Love Language (The Aristocrat Diaries 1)

Swallowing as I turned away, I said, “I think that would be best.”

He inclined his head to me, although there was a certain defiance in his eyes that said he hated every second of it.

I didn’t give a damn.

I hated his judgement.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, reverting to the formality he used with my father. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Of course,” I said quietly. “Do let me know if you have any issues returning to the village.”

“I will.”

“Good day, Mr. Kingsley.” With that, I turned and left the kitchen, leaving him alone. Our earlier conversation had hurt me in a way I didn’t care to admit, and I was grateful for the farmer who’d cleared the road for his lake.

I’d have to send him a basket of something nice for his efforts.

“Oh, milady,” Arthur said, catching me in the hallway. “Master Caleb should have no issue at all returning Mr. Kingsley to his property, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not, Arthur. I don’t imagine the garden needs much tending to in such weather, and Mr. Kingsley’s grandfather will be grateful for his presence. Please pass on that he should take tomorrow off, given his unfortunate stranding here.”

Arthur held my gaze for a moment, and it was with a grandfatherly kind of concern. The type that came with someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. “Of course, milady,” he said with a gentle tone. “Would you prefer if Caleb saw to your aunt’s animals before or after returning Mr. Kingsley to his residence?”

Of course.

I was in charge.

For as long as my father wasn’t here.

And my brother was partying it up in bloody Greece.

“After will be more than fine,” I replied after a moment, looking away. “If you’ll excuse me, Arthur, I’d like to take a shower while the weather permits it.”

“Very well, milady. I’ll handle that for you. For what it’s worth, I believe the power will stay with us.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, reaching for his hand. I squeezed his wrist. “Would you mind trying to contact Daddy or Aunt Cat once Caleb and Miles have set off?”

“Of course not.” He patted a wrinkled hand against my fingers. “Do be careful, milady. You’ve taken enough tumbles for one day.”

I fought a laugh. “And for that, Arthur, we are in agreement.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I peered out of the window as Caleb trundled his old Land Rover toward the village. The roads were as clear as he’d said, but unfortunately, the low-lying areas of the village had taken the brunt of the heavy rainfall.

The same rain that continued to fall, albeit more gently than even a few hours ago.

After my shower, once Caleb had seen to all the animals and Arthur had tended to the house, I’d insisted on being taken to the village.

There wasn’t much I could do right now, but I could help at the church.

Arrowwood Estate was entrenched in the local history. The village that surrounded our estate was simply titled Arrow Woods, which lent its name to our estate and the aristocratic seat my father’s paternal line had held for a long time.

Over the years, our family had helped the village through both personal and financial means.

Two hundred years ago, my great, great-grandmother had sewn blankets with the local spinsters after a flood and helped young girls with their own needlework so they could be of more help.

Sixty years ago, my grandmother baked loaves of bread to take to the church to feed people after a torrential storm made the river burst its banks.

Today, I was going to the church with excess blankets and a soup spoon.

Spinsters in the traditional term were no longer a thing today, and I couldn’t bake to save my life, but that didn’t mean anyone could forget how women once held towns and villages together. I’d studied British history extensively for both obligation and interest, and it was interest that had taught me more than mandated history ever could.

Like the fact beer was traditionally a woman’s drink.

Ale was made by women, for women—and kids, ahem—for the longest time until the church decided there was money to be made, therefore pushing women out of the ale-making business and into spinning instead.

Okay, so it didn’t happen overnight, but at this point in history, a few hundred years kind of was overnight, wasn’t it?

Either way, grouching over a history that was seven-hundred-years old served no purpose.

Not when there was a village of people right now who needed our help.

St. Peter’s Church was a stunning building. I’d spent an awful lot of time here as a child, both at Sunday School and for the St. Peter’s Primary School Christmas productions. The church dated back to the thirteenth century but was restored in the Victorian era. Due to that it had lost a lot of its gothic-style architecture on the outside but retained some on the inside. Its spire reached up high into the sky, at least four stories. The tip of it was slightly bent after it was struck by lightning at some point in the twentieth century, and that remained today.