They left London for Merrow Park under a gray sky and a cloud of commentary.
Some of that commentary came from the *Morning Post,* which carried a small notice: *Their Graces of Merrow have departed Town for the country. It is to be hoped that the air of the shires will prove conducive to the improvement of the estate and to the future happiness of the newly-wed couple.*
Some came from Amelia, who arrived at Harcourt House the day before departure with a basket of books.
“You will be bored in the country,” Amelia declared, flinging herself onto the sofa. “You must take these. Novels. Scandalous ones.”
“I have ledgers,” Livia protested.
“Ledgers do not have highwaymen and mistaken identities,” Amelia said. “Well. Yours might. But these have more kissing.”
Livia coughed. “I… may have had my fill of kissing for the moment.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Liar.”
Some commentary came from Harcourt, who stood in the doorway as servants loaded trunks onto Rowan’s traveling coach.
“You write,” he said gruffly. “Often. Not about feelings. About facts. Harvest. Prices. Repairs. If that boy so much as thinks about going back to the card tables, I want to know before his boots cross the threshold.”
“That boy is your son-in-law,” Livia said, exasperated affection in her tone.
“He’s still a boy to me,” Harcourt said. “So are you, in some ways.”
She hugged him.
He patted her back with hands that had once hefted crates and now, more often, signed contracts.
“Be happy,” he muttered into her hair. “Or as close to it as this world allows.”
“I will try,” she whispered.
Rowan, waiting by the carriage, politely pretended not to overhear. Lady Agnes did not.
“Don’t let him brood too much,” Agnes said to Harcourt, jabbing a finger toward Rowan. “He’ll sit up in that big house thinking too hard and make himself ill.”
“I’ll let Livia beat it out of him,” Harcourt said.
“Good,” Agnes said. “Between the two of us, we might keep him in line.”
Rowan shook his head, half laughing, half overwhelmed.
“I am vastly outnumbered,” he muttered to Livia as they climbed into the carriage. “My aunt, your father, you…”
“And Whitlow,” she added. “And Mrs. Talbot. And Alice. And…the tenants.”
He groaned. “Very well. I surrender.”
“No,” she said softly as the carriage lurched into motion. “Not surrender. Support.”
He glanced at her, eyes softening.
“Better,” he said. “Much better.”
***
The road to Merrow Park seemed different now.
Less a line of escape, more a thread tying two halves of their lives together.
Livia watched the countryside roll past, the fields still bare but tinged with the promise of green.
She felt… restless.
“Thoughts?” Rowan asked, stretching his legs as far as the carriage allowed. “You have your ‘I am reorganizing the world in my head’ face on.”
“I was thinking,” she said slowly, “about… roles.”
“Roles,” he repeated. “Like an opera?”
“Like a partnership,” she said. “What we will each do at Merrow. What we *can* do.”
He sobered.
“Yes,” he said. “We should… discuss that. Before we are in the thick of it.”
“You have been doing more,” she said. “Already. You sacked the old steward. You have ridden the fields. You have started to mend fences.” She hesitated. “But you are still… learning. There will be things you do not see.”
“And things you will,” he said. “From London. From Harcourt Trading. From your… sharper vantage.”
“Yes,” she said. “I will not be at Merrow all the time. Nor always in the rooms where decisions are usually made. Drawing rooms. Taverns. Parliament.”
“Do you wish to be in Parliament?” he asked, half teasing, half not.
“In the gallery,” she said. “At least. For now.”
He smiled faintly. “Very well. We shall drag Whitlow along and force him to endure debates on the Corn Laws.”
“There is another matter,” she said, fingers tightening on her skirt. “Children.”
He went very still.
“Yes,” he said, after a moment in which something like panic flickered across his features. “Children.”
“We have not spoken of it,” she said. “And we… must. Even if only to say we will not decide now.”
He took a breath.
“I confess,” he said slowly, “I have thought of it. More than is comfortable.”
“In what way?” she asked.
“In that I am… terrified,” he said frankly. “Of doing what my father did. Of being… absent. Or cruel. Or simply… not there. I do not trust myself, yet, to be… better.”
“You are better,” she said.
“Now,” he said. “With you. But if we add small, fragile beings into the mix… I do not know how I will bear it. The responsibility. The possibility of loss.”
Her heart clenched.
“I watched my mother die,” she said. “Slowly. In front of me. There is not much in this world that frightens me anymore as much as… seeing someone depend on me and failing them. A child would… amplify that. Exponentially.”
He reached for her hand.
“So we are both cowards,” he said gently.
“Yes,” she said. “In this, perhaps.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Then we do not decide now,” he said. “We… live. We build. We see if we can be decent to each other for more than a fortnight at a time. And later—” He swallowed. “Later, if we find we have steadied, we revisit it.”
She exhaled, relief and fear mingling.
“Yes,” she said. “Later.”
He leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes closing.
“Besides,” he added, lips curling faintly, “for now, I am quite enjoying having you to myself. Selfish, I know.”
“Very selfish,” she murmured. “I approve.”
He cracked one eye open. “You do?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am not sure yet I am ready to share my bed… or your attention… with anyone.”
His gaze warmed.
“Duchess,” he said, “if I do my job properly, you will never doubt where my attention lies.”
She believed him.
She also knew that the world had a way of interfering with promises.
She would, she resolved silently, hold him to it.
***
Merrow Park welcomed them with mud and wind and the scent of damp earth.
The drive up the lane, the first glimpse of the house, felt both familiar and new.
Mrs. Talbot stood on the steps, flanked by Pierce and two footmen. The servants lined up behind, a modest but genuine turnout. The tenants would come later, Rowan had said. There was no need to turn their arrival into a spectacle.
“Welcome home, Your Graces,” Mrs. Talbot said, curtseying.
Home.
The word landed differently this time.
Not his. Not hers.
Theirs.
Livia stepped out of the carriage and drew in a breath that tasted of rain and stone and something like possibility.
Rowan offered his hand; she took it.
“We have guests,” Mrs. Talbot added, her mouth twitching. “Of a sort.”
“Guests?” Rowan echoed warily.
“Two of your tenants’ wives,” Mrs. Talbot said. “They’re waiting in the small parlor. Something about a petition. And Mrs. Dobbins’s boy has climbed the old oak again and refuses to come down.”
Rowan sighed. “Of course he has.”
Livia smiled.
“Welcome,” she murmured. “To reality.”
He glanced at her, then laughed.
“Come,” he said. “Time to show you what you have married into. In all its muddy glory.”
They crossed the threshold together.
***
The small parlor at Merrow Park was a room Livia had not yet seen.
It was less formal than the drawing room—lower-ceilinged, with a well-worn rug and shelves of mismatched books. A fire burned cheerily; two women sat on the edge of their chairs, caps clutched in nervous hands.
They sprang up when Rowan and Livia entered.
“Your Grace,” one bobbed. “Your Graces.”
“This is Mrs. Field and Mrs. Pike,” Mrs. Talbot supplied. “Their husbands farm the lower west fields.”
Livia recognized Mrs. Pike from their previous visit, though the woman seemed less combative today, more anxious. Mrs. Field had the narrow, pinched look of someone who had been managing too much for too long.
“What can we do for you?” Rowan asked, gesturing for them to sit again.
They perched; Livia took a chair beside Rowan, not behind him.
Mrs. Field’s gaze flicked to Livia, darting, hopeful and wary.
“It’s about the school, Your… Graces,” Mrs. Field said, twisting her cap. “In the village. The master’s left. Gone to live with his daughter in York. There’s none to teach the littl’uns their letters now.”
Rowan’s brows rose. “I had not heard. When did he leave?”
“Last week,” Mrs. Pike said. “We thought as how you might know a new one. Someone as can keep ‘em from running wild. My Tom, he’s halfway up that oak every day, he is. If there were sums to do, maybe he’d be too tired.”
Livia hid a smile.
“And you would have us… find a new schoolmaster,” Rowan said slowly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Field said. “Or schoolmistress. Or anyone as can hold a book and not frighten the babies.”
Rowan glanced at Livia.
“This seems,” he said, “within our purview.”
“It does,” she agreed. “A literate tenant is a more… efficient tenant.”
Mrs. Pike blinked. “Efficient?”
“She means your children won’t get cheated when some trader from the next parish comes with bad weights,” Mrs. Field interpreted shrewdly.
“Yes,” Livia said. “Exactly.”
Rowan leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked. “From the village? Or must we look farther afield?”
Mrs. Pike and Mrs. Field exchanged a look.
“There’s Miss Hartley,” Mrs. Pike said. “Vicar’s sister. She already teaches the bigger lasses their sewing. She can read right well. Writes a fair hand too.”
“But the vicar…” Mrs. Field bit her lip.
“The vicar thinks girls shouldn’t learn too much,” Mrs. Pike said bluntly. “Says it puts queer notions in their heads. Don’t like Miss Hartley teaching what she does now, but he can’t stop her, her being older’n him and twice as mean when she’s riled.”
Livia felt a flicker of interest. “Miss Hartley sounds… promising.”
“She is… different,” Mrs. Field said cautiously. “Never married. Reads books what ain’t sermons.”
Livia smiled. “Then she sounds *very* promising.”
Rowan’s lips twitched.
“Would she be willing to teach the boys as well?” he asked.
“Oh aye,” Mrs. Pike said. “She says boys’ heads are as empty as girls’ when it comes to letters. But the vicar…” She hesitated.
“The vicar does not wish boys to learn from his sister?” Livia guessed.
“He says boys should learn from men,” Mrs. Field said. “Else they grow soft.”
Livia’s mouth tightened.
Rowan looked at her.
“Ledgers,” he murmured.
She narrowed her eyes. “I am not about to flay the vicar,” she muttered back. “Yet.”
Mrs. Pike and Mrs. Field watched this exchange with fascinated confusion.
“We will speak with Miss Hartley,” Rowan said. “And with the vicar. We will find a way to keep the school open. Your children will not be left without teaching.”
Mrs. Field’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Pike echoed. Then, with a sideways glance at Livia, she added, “And thank *you,* Your… Grace. They say you were the one as said the roofs had to be fixed proper. Tom says you told him yourself.”
Livia flushed. “It is in our mutual interest that your roof not collapse on your head,” she said.
Mrs. Pike grinned. “Aye. But no one said it afore. ’Cept me, and I don’t carry much weight.”
“You do now,” Rowan said.
He stood; the women rose with him, bobbed, and shuffled out, their caps still clenched but their faces lighter.
When they were gone, he turned to Livia.
“You ache to march into the vicarage and throttle the man, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “With a hymnal.”
He laughed.
“May I suggest,” he said, “that we let Lady Agnes speak to him instead? It will be… more effective.”
Livia considered.
“Yes,” she said. “Excellent idea. We shall unleash her.”
He shuddered theatrically. “Remind me never to become a vicar.”
“You would not last a day,” she said.
They shared a smile.
“This,” he said, gesturing around the parlour, “is what I wished to show you. Beyond the ledgers. The… constant stream of small decisions. Who to hire. Who to forgive. Whose complaint is reasonable, and whose will become a weapon if indulged.”
She nodded slowly.
“And you?” she asked. “What of you?”
“I must learn,” he said. “When to say yes. When to say no. When to say, ‘Ask the duchess; she will crush you less kindly than I.’”
She snorted. “You are improving at that last one.”
“I have an excellent example,” he said.
She rose, moving to the window.
The yard outside was a churn of mud and movement; a boy—Tom, judging by the freckles—scrambled with alarming agility up the oak tree by the fence, while Mrs. Dobbins shook her fist below.
“He will break his neck,” Livia said.
“Most likely not,” Rowan said. “Boys bounce.”
She shot him a look.
He raised both hands placatingly. “Very well. I will shout at him.”
She watched him stride out, call up, arms akimbo, while Tom grinned down, fearless.
It struck her, suddenly and with disconcerting force, that this—mud, tenants, tree-climbing boys, vicar’s sisters, leaking roofs—this messy, constant, exhausting stream of small human entanglements—was now her life.
Not instead of docks and ships and bankers.
But alongside them.
She laid her palm flat against the cool pane of glass.
“Very well,” she murmured to the reflection of her own face. “Let us see what we can build.”
***
They saw Miss Hartley two days later.
As predicted, she was… different.
Tall, angular, with iron-grey hair scraped into a bun that defied pins, she regarded Rowan and Livia from behind round spectacles as if they were mildly interesting specimens.
“You’re late,” she said without preamble, as they stood in the vicarage’s cramped sitting room. “The last schoolmaster left a week ago. Children are losing days of learning.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Hartley,” Rowan said with admirable composure. “We have been in London. Marrying.”
She sniffed. “Yes. I heard. Revolution indeed.”
Livia stifled a smile.
“We came as soon as we were able,” Livia said. “We wished to speak with you about taking over the school.”
“And you brought the duchess with you,” Miss Hartley said, eyes sharp. “To prove you are not afraid of women who think.”
“On the contrary,” Rowan said. “I am mildly terrified of them. But I find them… necessary.”
Miss Hartley’s mouth twitched. “Better. Sit.”
They sat. The vicar, Miss Hartley’s younger brother, hovered in the doorway, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else.
“I understand,” Livia said, after the preliminaries had been dispatched with in Miss Hartley’s brisk fashion, “that you already teach some of the older girls sewing and letters.”
“Yes,” Miss Hartley said. “It keeps them from marrying the first idiot who can sign his name. They aim a little higher.”
“Your brother is concerned,” Rowan put in delicately, “about your teaching boys as well.”
Miss Hartley snorted. “My brother is concerned about many things. None of them practical.”
“The parish will not approve—” the vicar began weakly.
“The parish,” Miss Hartley cut in, “will send their children to whoever offers the best teaching. They will not care a fig whether I wear skirts or breeches, so long as their boys can keep tally of their wages and their girls can read a contract before they sign away their souls.”
Livia’s admiration grew with each sentence.
“We would be willing,” Rowan said carefully, “to formalize your position. To pay you a salary as schoolmistress. To provide for necessary materials. Chalk. Slates. Books.”
Miss Hartley’s eyes gleamed behind the spectacles.
“And in return?” she asked.
“In return,” Livia said, leaning forward, “you educate the children of Merrow Park to the best of their ability. Boys and girls. In letters, numbers, and whatever else you think they can bear.”
“And if the vicar objects?” Miss Hartley asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Rowan glanced at her brother, then at Livia.
“We are not forbidding him from expressing his… theological opinions,” he said. “But the school building is on Merrow land. We are not obliged to follow his preferences in its management.”
The vicar swallowed.
“You would… go against the church?” he asked tremulously.
“We would,” Livia said, before Rowan could answer, “go against any institution that prefers ignorance to knowledge.”
Miss Hartley’s gaze snapped to her.
“Good,” she said. “I accept.”
“Miss Hartley!” the vicar gasped.
“Oh, hush,” she said. “You preach your sermons. I will teach your flock not to starve.”
Livia smiled, something fierce and bright unfurling in her chest.
As they left, Rowan took her hand, squeezing.
“You are enjoying this,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said. “Very much.”
“I am proud of you,” he said softly.
She squeezed back.
“We did it together,” she reminded him.
He smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “We did.”
They walked back toward the house, hand in hand.
Mud clung to their boots. The wind tugged at their hair.
Ahead, Merrow Park’s mellow stone rose against the sky.
Behind them, in a vicarage sitting room, a woman with sharp eyes and sharper words was already planning lessons.
Small victories.
Small steps.
Slow burn.
It would not be enough to stop caricatures in the Strand. It would not erase snubs in ballrooms.
But it would, over time, change lives.
And perhaps, if they were very stubborn and very lucky, it would change them, too.
Livia looked at Rowan, his profile strong and oddly unguarded in the pale light.
“Yes,” she thought, with a flare of something she was not yet ready to name. “We can build from this.”
***