“You have hours and hours of sunshine, regardless of the season. If the sun’s out, those children should be catching a glimpse of it.”
He wasn’t exactly wrong, and he moved around the cottage with that child affixed to his shoulder as if…
“You like babies?” Nita asked as Mr. St. Michael took down the length of sausage.
“Who wouldn’t like a baby, for God’s sake?” Next he took down the onions, and from a basket near the hearth, he selected a fat turnip, all one-handed. “This will be sharper than anything you can find here,” he said, passing Nita a folding knife.
He could have put the child down, of course, but Nita didn’t suggest this. Tremaine St. Michael had offered his warmth to a mere lamb. Surely Annie would know she was safe in his arms?
“I liked your poem,” Nita said, starting on the sausage. Small pieces, because the children would bolt their stew rather than chew it, and of course, the meat had to last as long as possible.
“Mr. Burns’s poem,” Mr. St. Michael retorted. Outside, some child shrieked with laughter. “Mary will come to grief if she tries to trot, and then her brothers will take a turn. Every child should know how to sit a horse, and William loves children.”
William loved children?
“My new friend remains fast asleep,” he went on, “a testament to my limitless charms. Shall I tuck her in with the mother?”
Nita’s knife came down decisively, beheading a turnip. “Absolutely not. That box by the fire is for the baby.”
Mr. St. Michael laid the child in the box and arranged her blankets around her. “I thought this box was for kindling.”
Likely it had been, but such was the poverty of the household that the simple wooden box was Annie’s bed for now. Mr. St. Michael set the box up on the table beside Nita and the pile of winter vegetables.
“She’ll be out of the drafts if she’s off the floor,” he said. “Damned dirt holds the cold and damp, excuse my language. I’m off to check on the laundry and prevent horse thievery. You’ll want to add a quantity of potatoes to that stew and a dash of salt.”
Mr. St. Michael scooped up the entire lot of dirty clothes, and out the door he went, leaving Evan and Nita to exchange a look.
“He talks funny,” Evan said.
“He’s from far away. That was a mountain of laundry, Evan. I don’t think a single stocking escaped your notice. Would you like a bite of sausage?”
Evan’s nod was heart-wrenchingly solemn. Outside, more laughter pealed, interrupted by Mr. St. Michael’s stern tones.
“I’ll bet he was a hard worker when he was a lad, even if he is a fine gent,” Evan said around a mouthful of sausage. “I’ll never be as tall as him.”
“You’ll never be as rich as him,” said a voice from the back of the cottage. Addy stood beside the lone bed, the alcove’s curtain pushed back. “Lady Nita, hello. You will excuse me for not greeting you properly.”
Addy had been pretty once, and raised in a proper squire’s household, though her parents were dead now. As a girl, she’d played hide-and-seek among the gravestones in the churchyard along with all the other children of the parish. She was three years older than Nita, considerably smaller, and already looking careworn.
“Hullo, Mama.” Evan had finished his bite of sausage, and he kept his gaze on his mother’s feet, which were encased in a pair of Nita’s much-darned cast-off stockings. An old, blue woolen shawl of Susannah’s was wrapped about Addy’s shoulders. “The man is from far away, and he can chop wood. He’s boiling laundry too.”
“Not a Haddonfield, then,” Addy said, wrinkling her nose. “I smell meat.”
Addy’s observation about Nita’s brothers was merely honest, for an earl and his brothers did not boil laundry, and the town strumpet didn’t expect them to.
“Sausage,” Nita said, slicing off an inch-long section and passing it to Addy. “How are you feeling?”
Addy’s smile was so
He wasn’t exactly wrong, and he moved around the cottage with that child affixed to his shoulder as if…
“You like babies?” Nita asked as Mr. St. Michael took down the length of sausage.
“Who wouldn’t like a baby, for God’s sake?” Next he took down the onions, and from a basket near the hearth, he selected a fat turnip, all one-handed. “This will be sharper than anything you can find here,” he said, passing Nita a folding knife.
He could have put the child down, of course, but Nita didn’t suggest this. Tremaine St. Michael had offered his warmth to a mere lamb. Surely Annie would know she was safe in his arms?
“I liked your poem,” Nita said, starting on the sausage. Small pieces, because the children would bolt their stew rather than chew it, and of course, the meat had to last as long as possible.
“Mr. Burns’s poem,” Mr. St. Michael retorted. Outside, some child shrieked with laughter. “Mary will come to grief if she tries to trot, and then her brothers will take a turn. Every child should know how to sit a horse, and William loves children.”
William loved children?
“My new friend remains fast asleep,” he went on, “a testament to my limitless charms. Shall I tuck her in with the mother?”
Nita’s knife came down decisively, beheading a turnip. “Absolutely not. That box by the fire is for the baby.”
Mr. St. Michael laid the child in the box and arranged her blankets around her. “I thought this box was for kindling.”
Likely it had been, but such was the poverty of the household that the simple wooden box was Annie’s bed for now. Mr. St. Michael set the box up on the table beside Nita and the pile of winter vegetables.
“She’ll be out of the drafts if she’s off the floor,” he said. “Damned dirt holds the cold and damp, excuse my language. I’m off to check on the laundry and prevent horse thievery. You’ll want to add a quantity of potatoes to that stew and a dash of salt.”
Mr. St. Michael scooped up the entire lot of dirty clothes, and out the door he went, leaving Evan and Nita to exchange a look.
“He talks funny,” Evan said.
“He’s from far away. That was a mountain of laundry, Evan. I don’t think a single stocking escaped your notice. Would you like a bite of sausage?”
Evan’s nod was heart-wrenchingly solemn. Outside, more laughter pealed, interrupted by Mr. St. Michael’s stern tones.
“I’ll bet he was a hard worker when he was a lad, even if he is a fine gent,” Evan said around a mouthful of sausage. “I’ll never be as tall as him.”
“You’ll never be as rich as him,” said a voice from the back of the cottage. Addy stood beside the lone bed, the alcove’s curtain pushed back. “Lady Nita, hello. You will excuse me for not greeting you properly.”
Addy had been pretty once, and raised in a proper squire’s household, though her parents were dead now. As a girl, she’d played hide-and-seek among the gravestones in the churchyard along with all the other children of the parish. She was three years older than Nita, considerably smaller, and already looking careworn.
“Hullo, Mama.” Evan had finished his bite of sausage, and he kept his gaze on his mother’s feet, which were encased in a pair of Nita’s much-darned cast-off stockings. An old, blue woolen shawl of Susannah’s was wrapped about Addy’s shoulders. “The man is from far away, and he can chop wood. He’s boiling laundry too.”
“Not a Haddonfield, then,” Addy said, wrinkling her nose. “I smell meat.”
Addy’s observation about Nita’s brothers was merely honest, for an earl and his brothers did not boil laundry, and the town strumpet didn’t expect them to.
“Sausage,” Nita said, slicing off an inch-long section and passing it to Addy. “How are you feeling?”
Addy’s smile was so
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