Thomas named the amount. It was less than Julian had spent replacing a damaged chandelier the previous winter.
"And the business can afford it?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Provided our customers pay their bills." Thomas hesitated. "Her Grace has kept us working through two difficult seasons. When orders were scarce, she found other customers instead of dismissing men."
Julian looked toward the adjoining room where Eleanor was speaking to an elderly binder. He had never asked how she spent the hours when he was away; he had assumed she occupied herself with correspondence, charitable visits, and a thousand small diversions expected of a duchess. Through the open doorway, he watched her examine a damaged binding. She listened while the worker explained the problem, asked a question, and handed him a small tool. There was nothing ornamental about her presence: she belonged here.
"How many families depend upon the workshop?" Julian asked.
"Twelve directly. A few more earn occasional wages when large orders arrive." Thomas lowered his voice. "If Mr. Grant sends quarry wagons along that road, the vibrations may worsen the cracks beneath the drying room. The carpenter warned us last spring."
Julian moved toward the rear window. Beyond the courtyard, the narrow road curved past the building before joining the highway. He could imagine heavy wagons passing within yards of the foundations.
"Has anyone examined an alternative route?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. The quarry is surrounded by other properties. Mr. Grant would have to negotiate access elsewhere."
Julian nodded. The information did not excuse his conduct; it merely made his ignorance harder to bear.
When they returned, Eleanor was reviewing an account book beside the press. She looked up as Julian approached.
"Was your inspection satisfactory?"
"Informative. That is a beginning." He almost smiled. Instead, he noticed a small cut across her finger; a bead of blood had gathered beside the ink stain. "You have hurt yourself."
Eleanor glanced down. "Paper—a surprisingly determined enemy." She wrapped a clean scrap of linen around the cut.
Julian reached toward her hand, then stopped. She had not invited his concern, and he was beginning to understand how often he had mistaken concern for permission.
"May I?" he asked.
Eleanor looked at his extended hand. After a moment, she gave him the injured finger. He tied the linen more securely, careful not to tighten it too much. Her hand was warm; his own seemed suddenly clumsy.
"Thank you," she said, withdrawing gently.
The words were perfectly courteous. They might have been addressed to a stranger.
Julian stepped back. "I was wrong about this place."
Eleanor closed the account book. "You were wrong about more than the building."
"I know."