She said nothing more as she gave the little arrangement some final touches. These included some polished pebbles and a carved wooden deer.
“Where did you find the deer, Celeste?”
“Gran’ther Tim carves them in his spare time. It pleases him when I can use his whitlin’s, as he calls them.”
“Gran’ther Tim. Hmmm. You mean Tim, the gardener?”
“Yes, such a nice old fellow. He tells me about his grandchildren. He reminds me of my father.”
“It seems I have unexpected talents among my staff. Perhaps I should hold a craft competition or something.”
“Oh, no, Your Grace! That would take all the fun out of their makings. These are little things that are the people’s own.”
“Do they have so little, then?”
“You pay very generously, Your Grace. You are kind, provide good food and pleasant housing. But none of this, not even our uniforms, belongs to us.”
Jonathan sighed. “I try to be keeper of the land and people.”
“You are, Your Grace. I think there might be a problem with the system. At least that was what was said in France. But the alternative doesn’t seem to be working very well.”
“Well, this system has been around for a good many generations and it does seem to work.”
“I suppose it does.” Celeste considered the arrangement and shifted one last little stone. “Thank you for talking with me, Your Grace. I must go if I hope to get the rest completed before Her Grace rings for me.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said. “I’ll not keep you from your duties.”
After Celeste closed the door of the study behind her, Jonathan returned to his accounts. Somehow deciding whether to plant winter wheat or oats in the fallow meadow had just become less compelling. “Something of their own.” He pondered that. She had been a shopkeeper until her funds were stolen. Did she miss it? Clearly, it had been an uncertain life.
Well-a-day, he had no way to fix the ills of the world. He could take care of his people and see to it that the estate prospered. Oats for the upper meadow, he decided, for oats could feed both cattle and humans. Somehow, he had vision of a shining golden head bowed over a heaping bowl of oatmeal, a lovely figure handing out oatcakes to the poor, gentle hazel eyes reproving him.
What was the matter with him? The girl was his wife’s abigail, for heaven sakes! He had never considered a mésalliance with one of the estates staff before in his life. Learning of his wife’s infidelity must have addled his brain. “Pull yourself together,” he muttered to himself. He plucked his hat off its peg and strode out to see if the arrangements for the festivities were in train.
* * *
Celeste hastened away from the Duke’s study. How forward she had been! But he was so easy to talk with. Did all dukes take such an interest in their land and people? No, she thought not. Because if they did, the world would no doubt be a much better place, and her homeland would not be in such turmoil.
Yet he was married to the Duchess. Of course he was married to the Duchess. That is how she came to be the Duchess. Celeste giggled to herself. How silly! Then she sobered as she put the finishing touches on the last bouquet. She needed to employ a little self-discipline. He was kind. He was handsome. He was very easy to talk with. So few people understood that to hold a conversation required listening to the other speaker as well as talking.
She gave a little sigh as she took the debris from her labors out to the midden heap next to the garden. For half a moment she allowed herself a little daydream of having the Duke’s full attention all for herself. That is just daft, she told herself firmly. Even if he wasn’t married, which he certainly was, no Duke was going to marry a mere commoner. No, not even if she and her Papa had owned her shop before she had been forced by circumstance to go into service.
Well, there was no hope for it. She would focus on Mama and Papa coming to Gwyndonmere. That would have to be enough. Let other girls indulge in daydreams of marriage or having a lover. She would one day have her own shop again.
But the Duke…she shook herself. Now that is just silly. She hurried back up the garden path. As she entered the kitchen, the cook called out, “Her Grace just rang for you. Better hurry. She sounded cross.”
Celeste hurried up the stairs, wondering what she would find today. When she entered the Duchess’s chambers, she found nothing unusual.
“There you are,” the Duchess snarled. “Where have you been?”
“I just finished with the house bouquets, Your Grace. I was in the back garden emptying out the leavings. I came as soon as I heard that you had rung.”
“Stay closer. I am all out of sorts today.”
That much Celeste could see for herself. “What seems to be the trouble, Your Grace?”
“My feet hurt, my head hurts and I feel puffy. I should never feel puffy.”
“You do not look the least puffy, Your Grace. Let me help you freshen up and I am sure you will feel much more yourself after you’ve had your morning tea.”
