Page 29 of An Unfamiliar Duke

East Lothian, Scotland

10 October 1782

My Lord Duke,

You can imagine my dismay when I recently learned that Mr. John Avery is close to developing a machine intended to simplify the harvest. The details of his proposed enterprise remain unknown, but the news has brought with it a fresh sense of urgency to complete my design for a functioning threshing machine without delay.

Since your departure, I have adjusted the tilt of the sieve and the speed at which the weights traverse the grain. Neither alteration has brought the desired results, and I now feel sure that the error lies in an arithmetical miscalculation associated with the beaters. Your skill with numbers is unparalleled, and so I am writing to humbly ask for your assistance.

If you would be so good as to review the latest design plans (paying particular attention to the calculations) and return your findings by my courier, I would be most grateful. I have instructed him to wait a fortnight before coming for them. If you do not have the papers ready, he will try again two days later. At that point, regardless of your progress—or lack thereof—please return everything with him.

Yours sincerely,

Andrew Meikle

Sebastian’s heart sank. He’d pored over Meikle’s earlier plans enough to know that a fortnight was scarcely enough time to review every calculation. And yet, he could not in good conscience walk away from the request. He knew full well that after having devoted years to this project, his friend would be financially sunk if he was not the first to produce a fully functioning mechanical threshing machine.

Setting the letter on his desk, he picked up the scroll of papers. How many sheets had significant changes on them? Was it possible that if he focused on the ones Meikle had altered, he would find the mistake without having to read every page? It might be the best place to start, at least.

Taking a key from the top drawer of his desk, Sebastian placed the scroll back into the satchel, tucked the large bag beneath his arm, and left the room. He continued down the passage until it turned a corner. The first door on the right was closed. Placing the key he had taken from the study desk into the lock, he turned it and heard the bolt slide back. He opened the door and walked in.

A damp chill hung in the air. Grateful that he was still wearing his jacket, he set the satchel on the large table and crossed the room to the fireplace. Taking a flint from the mantelpiece, he bent down and struck it over a piece of kindling. The downside to forbidding servants from entering his workshop while he was gone was that he usually returned to a frigid room and often had to take care of lighting the fire himself.

Once the wood was burning, he straightened and moved to the window to pull back the curtains. His caution likely bordered upon paranoia, but what had begun as a place dedicated to tinkering on small projects that fulfilled his desire to create had become a workshop where new and seemingly fanciful modernizations were born. He had spent enough time with inventors to know that the theft of their ideas was as real as it was devastating. Whenever an associate trusted him enough to share such material, he was honor bound to protect it.

The rays of the sinking sun illuminated the thin layer of dust coating the few furnishings in the room. The decorations were sparse. This was not a place for relaxation but, rather, for creativity and work. Along with the large table, there were three chairs and a tall shelving unit. Most of the shelves were covered with an eclectic collection of scientific, engineering, and geographic text, but the top shelf housed a globe and the model of a frigate that Sebastian had built when he’d been fifteen. He had built several more model ships afterward. A row of miniature schooners, galleons, and sloops graced the mantelpiece, but the frigate had been his first attempt and remained a poignant reminder of what heartfelt effort could accomplish.

Returning to the table, he pushed aside the assortment of calipers, set squares, compasses, and protractors littering its surface and withdrew Meikle’s documents from the leather bag. He untied the string that bound them, and unrolling the papers, he separated the sheets. Seventy-eight. To his relief, each page was numbered. That would make things easier if he started studying the sheets out of order. He frowned. First, he would need to find all of Meikle’s recently made alterations.

Chapter 12

“Thank you, Polly.” Rosalind smiled at the maid Mrs. Frost had assigned to assist her. “I would have been lost without you.”

The fifteen-year-old bobbed a curtsy, her cheeks coloring at the praise. “You’re welcome, Your Grace. It’s a treat to see all your gowns hangin’ in the wardrobe next t’ each other.” She smiled shyly. “Lovely, they are. Every one.”

“I confess, I did not realize how many I owned until it was time to pack my trunks.” Rosalind eyed the empty containers lying around the large bedchamber. “You’ve made short work of emptying them.”

“There’s just that little one left.” Polly pointed to the small brown trunk in the corner. “Would you like my help with that one too?”

“Thank you, but, no.” The last remaining unopened trunk was filled with more personal items: the painting of Langton Manor she’d received for her birthday, a few of her favorite books, her diary, and her grandmother’s brass candlesticks, to name a few. She wished to unpack those things on her own.

She glanced around the elegant room, wondering where she might place the picture of her former home. There were a few paintings on the paneled walls in the bedchamber and the adjacent sitting room. Most of them were pastoral scenes and complemented the pale blues and greens of the decor. The four-poster bed boasted a floral bedspread with swags of matching fabric hanging from the framework above.

Three large windows looked out over the manicured lawn, the rose garden, and the ornamental pond beyond. A comfortable armchair was positioned beside the closest window, and Rosalind eyed it longingly. Curling up with only a book for company this evening sounded completely wonderful. But it was not to be. Not yet, at any rate. The clock on the mantel showed ten minutes to five o’clock. She glanced in the mirror hanging above the dressing table. Polly had done a marvelous job of teasing Rosalind’s errant curls back into submission, and her violet gown was fresh and wrinkle free. According to her reflection, she was ready for her first dinner in her new home—her first dinner with Sebastian.

She clasped her hands to hide their tremor and turned back to Polly. “If you would be so good as to guide me to the dining room, I believe it is time to go down to dinner.”

Ignoring the connecting door that led to Sebastian’s rooms, Rosalind walked through the small sitting room and out of the door that led into the passage beyond. Disappointment had been swift in coming when Sebastian had handed over the chore of guiding Rosalind to her chambers to Mrs. Frost. He had been so kind in the carriage and so convivial when they had entered the house together that she had begun to believe he enjoyed her company. But all too soon, work had taken precedence over introducing his new wife to Finley Park. Now that he was back in his own environment, perhaps he would revert to being as unsocial as he had been before.

“This is the east wing, is it not?” Rosalind asked as Polly started toward the stairs.

“Yes, Your Grace. You and His Grace ’ave rooms on this side. Some of them other doors lead to guest rooms, but they’re not used much. Leastways, not since I’ve been ’ere.”

“What about the west wing?”

“There’s more bedchambers there too,” Polly said. “And the west wing’s where the library, the billiard room, and the ballroom are. But they’re on the ground floor, of course.”

“I see. And the east wing? What is on the ground floor on this side of the house?”