darkest suspicions, Lady Nita, and thus you owe it to me to tolerate my company when you call on that baby. You will take either me or a groom, and the groom will report your activities to your brother.”
She stopped outside the stables, the embodiment of feminine frustration. “I am merely after a refreshing hack, Mr. St. Michael.”
From which she might well return with more bloodstains on her cuffs, or worse. Based on her brothers’ mutterings, Tremaine suspected Lady Nita of planning other medical calls, perhaps even to households afflicted with contagion.
Such behavior for an earl’s unmarried daughter was insupportable in an age blessed with trained medical men in nearly every shire.
“I’ll be gone in another few days,” Tremaine said. “Surely you can endure my company until then? ‘Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, timorous beastie’ that I am.”
Her ladyship’s sense of humor plagued her again. Tremaine divined this by how severely she glowered at his boots.
“You are not a mouse, Mr. St. Michael.”
“I’m not an overbearing older brother either,” he said gently, for the grooms were hollering to each other in the barn and some conversations were private. “Somebody should ensure the child still lives and the mother isn’t feverish. I understand that.”
Lady Nita’s gaze shifted to the gray clouds brooding over the Downs to the southwest.
“If she’s feverish, there’s little enough I can do, except try to keep her comfortable and hope a wet nurse will take the child.”
“We are agreed then. You will spare me waltzes, and I will spare you awkward questions from your well-meaning family.”
The grooms led the horses out, Atlas sporting bulging sacks slung over his withers. A refreshing hack, indeed.
“I’ll be gone in three days’ time,” Tremaine said, for Bellefonte would either part with his sheep for a reasonable price or he wouldn’t. “‘Nae man can tether time nor tide,’” Tremaine quoted. “And no ten men can stop the press of business for one such as I. If your brother won’t sell me his sheep, then I’m off to Germany in search of other herds. Humor me just this once, madam, and I’ll not trouble you again.”
Lady Nita accepted Atlas’s reins from the groom, and gave the boy a look such that he hustled back into the barn with a muttered, “G’day, yer ladyship.”
Tremaine bid William to stand, which the beast would do until spring if need be.
“You may accompany me,” Lady Nita said, “but I want to hear that poem about the mouse and life’s precariousness. Susannah was quite taken with it.”
Tremaine boosted Lady Nita onto her unprepossessing gelding, surprised at her request.
Also pleased.
* * *
Nita approached the Chalmerses’ cottage purposefully, though dread dragged at her heels, given what she’d found on other visits here. Did Mr. St. Michael oblige her by remaining on his horse, looking handsome and substantial in his winter finery?
No, he did not.
He swung down and tethered their horses to the porch railing, then clomped up the sagging steps right behind her.
“This is not necessary, Mr. St. Michael. You will embarrass the mother and make my errand here more awkward.”
He rapped on the door with a gloved fist. “This mother will not embarrass so easily as that.”
The cottage stank, as Nita had known it would, of boiled cabbage, unwashed bodies, dirty linen, and despair.
“Lady Nita!” Mary’s greeting was enthusiastic but quiet, and her younger brothers said nothing at all.
“Hello, Mary. Mr. St. Michael and I thought to see how you’re getting on.” The cheer in Nita’s voice was mostly sincere, for Mary held a small bundle in her arms, and the baby’s blanket was still clean.
“Mama’s resting,” Mary said, the baby tucked securely against her middle. “Wee Annie is thriving.”
“You lot,” Mr. St. Michael said to Mary’s younger brothers. “Outside with me now. Two horses need walking and somebody
She stopped outside the stables, the embodiment of feminine frustration. “I am merely after a refreshing hack, Mr. St. Michael.”
From which she might well return with more bloodstains on her cuffs, or worse. Based on her brothers’ mutterings, Tremaine suspected Lady Nita of planning other medical calls, perhaps even to households afflicted with contagion.
Such behavior for an earl’s unmarried daughter was insupportable in an age blessed with trained medical men in nearly every shire.
“I’ll be gone in another few days,” Tremaine said. “Surely you can endure my company until then? ‘Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, timorous beastie’ that I am.”
Her ladyship’s sense of humor plagued her again. Tremaine divined this by how severely she glowered at his boots.
“You are not a mouse, Mr. St. Michael.”
“I’m not an overbearing older brother either,” he said gently, for the grooms were hollering to each other in the barn and some conversations were private. “Somebody should ensure the child still lives and the mother isn’t feverish. I understand that.”
Lady Nita’s gaze shifted to the gray clouds brooding over the Downs to the southwest.
“If she’s feverish, there’s little enough I can do, except try to keep her comfortable and hope a wet nurse will take the child.”
“We are agreed then. You will spare me waltzes, and I will spare you awkward questions from your well-meaning family.”
The grooms led the horses out, Atlas sporting bulging sacks slung over his withers. A refreshing hack, indeed.
“I’ll be gone in three days’ time,” Tremaine said, for Bellefonte would either part with his sheep for a reasonable price or he wouldn’t. “‘Nae man can tether time nor tide,’” Tremaine quoted. “And no ten men can stop the press of business for one such as I. If your brother won’t sell me his sheep, then I’m off to Germany in search of other herds. Humor me just this once, madam, and I’ll not trouble you again.”
Lady Nita accepted Atlas’s reins from the groom, and gave the boy a look such that he hustled back into the barn with a muttered, “G’day, yer ladyship.”
Tremaine bid William to stand, which the beast would do until spring if need be.
“You may accompany me,” Lady Nita said, “but I want to hear that poem about the mouse and life’s precariousness. Susannah was quite taken with it.”
Tremaine boosted Lady Nita onto her unprepossessing gelding, surprised at her request.
Also pleased.
* * *
Nita approached the Chalmerses’ cottage purposefully, though dread dragged at her heels, given what she’d found on other visits here. Did Mr. St. Michael oblige her by remaining on his horse, looking handsome and substantial in his winter finery?
No, he did not.
He swung down and tethered their horses to the porch railing, then clomped up the sagging steps right behind her.
“This is not necessary, Mr. St. Michael. You will embarrass the mother and make my errand here more awkward.”
He rapped on the door with a gloved fist. “This mother will not embarrass so easily as that.”
The cottage stank, as Nita had known it would, of boiled cabbage, unwashed bodies, dirty linen, and despair.
“Lady Nita!” Mary’s greeting was enthusiastic but quiet, and her younger brothers said nothing at all.
“Hello, Mary. Mr. St. Michael and I thought to see how you’re getting on.” The cheer in Nita’s voice was mostly sincere, for Mary held a small bundle in her arms, and the baby’s blanket was still clean.
“Mama’s resting,” Mary said, the baby tucked securely against her middle. “Wee Annie is thriving.”
“You lot,” Mr. St. Michael said to Mary’s younger brothers. “Outside with me now. Two horses need walking and somebody
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