She studied his clothing as she descended. Breeches, not trousers, serviceable boots, not buffed hessians, and a simple knotted neckcloth, rather than an elaborately fashioned cravat. Her shyly flashed smile suggested she approved.
She had chosen well, too.
She wore a dress of muslin…good quality, but simple. Around her neck she’d tied an unembellished, but pristine white neckcloth. The cap beneath her sparsely decorated hat was gathered but not edged with expensive lace. On the whole, she appeared elegant and stylish but not condescending—
As she reached the bottom, he peeked into the basket she had hanging from her arm.
“What’s this?”
“Oranges from the Orangery.” She laid a hand protectively over the contents. “Calling without a gift didn’t seem the thing. So, I consulted Cook, who suggested these would be welcome. Mrs. Townsend, apparently, loves them.”
Though he appreciated her thoughtfulness, he frowned. “Why would our cook be aware of Mrs. Townsend’s preferences?”
Cassie gave him a look he’d seen often enough on his older sister—longsuffering, but indulgent. “Because she trades what she cannot use from our kitchen gardens. In Mrs. Townsend’s case, oranges for—” She stopped abruptly. “…for a certain tincture. One favored by the undermaids.”
Female concerns, he decided from her blush. “I didn’t know.”
Cassandra shrugged. “Why should you?”
Why should he, indeed. Shouldn’t he be familiar with the ways in which his household staff interacted with other parts of the estate?
Minor bartering might not make the record books, but the relationship between his cook and his tenant’s spouse struck him as essential. Longstanding, trustful exchange formed an excellent foundation for lasting relationships. He should be aware of these kinds of connections.
In fact, he should be encouraging them.
He wondered if his father had.
Unlikely.
His father had been of a strict hierarchical mind. Since bartering circumvented wages, his father would have been wary. Anything that threatened the servants’ dependence would have been treated with great misgiving.
Perhaps he had never won his father’s approbation not because he was inherently unworthy, but because he had more reformistinclinations.
And who was to say his ideas, once implemented, would be less effective?
“I am sure your gift will delight Mrs. Townsend.”
Feeling hopeful, he waved away the porter and held open the door for her himself.
As requested, Trusty—the most steady and docile stepper in the stable—had been harnessed to the Hall’s lightest and smallest gig. Though gig, truthfully, was a generous description. The conveyance was a little more than a well-crafted pony cart, low slung and stable, specifically designed for light, safe transportation about the estate.
“Your chariot awaits,” he said teasingly.
“What’s this?” she exclaimed.
“A pony cart.” He laid a hand on the seat. “I learned to drive on this cart.”
Soon after, he’d used his newly acquired skill to steal the cart from Vivianne when she’d been inside a shop, though revealing that attention-seeking prank to his wife didn’t seem wise.
In fact, had he ever expresslytoldCassandra Lady Pennington had once lived on the estate? He’d told her he’d been in love with her. He’d told her they had planned to marry. But he wasn’t sure if he’d told her about Vivianne’s connection to Sarah and to his home.
And he couldn’t simply ask.
Bringing up his former love felt dangerous now.
Hold on a moment!Former?
“Harbury, did you hear me?”
