Page 40 of Tremaine's True Love
“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,” he 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 asideMacbethand drew her afghan around her shoulders, because 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, surely that’s a good thing?” Nita’s sisters had certainly had little success broadening her 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?” 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. “He’s 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 for interesting Shakespeare 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. “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, because 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, Suze. 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.” While Kirsten was hard on her siblings, but she meant well.
