He talks to me of business easily enough. Words like ledger, rent and statement of account come easily to his lips.
They cantered along the lane between high hedges, then slowed where the track branched toward a low farmhouse with a crooked chimney. Children’s voices cut the quiet, hens scattered indignantly as they approached.
Mr. Dalton met them at the gate cap in hand, shoulders stooped from years of bending over stubborn soil. His boots were cracked and his jacket had seen better decades but his eyes were as bright and wary as a boy’s.
“Your Grace.” He bowed first to Edward, then remembered and dipped to Isla. “Your Graces.”
“Dalton,” Edward said. “How is the barley?”
“Coming in well enough, Your Grace. We had a late frost, but the Lord sent sun after.”
“And drainage? Latham mentioned difficulty near the lower field.”
“Aye. There’s a wet patch as never dries and swallows a boot besides.”
“You were to dig a run-off trench,” Edward said. “Has it been done?”
Dalton shifted his weight. “We’ve begun, sir. But the tools …”
“You have three able-bodied sons,” Edward cut in. “Borrow a spade if yours are dull. The work must be completed before the next rain.”
Dalton’s mouth flattened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Isla watched the exchange from her saddle, feeling the air chill by a degree. Edward’s tone was clipped, the sort he might have used on a slow sailor. All accurate. All efficient. And entirely lacking in empathy.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Dalton,” she said, brightening her voice. “Your daughter has the prettiest hair I have ever seen.”
Dalton blinked. “Meg?”
“Yes. I saw her plait when we rode up. That color would bankrupt the London hairdressers if they knew it existed.” She leaned down a little. “Is she the one who sews the shirts? The stitches on your collar are very neat.”
“Aye, that she is, Your Grace.” Pride crept into his tone despite himself. “Quick with a needle, that one. My wife says she’ll have her hands ruined by cloth before any man thinks to hold them.”
“Then the man will not deserve them,” Isla said. “Does she fancy working with finer cloth? I am in need of a clever seamstress to mend a rip I made in an old habit, and Mrs. Hargrave tells me she has no time to spare.”
Dalton actually smiled. “Meg would die of delight, Your Grace.”
“You will not let her die,” Isla said, mock-stern. “You will let her live and sew and perhaps one day move to Wexford Hall to terrorize the hems there.” She glanced at Edward. “If His Grace does not object.”
Edward seemed to realize belatedly that he had become an ornament in his own conversation. “We pay fair wages,” he said. “If she works hard, she will be valued.”
Dalton’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Thank you, Your Graces.”
They rode on.
“Was that necessary?” Edward asked once they were out of earshot.
“She was going to die, apparently, so yes,” Isla said. “Besides, you were about to demand a trench of a man whose boots have holes. Let his daughter patch them with your money.”
He exhaled, half-sigh, half-laugh. “You go around my orders.”
“I go around the edges,” she said. “You give him the trench, I give him a reason not to curse your name while he digs it. Call it complementary labor.”
He considered that. “I am not accustomed to sharing command.”
“Then think of me as your second,” she said. “I will not steer the ship. I will shout at the crew in a different language while you do.”
The idea seemed to sit not unpleasantly in his mind. “We will see if the crew appreciates it.”
