Page 100 of Tremaine's True Love
“If you tarry here in Haddondale, you’ll only have that much more foul weather to deal with later in the day,” Tremaine informed his horse.
William moved forward at a grudging shuffle.
“You want a go at the horse trough,” Tremaine reasoned. Particularly in winter, watering a horse frequently was part of good care, and William was owed excellent care. Tremaine turned the gelding toward the Queen’s Harebell, a crackling in the pocket of his greatcoat catching his attention.
“Bother this entire day,” he said, swinging down before the inn.
A responsible man did not neglect his horse. Then too, Tremaine and George should talk, no matter how badly Tremaine wanted to put distance between himself and a certain dear, stubborn former fiancée.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
George surveyed the inn’s common, disappointment blighting his good spirits. He wanted to buy somebody—anybody, everybody—a celebratory drink, but the only creature stirring was a bleary-eyed maid.
“Is Bartlow about?” George asked her.
“In the back, making coffee,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “He’ll have a sore head though, so you’d best not shout.” She scurried off toward the kitchen, while George hung his greatcoat on a peg and stepped around behind the bar.
“Mornin’, Master George,” Bartlow said, emerging from the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder. “What can I do for ye?”
He was a good-sized wheat-blond fellow with a full complement of the publican’s good cheer, usually, but this morning Bartlow was moving slowly and speaking softly.
“I’m in search of Edward Nash,” George said. “Where do you keep your cinnamon, Bartlow? I mean to stand Mr. Nash to a toddy or two.”
The fixings were at hand, all but for the spices.
Bartlow took up a stool while George stirred together enough spirits for two drinks.
“You don’t want to be disturbin’ Mr. Nash, Master George. He’ll have a powerful head, and him not so kindly when in such a state.”
“Shall I make you a toddy as well?” George asked, because he was in charity with the world, which was surely a harbinger of a happy marriage.
“Aye. That’d be a mercy.”
Tremaine St. Michael strode into the common, his expression suggesting sore heads were in ample supply throughout the shire.
“Mr. Haddonfield, have you found employment at this fine establishment?” St. Michael asked.
St. Michael was soon to be family, so George poured more spirits. “I’m here to fetch Edward Nash back to the comfort of his own hearth. Bartlow, get him down here and tell him I’m brewing his breakfast. St. Michael, you’ll join us?”
St. Michael had a rather grand beak of a nose, which he wrinkled. “I’d like a word with you first, though if Nash bestirs himself, I suppose my manners are up to the challenge.”
George’s sentiments toward Nash were of the same variety, though because Nash would also be family, George kept mixing.
“What brings you out on this fine and frosty morning?” George asked St. Michael.
“Business, you might say. You need spices, if you’re attempting to brew a toddy, and before I forget, tell Kinser he’ll want to mend his pasture walls sooner rather than later.”
“You tell him,” George said. “Unless I miss my guess, you’ll be underfoot for the next fifty years or so.” George bellowed for the maid to bring him the spices, and to hell with anybody trying to sleep off their excesses upstairs.
St. Michael slouched onto the bench in the snug. “Your guess regarding my future whereabouts would be in error, Mr. Haddonfield.”
“Forty years then, because Nita will wear you out.” The maid brought the spices, then disappeared back into the kitchen. Elsie probably had the same ability to move silently, for which Edward Nash ought to answer.
George heated his mixture over the coals in the common’s enormous hearth, poured two drinks, and joined St. Michael in the snug.
“Congratulate me, St. Michael. I’m to be married.”
St. Michael put two documents on the table. One was foolscap with a list of some sort written upon it, the other was an official document, complete with a dangling seal.
