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The eldest boy stood near the door in a clean shirt, eyeing Tristan with the wary familiarity of someone who had been caught misbehaving by him before. Two younger children peered from behind their mother’s chair. Overhead the new ceiling boards were paler than the old, and the room smelled pleasantly of fresh wood.

“You are comfortable again?” Tristan asked.

“Dry, Your Grace. That is comfort enough.” Mrs. Hale set the pot down. “My sister was good to take us, but eleven children and a new baby between the two of us made no quiet arrangement.”

Lydia’s eyes had already gone to the cradle by the hearth, a plain wooden one, much mended, with a knitted blanket over it. A small snuffling came from beneath the blanket. “And the baby?”

“Came on Tuesday, Your Grace. A girl. The easiest of the seven, and the loudest.” Mrs. Hale glanced at the cradle with the tired, unthinking pride of a woman who has done a thing many times and survived it every time. “Dr. Mercer bid me thank His Grace for sending him to tend to the boy’s head. He stopped to see me while he was here, and it was as well he did.”

Tristan went still. Lydia did not look at him. She did not need to. He set down his cup with great care, and when Mrs. Hale offered to lift the baby for the duchess to see, Lydia said yes and went to the cradle, and Tristan stayed where he was with his eyes on the new ceiling. The child was red and furious and perfect. Lydia held her a minute and gave her back, and when she returned to the bench Tristan’s hand found hers under the edge of the table and held it hard. Neither of them spoke. Mrs. Hale, with six other children to think about, did not notice.

The boy by the door wore a white bandage round his head and plainly loved it. When Lydia asked how the roof had first begun to leak, he described the sound of the breaking tiles in more detail than his mother wished to hear.

“Thomas,” Mrs. Hale said.

“Her Grace asked.”

“I did,” Lydia agreed. “Though I should welcome the version that does not need another kettle.”

Tristan laughed into his cup. Thomas began again with improved economy, and his mother supplied what he left out: the wet bedding, the first small stain nobody thought serious, the trouble of drying clothes when rain came into the room meant to shelter them.

“We reported that stain in the spring,” Mrs. Hale added, then glanced at Collins. “I know the men were busy.”

Collins opened his pocketbook. Tristan set down the cup. He did not plead other repairs or remind her that the roof stood sound now. He asked when she had made the report, listened to the answer, and told Collins to find out which other cottages had raised the same concern.

“That ought not to have waited,” he said. “I am sorry it did.”

The apology disconcerted Mrs. Hale more than an excuse would have. Lydia studied the new boards. She had watched him refuse company and retreat to his study, using duty as a refuge from everything he did not wish to face. Here duty meant a family sleeping under wet plaster, and he understood the difference better than she had known.

Before they left, Thomas asked whether the conservatory would have oranges. Word of the renovations had traveled faster than any invitation Lydia might send. She said they hoped so, though she could not promise fruit soon. His youngest sister emerged from behind the chair.

“I have never seen one growing.”

“I have not seen everything I want to grow there either,” Lydia said. “We shall have to learn together.”

“Samuel knows.”

“A great deal. That is why I listen to him.”

The child nodded, satisfied with so sensible an arrangement. Mrs. Hale thanked Lydia for the blankets, and Lydia made sure she knew Mrs. Bell had chosen them. She felt Tristan glance at her. She did not want to collect gratitude for work she had barely understood.

They visited three more cottages that morning. At the second, an old man asked Tristan about a boundary stone the road workers had shifted. At the third, a woman wanted an apprenticeship for her nephew. Tristan made no quick promises. He had Collins write down the name and asked the boy’s age and what he had already learned. By the fourth visit Lydia’s elegant shoes were fit for nothing but more mud.

At the gate Tristan considered them. “I warned you about the road.”

“You did. I shall choose a sterner pair tomorrow.”

“You mean to do this again?”

“There are more than four cottages.”

“Unfortunately. The accounts would run much shorter if there were only four.”

She gave him a look. He smiled and held the gate for her, and they took the path beside the brook. Collins had gone ahead to inspect a ditch. For the first time that morning, nobody was listening.

“You remembered their names,” she said.

“I hope so. I have known the Hales since Thomas was small enough to carry in my arms.”