Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney Page B

crack of sound and a spray of stone chips. A large slab of the outcropping sheered away, leaving several square feet of absolutely level surface.
     
    He skimmed his palm across the slate. “This might make a good surface for a billiard table.”
     
    Her brows drew together. “Why would you want to put slate on a billiard table?”
     
    “Wood often warps, especially in damp areas like Wales,” he explained. “Fit together several slabs of this slate, cover it with green baize, and one might have a superior table.”
     
    “That’s a frivolous use of good slate.”
     
    “Here’s a lesson for you, Clare. Frivolity is usually far more profitable than necessity.” He dusted his hands and turned away. “I’ll have the estate carpenter use some of this to resurface the table at Aberdare. If it works, we might have a profitable new market for the best of the slate.” He draped a casual arm over her shoulders. “Show me the rest of the site.”
     
    They spent the next hour scrambling over the hillside, studying the extent and quality of the exposed slate, and laughing at the antics of the lambs that skipped around their grazing mothers. Nicholas found that it was as amusing to work with Clare as it was to skirmish with her, for her quick mind and direct manner made her unlike any woman he’d ever known. As a bonus, she looked enticing in her severe boots and breeches.
     
    They ended by the lowest visible outcropping. Nicholas studied the slope, then pointed out a ridge that curled down to the southwest. “This looks like the best spot for the tramway. It isn’t far to the river, and it’s all Aberdare land.”
     
    “How soon would it be possible to start working the quarry?”
     
    He considered. “Probably by midsummer. The tramway might not be completed, but finished slates can be held here until it is. Before work can begin, I’ll have to go to London to arrange financing. We’ll also have to visit a large slate quarry to study the techniques, and perhaps hire an experienced manager. Then there’s the matter of the new quay on the coast. A site must be found, an engineer hired.” He gazed absently at the valley, thinking of all the details that he would have to take care of; money was no substitute for personal attention.
     
    “You’re smiling,” she said softly. “As if you’re looking forward to the challenge.”
     
    “My feelings are mixed. I’d been thinking of selling Aberdare, but everything you’ve asked me to do will bind me more closely to the place, at least for the next year or two.”
     
    “Sell Aberdare!” she exclaimed, as shocked as if he wanted to ship the whole estate —bag, baggage, and sheep—to China. “But you’re Welsh—this has been the Davies home for centuries!”
     
    “I’m no Welshman,” he retorted. “I’m half Gypsy, and even though my grandfather liked to proclaim himself a descendant of Welsh kings, the truth is that generations of marrying English heiresses had made the Davies blood more English than Welsh. Aberdare represents only a small part of my fortune, and I would like nothing better than to turn my back on the place forever.”
     
    Observing her appalled expression, he said, “The idea shocks you more than anything else I’ve done, doesn’t it?”
     
    Rallying, she said, “Surely you can’t sell even if you want to. Isn’t the estate entailed so that you are only a life tenant, holding the property in trust for your own heir?”
     
    He shook his head. “An entail has to be recreated in every generation. Ordinarily the resettlement is done on the heir’s twenty-first birthday, or his marriage. However, my grandfather’s own sons died before inheriting, and since the old boy never wholly accepted me as his heir, he kept putting off the resettlement. Since he died suddenly, it was still undone when I inherited. I think I can break the entail if I try.”
     
    “But you were his heir, and would have been even if his second wife