“Fixing it,” he said. He shook his head.
The duke settled down on the roof, worked at something, then cast pieces of slate down into the garden.
“Does he do this often?”
The coachman looked down at her, aghast. “Why would he do that? No point in being a duke if you have to fix your own roof, is there?” He looked up to the roof again. “Will be ruining his hands with this.”
If he had never done it before, she wondered what possessed him to do it now. She also wondered if he had any idea how to fix a roof, but she expected most of it would be obvious once one was up there.
Suddenly, he slipped a little. Not much, but enough that he had to brace himself with his legs. The coachman gasped audibly. Davina’s heart skipped a beat.
“Not for me to scold, Your Grace, but I would be most appreciative if you did not fall off,” the coachman called up.
“Have no fear, Napier. I am safe, and almost finished. Pity there were no copper nails in that box of yours. It might be fixed for good if I had them. These wooden ones won’t last more than a month or so, and are a bit too small for the holes drilled in the slate.”
Davina decided she would wait inside, so if he did fall, she would not see it. She returned to the kitchen and rehearsed everything she knew about setting broken bones.
Chapter Twelve
“You did not have to fix the roof.”
Miss MacCallum had waited until they were in the carriage, rolling toward the village, before she said it.
“You are welcome.”
“Your rebuke is well taken. I should have thanked you. So, thank you for fixing my roof, even though you might have broken your neck.”
“Instead ofeven though, tryespecially because. Then it will be a proper thanks.”
She looked embarrassed, then realized he was teasing her. “If you had broken anything besides your neck, I might have been able to help you. A neck, however—well, there is no help for that.”
“Should I ever break my neck while fixing your roof, please do not allow the newspapers to know how I died. Say I fell off my horse.”
“Of course. I suppose it would stain your reputation to die while performing such menial chores.”
“It is not the how but the who that would get the papers interested. Now, where are we going today?”
“First, we will visit Mr. Portman. Mr. Jacobson wrote to me with his name when I in turn wrote to ask for a reference to someone old enough to have memories of value to me. After that, I intend to visit an old friend of mine. You are welcome to go back to the inn once we are done with Mr. Portman. I will walk home.”
The walk would be a good three miles from the look of it. He voiced no disagreement, but she would not walk home.
Caxledge was a good-size village with three main lanes and an assortment of others. On its outer edges, some homes looked newer than those in the center. The industry of Newcastle had begun altering the village because it was close enough to partake of that prosperity.
Miss MacCallum had the direction to her old man, and they pulled up outside his small house soon enough.
“I hope he will receive me,” Miss MacCallum said.
“Don’t worry. He will receive us.”
Indeed he would. Theusensured it. One look at the duke’s card and the woman who came to the door ushered them inside. “My grandfather is in the garden. Just go through if you like.” She pointed to the back of the house.
They walked through a sitting room and a dining room, then a kitchen. An abundance of furniture, along with low ceilings, cramped the space so that the duke appeared overlarge for it. A child’s laughter chimed down from above as they exited by a back door.
“What a charming garden,” Davina exclaimed. She paused to take it in. Small, like the house, it had been planted with an artist’s eye. Vines covered the walls, and one nice fruit tree stood in a corner. The rest showed flower beds with a few last blooms backed by bushes of various sizes and shapes. A stone walkway wound through it all.
The artist, it seemed, was Mr. Portman. He heard them and stood from where he worked some soil while on his knees. He came toward them, peering through spectacles while he pulled off his work gloves.
A short, spindly man of at least eighty, he held his ground while the duke towered over him and introduced himself and Davina. “A Mr. Jacobson advised Miss MacCallum to call,” he explained.
