Page 30 of Secrets of the Marriage Bed
Chapter Six
The home farm was a mile from the main house, outside the park and along a narrow lane. A middle-aged man with a ruddy face and greying-brown curly hair met them at the gate opening on to the lane.
‘Your Grace,’ Alistair said, ‘this is John Bestmore. He and his wife are in charge of the home farm.’
Mr Bestmore bowed and opened the gate. ‘Welcome to Manor Farm, Your Grace.’
Julia inclined her head. ‘Thank you.’
They passed through. The Duke dismounted. ‘All going well, John?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’ They walked up the drive leading to a brick farmhouse and several outbuildings at the top of a hill.
‘As I reported last month, the lambing went very well. The wheat should give us a fair crop if the weather holds fine and Queenie has outdone herself.’
‘How many, John?’ Alistair asked.
‘Twelve, Your Grace, all healthy.’
‘Twelve what?’ Julia asked, thinking it would likely be puppies or kittens.
‘Piglets, Your Grace,’ Bestmore said. ‘Our Queenie is a prizewinner, she is. Best litters at the local fair three years running. Would you like to see them?’
Alistair raised a quizzical brow. ‘Smelly things, pigs.’
But even as he offered her the choice, she could see very well he intended to visit the lady in question.
‘I would love to see them.’
Alistair mounted up. ‘We keep the sty a little distance from the farmhouse,’ he said as the horses followed Bestmore up a fork in the lane, ‘at Mrs Bestmore’s request.’
The sty proved to be a brick-built three-sided affair with a tiled roof and a large enclosure. And while there was a certain earthy pungency about it, it wasn’t too unpleasant. Alistair helped her down and they looked over a gate leading into the covered portion of the sty. An enormous sow lay on her side on a stone floor spread with straw with her infants nestled against her, some suckling, others fast asleep. Queenie, a reddish-brown animal with black spots, opened an eye, grunted and closed it again.
‘Oh, they are so sweet,’ Julia said. ‘I love their little flat snouts and curly tails.’ They also made her feel a little sad. A reminder that she would never have a baby of her own. She swallowed down the lump in her throat. Wishing for what could not be was foolish.
‘They look fine, John,’ Alistair said, his attention focused on the scene before him. ‘Thank Mrs Bestmore. I know Queenie falls under her special care when it comes to table scraps and so forth.’
‘That I will, Your Grace. She would have been here to greet Her Grace, but she went to visit our daughter for a few days.’
‘Her Grace is sorry to have missed her. I’ll have Lewis set up a time for you and me to go over the accounts when he is back.’ He looked at Julia. ‘Do you wish to continue on to the village? I told Grindle we would pick up the post since we were out. We can circle around and see a bit more of the park that way.’
A question about her health without making her feel like a nuisance. A kindness. Here in the country, he seemed different from his cynical man-about-town persona. He cared about this estate and his people. And today it seemed as if he was including her in their ranks. ‘I’m game. We did not pass through a village yesterday.’
‘No. Boxted lies further along the post road than we needed to go.’ He helped her up on to Bella and, after a couple of quiet words with Mr Bestmore, mounted up.
They headed back past the farmhouse to the lane and a bare fifteen minutes later they entered a village with a triangular green bordered on one of its sides by a wide paved road. An inn bearing the sign of the Wheatsheaf dominated the other businesses around the green’s perimeter. A smithy, a baker and a haberdasher, Julia saw.
Alistair left her with Thor and entered the latter establishment. He returned a few moments later with a bundle of letters which he tucked into his saddlebag.
Her husband glanced at her as if assessing how she was holding up. ‘I hope I am right, that you are feeling quite well?’
‘I have never felt better.’ The queasiness that had beset her for the past two days had quite disappeared. It must have been something she ate. And yet there remained the odd sense of familiarity in her illness. Something she could not quite put her finger on.
‘Excellent,’ Alistair said. ‘I would like to show you our orchards. Our fruit trees are among the best in the county.’
They took the post road for a short distance and then turned up another lane that wound between well-kept hedges. ‘Is it your land on both sides?’ she asked.
‘No. Beauworth is over there.’ He waved a hand.
