“Luncheon.” Minerva stood, surprised and relieved that she’d survived two full hours of Royce’s company without blushing once. Then again, other than that initial assessing look, he’d been entirely neutral when interacting with her.
She smiled at Handley as he and Royce rose to their feet.
Handley smiled back. Gathering his papers, he nodded to Royce. “I’ll have those letters ready for you to sign later this afternoon.”
“Leave them on the desk-I’ll be in and out.” Royce looked at Minerva, waved her to the door. “Go ahead-I’ll join you at the table.”
She inclined her head and left-feeling very like Little Red Riding Hood; avoiding walking alone through the keep’s corridors with the big, bad wolf was obviously a wise idea.
She had to own to further surprise when Royce chose to sit between Lady Courtney and Susannah at the luncheon table. The meal was strictly informal, a cold collation laid out on a sideboard from which guests helped themselves, assisted by footmen and watched over by Retford, before taking what seats they wished at the long table.
Flanked by Gordon and Rohan Varisey, with the startlingly handsome Gregory Debraigh opposite, she had distraction enough without wondering about Royce and his machinations. Presumably during the day, while he was Wolverstone and she was his chatelaine, he intended to behave with circumspection.
The meal had ended, and she was strolling with the others through the front hall, when Royce walked up behind her. “Minerva.”
When she halted and turned, brows rising, he said, “If you’re free, I’d like to take a look at the mill. It would help if I have a better understanding of the problem before I see Falwell and Kelso tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course.” She was the one urging the matter be dealt with immediately. “Now?”
He nodded and waved her toward the west wing.
They walked through the corridors, the voices of the others fading as they turned into the north wing. A side hall at the north end led them to a door that gave onto the gardens beyond.
Lawns and shrub borders fell away to more rolling expanses hosting larger, mature trees. The ornamental stream burbled beside them as they followed the gravel path along its bank. Ahead, the mill sat built over the stream; partially screened by a stand of willows, it was far enough from the house to be unobtrusive, yet was within walking distance.
As they approached, Royce studied the building, part stone, part timber. It sat squarely across the deep race, at that point only a few yards wide, through which the diverted waters of the Coquet rushed with sufficient force to spin the heavy waterwheel that turned the massive grinding stone.
The ground sloped upward, away from the castle toward the hills to the northwest, so the west bank of the race was significantly higher than the east bank. Spanning the race, the mill therefore was built on two levels. The higher and larger western section contained the grinding stone and the beams, levers, and gears that connected it to the waterwheel in the race.
The narrower, lower, eastern side through which he and Minerva entered contained beams and pulleys that raised and lowered the huge waterwheel; because of the bores that surged down the Coquet when the snows melted, it was essential the wheel could be lifted entirely free of the race. The eastern section also contained bins and storage cupboards set against the wooden railing that ran along the edge of the race.
The first crop of corn had already been ground; the second crop was yet to be harvested. For the moment, the mill stood silent and empty, with the wheel raised and braced above the race on massive beams.
“The problem’s not hard to see.” Minerva led the way into the soft shadows. The building had no windows, but light streamed in through the three open doorways-the one through which they’d entered, as well as the two at either end of the upper, western section.
Royce followed her along the continuation of the path, now paved; bins and cupboards formed a row on his left, the wood-and-stone outer wall to his right. The noise of rushing water was amplified inside, filling his ears. The cupboards were shoulder-height; when he looked over their tops, his eyes were level with the timber floor of the western section.
Ahead, beyond where the cupboards ended, Minerva had paused at the foot of a slanting gangplank connecting the two sections of the mill.
He nodded at the gangplank. “That’s new.” There’d always been a plank, but the ones he remembered had been literally planks, not this substantial timber board with cleats and a sturdy rail on one side. Halting beside Minerva, he studied the hinges, ropes, and pulleys attached to the plank, connecting it to the western section’s floor and railing. “And it even swings out of the way.”
In order for the waterwheel to be lowered and raised, the plank used to have to be removed altogether.
“After he’d replaced the old plank three times-you know how frequently they drop it in the race when they try to lift it away-Hancock designed this.” Minerva started across the narrow platform. “He hasn’t had to even repair it since.”
“An estimable improvement.” Royce followed her.
“Which is what we could do with up here.” Stepping off the gangplank’s upper end, Minerva swept her arms wide, encompassing the whole timber-floored western section in the middle of which sat the massive circular grinding stone supported by a stone plinth; the plinth continued through the floor into the earth beneath.
Letting his gaze travel around the otherwise empty area, Royce walked to the millstone, then cocked a brow at her.
“As I explained,” she continued, “because we have to keep the doors open all the time, summer and winter, it’s impos sible to store anything here. The corn is ground, collected, and bagged-and then, each day, has to be moved, either to the castle cellars or back to farmers’ holdings. If we close the doors to keep the animals out, the corn starts to mold by the next day. Bad enough, but preserving the millstone through winter is a never-ending battle. No matter what we’ve tried, it takes weeks of preparation every spring before we can use it without risking the corn.”
“Mold again?” He walked back to the railing along the race.
“Mold, fungus, mildew-we’ve even had mushrooms growing on it.”
Running a hand along the wide top rail, he grimaced. “Too damp.”
“If we shut the doors, it sometimes gets so bad it drips.”
He looked at her. “So what’s your solution?”
“Hancock agrees that if we put up a timber wall all along the race, we can tar it and make it waterproof. We’d also need to fill the gaps in the outer walls and roof, and around the plinth, and put extra strips on the doors, to stop damp air getting in. And Hancock strongly recommends, as do I, putting in glass panes above the southern doors, so sun can shine in and help keep what’s inside warm and dry.”
Royce glanced around. “Shut those doors.” He waved at the pair at the north end of the building, then walked to the larger set at the southern end. He waited until Minerva, frowning, shut both north doors, cutting off the light from that direction.
Sunshine coming through the doors in the eastern section didn’t reach the western side. Royce swung one of the southern doors closed, blocking off half the sunshine that had been streaming in, then, more slowly, closed the other door, watching as the band of sunshine narrowed until it was a thin beam.
Shutting the door completely, he walked back along the line the sunshine had traced to where it had ended just before the millstone. Halting, he turned to look back toward the doors, at the wall above them reaching to the roof.
Minerva came to stand beside him.
“How much glass was Hancock thinking of?”
Glass was expensive. “He was thinking of at least two panes, one above each door, at least half the width of each door.”
She watched as Royce studied the wall, then turned and looked at the millstone. “We’d be better off glazing as much of that wall as possible.”
She blinked.
He glanced at her, arched a brow.
