Tremaine's True Love (13 page)

What had the law to do with a man’s moral obligation to keep the women of his household safe?

They’d reached the edge of the village. Tremaine suspected they were also nearing the limits of Lady Nita’s self-restraint, and if the topic didn’t shift, she’d turn her destrier about and go tilting back to Stonebridge.

“I had a violent temper as a boy,” Tremaine said, though he hadn’t exactly planned that admission. “After my parents died, I was in scrape after scrape, until I hit a cousin two years older than me. She was also bigger, taller, faster, and by far the more scientific pugilist. Grandpapa threw me to the sheep after that.”

Tremaine could still recall the startling, fascinating pain of being walloped stoutly on both ears in the same instant. He’d sunk to the dirt like a rock tossed into a well, and thanked God his cousin hadn’t gone after him with her booted feet.

Lady Nita combed out a braid she’d plaited into the horse’s mane. “Your grandfather threw you to the sheep? Not to the wolves?”

No wolves, but all manner of demons.

“When the shepherds drove the flock up to the higher pastures that spring, I was sent with them. They were a rough lot, but good people. Between the shepherds, the sheep, and the fresh air, I was at least able to attend my studies come autumn. I spent much of seven years in those summer pastures.”

Tremaine had had his first whiskey there, his first woman, his first adolescent heartbreak, all among the high hills and lush pastures of the Scottish summer. Those memories defined him in a way he wasn’t comfortable sharing, even with Lady Nita.

This was her village, so Tremaine let her lead him around the right side of the barren green.

“Were you angry at the sheep?” she asked.

“I was angry at everything, at everyone, at God himself. I was the angriest boy who’d ever flung rocks at trees or broken off sapling after sapling out of sheer fury. I regret that destructiveness now.”

This time of year, the center of the village was an acre of dead grass with a bank of dirty snow along one side. Two huge oaks stretched bare branches to the pewter sky; a pair of enormous ravens hunched amid them.

“You regret a boy’s displays of grief?”

That terrible temper had been grief. Grandpapa had seen that as easily as Lady Nita had.

“Much of the Highlands used to be oak forest,” Tremaine said, “but that far north, trees grow only slowly. The forests were decimated to build ships for the Royal Navy—replacing them would take centuries, if anyone were of a mind to do so. I should not have killed trees in an effort to contaminate the very hillside with my orphaned rage.”

Her ladyship halted her horse before a tidy Tudor establishment, the Queen’s Harebell, according to the signboard luffing in the chilly breeze.

“We can grow more trees, Mr. St. Michael, but we cannot grow another Tremaine St. Michael or another Digby Nash. I’m sorry you lost your parents, sorry you had only the company of sheep and nature to ease your loss. Your mother loved you, or you would not have mourned her death so passionately.”

More female logic, and more truth. Tremaine had also mourned his father and, more recently, his brother. He was getting bloody sick of what few people he cared for going to their eternal rewards.

Abruptly, Tremaine wished he and Lady Nita were not perched atop their horses in the middle of the village street, where all and sundry might see them, because an urge plagued him to kiss the woman who understood small, violent boys and raged against small, violent men.

He swung out of the saddle and came around to assist the lady from her horse.

Lady Nita unhooked her knee from the horn and slid down the side of her gelding, right into Tremaine’s waiting arms.

“I had the shepherds too,” he said. Inanely. “They’re a philosophical lot, unless somebody threatens their flocks. They lent me their books, answered my questions as best they could, taught me their songs and how to hold my drink.”

“They taught you how to live despite your anger,” Lady Nita said, her hands braced on Tremaine’s arms. She stepped back, and he let her go, both relieved and reluctant to put this topic behind them. “I gather you never struck another female?”

The question allowed Tremaine a smile. “I’d got the worst of the encounter, which I suspect was why Grandpapa let me confront Agnes. She had a reputation Gentleman Jackson would envy. Grandpapa sent me away thereafter, in part for my own safety, lest my opponent’s five sisters finish what I so foolishly started. I dowered Agnes with a tidy farm eight years ago, and she’s raising a brood of sturdy girls with her equally sturdy husband.”

Some cloud in Lady Nita’s gaze cleared, and she turned a sunny smile on Tremaine. An hour ago, he would have described the scarf he’d lent her as blue lamb’s wool. Now, his scarf was the same blue as Lady Nita Haddonfield’s eyes, halfway between a Scottish summer sky and periwinkle, with a beguiling hint of lilac.

Those eyes narrowed, and her smile disappeared.

“That is Dr. Harold Horton,” she said, glowering at a somewhat ungainly rider on an elegant gray trit-trotting around the far side of the square. “I might as well tell you, I do not hate Dr. Horton, though he has cause to hate me.”

Patience Goodenough, a gentle Quaker lady whose husband raised all manner of fowl, had cursed like a drover when delivering her firstborn.

Daryl Bletching had cried and begged Nita to try to save his hand when Dr. Horton had sent the surgeon to fetch a saw.

Old Mr. Clackengeld claimed he saw the devil when drunk and swore Nita to secrecy, lest the parson catch wind of such wickedness.

Winnifred Hess believed the angel of death had sat upon her chest counting her chicken pox.

The ill and the injured inflicted their confidences on Nita. She
wanted
Tremaine St. Michael’s confidences, even as she was puzzled that he’d offer them from atop his horse. Worse, she wanted to share her confidences with him, which might explain her remark about Horrible Horton.

“The physician looks like Father Christmas out of his seasonal robes,” Mr. St. Michael said. “He hates you?”

“Not quite,” Nita replied, adjusting a scarf that bore the scent of the faraway Highlands. “I’m not worthy of his hatred. I merit his condescension, his amusement even. Shall we go inside?”

Dr. Horton gossiped, and if he saw Nita escorted by a strange fellow without benefit of a groom or sibling, he would surely mention it over a consultation with the vicar regarding vicar’s gout.

“I’m famished,” Mr. St. Michael said. “Even so, I’d rather not let the horses stand for half the day.”

While Nita was loath to linger in the village at all if Dr. Horton was about. “We’ll be quick.”

Mr. St. Michael tucked her hand onto his arm, even to travel the short distance to the posting inn’s door.

“You don’t want to pay a call on the vicar, my lady? I’d assumed you had charitable tasks to assign him.”

The vicar likely hated Nita most of all. He frequently preached that God alone—abetted by Dr. Horton—should determine who succumbed to illness and who thrived. The pious among the flock were to meekly endure ill health as a sign of God’s disfavor, and pray for God’s mercy.

“Perhaps we’ll call on Vicar another day,” Nita said.

Mr. St. Michael’s pace suggested he was a stranger to hurry, or maybe the cold didn’t affect him, their progress across the street was that leisurely. He studied the shop fronts, the bleak village square, the ravens huddled in the barren oak, the ruts frozen into the street.

While Nita’s heart sank.

“Lady Nita!” Dr. Horton called, clambering off his gray. “Why, it is you, but I don’t believe I know this gentleman. A female of your delicate constitution ought not to be out in such weather, if you’ll take the word of an old physician. How does your family go on, my lady, and will you introduce me to your friend?”

Dr. Horton was friendly, Edward had been gracious, and Nita was abruptly exhausted.

“Mr. St. Michael, may I make known to you Dr. Horton, our local physician and a family friend. Dr. Horton, Mr. Tremaine St. Michael, a guest of the earl’s and connection through my brother Beckman.”

Nita had lied, for Dr. Horton was no friend to her family. Even Nicholas had little use for a physician who gossiped. Dr. Horton did look like Father Christmas, though, all combed white beard, friendly blue eyes, and prosperous country gentleman’s attire.

“Dr. Horton.” Mr. St. Michael bowed, though he outranked Horton. “Lady Nita and I were making a quick stop for sustenance.”

“Then you must join me,” Dr. Horton said. “Winter ale fortifies the blood, I always say. Do I detect a bit of the North in your accent, sir?”

Nita let the small talk wash around her, content to be ignored as her joy in the day ebbed. Perhaps she should throw rocks at the oaks on the green or find some saplings to tear down.

The inn’s kitchen was serving cottage pie and winter ale along with a dish of cinnamon biscuits, though Nita had little appetite. Dr. Horton chattered on about the approaching assembly being a dare to the gods of weather, though it did a man a power of good to see all the local ladies attired in their finest.

“You’re not eating much, Lady Nita,” Mr. St. Michael remarked.

Dr. Horton patted her hand, and because they were at table, nobody wore gloves.

“Lady Nita has refined sensibilities,” Dr. Horton said. “Beef and potatoes do not appeal to a sophisticated palate. I heard that you assisted the Chalmers woman in childbed, my dear. Was that wise?”

Dr. Horton did this, bustled along in conversation, a merry old fellow of great good cheer, then, without warning, he attacked—with even greater good cheer.

“Childbed is not something any woman should face alone,” Nita said, “and the birth went well.”

The doctor tucked a bite of potato dripping with gravy into his mouth.

“The birth went well last time too, I’m told,” Dr. Horton said, chewing energetically, “and look how that turned out. What’s she up to now? Five? Six? Six more mouths for the parish to feed sooner or later. Best not abet such folly. Bellefonte would agree with me, as would, I’m sure, the late earl.”

Papa would never have agreed with this pontifical, judgmental buffoon. Mama had been barely civil to Horton. Nita set her lady’s pint down carefully, while beneath the table Mr. St. Michael seized her free hand in a warm grasp.

“You will pardon my lack of fortitude,” Mr. St. Michael said, squeezing Nita’s fingers gently, “but a bachelor does not find talk of childbirth at all conducive to good digestion. You ride a handsome gelding, Dr. Horton. Did you purchase him locally?”

Nita shook her hand free of her escort’s and rose. Mr. St. Michael rose as well, while Dr. Horton shoveled in another bite of potatoes.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Nita said, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Dr. Horton waved his fork in dismissal, while Mr. St. Michael remained on his feet until Nita had quit the premises. She strode directly across the street, kicked a hole in the ice of the horse trough, and plunged the hand Dr. Horton had patted into the frigid water.

* * *

“Nita has taken Mr. St. Michael to call on Edward,” Kirsten announced, tossing herself onto Susannah’s bed. “All this fresh air must be in aid of something.”

Susannah set aside
Macbeth
and drew her afghan around her shoulders, for Kirsten on a tear was impossible to deflect. Then too, reading by the window was a chilly proposition.

“If Mr. St. Michael affords Nita an opportunity to socialize with the healthy rather than the ill and the indigent, surely that’s a good thing?” Susannah suggested.

Nita’s sisters had certainly had little success broadening Nita’s social life.

“Why didn’t she take you?” Kirsten asked, kicking off her house mules and scooting back against the headboard. “Why not take me, Leah, anybody else?”

Susannah knew why not, so did Kirsten. “Because Nita will look in on Addy Chalmers, which doesn’t matter.”

Nita’s visit probably mattered a great deal to Addy and her new baby.

“Why does she do this, Suze?” Kirsten asked, rearranging Susannah’s pillows. “Why does Nita stick her nose into the cottage of every ailing tenant? She’s worse than Mama ever was.”

Susannah was fifteen months older than Kirsten, which meant she’d had fifteen months more to observe their mother and to ask the same question.

“Mama’s people were not wealthy when she was younger,” Susannah said. “Her Christian duty weighed on her, and she had a knack for dealing with illness and injury, though in these modern times, we’re supposed to leave all that to the medical fellows. Are you jealous that Nita has attached the interest of a potential suitor?”

Kirsten smoothed a hand over the quilt Susannah had pieced together with their mother’s help. Mama really hadn’t been much for countess-ing when she could instead be a mother or a neighbor.

“Nicholas says Mr. St. Michael is very shrewd,” Kirsten replied, “and he trades in far more than sheep. He has connections all over the Continent and is, in truth, a French comte.” Kirsten hugged a pink brocade pillow to her chest, looking deceptively girlish. “I think Mr. St. Michael is handsome, if you don’t mind his accent. He puts me in mind of a wolf, all sleek and quiet, but mind you don’t turn your back on him or he’ll gobble up your best biddy.”

Nita probably didn’t even hear that accent, though it did wonderful things for Mr. Burns’s verse. Made Mr. St. Michael’s Shakespeare rather interesting too.

“What are you thinking, Kirsten Haddonfield?” And where was Della, who, for all her tender years, was an excellent strategist?

“I overheard Nicholas and Mr. St. Michael discussing those dratted sheep,” Kirsten said, setting the pillow aside. “Mr. St. Michael wants them, but Edward wants them too.”

While Susannah wanted Edward. Not very ladylike of her, but a woman had to marry somebody. Edward did not shout and create noise wherever he went. He did not bring up difficult topics with family when guests were at the table. His command of Shakespeare was limited, but his recitation of it competent.

Edward had made a home for his brother’s widow and child, and—most significant of all—he lived not two miles from Susannah’s family. Susannah could recite the list of Edward’s virtues in her sleep, for she repeated them to herself nightly.

“I’m not surprised both men are interested in the merino sheep,” Susannah said. “Papa did not leave the earldom plump in the pocket, and Nicholas must sell assets where he can.”

Susannah emerged from her afghan to poke at the fire in the grate. The footmen would come around with fresh coal soon—Nita had put them on a schedule several winters ago—but Kirsten had left the door open a few inches, and an eddy of cold air slithered across the carpets.

“You are more valuable than a herd of bleating sheep,” Kirsten said. “Edward wants the sheep to be included in your dowry. All of them, every ewe, ram, tup, and lamb.”

Susannah closed the door and took up a chair near the fire.

“Sheep are hard on the land,” Susannah said. While Kirsten was hard on her siblings, but she meant well.

“Stonebridge isn’t the best patch of ground in the shire to start with,” Kirsten observed, which anybody riding past its somewhat ramshackle home farm might conclude. “I’d think Edward’s land better suited to cattle, cabbages, or potatoes. Potatoes grow anywhere.”

Papa had never expected to inherit an earldom, nor Mama to become a countess. They had been gentry at heart, and Susannah was her parents’ daughter.

She had ideas for Stonebridge, ideas she’d discussed casually with George and Nicholas. Stonebridge was close enough to London that vegetable crops could be profitable, laying hens were always in demand, and even certain breeds of dog could be raised as pets for aristocratic families.

“Suze, you have that distracted look,” Kirsten said, tossing the pink pillow gently across the room to land in Susannah’s lap. “Are you composing a sonnet to your sheep farmer before he’s even acquired a herd?”

“Edward would not like to be called a sheep farmer.” Nor was he Susannah’s, not yet, which was a problem. Would he like to be called her husband?

Kirsten folded her hands behind her head, looking much like Nicholas or George at their leisure.

“Edward would
like
to be called Baronet,” Kirsten said, “though he hasn’t acquired that title yet either.”

Kirsten’s judgment of her fellow man was severe, but her loyalty to family unwavering. If Susannah married Edward, she need not abandon Kirsten entirely to spinsterhood, nor George to perpetual bachelorhood.

“I know you don’t particularly care for Edward,” Susannah said. Nita cared for him even less, though Susannah wasn’t certain why. Edward wasn’t awful. “He’s not as loud as our brothers, not as outspoken or direct. I like that about him. His company is restful and he sings well.”

Kirsten sat up, one lithe, restless, feline movement. “You are too sweet, Suze. Edward rides out with his hounds but doesn’t see to his own acres. George says the pond near the Bletchings’ farm is silting up, and it’s the only water on the west side of Edward’s property. How will he irrigate if he doesn’t dredge that pond?”

Dredging the pond went on Susannah’s list of improvements her dowry would make possible at Stonebridge. Even Papa had muttered about only a bad farmer neglecting to manage his water, and the Stonebridge home farm was on the west side of the property.

“You don’t care about a silted up pond, Kirsten. This is England and we’ve water aplenty. What is it you came here to say?”

To bother Susannah about, because Kirsten lived to bother and agitate, which was her way of showing familial concern.

Kirsten shoved off the bed, leaving the quilt wrinkled.

“It’s cold in here,” she said, joining Susannah by the fire. “Suze, have you noticed that Stonebridge is always cold?”

Yes, Susannah had. That was on her list too, because any household that included a small child needed a modicum of warmth throughout. Elsie Nash was Digby’s mother, and she ought to see to something as simple as keeping the boy warm. Elsie had been married to a military man, though, and probably took economies seriously.

“Kirsten, you are an astute woman. Winter is upon us, winter is cold.”

When Kirsten was stomping about, casting dark looks at all and sundry, arguing radical Whig politics simply to bait Nicholas, then a certain element of Haddonfield family functioning was as it should be.

When Kirsten’s gaze became pitying, Susannah worried.

“Do you
love
Edward, Suze?” Kirsten asked, oddly serious. “Do you even know Edward well enough to say if you love him, or have you fallen for a few sonnets and melting glances? We’re not that old, and Nita certainly seems to manage well enough without a man.”

Nita was dying of loneliness, and many women considered twenty too old to be single.

Susannah rose and faced the fire so she did not have to meet Kirsten’s gaze.

“I esteem Edward greatly,” Susannah recited, for this too was part of her nightly fretting. “I’ve known him all my life, and I see his strengths as well as those areas where the right wife would be a help to him and his family. While I appreciate your concern, I do not share it.”