Page 29 of My Viscount’s Madness

Chapter 29

Improvements

T he north field needs drainage before winter,” Tristan said, marking the location on his estate map. “The Hayworths lost half their crop to flooding last year.”

Marguerite leaned over his shoulder, her finger tracing the stream that bordered the problematic field. “What if we diverted the water here? Create a new channel to feed the lower meadow?”

“It would require significant labor.” He pulled another document from the pile before them—a detailed survey of the estate’s waterways. “Moving that much earth before the autumn rains…”

“The tenants would help.” She settled into the chair beside his desk—her chair now, its cushions bearing the indent of regular use. “They’ve mentioned wanting to prevent another flood.”

“Have they?” His quill paused above the map. “When did you discuss this?”

“Tuesday, while you worked with Emily on her posting trot. Mrs. Hayworth mentioned it over tea.”

“Tea?”

“She invites me during practice most days now.” Marguerite picked up the estate ledger, adding figures in her hand. “The tenants’ wives share useful information while watching their children learn to ride.”

Tristan set down his quill, studying his wife’s bent head. Six months of marriage had taught him to read her expression’s subtle signs of mischief. “You’ve organized them into an intelligence network.”

“I merely listen.” She didn’t look up from her calculations. “And occasionally suggest solutions to problems they mention.”

“Solutions I then implement, believing them my own idea?”

Now, she did meet his eyes, laughter lurking in her expression. “Would you have considered drainage channels if I’d suggested them first?”

“Minx.” He reached for the ledger, but she held it away to protect her fresh ink.

“The numbers must dry, husband. Unless you fancy copying them all again?”

“I fancy—” He broke off as Mr. Thorne appeared in the doorway.

“The carpenter has arrived, My Lord,” he announced. “To discuss the conservatory renovations.”

“Send him up.” Tristan rose, offering Marguerite his hand. “Shall we continue this discussion of your manipulation of estate matters later?”

“Only if you promise to listen when I suggest expanding the kitchen garden.” She preceded him from the study. “Mrs. Porter mentioned several families struggling with the high cost of vegetables in the village market.”

The carpenter waited in the long gallery, his drawings spread across a table. Marguerite examined the plans while Tristan discussed costs and materials.

“The glass will need special ordering,” the carpenter said, pointing to his sketches. “But the framework can begin immediately.”

“The sooner, the better,” said Marguerite. “The current conservatory hardly suits Emily’s art lessons.”

Tristan’s head snapped up. “Art lessons?”

“She asked to learn drawing.” Marguerite traced the conservatory’s proposed dimensions. “The current space lacks proper light.”

“When exactly did my home become a school for local children?”

“When you began teaching them to ride.” She smiled at the carpenter. “The south-facing windows must be larger—for the proper light, you understand.”

The man nodded, marking his drawings. With surprising tolerance, Tristan watched his wife direct modifications to his ancestral home. Each change she suggested made sense—practical improvements that would benefit them and the community they served.

“Cook requests permission to hire Miss Porter, the baker’s daughter, in the kitchens,” Mr. Thorne said when they finished with the carpenter. “The girl shows promise with pastry.”

“A good idea.” Tristan raised his eyebrows at Marguerite. “I suppose you arranged this as well?”

“Cook arranged it herself.” Marguerite smoothed her dress. “I merely mentioned that Sarah Porter needed occupation now that her brother spends so much time with horses.”

“Horses I provide.”

“In your school for local children. Unless you’ve changed your mind about teaching them?”

He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You know I haven’t.”

They spent the afternoon reviewing repair work on the tenant cottages. Tristan walked the fields with Mr. Hayworth, discussing crop rotation, while Marguerite visited the farmer’s wife.

“The roof no longer leaks,” Mrs. Hayworth said proudly, showing Marguerite her newly mended ceiling. “His lordship insisted on proper slate tiles.”

“The whole estate improves daily.” Marguerite accepted a cup of tea. “Thanks to everyone’s hard work.”

“Thanks to you both.” Mrs. Hayworth settled opposite her guest. “He’s different now—more like the young master we knew before the war. You’ve worked magic on him, My Lady.”

“No magic.” Marguerite sipped her tea. “Only love and time.”

A child’s excited squeal drew them to the window. Emily Hoffman sat proudly atop her pony while Tristan adjusted her grip on the reins. Catherine watched from a comfortable chair, her needle flashing as she worked on what looked like a child’s dress. They had come to the farm for today’s riding lesson.

“She progresses well,” Marguerite said, nodding toward Emily.

“Thanks to his lordship’s patience.” Mrs. Hayworth refilled their cups. “And your encouragement. The child blossoms under such care.”

Marguerite watched her husband demonstrate proper form, his hands gentle as he corrected Emily’s posture. No trace remained of the man who had hidden from life behind walls of guilt and pain. In its place stood someone who had rediscovered the joy in simple things—teaching children, improving his land, building a loving home with the wife who had begun as a convenience.

“ W ill you teach me that trick with multiplication?” Sarah Porter asked as she measured flour for the pastry recipe. “The one you use in the estate books?”

Tristan paused in the kitchen doorway, arrested by the sight of his wife sitting at the scrubbed wooden table, sleeves pushed up as she demonstrated mathematical principles to the baker’s daughter.

“Like this,” Marguerite said, drawing figures in the flour dusted across the table. “See how the numbers align?”

“I see!” Sarah bent closer. “That makes the sums much easier.”

“Just as I promised.” Marguerite looked up, spotting Tristan. “Come to inspect Cook’s domain, husband?”

“I smelled apple tarts.” He crossed to the table, examining their arithmetic. “Teaching mathematics along with pastry?”

“Sarah helps me balance the household accounts.” Marguerite brushed flour from her hands. “She has quite a gift for figures.”

“Does she indeed?” He studied the girl’s calculations. “These are well done.”

Sarah’s face lit up at his praise. “Lady Guildford says understanding numbers helps with everything—even measuring ingredients properly.”

“My wife speaks wisdom.” He stole an apple tart cooling on the sideboard.

“Those are for dinner!” Cook protested, but her stern expression softened when he took a second tart for Marguerite.

They escaped to the garden, sharing their purloined treat on a bench overlooking newly planted roses. Marguerite’s suggestions had transformed the neglected space into something both practical and beautiful—herbs for the kitchen with flowers, while fruit trees promised future harvests.

“The Hayworths’ eldest son requests permission to apprentice with our carpenter,” Tristan said, brushing crumbs from his coat. “It seems your network spreads beyond the ladies.”

“The boy shows a talent for woodwork.” Marguerite leaned against his shoulder. “And our renovations provide ample opportunity for training.”

“Our renovations?” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “When did they become ours rather than your improvements to my home?”

“When you began suggesting changes yourself.” She turned to face him. “The new stables were entirely your idea.”

“The old ones stood too far from the house.” He traced her flour-dusted cheek. “I grew tired of trudging through mud to check the horses before dawn.”

“And the expanded training yard?”

“Emily needs space to practice her cantering.”

“And the mounting block sized for smaller riders?”

“Tommy Porter complained about requiring help mounting that mare you selected for the children’s lessons.”

She smiled. “My horse now, is she?”

“Everything here is yours.” The words emerged gruffly. “You’ve brought such life to this place—to me.”

A sharp whistle interrupted them. They looked up to see James Langston approaching, his cane striking the gravel path.

“I came to discuss cavalry formation with young Emily,” he said, grinning at their hasty separation. “Unless I am interrupting something?”

“Not at all.” Marguerite rose, brushing her dress. “She’s likely in the schoolroom with Miss Andrews.”

“A governess already?” James raised his eyebrows. “You do collect strays, don’t you?”

“Miss Andrews needed employment when the Mortons reduced their household,” Tristan said. “And the local children benefit from proper instruction.”

“Children plural?” James laughed. “I’d heard rumors about your educational endeavors but hardly credited them.”

“Blame my wife.” Tristan took Marguerite’s hand. “She’s determined to improve every life she touches.”

“As you improve every field and fencepost on your land.” James gestured toward the estate’s rolling acres. “I scarcely recognize the place these days.”

“Good changes, I trust?” Marguerite asked.

“The best kind.” James’s expression warmed.

They walked together to the makeshift schoolroom—once a disused parlor, now bright with maps and charts. Emily sat at a desk while Miss Andrews demonstrated proper perspective in landscape drawing. Three other local children occupied nearby seats, their faces bent on their artwork.

“Lord Langston!” Emily jumped up. “Did you bring the book about cavalry horses?”

“As promised.” James extracted a slim volume from his coat. “My old field manual, complete with illustrations.”

“Perfect for her art studies,” Miss Andrews said approvingly. “The anatomical drawings will prove most educational.”

Marguerite squeezed Tristan’s fingers as they watched James sit on a chair, surrounded by eager young artists. Who would have imagined his estate transformed into this hub of learning?

Later, after their visitors departed and the children returned home, Tristan found Marguerite in the library. She sat in her usual chair, adding figures to yet another ledger.

“The carpenter’s estimates?” he asked, settling beside her.

“The school’s expenses.” She showed him her calculations. “Miss Andrews requires additional slates if we accept the Cooper children.”

“When do they start?”

“Monday.” She bit her lip. “Unless you object?”

He pulled her onto his lap, ledger and all. “I object only to your uncertainty. Did I not say everything here is yours?”

“Ours,” she corrected softly. “Everything here is ours.”

“Including the responsibility for improving it.” He took the ledger, examining her neat columns. “The Cooper children will need proper clothes for lessons. And boots.”

“Already arranged with the village seamstress and cobbler.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “The expenses are quite reasonable when shared among the estate’s accounts.”

“Minx.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “You calculated everything in advance.”

“I learned strategy from the best.” She turned her face up to his. “You did spend years in the military.”

“And yet you outmaneuver me at every turn.”

“Only because you wish to be outmaneuvered.” Her fingers traced his jaw. “Admit it—you enjoy our little campaigns for improvement.”

Rather than answer, he kissed her properly. The ledger slid, forgotten, to the floor, and Marguerite wound her arms around his neck.

“I love you,” he said against her lips. “More than any words can express.”

“Show me,” she whispered.

And in their library, surrounded by the books that had first brought them together, he did precisely that.