“This notice has no authority under your lease,” he said.
Mrs. Beale stared.
“What does that mean, Your Grace?”
“It means you are not required to leave.”
Her hands flew to her mouth.
“But Mr. Vane said—”
“Mr. Vane was mistaken.”
Julian hesitated.
The word seemed inadequate.
He looked around the damp room.
“The roof will be repaired. I shall see that the work begins tomorrow.”
Mrs. Beale began to cry.
Not loudly.
Her face merely crumpled, and tears slipped down her cheeks as she struggled to maintain the dignity expected of her before a duke.
Clara rose and touched her arm.
“There is no need to thank us,” she said.
“But miss—”
“You asked for help. You were entitled to an answer.”
Julian watched them.
For the first time in years, he found himself uncertain how to occupy his own position in a room.
He was the duke.
These were his tenants.
Everything within the familiar order of the world suggested that his arrival should be a source of relief.
Instead, he had discovered that his name had become a thing people feared.
When they stepped outside, Clara waited until they were beyond the gate before speaking.
“You were very kind.”
Julian gave a humorless laugh.
“Kind? I have allowed a widow's roof to rot while my steward tells me all is well.”
“You did not know.”
“I ought to have known.”
She looked at him with renewed interest.
Most gentlemen of her acquaintance would have accepted ignorance as a complete defense.
Julian did not appear inclined to do so.
He walked a few paces, then stopped beside the river.
The water flowed beneath a low stone bridge and disappeared around a bend where tall reeds obscured the farther bank.
Beyond lay the northern meadows.
Clara knew the land well from maps.
Part of it belonged to her.
“Mr. Vane mentioned improvements,” she said. “Do you know what he intends?”
“A navigation scheme. The river is narrow here, and there has been discussion of constructing a channel to connect it with the larger commercial waterways.”
“Through Langley Meadow?”
“Near it.”
“Through it,” Clara repeated.
Julian turned.
“Why do you say so?”
“Because my mother's trustees received an offer last month to purchase the meadow's water rights.”
Julian's brows drew together.
“From whom?”
“The Northmere Navigation Company.”
“I have heard of it.”
“So have I. Sir Edmund Cross recommended accepting the offer.”
“Your father's executor?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps he believes it prudent.”
“Perhaps.”
She looked toward the river.
“But the proposed channel would require the removal of the schoolhouse, the lower cottages, and part of the orchard beyond the bridge.”
Julian stared across the water.
He had seen preliminary plans for a navigation improvement.
They had shown a graceful curve beyond the northern fields, an attractive stone embankment, and a new road connecting the village with the market town.
They had not shown cottages.
They had not shown the school.
And they had certainly not shown a widow with two children and a leaking roof.
“Who prepared the plans?” Clara asked.
“My steward.”
“Who advised you to approve them?”
“Sir Edmund Cross.”
Clara slowly turned toward him.
A chilly wind moved through the reeds.
For several seconds, they stood together without speaking.
Then Julian said, “I believe we have discovered something rather more troublesome than a forged letter.”
Clara nodded.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He looked at the distant schoolhouse.
“Something tells me our acquaintances would prefer that we remain thoroughly displeased with each other.”
“And marry without discovering why.”
“Do you intend to marry me?”