He thought of ship’s crews, of men placed at the wrong posts, of disasters born of stubborn insistence on theory over temperament.
“I see,” he said.
She leaned back against the timber, following his gaze out through the small gap where the loft overlooked the yard. For a moment they sat in companionable silence, watching a colt in the paddock cavort while a stable boy groaned and tried to catch him. Edward found his eyes drawn to her face, watching her profile. It was a rare moment where he could stare, unobserved.
Should I trust her? Should I ignore my head for once?
“I miss it,” she said softly. “Strathmore. The sound of hooves in the yard at dawn. The way the hills look when the first snow falls and the ponies stand with their rumps to the wind.”
The longing in her face was unguarded, written plain across every line.
“God willing,” he said before thinking better of it, “you will see it again.”
She blinked, startled.
“Do you believe God takes an interest in roofs?” she asked, a touch of wryness returning.
“In some,” he said. “In others, perhaps He delegates.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “If He has delegated Glenmore’s fortune, we are all in trouble.”
He filed that away. “Strathmore will not always be ash,” he said. “Stone endures more stubbornly than men.”
“And what of the people?” she asked. “Will they endure? That is what wakes me at night. Not the portraits. Moira. The kitchen maids. The stable boys. The old gardener who used to bring me snowdrops in spring. If they have lost both roof and work…”
Her voice trailed off.
He wanted, irrationally, to reach for her hand. He kept his own hands where they were, fingers digging lightly into the rough twine of the bale.
“You would take them all in here if you could,” he said.
“Yes,” she said simply. “And set them to rights in your kitchens and your fields and your stables. But it is not my house to offer.”
“It is yours as much as mine,” he said. The words surprised him even as they left his mouth. “By law, at least.”
“Law,” she said. “Not sentiment.”
“Sentiment has made enough mischief of late,” he replied.
They sat with that between them. A shared awareness of how tangled their lives had become through accident and necessity. Yet here, in the dim loft above the honest work of horses, thetangle felt less choking. He was about to say something more, something foolish, perhaps, or brave, when a familiar, imperious voice cut through the sounds of the yard.
“Edward! Where are you?”
Isla’s eyes flew to his. There was no time to clamber down and arrange matters. Lady Eleanor’s footsteps were already crisp on the cobbles below. The stable fell almost comically silent.
“I know you are in here,” she called. “The steward saw you cross the yard. Do not think you can hide among your animals like some groom.”
Isla’s lips pressed together. Edward felt a laugh rise in his throat, entirely at odds with the impending storm. He shifted forward and peered down through the gap. Lady Eleanor stood in the aisle, skirts neatly gathered, expression a study in restrained disgust. Godwin hovered a discreet distance away, hat in hand, eyes fixed dutifully on a point somewhere above her left shoulder.
“Your Grace,” Godwin said. “His Grace is…”
“Above you, Mother,” Edward said, before the stable master could attempt a lie.
Lady Eleanor looked up. For a heartbeat she saw only dust motes and rafters. Then her gaze adjusted, picked out two figures seated side by side on a bale of hay. The Dowager’s expression passed through astonishment into scandalized outrage with impressive speed.
“In the hayloft,” she said. “Alone.”
“Not entirely,” Isla murmured under her breath. “There is a very proper stable master down there pretending to be deaf.”
