He poured himself a glass of water, poured her a glass of ale, and sat at the head of the table. “It has been a challenge. Nonetheless, please recall that certificates of lunacy can be overturned, and if Weatherby prevails, Philpot will have to deal with you, Nathaniel, Walden, and my own efforts to limit his schemes. Speaking of schemes, I have taken a measure of which I doubt you’ll approve.”

“Say on. I have also taken a measure that I doubt will merit approval.” Another measure.

“I sent a modest sum to Reverend Shaw while I still had control of my assets.”

Constance paused, a piece of bread in one hand, the butter knife in the other. “Why would I disapprove of such generosity?”

“Because Shaw could take offense at my hubris, because funds make it easier for him to decamp to New South Wales, because I did not consult you before I sent him the bank draft.”

Rothhaven grasped that a failure to consult his wife could be a transgression. That such a man stood accused of incompetence was an injustice of mythic proportions.

“We haven’t exactly been in each other’s pockets this past week,” Constance said.

He touched her arm. “You are not wroth with me for my high-handedness?”

“Eat something, Rothhaven. I can sustain myself on anger and determination, but you haven’t that luxury.”

He served himself some beef and barley soup, which—now that Constance got a whiff of its aroma—looked tasty.

“Shaw might well return the money,” Rothhaven said. “I might have made matters worse.”

“Then he returns the money, but I don’t know as matters can get much worse. I wrote back to Ivy and told her that under no circumstances was she to quit her uncle’s protection.”

Rothhaven filled a second bowl with soup and set it before Constance. “Did you, now? Told her to stay put when she’d all but begged you to rescue her?”

The best part, the very, very best part of loving Rothhaven was that he had from the first been Constance’s friend. An honorable, kind, decent, tolerant friend. He greeted her announcement as pleasantly as if she’d informed him of a decision to have some new dresses made up.

“This whole legal mess,” Constance said, “with Weatherby and Philpot, is driven by Lady Phoebe’s mean-spiritedness.”

“Very likely. Philpot does not need my money, but he needs to keep his wife happy. Sir Leviticus made it plain that Philpot married up, and his bride has never let him forget it.”

The soup was good. Being able to air these thoughts with Rothhaven was wonderful. “Lady Phoebe has been denied children.” Constance had only worked this out on the coach ride back from Fendle Bridge. “She is angry and ashamed because she has been denied motherhood.”

“My guess is, she would find reasons to be angry and ashamed if she had ten handsome, healthy children.”