Page 20 of The Lady's Companion
Mrs. Skerlong expressed her opinion cheerfully in pungent words that made Susan blink, then smiled at the bailiff, obviously used to him. “Susan wants to know about Lady Bushnell.”
“She’s keeping me on sufferance for a little while longer, and I must discover how to please her,” Susan explained. “Sir, can you help?”
The bailiff nodded. “If you don’t mind discussing this in the cattle byre.” He looked at Mrs. Skeriong and rolled his eyes. “I disremember why I told Tim the cowman he could spend the month with his old mam in Bristol. I haven’t squeezed so many tits since I left off soldiering.”
Susan coughed and looked long at the stove, held her breath and tried not to laugh out loud. Aunt Louisa, if you could hear these two, she thought, remembering her aunt harrumphing and “my wording” when Papa unleashed the occasional vulgarity.
“You’re kind to old Tim ’cause you’re such a good-hearted bastard, David Wiggins,” Mrs. Skerlong replied as she threaded her needle again.
“Only don’t let it get about,” he replied, unruffled by the housekeeper’s commentary on his parenthood. “Those your boots, Miss Hampton?”
She nodded, hoping that her eyes didn’t look as merry as she felt. “Yes, sir.”
“Kate, loan her your coat. Let’s see if her curiosity extends beyond the cattle byre and into the dread succession house. If I have to talk, she has to work, too.”
When her boots were on, he helped her into Mrs. Skerlong’s coat and took her hand as they crossed the barnyard. “Wind’s picking up,” he explained when she drew back in surprise at first. “You’d blow over in a strong gust, I’m thinking.” He stopped and put his face up to the wind, breathing deep. “It’s coming from the west; I’m also thinking the snow will be melting tomorrow.” He took a firmer hold on her hand. “Just remember to look out for east winds, Miss Hampton.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied dubiously.
“And for God’s sake quit sirring me,” he said. “Call me Mr. Wiggins if you must—although that makes me feel forty.”
“Aren’t you?” she interrupted, suddenly quite pleased with herself. I have not felt like making a joke for ever so long, she thought as he stopped again.
“Miss Hampton, do you see that mound of cow muck over there?” He pointed with her hand in his.
“Yes, s ... Wiggins.”
“Another remark like that and Wiggins will see that you’re the first lady’s companion in it! I am thirty-three. It may seem like forty to you, but let’s keep that straight.”
She laughed, then shrieked as he steered her toward the mound. “You wouldn’t!”
“Well, no,” he agreed, turning her into the cattle byre. “Mrs. Skerlong would probably make me clean your boots.” He released her hand and she followed him down the corridor between the stalls, thinking to herself what a pleasant walk he had. You look like someone who knows how to walk and walk, she thought.
“Were you infantry?” she asked, wanting confirmation.
“Yes. Do you like to walk?” He smiled. “Well, certainly you do.”
Susan nodded. “It used to irritate my cousins. They went walking in Hyde Park to see and be seen, but I liked to walk.”
“No flirting?” he asked as he took off his coat and reached for the hay fork.
“Of course! But not with some sprite whose pantaloons were too tight to move fast,” she said, sitting herself on the same bucket from yesterday. “Some men are slaves of fashion.”
“Not around here,” he said as he pulled down straw from the loft overhead and spread it around the loose box where the newest bovine arrival was lying. “Or in Spain.” He leaned on the hay fork a moment, remembering, then looked at her. “Up you get, Miss Hampton, if you will earn your thirty pounds. Take that sacking over there and wipe down this heifer. She’s a bit delicate yet, and a good rubbing will do wonders for her circulation. I didn’t have time while I was milking.”
She did as he asked, gingerly at first, and then vigorously as the fawnlike Jersey struggled to rise.
“Good girl!” Wiggins said, and Susan didn’t know if he meant her or the heifer. “Let up now, Susan.”
She sat back on the newly mounded straw and watched with satisfaction as the calf struggled to rise. Mama Cow, who still appeared to be nursing her own grievances at the irritation of birth, looked around and lowed her encouragement.
“And there we go,” the bailiff said as the calf wobbled to all fours, swayed back and forth a moment, then moved stiff-legged, to her mother’s side. “They do have an instinct, do little ones.”
He put down the hay fork and sat beside Susan, just watching mother and daughter, a slight smile on his face. “I never get tired of it.” He laughed. “Except when it’s too cold, or I’m feeling forty.”
“I promise not to tease you about that again,” Susan said. “Now tell me about Lady Bushnell.”
He hesitated. “I’ve always made it a point to respect herprivacy.”
