Page 61 of Tremaine's True Love
Addy stopped trying to snatch the baby from Nita’s arms. “Lady Nita means well,” Addy said, “but every mother knows a baby should not be subjected to the winter weather. It’s madness, and I will not allow daft practices to cost me another child.”
“If Lady Nita is daft, then why did you send for her?” Kirsten asked, climbing the porch stairs and setting the bucket down. “Her ladyship was warm and cozy in her bed when I woke her to tell her Mary was shivering in the kitchen. Even if you paid Horton, he’d not likely show up before noon. Besides, the baby—which Lady Nita delivered you of safely enough—sounds much better.”
Kirsten’s matter-of-fact recitation had ended on the only observation that mattered: Annie’s breathing was back to normal, and the child was drowsing contentedly on Nita’s shoulder.
“I’ll slice the children some bread,” Kirsten said, taking up her bucket. “You should both be wearing your cloaks or Annie won’t be the only one falling ill.”
Silence descended, the impenetrable quiet of an early morning in winter. The baby let out a sigh—a normal, quiet baby sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Addy said. “I haven’t slept, we’ve barely any food. I hate to send the boys out for wood again so soon, and if we’re not to starve, I should go back to—”
To the tavern, where she plied her trade, unless the proprietor was in a righteous mood, in which case Addy hung about the livery, given the occasional coin for tending the horses but mostly keeping warm between customers.
“Go inside,” Nita said. “Kirsten is right. We can’t have you falling ill too.”
Not the most comforting reply, but Addy’s tirade had torn at Nita’s composure. A baby’s life was more important than a soaking bath, but had Addy no respect for Nita? Would Addy rather Horton killed her child with his condescension and ignorance?
The door scraped open, and Addy went inside while Kirsten came back out to the porch.
“A plague of locusts could not devour that bread any more quickly than those children. I saved some for Mary and Addy and started a pot of tea brewing.”
“My thanks.”
“Here.” Kirsten took off her own cloak and draped it around Nita’s shoulders. “If you must brave the elements, at least do so properly clothed.”
Having delivered her scold, Kirsten went inside while Nita remained on the porch, the baby sleeping against her shoulder.
How would Tremaine St. Michael react when his wife was roused from slumber to tend a sick baby? Considering that he intended to travel for weeks or even months at a time, his husbandly patience ought not to be tried very far if Nita heeded the occasional summons from a neighbor.
He’d promised they could bide in the area, Nita recalled that much of their discussion the previous night.
She’d fallen asleep, exhausted, enlightened, enthralled, and also curiously unsatisfied.
Tremaine St. Michael had assessed Nita’s strengths and shortcomings with dispassionate accuracy and presented himself without airs or graces. As a lover, he possessed magnificent stores of consideration, unplumbed reserves of humor, and all the manly competence a lady could hope for.
But as he’d prosed on about his properties and his enjoyment of art, Nita hadn’t been able to connect the handsome suitor in her bed with the man who’d taught the children their letters among the ashes. She was attracted to the wealthy sheep trader, but shelikedthe other fellow.
Liked him exceedingly.
“Come along, miss,” she said to the baby. “Enough fresh air for the nonce. I am in need of a soaking bath, and you must finish breaking your fast before joining your mama in a much-needed nap.”
* * *
Tremaine dawdled over his eggs, lingered over his toast, and swilled enough tea to float a man-o’-war. He was about to inquire of his hostess if he might escort the ladies to the sheep byre to visit the latest additions to the herd—a newborn lamb or three would surely draw his intended out of hiding—when he realized that Nita wasn’t coming down to breakfast.
Her family was exchanging the same fleeting glances, the same half put-upon asides, the same overly cheerful conversational sallies as they had during his first meal with them.
Nita had gone off on a call her family disapproved of, and for her to miss the first meal of the day, the call had to be urgent. Lady Kirsten’s absence didn’t seem to merit any notice, suggesting she, like Lady Della, enjoyed mornings abed.
Which left…the bluestocking, Lady Susannah, settling in on Tremaine’s left with a rustle of skirts and a whiff of roses.
“My lady, good morning. Tea?”
“Please. Are you ready for the assembly, Mr. St. Michael? I’m sure word of your visit has spread more quickly than news of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo, and probably with an equal amount of rejoicing.”
“Are amiable gentlemen in such short supply?” Though “amiable” in Tremaine’s case was a stretch. He danced well enough.
From the head of the table, Bellefonte paused in his visual worship of his countess.
