Page 73 of A Legacy of Lies

Clara caught the words, her chest tightening. Pride swelled, fierce and unexpected, as if the warmth of their hope had brushed her directly.

A widow came next, two children clutching her skirts. Her eyes were hollow, her gown plain and worn. In her arms, she carried two wool blankets, neatly folded, the weave careful though the wool was coarse.

Nathaniel stepped forward, taking the blankets himself. He turned one over in his hands, fingers brushing the even rows of knit. His gaze lifted, steady on her face.

“You have done more than I asked,” he said. “These will serve Hartleigh well. Your debt is paid.”

Her lips parted, trembling. “Paid?”

He nodded. “Completely. And more. I will need additional blankets before winter. Wool will be provided, and you will be paid for each one you finish. Your work will not go unrewarded,” Nathaniel said, then looked beyond her to the gathered women. “Hartleigh will need blankets, and wool enough lies in the north loft. If there are hands willing to spin or weave, see Mrs. Greaves before nightfall. The Hall will pay fair coin for every piece finished.”

The widow’s eyes filled with tears. One of her children laughed, not understanding, only sensing her relief. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, not disbelief this time but surprise, and cautious hope.

A woman near the back called out, “I can spin!” Another echoed, “And I can sew if the wool’s sent.” Heads turned, voices rising in quiet agreement until the air hummed with talk of work and winter. Nathaniel listened, not smiling, but something in his posture eased as though the Hall itself had drawn breath again.

Another man stepped forward, his cap in his hands, tools worn to the haft at his belt. “We’ve no iron left for the ploughs. Last one broke in the spring.”

Nathaniel turned slightly. “Hollis,” he called. The estate steward stepped from the gathered men, bowing low. “See that the smith has iron delivered within the week.” Hollis inclined his head. “It will be done, Your Grace.”

Nathaniel paused, his gaze sweeping the men. “And if any of you have tools in need of mending, bring them to the forge. Let the fire serve all.”

The man’s eyes widened, then he bent at the waist. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Behind him, an older tenant called out, “And the well at East Field. The water’s foul again after the storm.” Nathaniel turned without hesitation. “Hollis, inspect it tomorrow. If it needs a new lining, see it done.” Hollis bowed again, already scribbling notes. Murmurs rose in approval, the tenants looking at each other with surprise.

Clara caught a whispered comment. “Not like the last duke. This one listens.” It stirred her chest, pride she hadn’t expected to feel.

Clara sat still, watching. He spoke with the solicitor’s sharpness, every promise exact, every figure clear, but there was something more. His voice carried not only judgment but care. She saw the shift in the tenants’ faces as each came forward. Suspicion softened, pride flickered back where it had long been buried.

Eleanor, settled in her seat, looked on with calm satisfaction. At one point, she turned her head just enough to catch Clara’s eye. “Go on,” she murmured. “They need more than a ledger. They need a heart.”

Clara’s throat tightened. She dismounted, the mare tossing her head, and moved among the crowd. The widow’s children pressed back shyly at first, but Clara crouched to their level, smoothing a curl from one little girl’s forehead and smiling.

“Shall we play a game while your mother speaks?” she asked. She tapped her palm against the little boy’s. He laughed, slapping back. Soon, his sister joined, their small hands clapping a rhythm with hers.

The sound carried, drawing smiles from others. The boy missed his turn and laughed so hard he toppled backward, his sister scolding him with a giggle of her own. Another child tugged at Clara’s necklace, wide-eyed. “Is it magic?” he whispered. Clara laughed softly, shaking her head. “Only if you believe it so.” The words struck her as they left her lips. Her mother had said the same once, long ago, when play still filled her childhood before the shadows fell.

The boy tugged at her sleeve. “Again!”

Clara laughed softly, pressing her forehead to his for an instant. “Again, then.”

The game began again, children slapping her hands faster and faster until one deliberately cheated, sending them into peals of laughter.

Clara gasped in mock outrage, clutching her chest. “A scoundrel in our midst!”

The little boy crowed with pride, and even the adults laughed.

Clara’s heart warmed at the sound, though when the children slipped their hands from hers, the emptiness echoed where their touch had been.

Across the yard, Nathaniel watched her as though she were sunlight made flesh, something he could feel but not claim. She gave herself so freely, while he held everything in reserve. The thought cut at him even as it drew him nearer.

When she rose, smoothing her skirts, she felt the crowd’s mood had shifted. Tenants nodded to her with something like respect, as though she had bridged the distance between the Hall and their cottages.

Across the gathering, she felt Nathaniel’s gaze. His chest rose as if he had been holding his breath. Their eyes met, and in his she saw something she had never seen before, not suspicion, not judgment, but a spark, unspoken and dangerous.

Heat climbed into her cheeks. She looked away quickly, bending to take the boy’s hand again, though her pulse thundered.

When the gathering ended, Nathaniel ordered the horses tied to the back of Eleanor’s carriage. He helped Clara inside, his palm at her waist, steady and warm, a touch that lingered longer than propriety allowed.