I’ve instituted some changes since His Grace’s sad death, and accidents have been reduced more than half. I’m happy to inform Your Grace that we haven’t lost a finger or a hand in more than six months.”
Rafe looked toward Charlotte, whose cheeks had gone faintly pink. What the devil was going on here? “Is that so, John. Very commendable on your part, I’m sure. I should very much like to see these improvements.”
“I’ll leave you two to get at it, then,” Charlotte said, already turning her mount.
Rafe grabbed at the reins. He needed to find out what the devil was happening here. “Oh, no, please, Miss Seavers, I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to return to Ashurst Hall unescorted. I fear I must insist that you accompany us.”
She smiled with her mouth as she skewered him with those intelligent eyes. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”
They followed John Cummings to the sawmill, passing the long single line of workers who variously waved their caps in the air or tugged their forelocks, depending on their age and station in the pecking order, Rafe imagined. “Your Grace, welcome home.” He heard that all along the way; polite greetings, if not enthusiastic.
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