A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,92

her own cup.

“Illiteracy is a formidable enemy, Vicar. I’ve seen its ravages firsthand.”

He accepted his tea, his fingers brushing hers, though he appeared not to notice. “Did you come late to your letters?”

“I was eight years old before an elderly woman who lived in our alley took it upon herself to teach me the rudiments. I picked up the rest myself and passed along what I knew to my younger siblings. A child who can read is…”

Vicar sipped his tea, apparently content to let the silence expand to the proportions of the Yorkshire sky over the moors.

“A child who can read has a skill others will pay her for,” Althea said. “She can learn to linger at the door of the posting inn when the mail arrives and offer to read letters for those whose eyesight is dim or who haven’t the ability to read. She need not beg for spare pennies.”

“I see.”

Althea rose because she need not sit like a penitent at confession either. Nathaniel had taught her that.

“You do not see. The present Duke of Walden came late to his letters, as you put it. A cousin who was a teacher eventually instructed him, though by then my brother was in domestic service. His Grace learned to read and write with the same ferocious tenacity he brings to everything, but his lack of education has always bedeviled him. Walden escaped a life in livery only because he’d become literate, and because even a boy who can’t read can become highly proficient with numbers.”

Quinn also had a gargantuan memory, which Cousin Duncan, who had taught him to read, said was typical of the illiterate. Unable to record any part of life in written form, they carried it in their heads instead.

“So you want to open circulating schools,” Vicar said, sipping his tea with all the complacence of a dowager at her tatting.

“If half of Wales can learn to read because of the tenacity of one preacher, certainly I can take on a few of York’s worst alleys.” This compulsion to do something, to engage the world constructively, had grown since Althea had turned her back on Nathaniel nearly a week ago. She’d forbidden herself to walk by the river at any hour, and she’d closed all the curtains on the windows that looked out on Rothhaven land.

She’d even let Milly and Stephen talk her into planning a ball, of all the demented notions, but her interest in entertaining, in anything social whatsoever, had sunk to a new nadir. Her energies were absorbed in grieving a future with Nathaniel that could never be. Finding a distraction from that sorrow had grown imperative.

“I will speak to my colleagues in York,” Vicar said. “Give me a fortnight. How do you fare otherwise, my lady?”

What was he asking?

“You look surprised at the question,” he said, setting his teacup aside. “I am more than just a brilliant biblical orator, you know, more than the agreeable fellow to make up the numbers at Squire Annen’s dinners.” His tone was humorous rather than bitter. “I am your neighbor, and I know that you’ve chosen to bide at Lynley Vale rather than join your family in London this spring. I suspect that’s why Lord Stephen has troubled himself to visit. He’s worried about you, as others might be.”

Others, meaning Pietr Sorenson?

“I am well.” Except for a severe case of heartache. “Stephen’s company enlivens life at Lynley Vale, though he’s a younger brother.” Or he used to be. Now he was a gentleman of independent means and a very independent nature. Althea could no longer guess his thoughts, just as she could no longer carry him piggyback through the backstreets of York.

Another peculiar sorrow.

“Would you tell me if you were lonely?” Vicar asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Most widowers are well acquainted with the condition. We know the temptation of the brandy decanter, of ill-advised company, of self-pity. One needn’t lose a loved one to fall prey to the same dismal comforts.”

He bore the scent of lavender, a pleasant, brisk fragrance that suited him. Althea hoped she could avail herself of Pietr Sorenson’s embrace and find a purely platonic hug, though he’d mentioned loneliness, and lonely people did not make the soundest of decisions.

She turned to gaze out the window, and what should she see but the Rothhaven walled orchard on the top of the hill beyond the common.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but you will be pleased to know that my brother and my companion