Page 15 of His Spirited Lady
“A pleasure, Mrs. Bell.” Richard stretched out his hand. After a moment’s pause, Mrs. Bell took it in a strong, callused grip and gave him a business-like nod. Her smile never wavered.
“Hazel says the pig is coming along,” Oliver continued. “Thank you again for letting us keep it there to fatten.”
“It’s a pleasure to see her stop by, but if she keeps bringing pies, the children will be as fat as the pig,” Mrs. Bell teased. Another customer queued up to the stall, and she dropped another curtsey as a quick dismissal. “Good day, Your Grace. Mr. Ferrand.”
They ambled away, the dog between them much like Simon had been on the streets of Quebec. Richard couldn’t help but make the comparison between the crowded streets of the city and this simple square in the morning sunshine. Windows sparkled and new shingles freckled across worn roofs. Freshly painted signs swayed in the cool breeze.
“You have a pig, but she keeps one for you as well?” Richard asked. “Is that an entitlement as a landlord?”
“It’s a favor she does me so I don’t have to explain to Simon how Pinky ran away from home while we eat bacon with breakfast. The Bremen Town Musicians will only work for so long.”
The more things changed… “Surely, one of the boys at school will mention where bacon comes from.” Not to mention eggs, roast beef, and babies.
“They might.” Oliver nodded hello to another villager. “But we’ll fell that tree when we reach it.”
Richard opened his mouth to argue. As much as he’d liked watching Simon giggle as he fed apples and kitchen scraps to a grizzled, snuffling hog, he didn’t want the boy thinking bacon grew on trees or sprouted like carrots.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
The bright greeting interrupted his argument. Amelia Chitester was approaching them. In a yellow dress, with a wide smile and her white-blonde curls spilling from under a wide-brimmed straw hat, she looked like a daisy in the middle of a wood.
“Good morning, Miss Chitester.” Richard looked to her ever-present shadow. “Miss Graves.”
The older woman looked much more certain on foot than on a horse, but no less wary. “Mr. Ferrand.” She dropped a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“I was—we were on our way to the train depot. Will you join us?”
“We shall,” Oliver said. “I need to visit with Drake myself.” He offered his arm to the chaperone. “May I escort you, Miss Graves?”
With no option, Richard did the same for Amelia. She took it, her tightly patterned white lace glove contrasting with his black wool coat. Looking down, all he could see was her hat brim. “Are you expecting something on the train?”
“No.” She paused for so long that he thought that was all he’d get. After a moment, she continued. “I’m always excited to see what arrives, to know that we don’t always have to go to London for fine goods.” She glanced up at him, and the shadow cast by her hat made her eyes darker. “You must think me horribly dull.”
“Not at all. There’s a spot that overlooks the port at home. I like to stand there and wonder where the ships are from and what they’re carrying. Where it will end up.”
It was something he’d begun doing after Oliver and Simon had left.
“But those ships come from all over the world. This train comes from Norwich. For all I know, there’s nothing in those boxes but gooseberries and wool knickers.”
Her chaperone coughed sharply, and Amelia’s cheeks tinted pink before she refocused on the train. “Unmentionables. My apologies.”
Richard was seized with the impulse to tease her about how itchy wool knickers would be, and how inconvenient that would be at parties. He resisted, but he also decided chaperones were the most inconvenient women ever created.
“But you don’t actuallyknow, so that’s the mystery.” Richard tilted his head to whisper, so close that the flowers on her hat tickled his cheek. “Isn’t it?”
Amelia looked up quickly, and the change in position put them almost nose to nose. “That’s it. Exactly.”
Her eyes had brown circles around the blue, giving them a depth he always thought his own lacked. A man could drown in them—after he’d shipwrecked on her smile.
Richard straightened and resumed their walk. The depot laid ahead, its new wood gleaming. Steam from the train rose like fog from a river. As they passed, several villagers stared openly, though they smiled and nodded a greeting.
“Do they always stare like this?” he asked. “Or is it Oliver?”
“They’re accustomed to Oliver in his work clothes, though it took a while.” Amelia tightened her grip on his arm and leaned closer. “It’s you.”
“Because I’m walking with you.” Had they seen her with Raymond last week? Maybe another man before that? Did anyone else know she smelled like fruit and flowers, as though she’d been walking in an orchard before her trip to town?
And why was that so bothersome?
