beside the fireplace.
Julian ordinarily found the room oppressive.
That morning, for the first time in years, it felt useful.
Clara discovered that the school's endowment was only one part of a larger settlement established by her mother.
The property included a meadow, an orchard, a small millrace, and the right to regulate water passing through an old stone weir at the northern bend of the River Mere.
Those rights were worth considerably more than Clara had appreciated.
The proposed navigation company could not complete its channel without them.
Julian spread a survey map across the desk.
“Here,” he said, indicating the northern bank. “The company's preliminary route crosses this field.”
Clara bent closer.
“Langley Meadow.”
“Yes.”
“And this mark?”
“The proposed embankment.”
“It goes directly through the school garden.”
Julian studied the map.
The schoolhouse itself had been omitted, represented only by a small rectangle without a name.
Clara pointed toward a narrow blue line.
“The old millrace is here. If the new channel diverts the water, what happens to the lower cottages?”
Julian followed the course with his finger.
The river descended toward Mereford.
The proposed works would narrow the natural drainage beyond the bend.