“You will have more than that,” Isla said. “Every crow between here and Gretna will observe and judge you.”
“Crows are less formidable than my father,” Henry said. “But their opinions carry about the same weight with me at present.”
Elizabeth muffled a laugh in her glove.
Edward folded his arms. “Henry. Have you thought about what you will live on?”
“Yes,” Henry said at once. “Bread. Cheese. The occasional potato. Elizabeth assures me she can make a stew from almost anything. We shall be invincible.”
“I am serious,” Edward said.
“So am I,” Henry replied. “I spent all last night thinking of what you would say, and all this morning thinking of what she would say, and there is only one conclusion. I would rather break stones with her than sit in Doncaster House’s finest drawing room without her.”
Edward felt something twist in him at that, half admiration, half something that might have been envy.
“Work will not be a problem,” Isla said, “if you will come but a little east after your wedding.”
Three heads turned.
“There has been a disaster at Strathmore,” she went on. “Fire. Damage to the house. The tenants’ houses need repairs, the lands require careful tending if they are to yield enough to keep everyone through the winter. We will need men we can trust. If you desire employment, Captain Ashford, I will ensure there is work for you.”
Henry blinked. “Work at Strathmore.”
“Yes,” Isla said firmly. “You may learn to herd sheep. Or to check walls for cracks. Or to argue with masons. I am told these are noble arts.”
Henry’s face, already bright, lit further. He looked at Elizabeth. “You see? We are saved. We may be poor and damp and entirely happy in Perthshire.”
Elizabeth looked at Isla. “Are you certain, Your Grace? It is a generous offer.”
“It is not generosity,” Isla said. “It is practicality. You need work, we need workers. Edward may be induced to lend us some coin to pay you if he is sufficiently bullied.”
Edward lifted a brow. “May I?”
“You may,” Isla said.
He exhaled through his nose. “Very well. Strathmore may borrow my captain. With the understanding that if he ruins your sheep, you keep him.”
“I accept,” Isla said.
Henry took Elizabeth’s hand again, squeezed it, then turned to Edward with uncharacteristic seriousness.
“Thank you,” he said. “Both of you. You are making a joke of it, but I know what I am asking. I know what I am turning my back on. I know it better than anyone except perhaps you, Edward.”
Edward looked away toward the distant, invisible line of the border. The decision to chase Isla north had cost him less materially than Henry’s elopement would cost him, but he felt the echo of the sacrifice all the same. He had left his estate, his mother’s grudging regard, his father’s ghost, for a woman he did not yet entirely trust, but could no longer comfortably doubt. Henry’s eyes sharpened, seeing more than Edward wished him to.
“You know,” Henry said quietly, “what it is to leave things behind.”
Edward changed the subject with a brusqueness that fooled no one. “We should get the horses tended and secure rooms. If Ashford is to parade his scandal before a tavern full of strangers, let us at least do it with a roof over our heads.”
***
The inn’s common room was warm and crowded. A fire roared in the hearth and men shouted at one another over dice. The air was thick with the sticky smell of ale and roasting meat hung.
They secured a private parlor with some difficulty and more coin, ate a stew that tasted of onions and effort, and made a dent in a bottle of tolerable claret. Elizabeth, exhausted from hours in the coach, pleaded weariness early. Isla offered at once to sit with her awhile.
“I would like to wash the road from my hair,” Elizabeth confessed. “And to talk to another woman who does not think elopement a symptom of a brain fever.”
“Then you have come to the right duchess,” Isla said. “I left half of London convinced I was mad. Let us add your tally to mine.”
