Page 22 of His Spirited Lady
“It’s never bothered me being alone,” Amelia said. “My first building was so small there was barely room for me and the still. I kept dragging my skirts through the fire.”
Richard finished his first row and stepped over to the next. “Why did you begin in the first place?”
Because no well-bred young woman woke in the morning and thought about how to make a living, much less how to be a distiller. “Why did you begin with trees?”
“I like the forest, and I could see a way to keep mine healthy by cutting the largest trees and making room for the younger ones to grow. But I needed to find something to do with the timber, and Quebec was growing. It needed material.” He glanced her way and grinned. “Is this your way of telling me you drink your father’s whiskey?”
A shudder went through her. “I tried it once because I wanted to see what it was like. He always drank it, but he’d make the most awful face after he’d gulped it down. When I was younger, I thought it was medicine, which he found quite funny.”
He’d laughed for days over it, every time he poured a drink. It had been a grand, strong sound. She’d always loved making him happy.
“So you decided to make it because you hate the way it tastes?” Richard asked. “Sound decision.”
If he’d been close enough, she’d have smacked him with her rake. “Once the burn subsided, I could taste the flavors underneath, mostly molasses and barley, like good thick bread. And there was a smell that reminded me of autumn, which compounded the warmth it spread through me.” She swiped her rake over the wheat, creating streaks of light and dark grain. The dark streaks were finer every day. This would be ready to mash soon. “I thought I could do it better.”
Richard had stopped halfway up the row, his hands resting atop his rake. “All I had to do was pick up an axe.”
It wasn’t true. She knew what it took to start a business. Months of questions, finding a location, experimenting with product until she’d gotten it right.
“I’ve always loved to cook,” she said as she stepped to a new row. Which was the truth. Since she was small, she’d preferred to be in the kitchen surrounded by flavors and smells, wondering where everything came from, imagining recipes, hiding from a well-meaning Graves. “But proper misses aren’t meant for the kitchen.”
“But they are meant for house parties.” He resumed raking. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“You will come, won’t you?” After weeks of planning, guests would arrive tomorrow with their valets and maids in tow, not to mention their drivers or horses. The house would be full to the rafters, everyone looking to her for entertainment. “It would be nice to see a friendly face.”
“If these people aren’t your friends, why are they coming for a party?”
“Because it’s the done thing,” Amelia sighed. Just like young ladies were expected in town for the Season. It was one thing to attend balls, gossip between dances, and sleep until mid-day while in London. It was quite another when those dancers, gossips, and layabouts were under your roof when you had other things to do.
Which was uncharitable. She was looking forward to seeing a few of the young women she’d met—the ones who spoke of books and lectures rather than just about eligible men and their titles. “There are a few who will be entertaining. And my cousin Jasper is coming as well.” She passed her rake through the wheat and watched as the silky grain slid back into place like she’d never touched it. “But you know my secret, and they don’t.”
“Then tell them.” Richard was close enough now that she could see sunshine reflected in his boots.
“That’s quite easily said by someone…” She stopped, horrified at how snooty her unguarded thoughts were and at how easily they slipped free when he was near.
“In trade?” he finished, his voice flat.
“Well…yes.” There was no point in denying it. “But that’s not all of it. You’reallowedto be in trade because you’re a man.”
“Allowed?” Richard scoffed. “That’s an arguable point, Miss Chitester.”
She disliked how bitter her name sounded on his tongue. She hated that he hadn’t called her Amelia. “Don’t do that. Please.Tonpeople can look down their noses all they like, but many are one poor wager from being there themselves. And the women are twice as vulnerable because they have no say over their husbands’ habits and no way to support themselves. The point is, yougetto be in charge of your own fate, and I don’t.”
“Society will put up with a lot of eccentricities,” Richard said. They were face-to-face now, and his bright blue eyes reminded her of the sky past the windows. “The Duke of Rushford married an innkeeper.”
“Oliver married a successful businesswoman who kept this village going in spite of his mother’s neglect,” Amelia said. “But no one can know that. Just like I can’t go up to my guests and say, ‘Hello, before we play croquet, let me take you to my still where I’ve been working through the night to ensure everything was barreled before your arrival.’”
Richard’s lips quirked. “It would make for a much more interesting party.”
“It would make me an outcast. It would make my parents laughingstocks and ruin their hopes.”
“Theirhopes?” He raised an eyebrow, revealing a small scar, barely a nick, at its apex. She wondered how he’d gotten it.
“Daughters marry, Richard. Whether they wish to or not.” She breathed easier having confessed it to someone else, though she thought it odd that she had to explain it to him at all.
“Then tell the truth, be an outcast, and leave it all behind.” Her dumbfounded silence let him continue. “You either want to be on the shelf or you don’t.”
Spoken like someone who had a choice, who didn’t reap repercussions. “Why can’t I be on the shelf simply because I wish to be?”
