“I started arranging it before I sent for you,” Duncan said, not sounding apologetic in the least. “I was not going to show you the letter and then sit here discussing possibilities while doing nothing.”
Charity nodded slowly, and despite the fear still sitting in her chest, she felt a small wave of relief at the certainty in his voice.
“No, that is wise, and I am glad you did it.”
Duncan held her gaze for a moment, then continued. “If another letter comes, it comes to me first and to you immediately after, and if any message is brought by hand, I want the name of the messenger and who sent him written down before he leaves. I do not care if the man claims ignorance, we record it anyway.”
“That makes sense,” Charity said, and this time she meant more than the plan itself. “Thank you for not deciding I should be kept from it until after you had already handled everything.”
“I told you I would not do that again where your family is concerned, and I meant it.”
Charity lowered her eyes for a second, then looked back up. “You did, and I know we are speaking practically right now, but I want you to know I do see the difference. Do you think he will come himself.”
Duncan’s face hardened again. “If he does, he will regret it, and if he sends someone instead, they will be turned away and remembered, and either way he will learn very quickly that this house is not his to trouble.”
Charity should have looked away at that, but she did not. “I am sorry this has become your concern.”
“It became my concern when I agreed to marry you,” Duncan said, and though his tone was blunt, it was not unkind. “Stop apologizing for his behavior and help me deal with it.”
When she left the room, Charity was still unsettled, but she was not alone with it. It made enough of a difference that by evening, she felt an urgent need to do something more than simply carry the feeling around and call it gratitude in her own mind.
She wanted to tell him properly.
The problem was that every time she tried to imagine saying it directly, she heard herself becoming stiff and formal, and she knew he would dismiss it if it sounded like a speech.
So the next morning, when she found Malcolm in the corridor near the back stairs speaking to a footman about stores, she waited until the footman left and then approached him with more hesitation than she liked.
“May I ask you something without you turning it into a joke?” Charity said, and though her tone was serious, she knew she was taking a risk.
Malcolm looked at her with immediate interest. “That depends on the question, but I can try, if it’s for a noble cause and not another argument ye want me to referee.”
“It is not an argument,” Charity said. “I wanted your advice.”
Malcolm’s brows rose.
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours,” Charity replied, and she crossed her arms, “You know him better than anyone here, and I do not want to do something he would hate and then spend the rest of the day pretending he does not hate it.”
That almost made Malcolm laugh, though he held it back when he saw she was sincere.
“Right, then,” Malcolm said, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “What are ye trying to do?”
“I want to thank him.”
Malcolm studied her face for a second and seemed to understand at once that she meant more than the letter, even if she had only named that part.
“And ye cannae just tell him that in words,” Malcolm said.
“I can tell him in words,” Charity said, then sighed. “I mean, Ican, but it comes out sounding formal, and he would say something that I get annoyed by, then the whole thing is ruined.”
Malcolm nodded, entirely unsurprised. “Aye. That sounds like the two of ye.”
Charity ignored that.
“I thought perhaps I could arrange something simple…. something kind.”
Malcolm was quiet for a moment, then said,