Page 69 of Tremaine's True Love
“Hush,” Nita said. “Nicholas worries that I’ll contract some dread disease, but he worries gossip will see you swinging from a gibbet.”
“The difference being,” George said as they crossed the frozen green, “you can choose to stop dealing with sick babies and consumptive grandmamas, while I can’t help but notice your Mr. St. Michael.”
“Do you never notice the ladies, George? Mr. St. Michael has proposed to me, and I would hate to think my husband—”
“St. Michael doesn’tseeme, Nita. I’m not sure I’d respect him if he did, not when my regard is that of a rutting colt and flatters nobody. I do notice the ladies—I happen to like any number of them—and I notice the women too. Have you accepted his offer?”
George had a touch of Kirsten’s directness, at least with Nita. Maybe that was why she’d confided the news of Mr. St. Michael’s offer to George and Kirsten first.
“I have not. The more impetuous I want to be, the more deliberate I must be. I hardly know him, George.”
“Good for you,” George said as he held the door to the apothecary for her. “You are a treasure, and any man who can’t see that is a fool. Make St. Michael beg. It will do him good.”
Gracious, George could be fierce. “Thank you, George.”
He ambled off in the direction of the sweets, while Nita took a moment to inhale the fragrance of the shop. She loved this little establishment, where each shelf held glass or ceramic jars, tidily labeled, clear up to the rafters. Behind the counter, Mrs. Grainger read a newspaper, her glasses halfway down her nose, her gray bun listing to the side.
“Lady Nita, welcome!” she said, putting the paper aside and pushing her glasses up. “Always a pleasure. What can I help you with today?” Nita was probably Mrs. Grainger’s best customer, but Edna Grainger was also an ally, keeping Nita apprised of who was coming down with an ague, whose cold was improving.
They were deep in a discussion of the best method for distilling peppermint oil when Tremaine St. Michael joined them at the counter.
“Your errand is accomplished, Mr. St. Michael?” Nita asked, resisting the urge to rearrange his scarf—purple wool this time, an unusual color.
“Books delivered, and a lecture on the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe received. Are your purchases here complete?”
“They are. Mrs. Grainger, you’ll send the lot to Belle Maison?”
“This very day, my lady, assuming the snow holds off.”
Nita did unwrap Mr. St. Michael’s scarf, because the ends dangled unevenly. “Susannah would have tarried at the library until nightfall,” Nita said, rewrapping the scarf, “reading just one more chapter before deciding whether to borrow a book. She ought to reside above the library and save herself a lot of time and hauling about of books. This is lovely wool.”
Mrs. Grainger had bustled off to her scale, and George was probably snitching lemon drops. Nita snitched a kiss. A brief, stolen peck on the lips, disproportionately satisfying for the surprise and pleasure it lit in Mr. St. Michael’s eyes.
“You are bold this morning,” he said softly.
“I am in charity with the world, apparently.”
He stood a hair too close, which was lovely. “As am I. Does your brother George fancy that woman?” Nita left off patting Mr. St. Michael’s lapel to see George deep in conversation with Elsie Nash. “George and Elsie are friendly, I’m sure.”
Elsie stood with her head cocked, as if hanging on George’s every word—or as if hiding her bruises.
“That’s Nash’s sister-in-law?”
“Elsie Nash,” Nita said, wondering if Elsie was purchasing cosmetics to hide future bruises. “She’s lived with Edward nearly two years, along with her son.”
“The next baronet, until Nash can find a woman willing to marry him. Why doesn’t Mrs. Nash remarry? She’s a pretty little thing, and I can’t imagine keeping house for Edward results in any compensation.”
Nita’s first instinct was to deliver a retort about a woman’s options being limited and no husband being better than the wrong husband, but Mr. St. Michael had a point. Elsie was comely, cheerful, and hardworking.
And Edward bullied and abused her. He was probably no better with Digby. Edward was, however, Digby’s guardian, and thus Elsie was trapped.
“Nita,” George said, escorting Elsie to the front of the shop. “Young Digby has apparently acquired a prodigious sniffle. What should Elsie do for the boy?”
Irritation with George warred with concern for little Digby, because this too was a legacy from Nita’s mother. In the middle of the churchyard, in the middle of shopping, or in the middle of a lovely little flirtation with Mr. St. Michael,anybodymight accost Nita for a medical consultation.
She loathed discussing personal business in public places, and yet, no matter the location, she would be expected to focus all of her attention on the self-appointed patient, and diagnose and prescribe—accurately—on the spot.
What Elsie ought to do was send Digby to public school, where he’d be given hot broth and three days in bed withRobinson Crusoeto entertain him.
