Though the Haddonfields were not at peace with each other, or at least not with Lady Nita. All families endured such tensions, which was part of the reason Tremaine remained largely outside the ambit of what family he had.
He took another bite of cold eggs and vowed to pin Bellefonte down regarding the herd of merino sheep before the sun had set. The sooner Tremaine transacted his business with Bellefonte and was on his way, the better.
Two
“What do you hear from my brother Beckman?” George Haddonfield asked as the horses ambled down the frozen lane.
“I hear that he’s disgustingly happy with his bride,” Tremaine replied. Tremaine also endured a lot of pointed ruminating from Beckman Haddonfield about the raptures of married life.
In the spirit of furthering mutual interests, Tremaine had proposed marriage to Polonaise Hunt, Beckman’s sister-in-law, and been turned down flat—no great loss.
But a small loss. Tremaine would admit that much. He and Polonaise would have rubbed along together adequately.
“How is it you came to be interested in sheep?” George asked.
Nobody in his right mind admitted to an interest in sheep, and Tremaine enjoyed excellent mental faculties. He was, however, interested in money.
“My mother’s people are Scottish, though my father was French. When France became unsafe, Mama took her sons home to Scotland. My grandfather’s wealth rested on the wool trade, and I learned by his example.”
A few prosaic sentences that glossed over a small boy’s heartbreak and a Scottish curmudgeon’s prescription for dealing with it.
“Do you like sheep?” Lady Nita asked.
George Haddonfield maintained a diplomatic interest in the winter-drab countryside rather than comment on an arguably peculiar—or insightful—inquiry.
Because Tremaine had been uncomfortably aware of Lady Nita’s family tolerating her, he answered honestly rather than politely.
“Whether I like sheep is of no moment, though I respect them. They have neither fangs nor claws, nor great speed or size, and yet we rely on them for a fabric without which life would lose much of its comfort. Sheep know to stick together when trouble comes calling, and they aren’t too proud to bolt when imperiled.”
Then too, sheep had made Tremaine wealthy.
“Perhaps your Mr. Burns should have written his poem to a sheep rather than a mouse,” George quipped.
Burns had had any number of kind words for sheep—also for women and whiskey.
“Soldiers owe a debt to sheep,” Tremaine replied, “as does anybody seeking to keep warm in winter. Sheep ask little and give much, they look to their own, and are, in their way, stoic. To my eye, a herd of sheep is an attractive addition to any bucolic scene.”
Tremaine had spoken too fiercely, for Lady Nita was smiling while George Haddonfield looked vaguely puzzled. What would George think if he knew Tremaine, like any self-respecting shepherd, preferred the company of sheep to that of most people?
“I like sheep too,” Lady Nita said.
She petted her shaggy beast, but she was still smiling a sweet, feminine, interesting sort of smile that shifted her countenance from pretty to…alluring.
“Not much farther,” George Haddonfield said, as if they’d completed several days’ forced march. “The shepherd bides in that cottage up the hill. I’ll alert him to our presence.”
George snugged his top hat down and cantered off, his horse’s hooves beating a hard tattoo against the frozen ground.
“So tell me, my lady,” Tremaine said, “does it really take you an hour to gobble up some eggs and pop into your habit?” Because, for all Bellefonte’s hospitality over tea and toast, some current had underlain the earl’s words at breakfast.
“Nicholas needed to scold me,” Lady Nita said, her tone perfectly amiable. “He worries, and now that he’s a papa, his worry goes in all directions, like so many chickens when a hound gets loose among them.”
“He scolded you for helping a neighbor deliver a child?” Tremaine hadn’t taken Bellefonte for a man to insist on class distinctions in the midst of the dire and delicate matter of childbirth.
“My mother attended many births,” Lady Nita said, “and I accompanied her when I grew older. Nicholas understands, as Papa did, that childbirth is not a time to stand on ceremony, but I sent my groom home when darkness fell.”
Tremaine prided himself on a complement of common sense from both his French and his Scottish antecedents, so he parsed the rest of the situation out for himself.
“Your neighbor lives in a humble dwelling,” he guessed, “a single room, likely, and the groom’s choices were to be present at a birth or brave the elements for hours on end. You apprised your brother of your reasoning?”
“I was too angry.”
And her brother was too besotted with his countess.
“When I was too angry,” Tremaine mused, “my grandfather sent me to the Highlands, though my problem was, in truth, grief and fear rather than temper. Mama and Papa had both perished in the bloody glory of France’s transition from one sort of despotism to another, and I could not comprehend why they’d been taken from me.”
Nor could Tremaine comprehend why he’d confide so old and useless a facet of his childhood to this woman.
“Then you’re truly interested in buying these sheep?” she asked.
“What else would I be interested in?” But as Tremaine posed the question, a glimmer of insight befell him. “Or should that be ‘who else’?”
Off in the distance, George swung down from his horse and knocked on the door of a stone cottage that had a plume of white smoke drifting from its sole chimney. The breeze was faintly scented with that smoke and with the familiar scent of sheep in winter plumage.
“My three oldest brothers have all recently wed,” Lady Nita said, “and thus matrimony is on their minds. Kirsten and Susannah have had their come-outs, and I sense they’ve given up waiting for me to choose a spouse.”
Had Lady Nita given up?
“Am I being inspected?” Tremaine asked. “Should I be flattered?” What had Beckman said to his siblings, and how should Tremaine exact retribution for it?
Lady Nita brought her horse to a halt near a wooden stile set into the undulating stone fence.
“You should be careful, Mr. St. Michael, and honest. I will not tolerate any man trifling with my sisters’ affections. Your sheep, sir, are in this pasture.”
Tremaine was always careful, and as honest as circumstances allowed. As for the sheep, their plush, woolly coats gave them away. The merino breed was native to Spain, but for years, their export had been illegal. The King of Spain occasionally made gifts of herds to other monarchs, including a gift to George III in the last century. His Majesty had dispersed his herd by sale some years ago.
When Beckman Haddonfield had mentioned that Bellefonte owned the largest intact herd of pure merinos in Kent, Tremaine’s commercial instincts had gone on full alert. Merinos grew soft, strong, abundant wool of a far higher grade than the Highland breeds could produce.
To Tremaine’s highly educated eye, the specimens in Bellefonte’s pasture were of good size, possessed excellent coats of wool, and were in good health.
In other words, Bellefonte’s sheep were nothing short of beautiful.
* * *
Tremaine St. Michael was different from Nita’s brothers, all of whom were tall, blond, and blue-eyed. They had fair complexions and came in varying degrees of too handsome. To a man, they danced well, had abundant charm, and knew beyond doubt exactly how their sisters’ lives ought to unfold.
Even George, who had reason to be more tolerant than most, envisioned only a husband and babies for his sisters.
Mr. St. Michael, by contrast, was dark and direct, rather than charming. Moreover, he seemed to notice what Nita’s brothers did not: that she had a brain and a few ideas of her own about how her life should go on.
“I’d like to walk among the herd,” Mr. St. Mi
chael said, dismounting from his bay gelding. “Shall you come with me?”
“I’d like that.” Nita would also like a moment to slip away and check on Addy Chalmers and her baby, but that call could wait until George wasn’t underfoot.
The rest of Nita’s current cases—Alton Horst’s persistent cough, Mary Eckhardt’s sore throat, Mr. Clackengeld’s gout—would have to content themselves with notes and medicinals conveyed by a groom, at least until Nicholas’s temper calmed.
Mr. St. Michael assisted Nita off her horse, revealing a strength commensurate with the gentleman’s size. Atlas stood more than eighteen hands, meaning Nita rode a good six feet above the ground. Her descent was controlled by Mr. St. Michael’s guidance, which was fortunate.
“I hate how the cold makes landing so painful,” Nita said, gripping his coat sleeves a moment for balance. “It’s worse on the foot one keeps in the stirrup.”
If her clinging annoyed Mr. St. Michael, he didn’t show it. “Which means for us men, the landing is painful for both feet. At least we’re not getting more snow to go with the cold.”
“Hannibal Thistlewaite says more snow is on the way.” Though what would Mr. St. Michael care for an old man’s arthritic predictions? Della claimed Mr. St. Michael would be gone soon anyway.
Nita’s escort was tall enough that she could honestly use him to establish her balance, and even in the bitter cold, he bore a pleasant floral scent. That scent alone suggested Continental connections.
She turned loose of him and wished she’d worn a proper cloak instead of George’s old coat.
“Shall we find a gate, or can you manage the stile, my lady?” Mr. St. Michael asked.
“I’ve been climbing stiles since I was half my present height, sir. What are you looking for among these sheep?”
Mr. St. Michael was happy to talk about sheep—as happy as Nita had seen him. His gait was not the mincing indulgence of a gentleman escorting a lady, but rather, the stride of a man of the land inspecting his acres. He vaulted the stile in one graceful, powerful movement—he knew his way around a stile too, apparently—then assisted Nita, whose clambering about in a riding habit was ungainly indeed.
“You seek clear eyes, clear nasal passages, dense wool, healthy hooves,” Nita summarized some moments later. “What else?”
Mr. St. Michael surveyed the flock, which was regarding him as well. The more cautious sheep had retreated to the far stone wall, while the nearer ones peered at their visitors curiously.
“I listen to their voices,” he said, “which can indicate unwellness. I watch how they move, look for the smallest and the most stout, and, about the back end, one can observe indications of ill health.”
“Much like people.”
Oh, drat. Oh, damn. Oh, blushes. Nita should not have said that, not when Mr. St. Michael’s reference had likely been to lameness rather than digestive upset. He continued to visually inspect the sheep, his dark brows knitted, as if he had heard those three unladylike words but could not credit that they’d come from her.
“An excellent point, Lady Nita.”
Heat, incongruous in the cold, crept up Nita’s cheeks.
And now, Mr. St. Michael studied her. “A bit of color becomes you—not that your ladyship needs becoming.”
Mr. St. Michael was in trade, he lacked genteel English good looks, and his antecedents were all wrong, and yet when he smiled…
When he smiled at Nita, spring arrived early in Kent. Tremaine St. Michael’s eyes crinkled, his mouth curved up, and a conspiratorial good humor beamed from him that took Nita’s breath.
His smile also made Nita foolish, for she wanted badly to smile back. “What do I need, Mr. St. Michael, if not becoming?”
Off by the stone fence, a sheep bleated plaintively.
“Perhaps your ladyship needs befriending?”
Marvelous response. How long had it been since Nita had had a friend? She stood among the sheep, who were milling ever closer, and wished Mr. St. Michael were not merely one of Nicholas’s business acquaintances who’d be gone from Belle Maison by this time next week.
“A friend is a precious treasure,” Nita said, though Susannah or Kirsten would have had some handy quote to serve up instead.
A moment developed, with Mr. St. Michael’s nearness protecting Nita from the bitter breeze and Nita wishing she’d had that handy quote, or that George would come whistling down the lane, or that Nicholas had not been dragooned into meeting with the vicar.
The wind blew a strand of Nita’s hair across her mouth—Susannah and Kirsten would also have pinned their coiffures more securely. Mr. St. Michael tucked the lock behind Nita’s ear. The sensation of heat in the midst of cold assailed her again, while her insides blossomed with more of that early spring.
Whatever Mr. St. Michael might have said on the subject of friendship was interrupted by the same sheep, bleating more loudly. Mr. St. Michael swung about, toward the far fence, and cocked his head.
“Something’s amiss.” He marched off in the direction of the bleating sheep, the other ewes scampering from his path.
Had that particular bleating not conveyed distress, Mr. St. Michael’s brisk pace across the hard ground would have. Nita followed, though dread trickled into her belly as the bleating ewe came into view.
A small, dark, woolly lump lay steaming on the frozen earth before her.
“You’ve an early arrival,” St. Michael said, kneeling by the ewe. “A wee tup-lamb.”
The little beast wasn’t moving, and what manner of god allowed an animal to be born wet and tiny in this cold? Nita cut that thought off—she and the Almighty were not in charity with each other.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Mr. St. Michael replied, unbuttoning his greatcoat. “But the mother can do little for him once she’s given him a good licking over. At least this ewe didn’t abandon her young. Hard to save the ones orphaned at birth.”
He continued to unbutton—his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt even—while Nita endured a familiar blend of helplessness and anger.
“Why did it come so early?” she murmured. So lethally, stupidly early.
“Some of them just do,” Mr. St. Michael replied, “and some come late, and a good shepherd knows which ewes are close to delivering, which are yeld, and which will have late lambs. Had winter been mild and spring early, this fellow would have had advantages over his younger cousins. Take my gloves.”
Nita scooped them up and set them aside, a fine pair of riding gloves lined with some kind of fur.
Mr. St. Michael stroked a bare hand over the lamb, who was breathing in shallow, shivery pants. The ewe stamped a hoof and came closer.
Maybe, like Nita, she dreaded to see the little one suffer and dreaded more to see Mr. St. Michael end its misery. But what could a mother do, when she had neither claws nor a full complement of teeth and her newborn was threatened by the elements and by a creature at least twice her size?
“You won’t kill him, will you?” Nita was enough of a countrywoman to know that death was sometimes a mercy, and yet she regarded death as an enemy.
“Of course not. This is valuable livestock.” Mr. St. Michael passed Nita the lamb, who weighed less than some of Susannah’s books. “If you would tuck him against my belly?”
Mr. St. Michael had undone his clothing right down to his skin and held it all open so Nita could put the wet, frigid lamb into his shirt, against his bare abdomen.
“Now do up a few buttons,” he directed. “Enough to hold the lamb against me, not enough to smother him.”
Nita had to remove her gloves to comply, and while she applauded Mr. St. Michael’s quick thinking, the notion of a half-frozen lamb cuddling against his bare skin nearly had her shivering.
The ewe stamped her hoof again and let go a bleat that surely held indignation and dismay. She advanced a few steps, as if to charge her offspring’s captor, but stopped short and stamped again.
“I’v
e got him,” Mr. St. Michael said to the mother sheep. He moved closer so the ewe could sniff at his shirt. “Your little lad will be safe, as long as he keeps breathing, and now I’ve got you too.”
Like a predator striking, Mr. St. Michael scooped the ewe onto his shoulders.
After some halfhearted flailing, the ewe allowed it, though she had little choice when Mr. St. Michael had all four legs in a firm grip.
He had the entire situation in a firm grip, and Nita was abruptly glad she’d volunteered to show Mr. St. Michael this herd.
“Now what, sir?”
“To the gate, which you will have to open for us.”
Their progress was businesslike, Mr. St. Michael slowed not one bit by seven stone of mother sheep across his shoulders. By the time Nita led him through the gate, George had emerged from the cottage and was hurrying down the path.
“Are you reaving sheep, St. Michael, or have you tired of that fine coat you’re wearing?” George asked.
“The coat can be cleaned easily enough,” Mr. St. Michael said. “We found an early lamb, and he needs shelter from the elements.”
George was, in some ways, Nita’s favorite brother. He often grasped matters his older siblings had to have explained to them, but the whereabouts of the lamb eluded him.
“The lamb is inside Mr. St. Michael’s shirt, to keep warm,” Nita said. “Where is Mr. Kinser?”
“He’s snug by his fire and complaining of a chest cold,” George said. “The lambing pens are in the byre behind the cottage.”
Nita mentally added Mr. Kinser to her week’s list of patients to treat by correspondence. A chest cold was simple enough—mustard plaster for the chest, a toddy for comfort—but if ignored, could rapidly become lung fever.
Nita followed George and Mr. St. Michael up the hill to a low stone building set into the slope of the land. While the granite walls provided shelter from the wind, the cold within was still considerable.
Tremaine's True Love Page 3
