Page 50 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
She considered standing her ground, but she recalled what Mrs. Wintersdown had said about how important it was to maintain good relationships with their tenants on the duke’s behalf.
It seemed that there was no way around this, not if she wished to remain valuable to Graham.
“Very well,” she said, straightening her shoulders in a gesture she hoped would portray confidence. “Please show him to the blue parlor. I shall speak with him directly.”
The butler bowed and left to carry out her directive. Joan let out a breath she did not realize she was holding, shifting her attention to Sophia, who had been waiting quietly.
Gently, she spoke to her, stroking her hair.
“Mama has to tend to a task for Papa. Will you be a good girl and wait with Penelope for a while?”
Sophia nodded, and Joan smiled down at her, proud of how obedient her child was.
Penelope was waiting outside the drawing room, and the maid happily took the little lady away. Joan watched them until they were out of sight, inhaling deeply before she turned around to walk in the opposite direction.
The blue parlor was one of Joan's favorite rooms in the house, with its walls painted in a soft shade that reminded her of summer skies. From the delicate porcelain figurines adorned on the mantelpiece, to the fresh flowers from the garden, and even the polish the maids used to give the furniture a neat shine. Everything within the walls of the room often brought Joan a sense of comfort that lingered within her, even after she left the room.
Today, however, the room's beauty seemed to highlight tell-tale signs of her own inexperience. She felt keenly aware of every detail about the space and herself, the way her shoes curved over her feet and the soft rustle of her skirts as she settled into a settee, hoping she at least looked as reliable as the guest needed.
Moments later, Williams came in with Mr Hartwell.
The tenant appeared to be a man who had spent the better part of his life being shaped by years of outdoor labor, his face weathered to the color of old leather by sun and wind. As he took off his cap respectfully, Joan couldn’t help but notice his hands, riddled with calluses, his nails stained to the color of dirt. His appearance was tidy, but his clothes were clearly well-worn, and Joan was enthralled by how he carried an air of dignity, regardless of his obvious discomfort in the elegant surroundings.
“Your Grace,” he said, offering a respectful bow even though his tone bore a hint of agitation. “I'm grateful that you decided to see me, although I'd hoped to speak with His Grace directly about this matter.”
Joan gestured to the chair across from her, noting sadly how he perched on its edge as though afraid his work clothes might somehow damage the fine upholstery.
“I understand completely, Mr. Hartwell,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap in a gesture she hoped projected calm authority despite the nervous flutter in her chest. “However, my husband is attending to business in London today and will not return until quite late. Perhaps I might be of assistance? I should very much like to help resolve whatever troubles have brought you such a long way.”
The farmer's jaw tightened visibly, and Joan could see the frustration simmering beneath his respectful posture. His knuckles were white where he gripped his cap, and a muscle in his cheek twitched as he seemingly struggled to find the right words.
“I would rather not bother you, or anyone would with this matter, Your Grace, but it seems the perpetrator and I have failed to reach an agreement on our own. It concerns the plot of land I purchased last spring,” he began, his voice carrying the rough accent of the countryside, his slow drawl hinting that he was trying to speak carefully. “The one on the eastern boundary of my property, near the old stone wall that marks the creek. I paid good money for twelve acres – counted out every shilling myself, I did – but when I finally had it properly surveyed last month, it measured barely eight.”
Joan frowned, leaning forward slightly in her chair. The discrepancy seemed enormous, the kind of difference thatcould mean the difference between prosperity and poverty for a farming family. “That is quite a significant discrepancy, Mr. Hartwell. Surely there must be some mistake in the measurements?”
“That's what I thought at first, Your Grace. Had it surveyed twice, by two different men, just to be certain. Both came up with the same numbers.” His voice grew more strained, and Joan could see the toll this worry had taken on him in the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight. “But that's not the worst of it, if you'll pardon my saying so.”
Joan felt a chill run down her spine despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. “Please, continue.”
“The Duke, well–meaning as he may be,” Mr. Hartwell said, his voice growing bitter though his tone somehow remained respectful, “Doesn't seem to care much about our troubles beyond collecting his rents when they're due. I've sent three letters about this matter, Your Grace. Three letters, each one carefully written out by my eldest boy, who knows how to write his words better than I do. But I've received no response, not so much as an acknowledgment that they were received.”
Joan felt heat rise in her cheeks, her hands clenching instinctively in her lap. The implied criticism of her husband hit as though she had been struck, the pain even more severe because she knew it was wrong, somehow, quite unlike the man she had come to know.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartwell,” she said, her voice surprisingly gaining an edge of strength and authority, “But I must respectfully disagree with that assessment.”
The farmer's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise at her firm tone, his weathered face registering shock that the soft–spoken duchess had such steel in her voice. “Your Grace?”
Joan sat up even straighter than she already was, her gaze determined as she set it upon her guest.
“My husband works tirelessly to ensure that all his tenants and members of his household are sufficiently cared for,” she stated, turning back to face Mr. Hartwell, her voice laced with conviction. “He practically lives in his study, Mr. Hartwell. I have found him there at all hours, consistently thinking of ways to improve everyone's way of life, poring over accounts and correspondence until his eyes are red with fatigue.”
She tightened the grip her hands had on each other, willing herself to continue.
“I have watched him work through dinner, seen him fall asleep over his ledgers because he was so absorbed in ensuring that every repair needed on tenant properties was completed, every concern addressed, every improvement carefully considered and implemented. Just last week, he spent an entire evening calculating the costs of new roofing for the cottages near Millbrook, determined that no family should suffer through another winter with leaking thatch.”
She paused, thinking of a few evenings when she had found Graham bent over his large desk in the study after their mandatory dinners, the room lit by multiple candles as he worked late into the night. The sight had initially puzzled her – surely a duke of his wealth and standing could delegate such detailed work to others. But she had come to understand that Graham took his responsibilities with the seriousness of a sacred trust, shouldering the burdens of those under him as though they were solely his to bear.
“If His Grace has not responded to your letters,” she continued, her voice softening slightly but losing none of its determination, “I can assure you with complete certainty that it is not from lack of caring, but perhaps because he has been overwhelmed with other pressing matters, or because the letters themselves never reached him. I shall speak with him this very evening about your situation, and I give you my word as his wife that this matter will be resolved promptly and fairly.”
