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“Aye, Your Grace, it is.”

Grace again waited, though. This was delicate. The woman had already shown that she felt loyalty toward her employer; her coldness when Grace had first arrived, which had not been echoed in her demeanor towards Caleb, indicated as much. Which meant, if she was coming toGracewith this, it wasaboutCaleb.

But saying as much explicitly would risk her newfound peace with these women. The politician’s daughter in Grace—or maybe the battle-scarred survivor—knew this.

She made no accusations; she offered no advice. Instead, she asked.

“How can I help?

“Itoldye it was a good idea to say something,” Mrs. Bradley muttered into her biscuits.

Grace would never suggest her housekeeper so childish as to kick the cook under the table, no matter what Mrs. Bradley's sudden jump in her chair suggested.

“It’s possible,” Mrs. O’Mailey said with stiff-backed composure, “that the tenants there do not consider themselves…sufficiently comfortable with His Grace in order to voice these concerns.”

“Well,” Grace said lightly, even as her mind raced. “It was sensible of you to let me know.”

Mrs. O’Mailey gave her a look that suggested she was not taken in by Grace’s politeness. But Grace had her own problems, now, because she, too, was not sufficiently comfortable with His Grace to voice any concerns. Except…she couldn’t leave tenants with a leaky roof. It was cold enough this close to the North Sea when one’s roof was tight and snug. Grace had slept in damp,knew how it crept into your bones, how it made every night a misery and every day a struggle.

Shehadto fix it, even if the very thought made her chest grow tight with worry.

All of which meant she’d have to find her husband, then find some way to make him listen to her. She’d have to make him care—not just about what she had to say, but about the tenants, too. And what if he wouldn’t ride out to inspect the buildings? If the women were coming to her, that meant her husband didn’t make the trek frequently—otherwise they’d have waited. And what?—

She forced herself to pause, breathe. Information first. Then action. She knew this by now.

And she could not let them see her fear. She knew that, too.

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

The women looked at one another again.

This time, Mrs. Bradley spoke. “Did ye know, Your Grace, that both Greta and I came from the previous duchess’ family home? Blackmuir House. His Grace was raised there, before he went off to school. And, well, I daenae mean to tell ye how to manage things…”

“Please, speak freely,” Grace encouraged.

The woman nodded, as if gathering her courage. “Well, at Blackmuir, the laird and lady would have the tenants come up to the house. Only once or twice a year, ye ken. A dinner, a little fete for the wee ones—just enough that the folk around the village saw that the grand family were made up of real people. And that the grand family could see that the village folk…” She trailed off again.

“Were real people, too,” Grace murmured, half to herself. “And that hasn’t happened here.” It was not precisely a question.

Mrs. O’Mailey was clearly the braver of the two. “Not in all the time I’ve been here, no. Part of it was His Grace’s time in the army. He dinnae come home as soon as he inherited, ye see.”

That,Grace had not known. If it was unconventional for the eldest son to go into military service, given his duties as the heir, it was practically unheard of for him not to return home even after he’d gained the title.

She didn’t know what this said about her husband. It said something, she just didn’t know what.

“I see,” she said again.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ that His Grace doesn’t care,” Mrs. O’Mailey scolded. “That man is a good employer, and I’ll not have you thinking otherwise. He pays out wages on time, doesn’t skint on the pay. He doesn’t trouble the lasses and he doesnae bully or shout or throw things.” She left it unsaid that if a dukediddo those things, nobody would be able to stop him. “But…”

“But the tenants are, shall we say, reticent,” Grace summarized.

“Just so,” the housekeeper agreed. “They know he’s an important man. A busy man.”

Grace translated this in her head: her husband never bothered to get to know his tenants, and likely never would. She didn’t know exactly how long it had been since he’d inherited—which suddenly seemed like a horrifying oversight—but she would have heard of a young, Scottish duke gaining a title, which meant it must have happened while she was away.

“But even a busy man can make time for those he is duty-bound to protect,” Grace said, weighing the taste of the words in her mouth. Perhaps that argument would work with her husband?

“Mayhap now things will get better,” Mrs. O’Mailey said. Her air of pessimism was likely as much an indictment that Grace was likely to hear of her husband’s negligence—for that was the only way she could describe ignoring his tenants.