"We were able to procure them at a good price from the quarry at Penrose Cross. She found a discrepancy in the transport billing from last spring and leveraged it for a discount." Alaric stared. "The Duchess did?"
"Yes, Your Grace. She has a remarkable eye for figures. A remarkable eye for everything, if you'll pardon my saying so." Fletcher's tone was laden with a respect that bordered on reverence.
"The home farm accounts are balanced for the first time in a decade. We've renegotiated the wool contract with the merchants in Westling. We're even showing a small profit from the dairy, now that the Duchess has sorted out the feed supply chain." The steward spoke as if these were the most natural facts in the world. To Alaric, they were astonishing.
He had vaguely known the estate was not running as it should, a gentlemanly sort of leakage he assumed was the cost of doing business. He had delegated it all to Fletcher, expecting the man to handle it. The idea that his quiet, ornamental wife had stepped into the breach and was not just dabbling, but actively, competently managing the complex finances of a ducal estate, was beyond his comprehension. "She has taken an interest, then," Alaric said, the words feeling inadequate.
"An interest, Your Grace?" Fletcher allowed himself a small, dry chuckle. "Her Grace has taken command. The ledgers are a model of clarity."
"The tenants are paying their rents on time because they see their concerns are being heard. She's out there every day, rain or shine. She knows every field, every family, every leaking roof on this estate. Thornwick hasn't been so well managed since your grandfather's time."
The praise was so direct, so earnest, that it left no room for doubt. Alaric left the office feeling strangely disoriented. He had married Philippa for her father's unencumbered lands, a straightforward transaction to shore up his own finances, which had been strained by his father's profligacy. He had treated her as part of that transaction, a silent partner to be housed and fed but otherwise ignored.
It had never occurred to him that she possessed a mind, a will, a formidable competence of her own. He had mistaken her quietness for emptiness. He started to watch her. It was a subtle shift.
He no longer saw a generic wife across the dinner table. He saw a woman with a secret life. He noted the faint smudges of ink that sometimes appeared near her cuff, hastily wiped away. He saw the way her eyes, which had always seemed placid and downcast, now held a focused, analytical light.
He noticed the days she came to dinner looking tired, but with a new energy about her, a quiet hum of purpose. He would sometimes see her from his study window returning in the late afternoon, her cloak damp, her boots muddy, her face set with a look of concentration that he found, to his surprise, compelling. One evening, he passed the small morning room and saw a light burning under the door. On impulse, he paused, listening.