Page 32 of A Rogue to Resist
“But my herbs, my lady,” the old woman fretted. “My garden—”
“Will be tended in your absence,” Katherine assured her. “And any plants that need special care can be transplanted to your daughter’s garden temporarily.”
Drake stepped fully into the cottage, ducking beneath a precariously hanging beam. The damage was even worse than Thompson had described. Nearly a third of the roof had given way, sending debris throughout the small dwelling. It was a miracle Mrs. Parsons hadn’t been seriously injured.
“My lord,” Mrs. Parsons attempted to rise, but Katherine gently kept her seated.
“Rest, Mrs. Parsons. There’s no need for formality when your home has just collapsed around you.”
Drake approached, suddenly conscious of his imposing height in the cramped space. He crouched down to bring himself level with the two women.
“Are you hurt at all, Mrs. Parsons? Should we send for the doctor?”
The elderly woman seemed startled by his concern. “No, my lord. Just a fright, is all. I was in the garden when it happened, thank the Lord.”
“A blessing indeed,” Drake agreed, surveying the damage.
The ancient beams had finally surrendered to years of neglect, probably weakened by persistent water damage. It was the same story throughout the estate—patchwork repairs instead of proper maintenance, corners cut until the structures simply couldn’t withstand further strain.
Edmund’s legacy.
“The entire roof will need to be replaced,” he said, more to Katherine than to Mrs. Parsons. “And those support beams look dangerously compromised.”
Katherine nodded, her assessment matching his own.
“The walls appear sound, at least. But you’re right—a complete roof replacement is necessary.” She turned back to Mrs. Parsons. “It will take some time, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, my lady,” the old woman replied. “Just grateful for the help. The late earl, God rest him, never did get around to the repairs I asked for.”
Drake caught the brief flicker of something—anger? regret?—in Katherine’s eyes before her expression smoothed once more.
“Lord Greythorne has different priorities,” she said diplomatically.
Drake felt an unexpected surge of gratitude for her discretion. She could easily have used the moment to highlight Edmund’s failures and, by association, cast doubt on Drake’s commitment to the estate. Instead, she’d offered him a clean slate in the eyes of his tenants.
“This cottage will be fully restored, Mrs. Parsons,” he promised. “You have my word.”
The old woman studied him with surprisingly sharp eyes. “You sound like Lady Katherine when she first came to Greythorne. Full of plans and promises.”
Drake glanced at Katherine, curious about this comparison. “Did she make good on those promises?”
Mrs. Parsons’ face softened. “Whenever she could, my lord. Whenever the late earl permitted it.”
There it was again—that subtle reminder of the constraints Katherine had operated under during her marriage. Drake was beginning to understand that her accomplishments at Greythorne were even more impressive considering the obstacles she’d faced.
“Well, I am not the late earl,” he said firmly. “And if Lady Katherine and I agree that your cottage requires immediate attention, then that is precisely what it shall receive.”
Mrs. Parsons looked between them, a hint of shrewd assessment in her rheumy eyes. “Working together, are you? That’s a welcome change.”
Katherine rose gracefully to her feet, brushing dust from her skirts. “Lord Greythorne and I share a concern for the welfare of Greythorne’s people, Mrs. Parsons. Now, let’s gather what you’ll need for the next few weeks while the repairs are underway.”
As Katherine helped the elderly woman sort through her meagre possessions, Drake moved about the cottage, assessing the structural damage more thoroughly. The building was small but had once been well-constructed. With proper repairs, it could stand for another century.
Wilkins, the carpenter, arrived with two labourers, and Drake stepped outside to brief them on the situation. As they discussed the necessary materials and timeline, Drake found his attention repeatedly drawn to the cottage interior, where Katherine efficiently packed Mrs. Parsons’ clothing and keepsakes into a small trunk.
There was nothing affected or condescending in her manner—no sense that she considered such tasks beneath her dignity. She worked with the practical efficiency of someone accustomed to managing household crises, large and small. Not your typical duke’s daughter, that was for certain.
“My lord?” Wilkins prompted, drawing Drake’s attention back to their discussion.
