Emmeline looked down at Aaron, warmth spreading through her chest at the little flicker of pride in his expression. “That was very clever of you.”
Aaron’s smile turned bashful, but it did not vanish. “I l-like finding things.”
Rowan said nothing, but Emmeline felt his attention shift quietly toward his son. From there, the greetings multiplied.
A woman in a dark wool shawl came first, dipping into a hurried curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Mrs. Webb,” Rowan said. “Is your mother’s cough improved?”
The woman blinked, visibly startled that he remembered. “It is, Your Grace. The broth you delivered helped a great deal.”
“Good. If it worsens again, send word to the house. I will have Dr. Miles called.”
Mrs. Webb’s face softened at once. “That is very kind of you, Your Grace.”
Rowan only nodded and turned when another man approached with his cap already in his hands.
“Mr. Bell,” Rowan said.
The man bowed. “Your Grace. I hope we find you well.”
“Well enough. How is your son managing at the mill?”
Mr. Bell’s expression brightened. “Better every day, Your Grace. He still comes home black with flour and twice as hungry as he left, but he is learning.”
“Then tell him not to put his hand near the lower gear again. Learning is of little use if he loses fingers in the process.”
“I will, Your Grace.” Mr. Bell gave a nervous laugh. “He still speaks of the warning you gave him last time.”
“Then perhaps this time he will heed it.”
Emmeline watched the man bow again and step away smiling despite the sternness of the advice.
A round-faced baker appeared next, wiping his hands hastily down the front of his apron. “Your Grace, the new oven draws better than the old one ever did.”
Rowan’s gaze flicked to the shop behind him. “No smoke in the back room?”
“None at all.”
“Good. Your wife should not have been breathing it all winter.”
The baker’s smile softened into something almost shy. “No, Your Grace. She is much easier for it.”
Rowan inclined his head, already turning as the blacksmith approached from the forge, one hand wrapped in linen.
“Hargreaves,” Rowan said, his brows drawing together. “That hand should still be resting.”
The blacksmith looked down at the bandage with the expression of a boy caught stealing apples. “It is only a little work, Your Grace.”
“It is never a little work with you. Give the heavier orders to Thomas for another week.”
“Thomas is slower than cold treacle.”
“Then he will have time to improve.”
The blacksmith huffed, but there was no resentment in it. “As Your Grace commands.”
Rowan gave a short nod, and Emmeline stood beside him in a kind of quiet astonishment.
