“Several large trees fell, blocking all access,” answered Wrexford, who finished toweling his hair dry as he joined Sheffield in the doorway. “But we set a group of the tenant farmers to clearing the way, so the wedding guests coming from Cambridge tomorrow will have no difficulty getting here.”
“It was a truly hellish night,” added Sheffield, his expression turning serious. “The locals have heard that there is extensive damage throughout the area.”
“Perhaps that explains—” began Cordelia.
“The two of you look chilled to the bone,” observed McClellan before Cordelia could go on. “I’ll go fetch some tea—as well as some good Scottish whisky.” She ruffled a hand through Hawk’s hair. “Why don’t you take the silk sample back to the sewing room and go find your brother.” A wink. “There may be a platter of ginger biscuits waiting for you two Weasels when you join us.”
“Whisky would be very welcome, Mac,” said Wrexford as the boy scampered off. “Come, let us decamp to the comfort of the drawing room and its blazing fire.”
* * *
“I would make a jesting remark about today being the calm before the storm,” said the earl after pouring a wee dram of malt for himself and Sheffield. “But there is nothing humorous about the destruction that Nature can unleash when it’s in a foul temper.”
“Indeed,” agreed Sheffield. “But we mere mortals could do a much better job about being prepared for it. The state of our roads and bridges is shameful, and that’s because our thinking about transportation is, for the most part, still mired in the Dark Ages.”
“Don’t get Kit started,” counseled Cordelia. “Our shipping company is doing quite well, but as we’ve recently learned, it will be a while before technical innovations in steam power replace sails. And as he’s impatient to be involved in Progress, he has turned his gaze from water to land.”
“Yes, well, we have so much potential for economic growth right here on this speck of an island, if only we put our minds to improving transportation through hill and dale,” responded Sheffield. “Think about it! Opening up the northern reaches of England and all of Scotland to commerce would be a boon to the country.”
Wrexford thought for a moment about the challenges, which were more daunting than they might seem at first. “I imagine you are thinking of steam-powered locomotives, which travel at great speed and smoothness over roads made of rails.” Sheffield had been an early investor in Puffing Billy, the prototype locomotive designed by their mutual friend William Hedley.
“However,” added the earl, “our island’s geology—the mountain ridges running up the spine of England, the steep gorges, the many rivers and isolated valleys tucked among the rocky hills—all present a very difficult engineering challenge for creating a network of roads, rails, and bridges to link our towns and cities together.”
“The fact that it’s difficult should be motivating our brightest scientific minds and forward-thinking politicians to solve the challenges,” countered Sheffield.
“From what I hear, that fellow from Scotland, John McAdam, is doing some good work around Bristol in his position as commissioner of paving,” pointed out Charlotte. “I did a series of drawings on his innovations a while back—”
“McAdam’s efforts are hamstrung by a lack of funds,” interrupted Sheffield. “Now that the wars in Europe are over, we should be investing government funds in—”
A sharp rap of the dowager’s cane signaled for silence.
“Enough hot air about business and technology,” ordered Alison as McClellan carried in a large tray of refreshments. “We are gathered here at Wrexford Manor to eat, drink, and be merry in celebration of a joyous occasion. Solving the ills of the country can wait for a few days.”
“Oiy!” called Raven from the corridor. “At least none of us have stumbled over a dead body.”
Wrexford repressed a shiver as a quicksilver chill slid down his spine. Logic and empirical evidence were the backbone of his beliefs. Superstitions were based in ignorance and fear.
And yet . . .
“Don’tspit in the Grim Reaper’s eye, lad,” he muttered, tempted to sprinkle a libation to Eris, the goddess of chaos, on the expensive Axminster carpet. “Anddon’tlet Harper eat all the ginger biscuits.”
The huge, iron-grey hound, who had already loped across the room and taken up a position by the tea table, turned his shaggy head and fixed the earl with a baleful look.
“One would think you were fed naught but bread and water,” growled Wrexford.
“Sweets are not good for you, Harper,” explained Hawk. Seeing Sheffield turn to exchange a private word with Cordelia, he quickly filched a slice of ham from the soon-to-be-bridegroom’s plate. “Here, have some gammon.”
Once the laughter died down, the talk quickly turned to lighter topics. Cordelia told a number of amusing anecdotes about past gatherings of her family, which prompted more chuckles, and Sheffield recounted a number of self-deprecating stories about his clashes with his imperious father.
“I think he’s still rather shocked that someone as smart as Cordelia actually agreed to marry me.”
“So am I,” quipped Wrexford.
As the dowager began a long and slightly naughty story about her own wedding, the earl took another sip of his whisky, savoring the mellow warmth of the spirits and flickering fire. A quiet interlude in the country was a welcome respite. The recent murder of an old family friend had forced him to confront his own fraught relationship with his late father. And though the crime had been solved and justice meted out, allowing a number of lingering wounds to heal, Wrexford was intent on making final peace with his conflicted emotions.
Better late than never, he thought with a pang of regret. Perhaps the fact that he was now the official guardian to a pair of headstrong boys had made him far more understanding of the complexities of father-and-son relationships . . .
The chiming of the case clock on the mantel brought a sudden halt to the merriment around him.
