Page 36 of Tremaine's True Love
Nita headed back to the house but took the path around to the kitchen door, rapped on the glass, then let herself in. Elsie kneaded bread at a sturdy wooden table, her red hair under a plain white cap, a long apron over her dress.
“Lady Nita, greetings,” Elsie said, giving the dough a smack. “I thought you were in the library with Edward.”
The maid of all work shot Nita a glance and hurried off toward the pantries.
“Mr. St. Michael wanted to make Edward’s acquaintance,” Nita said. “Are you well, Elsie? I expected you to join us for tea.” Elsie wasn’t taking off her apron. She appeared to find the potted violets struggling on the windowsill fascinating, and she wasn’t inviting Nita to have a seat.
“One can’t drop everything to take tea,” Elsie said, her humor forced. “Bread dough must rise when it’s ready and bake when it’s ready.”
Conversation faltered, along with Nita’s spirits. She advanced into the kitchen and came around the table. “The maid could punch down that dough, Elsie Nash. What’s amiss?”
Beneath carefully applied cosmetics, Elsie’s right eye was bruised, the flesh around it slightly swollen.
“I fell down the stairs.”
“In the middle of a discussion with Edward,” Nita guessed. “What was it this time? You needed a dress for the assembly? No, you’d never bother asking for something so frivolous. The argument had to do with Digby.”
Something heavy shifted on the pantry shelves down the hallway.
“Digby needs heat in the schoolroom,” Elsie said tiredly. “He has a constant sniffle, and I fear he’ll develop lung fever.”
Digby was his mother’s world. Nothing less could tempt Elsie to take the risks she did. Nita gently tilted Elsie’s chin up, so what light the window afforded fell on her face.
“You used arnica and ice?”
“I did. It doesn’t hurt, my lady.”
“It hurt terribly, at first. Your vision hasn’t suffered?” Elsie shook her head, but as far as Nita was concerned, Elsie was gradually losing her ability to see truth when it smacked her across the face.
“Elsie, one of these days Edward will do something you can’t hide, ignore, or have me treat. Then where will Digby be?”
“Digby will be grown and safely away from this place. Edward always apologizes for his little tempers, and he’s dealing with a lot. Digby and I are added expenses, and I should know better than to mention my petty complaints when Edward has been drinking.”
Nita hugged her, gently, carefully. Elsie was petite and could all too easily suffer serious injury during one of Edward’s little tempers.
“Avoid staircases, my friend,” Nita said when she wanted to have a little temper of her own, or a very great temper. “Send for me anytime. Bundle Digby up, and don’t fret too much about a sniffle. Keep him in clean handkerchiefs and hot soup.”
Elsie went back to studying the plants, which at this time of year bore not a single bloom. “My thanks, Lady Nita.” Booted footsteps sounded above them. “You’d better go.”
Nita unwrapped her scarf—woven of merino wool—and passed it to Elsie. “For Digby.”
As footsteps sounded on the stairs, Nita scurried from the kitchen. She paused outside the door to withdraw her gloves from the pocket of her habit. Edward would complain about the stale cakes, but he’d been sober, so Elsie was not at risk of immediate further harm.
As for the scullery maid, she likely knew enough to remain out of sight if Edward came below stairs.
When Nita had quelled the rage roiling inside her and assembled a calm expression, she returned to the stable. She found Mr. St. Michael checking Atlas’s girth and looking impervious to the elements. Nita wanted to simply watch her escort for a moment, to let the sight of Tremaine St. Michael, self-possessed and honorable, shy and tenderhearted toward beasts and children, wash away the despair that besieged her.
“Shall we be off?” he asked. “I see you’ve found your gloves, and I could use a pint and a plate.”
Nita stepped into his cupped hands. “Hot food sounds tempting. Do you consider our visit to have been successful?”
Nita considered this call an abject failure. Elsie did not yet condone Edward’s behaviors, but she already made excuses for them, and in another year, she’d believe she deserved his violence.
“The visit was all that was congenial,” Mr. St. Michael said, flipping a coin to the groom. A few moments passed in relative silence, wind soughing forlornly through a stand of nearby pines as the horses walked down the Stonebridge drive.
“Nash might care for your sister,” Mr. St. Michael said as they turned into the lane, “though he cares for himself far more. But tell me, Lady Nita, how is it you sought your gloves not in the foyer, where our host greeted us and took our wraps, but ’round back at the kitchen? I also notice that while you’ve found your gloves, you’ve lost your pretty scarf. Merino and angora would be my guess, a lovely article.”
He nudged William closer to Atlas. Nita was concocting some prevarication when Mr. St. Michael’s scarf settled around her neck, soft, warm, and bearing his heathery scent.
