The Duchess (Montgomery/Taggert 16)
She was also confused by the wooded areas. To her, timber was a renewable crop. You cut trees and replanted them; they were harvested just like corn. The only difference was that the trees took longer. She saw woodland that looked as though it had been harvested probably twenty years or so before, but now it was being allowed to be covered with undergrowth. There were blackberry brambles everywhere.
She asked Harry about the trees being left as they were and what was being done to harvest them. Mr. Sorenson told her that the underbrush was a good hid
ing place for foxes and partridge. Claire said she hadn’t understood that the estate did a business in these creatures.
Harry looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “The foxes are for hunting and we shoot the partridge. We don’t sell them.”
Claire realized she was being an American again. She had seen a fox hunt and she knew that Englishmen loved to shoot things, whether flying or on foot. She had just never realized that cropland was dedicated to that purpose.
By the time they returned it was midmorning and a grumpy Harry went off to eat and Claire went to her room to change from her riding outfit. She didn’t listen as horrid old Miss Rogers complained about everything. Miss Rogers was a firm believer in schedules and Claire had changed the schedule for no reason that she could see.
“Leave me,” Claire said, then when the old woman stayed where she was, Claire turned and glared at her until she left the room.
Claire sat in her underwear at her dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t seem to understand anything about her husband-to-be’s life. She didn’t understand the people or the country.
She saw hungry people, but fields that could have been used to raise crops were barren. Timber that could have been harvested was not. Even blackberries that could have been put to commercial use were allowed to rot on the ground. She’d seen horses that were housed better than people.
She put her head in her hands. She wasn’t a socialist. She wasn’t a person who believed that all people should have the same. She was her grandfather’s child. She believed in hard work, and those who worked the hardest and were the most clever made the most money. But money carried a responsibility with it. Her grandfather had always said that the best resource was manpower and he had always taken care of his workers. Because of this he’d never had the trouble with strikes and burn-outs that other employers had. Her grandfather had had a long list of people who wanted to work for him.
She tried to tell herself that this was Scotland, that she was no longer in America, but at the same time, she saw the rags the children were wearing. The word “clan” meant children. These people were by tradition Harry’s children, yet he didn’t act as though he were their father.
She tried not to think of Harry in a bad light. She couldn’t think of Harry in any way except a good one. If she was in love with him then she was in love with him as he really was, not as she wanted him to be.
She stood and went to the wardrobe to get an afternoon dress. Perhaps Harry didn’t know any other way. Perhaps Trevelyan was right and this was the way Harry had been raised. This was all that he knew.
After lunch she would talk to him. Perhaps he would be willing to allow her to make a few changes after they were married. Maybe not drastic changes but enough to make a difference. There was no reason why Bramley couldn’t become a paying enterprise. Perhaps that’s what Harry wanted too, except he didn’t know how to go about achieving it. Yes, that was it. She was sure of it.
She pulled a dress from the wardrobe and began to smile. Yes, that had to be it.
Chapter Eleven
I want to know every word she said,” Eugenia, duchess of MacArran, said to her youngest son.
“Mother,” Harry said. His voice was pleading. “I’m sure Claire didn’t mean—”
“Let me be the judge of what she meant.”
“She’s an American. One has to make allowances.”
Eugenia fixed her son with a look.
“All right,” Harry said in exasperation. “This morning I took her on a tour of the estate. Charles went with us, or I should say that we went with him.” He paused a moment. “I had no idea so much was going on in this place. It was interesting—not that I want to repeat it, but it was interesting. I must say that Americans are an odd lot, though.”
“What did she do?”
“She seemed to like the children. The whole filthy lot of them. She drank milk from pails that had cow manure on the bottom of them. I don’t know how she stood it.”
“Perhaps after you’re married you shouldn’t allow such things.”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t think it will matter after we’re married, because the filthy beggars will be gone, won’t they?”
“You haven’t told her that, have you?” Eugenia asked sharply.
“I’m not a complete idiot. I’m not going to tell her that you plan to ship her adored crofters off to America or wherever and tear down those hideous old houses and run sheep over the land.”
“I have no idea why you sound as though it were something bad. It is what nearly all the other landowners have already done.” Eugenia’s voice had a sad tone to it. “After all, Harry, I’m doing this for you.”
“I know, Mother, and I appreciate it. I’ll be as glad as you to get rid of those houses. Once they’re gone I shall be able to lead hunts across the fields.”