The question escaped him before he could stop it.
Clara turned.
For the first time since their meeting, she seemed genuinely surprised.
“Your Grace?”
“I mean—”
“I understand what you mean.”
He looked away.
The river moved quietly beneath the bridge.
At last she said, “I have not yet decided.”
Julian met her eyes.
“And what will determine your decision?”
Clara looked back toward the Beale cottage.
“Whether the gentleman I marry is capable of admitting that a duke may be wrong.”
Julian considered her.
“An exacting requirement.”
“Exceedingly.”
“And if he admits it?”
“Then I should wish to see what he does afterward.”
He watched her for a moment.
Then he offered his arm.
“Come, Miss Langley.”
“Where are we going?”
“To see your mother's school.”
“And afterward?”
“To discover who has been using my name to commit acts I would never have authorized.”
Clara took his arm.
“That,” she said, “sounds considerably more promising than discussing the arrangement of your furniture.”
Julian looked down at her.
“I shall never permit you to forget that unfortunate remark, shall I?”
“Certainly not, Your Grace.”
“Not even after we are married?”
“If we are married, I intend to have it embroidered upon a cushion.”
The schoolhouse stood at the northern edge of Mereford, where the village road widened beneath a row of ancient chestnut trees.
It was a handsome little building of pale stone, with tall windows, a slate roof, and a blue wooden door.
Above the entrance, carved into a rectangular plaque, were the words:
THE MARGARET LANGLEY SCHOOL.
Established 1800.
For the Education of the Children of Mereford.
Clara stopped beneath the plaque.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Julian watched her.
“Your mother?”
Clara nodded.
“She came here as a girl. Her father managed the old mill before she married mine. She never forgot how difficult life was for the children who worked along the river.”
“Did she teach?”
“Not formally. But she believed every child ought to know how to read a letter addressed to them, keep an honest account, and recognize when someone was attempting to deceive them.”
Julian glanced at her.
“A practical philosophy.”
“It has served me reasonably well.”
He almost smiled.
A woman appeared from the garden carrying a basket of apples.
Mrs. Ruth Calder, the schoolmistress, was in her early forties, plainly dressed and visibly exhausted.
When she recognized Clara, the basket slipped from her hands.
Apples scattered across the path.
“Miss Langley?”
Clara hurried forward.
“Mrs. Calder!”
The two women embraced with a familiarity that surprised Julian.
Mrs. Calder drew back and examined Clara's face.
“You have grown so like your mother.”
Clara smiled, though her eyes shone.
“I hope that is a compliment.”
“The finest I could offer.”
Mrs. Calder noticed Julian.
She immediately curtsied.
“Your Grace.”
Julian inclined his head.
“Mrs. Calder. I understand the school has been closed.”
The woman's smile vanished.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“For want of funds?”
“So I have been informed.”
“By whom?”
“Sir Edmund Cross's clerk.”
Clara exchanged a glance with Julian.
Mrs. Calder led them inside.