Page 17 of Tremaine's True Love
In this household, the child’s innocence was doomed.
“Her name’s Annie,” Mary volunteered.
Behind the curtained alcove, Addy stirred in her sleep, then fell silent.
“And you’re Mary,” Mr. St. Michael said, dropping to his haunches. “Your brothers are quite in awe of you. They say you can cook and clean, and should go for a maid in a fancy lord’s house because you work ever so hard the livelong day.”
Mary’s brows drew down at this flattery, though Mr. St. Michael’s words were true enough. The cottage was tidy—the dirt floor swept, the baby’s linens folded in a short stack on the table, the hearth free of excess ashes. Half of the sausage Nita had brought last time hung from the crossbeam between sheaves of herbs and a rope of onions.
“I couldn’t leave our Annie,” Mary said. “The boys want me earning coin. They wouldn’t know how to help with Annie, though.”
Mr. St. Michael rose, his expression displeased. “Give me that baby, my lady,” he said, plucking Annie from Nita’s arms. “Mary needs a spot of fresh air, you’re dying to fill that stew pot, and the water for the laundry will take some time to heat.”
“Ma said we weren’t to do laundry,” Mary murmured, passing Mr. St. Michael the baby’s blanket. “We need the wood for heat.”
“Get your coat on,” Tremaine told the girl as he wrapped Annie snugly in the blanket and put the baby to his shoulder. “One of your brothers is gathering more wood as we speak, to keep the fire under the laundry tub going. The other is walking the horses one at a time. If you can figure out how to climb onto my gelding, you’re welcome to walk him out for me.”
Mary sent Nita one glance, the merest brush of elated disbelief, then dashed for her cloak and was out the door.
“You’re spoiled here in the south,” Mr. St. Michael said, stroking the baby’s back gently. “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…
“Youlikebabies?” 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.”
Williamloved 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 hearth 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, greetings. 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.
