“Do you know who I am, Mother?”
“You’re the Duchess of Durham,” her mother said, having no idea how that rent a fresh tear in her daughter’s warm, beating heart. “Honestly, Josephine, what kind of question is that?”
And so the days passed, full of maddening conversations that prompted questions that only Her Grace, the Duchess of Durham, could answer.
And Meredith wanted answers.
Chapter 18
Very often dukes will excuse themselves with the pretense of important estate business. But sometimes there actually is important estate business.
—The Rules for Dukes
Durham Park
When one’s heart was broken and one’s future seemed to be some vague disappointment, there was only one thing to do: take solace in drainage ditches.
At least, that was James’s plan.
Meredith had left, and it was not clear when she would return, if ever. The duchess was tight-lipped about it—not wanting to encourage him, presumably. There was gossip about him and Lady Jemma; it seemed that she and the rest of the haute ton were expecting a proposal, oh, any second now. But he just. Couldn’t. Do. It.
But James did learn that important ducal estate business provided a very convenient excuse to avoid problems in London that he’d rather not deal with. He invented an emergency at Durham Park, had Edwards pack up his belongings, and left.
Now here he was, digging drainage ditches with Mr. Simons and Mr. Sprock in what seemed to be a very fine pair of breeches and a linen shirt. Edwards would have an apoplexy when he saw the bottle green wool jacket lying in a heap under a tree, to say nothing of the long-lost cravat and the state of his boots.
“It’s very good of you to come to assist us, Your Grace,” said Simons, eyeing him warily.
“No need to call me Your Grace. Just James will do.” Then James winced as Just James brought back a storm of memories that he was trying to forget.
The sight of her across a crowded room. Her shy smile. The soft click of the door closing. The soft sigh from her kissable lips.
James pushed his shovel into the dirt and heaved a pile of it off to the side. Drainage ditches. He needed to focus on drainage ditches.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Sprock added. “But it seems improper to address you any other way.”
“But we’re digging a drainage ditch,” James said, pausing to take a breath. Bloody hell, London was making him soft. Back home in Maryland, this labor wouldn’t even have him breaking a sweat. “I think we can do away with all that formality.”
“But you’re still the duke.”
A duke who was digging a drainage ditch as an escape from romantic troubles.
“It is a bit odd to have the duke himself personally assist us with this manual labor,” said Simons. “This hot, dirty, sweaty, messy manual labor.”
“Surely dukes have more important things to attend to,” Sprock added.
“Just a lot of paperwork, mainly,” James grunted. Gasped, really.
“Don’t blame you for being out here then.”
James shrugged and got back to work digging. It was a known fact that drainage ditches didn’t dig themselves and if they were to be an effective distraction from romantic troubles, then he would have to focus.
And so, he dug while Sprock and Simons chatted away while they worked.
“The previous duke, may he rest in peace, would never concern himself with something like this.”
“I dunno, Sprock, I reckon he would have done, but the duchess would never allow it. She kept him busy with all that important duke business.”
“I shudder at what this place would be without her firm hand behind it.”
“I thought the late duke was well regarded for his management of the estates and his work in parliament,” James cut in.
At least, that was the impression he got from his review of the account books (very well, Claire’s review) and conversations with the late duke’s colleagues in government. By all accounts, he was an upstanding man who knew his duty and performed it well. No sins, no scandals. It was a tough act to follow.
“Oh, he was a good man. Knew his duty. But he still understood that the life of an aristocrat wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
It’s not just me, James thought. He kept digging.
“Not that we know.”
“So we’ve heard.”
“That’s why he let your father run off with that horse.”
James paused in his digging. Let?
“Whatever happened to that horse?” Sprock asked. “Mess something it was called. Can’t quite remember.”
“Messenger,” James answered, picturing the tall black stallion. “My father took the horse and used him to establish his breeding and training program.”