Caleb finished his food and considered how best to reply to that question. Perhaps a bit of honesty would not be remiss. “He and I have actually known each other since we were children.”
Miss Clemens’s eyes widened. “How on earth is that possible? I mean, you are…well…” She raised her gaze to the sky as if in contemplation.
He grinned. “Our fathers were acquainted with each other.”
“Oh. I see.”
And in that second, he saw in her eyes the truth she imagined, of his father in the Earl of Vernon’s employ and of him being granted the opportunity to play with Aldridge. The urge to correct her was there, but if he did so, he’d lose his anonymity and the normalcy with which Miss Clemens and her friends treated him. He’d be a duke, one of the most powerful men in England, and not at all the sort of man who ought to be climbing about on roofs.
In fact, they’d probably send him packing with the declaration that he was too good for their modest home. And they’d be appalled and embarrassed by the thought of having put him up in a cottage that was barely more than a shed.
“It pleases me to know you and your father were treated well. The aristocracy can be so horribly snobbish,” she told him emphatically.
Caleb swallowed any remaining wish to tell her the truth. “You speak with a keen dislike for their set.”
“Yes. Well. I have had my share of bad experiences.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he said, “But you are gentry, are you not?”
“No. My father acquired his fortune in the textile trade, so my family was never really good enough for the gentry or the aristocracy. Honest work is frowned upon by them, you see, which only makes me loathe them all the more. Both are a class determined to instill their will on everyone, to make demands and rule people’s lives. Well, it ruined mine and…I’m sorry. I did not mean to become so incensed, but when I think of Cassandra, Emily, and myself and the heartache we all endured, it angers me, knowing we could be socially accepted if not for all the ridiculous rules.”
“I take it you have no intention of ever returning to that way of life?”
“Most assuredly not.” She drew a deep breath and expelled it. “I would rather live on a deserted island in the middle of the ocean than have to endure the company of an aristocrat.”
Try as he might, Caleb couldn’t quite stop her words from slicing away at his chest. It shouldn’t matter if she detested his kind, yet it did, whether he wanted it to or not.
Disappointed by the idea of how much she would hate him if she knew him to be a duke, he turned his shoulder toward her and pulled at a loose piece of tile. “I should get back to work,” he said, infusing his voice with as much lightness as he could muster.
“Yes, of course. Good luck with that.”
She clambered down, leaving Caleb alone. For long moments after, he just sat there, his excitement with his progress and the work ahead completely forgotten. All he could think of was George and the burdens he’d had to live with because of the title.
4
When they withdrewto the parlor after dinner that evening, Mr. Crawford took a seat in the corner by the door, allowing Mary, Cassandra, Emily, and the children to make use of the sofa and armchairs. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, thanks to Mr. Crawford’s willingness to chop wood for them. Even though Mary had told him it wasn’t necessary yet, he’d insisted, and when the temperature had started to drop in the evening, she’d appreciated his doing so.
“Do you preferGulliver’s TravelsorRobinson Crusoetonight?” Cassandra asked everyone.
“Robinson Crusoe,” Eliot said, and both Bridget and Penelope agreed.
Picking up the red leather-bound volume, Cassandra flipped it open and started to read. Mary leaned back in the armchair with Bridget in her lap. There was something wonderfully comforting about the little girl’s cheek pressed against her shoulder as she snuggled closer for warmth. Daphne sat on Emily’s lap while Penelope and Eliot crowded next to Cassandra.
Discreetly, Mary darted a look at Peter, who’d chosen to stand next to Mr. Crawford. Shifting her gaze, she met the infinite blueness of the man’s eyes. Her cheeks grew warmer, and she deliberately glanced away. He was too great a distraction for a woman who’d chosen to forgo a life of romance or passion in favor of one that was sensible and meaningful.
She tried to concentrate on the story, and that went rather well until she heard Peter whisper, “What are you making?”
Unable to resist, she let her gaze wander back to Mr. Crawford, who now sat with a long piece of wood across his lap and a knife in one hand. As she watched, he carved away a few shavings and let them fall to the floor. He muttered something she could not hear and saw Peter’s face light up with obvious interest. Whatever was the man doing?
Her eagerness to find out caused her to tap her foot which in turn made Bridget bounce up and down in her lap. The girl squealed repeatedly until Cassandra sighed. “Perhaps I should continue reading tomorrow?”
“Aw! I want to know what happens next,” Eliot protested.
Mary bit her lip. “Sorry. I’ll try to keep Bridget quiet until you’ve at least finished the chapter.”
Emily smiled as if she knew precisely why Mary could not sit still, and Mary responded with a quelling look. The story continued and seemed to last forever before Cassandra finally marked her spot with a bookmark and Bridget slid to the floor with a thump.
“Let’s get you all to bed,” Emily said as she ushered the children out of the room. “You too, Peter.”
