“Can a lamb possibly thrive in here?” Nita asked.
“Lambs are tough, though he needs to nurse,” Mr. St. Michael said, which blunt reply inspired George to inspect the whitewashed stonework. “He’ll also need a thick bed of straw.”
Mr. St. Michael set the ewe down inside a wooden pen tucked against the back wall. She started up a repetitive baaing that ripped at Nita’s nerves.
“She wants her baby,” Nita said. Was desperate for him.
“She shall have him,” Mr. St. Michael replied, “just as soon as the chambermaids have tended to the linens.” He took up a hay fork and pitched a quantity of straw into the pen, his movements practiced and easy. “Mr. Haddonfield, if you could tell your shepherd it’s time to move his earliest ewes in here, their presence will add to the warmth and safety of the first lambs.”
George scowled at the ewe, whose racket had escalated. “I’ll let him know.”
“Now would suit, Mr. Haddonfield. Lady Nita tells me snow is on the way, and moving sheep doesn’t get easier for being done in a blizzard. A dozen ewes at least. Two dozen would be better. They’ll need hay, of course, and fresh water too.”
None of which Mr. Kinser had yet seen to.
“I doubt Difty Kinser is under the weather,” Nita said when George had marched off. “Shall I unbutton you?”
“Please.” Mr. St. Michael stood before her, the top of his head nearly touching the byre’s rafters, while Nita undid his coat, jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Out of medical necessity, she’d undressed grown men before—old men, ailing men, insensate men—but those experiences did not prepare her for the task she’d taken on.
Tremaine St. Michael was fit, healthy, muscular, and willing to lend his very warmth to a helpless creature. His coat was dirty as a result of the ewe’s muddy underbelly across his shoulders, and yet, amid the scent of dirt and straw, Nita could still catch a whiff of flowers.
Nita stopped short of reaching into Mr. St. Michael’s very shirt.
“Is he alive?” she asked.
The ewe fell silent as Mr. St. Michael extracted the lamb from his clothing.
“He is, but he wants his mama. She seems a sensible sort, which always helps.”
Mr. St. Michael stepped over the board siding of the pen and held the lamb up to the ewe’s nose. She licked her baby twice, and when Mr. St. Michael put the lamb down in the straw, she continued to sniff at her newborn.
“What now?” Nita asked. If the lamb died, Nita’s list of disenchantments with the Almighty would gain another item.
“Now comes sustenance,” Mr. St. Michael said, positioning the lamb near the ewe’s back legs. “If he can nurse, he has a good chance. If he can’t, then the ewe’s first milk should be saved in case more early arrivals show up in the next day or two.”
A gentleman would not have explained that much. A gentleman would not have supported the lamb as it braced on tottery legs and poked its nose about in the general direction of its first meal.
A gentleman would surely not have assisted the lamb to find that first meal, but Tremaine St. Michael did. The ewe held still—all that was required of her—and as Nita looked on, the lamb’s tail twitched.
The sight of that vigorous twitch of a dark tail eased a constriction about Nita’s heart. “He’s nursing?”
“Going at it like a drover at his favorite alehouse.”
“Good.” Wonderful.
Mr. St. Michael graced Nita with another one of those early-spring smiles as the lamb switched its tail again and Nita tried not to cry.
George interrupted this special, awkward moment. “Kinser says he’ll have two dozen ewes up here within the hour. He was planning to move them by week’s end, but this one caught him by surprise.”
Mr. St. Michael climbed out of the pen. “And the hay and water?”
“I’ll send some fellows over to see that it’s taken care of,” George said. “How’s the new arrival?”
“He’ll soon be sleeping, snug up against his mama, but now that the first one is on the ground, more will follow. Your shepherd will need assistance, because in this weather, somebody should check the herd for lambs regularly, even through the night. The first-time mothers and some of the older ewes will cheerfully ignore their own offspring unless reminded of their maternal obligations.”
Mr. St. Michael plucked his gloves from Nita’s grasp and met her gaze for an instant. His eyes held understanding, as if he knew that females of the human species could also misplace their maternal instincts, and no kindly shepherd would address their lapse.
“If we’re done here,” George said, “I’m for a toddy and a warm fire.”
“A fine notion,” Mr. St. Michael replied, pulling on his gloves. “Lady Nita, my thanks for your assistance.”
She’d done nothing except blink back tears and handle a few buttons, and yet, after Mr. St. Michael had boosted her onto her horse, he lingered a moment arranging the drape of her skirts over her boots.
“Not every titled lady would have tarried in the cold for a mere lamb,” he said. “I should have left the matter to Kinser’s good offices. This is his flock.”
“Kinser is likely the worse for drink.” Nita had complained to Nicholas of this tendency the last time she’d had to make up headache powders for Mr. Kinser.
“An occupational hazard among shepherds, particularly in cold weather. That was a fine little tup, and he’ll be worth a pretty penny.”
Mr. St. Michael looked like he wanted to say more. Nita plucked a bit of straw from his hair and barely resisted the urge to brush at the shoulders of his coat.
“Ready to go?” George asked, climbing into the saddle.
Mr. St. Michael swung up and nudged William forward. “I believe you mentioned a toddy, sir. I’m sure the lady would enjoy one sooner rather than later.”
They rode home in silence, the wind at their backs. Nita would enjoy a toddy, and then she’d excuse herself from whatever domestic diversions were thrown at her and bring a few extra blankets and provisions to Addy Chalmers and wee Annie Elizabeth.
* * *
“I cannot fathom why Elsie Nash has not remarried,” Kirsten remarked when she, Susannah, and Della were tooling home, hot bricks at their feet, scarves wound round their necks. “She is the dearest woman.”
“Perhaps she’s content to be a member of Edward’s household,” Susannah said. “He has no lady of his own, and a widowed sister-in-law makes a fine hostess.”
Susannah, in her sweet, determined way, aspired to become Edward Nash’s lady, and Mr. Nash seemed keen on the idea too.
“Elsie can waltz,” Kirsten said. “Do you suppose Edward can? You might offer to teach him, Suze, if he hasn’t acquired the knack.” Because for all his memorized couplets of Shakespeare, Edward Nash was in line for a mere baronetcy when some great-uncle or second cousin died. He was rural gentry until that distant day, and likely ignorant of the waltz.
“How would one offer such lessons to a gentleman?” Susannah asked.
In a lifetime of trying, Kirsten would never be as innocent or good as Susannah.
“One asks him, in a private moment, if he might assist one to brush up her waltzing skills before the assembly,” Kirsten explained. “One stumbles at judicious moments in judicious directions when such assistance is rendered, apologizing all the while. One is befuddled by the complexity of the steps.”
Susannah’s consternation was both amusing and worrisome. In the absence of any real authority over her own person, a woman benefited from having a bit of guile.
“Nita doesn’t care for Mr. Nash,” Della said from the backward-facing seat. Little more than her face showed from a swaddling of blankets and lap robes. “I can’t say I do either.”
“Have you a reason for your dislike of Edward?” Susannah asked.
“Elsie Nash is not happy in her brother-in-law’s household,” Della said.
Kirsten didn’t particularly like Edward Nash either—he had too high an op
inion of himself for a man who’d inherited his holdings and done little to make them prosper. He was handsome, though, and he doted on Susannah. Edward and Susannah would have lovely, blond, handsome, poetry-spouting children together.
A dozen at least.
“Widowhood is not generally a cheerful state,” Susannah said.
“Elsie’s husband died more than two years ago,” Della countered. “She has a child to love, and yet she’s not—”
“She’s not at peace,” Kirsten ventured. “Maybe she’s lonely. Pity Adolphus is too young for her.” Because George, despite his grand good looks and abundant charm, would likely never marry.
“She moves like an older woman and has silences like an older woman,” Della said, “as if her heart ached.”
“All the more reason to cheer her with some waltzes,” Susannah replied. “Might we persuade Mr. St. Michael to stay a few extra days? He has the look of a man who knows what he’s about on the dance floor, and our gatherings never have enough handsome bachelors.”
Kirsten and Della exchanged a glance that had nothing to do with planning the local assembly, for Susannah had done it again: arrived for innocent reasons at a suggestion that had not-so-innocent possibilities.
“Nita volunteered to ride to the sheep pastures with him in this weather,” Della said quite casually, “and she was out late last night with Addy Chalmers.”
“Which you had to mention at breakfast,” Kirsten reminded her.
“I like Mr. St. Michael,” Susannah said. “He doesn’t put on airs.”
The gentleman had an odd accent—mostly Scottish with the occasional French elision, which combination would not endear him to Polite Society’s loftiest hostesses. He was in trade, and he had a brusque quality that made Kirsten leery, though Nita could also be quite brusque—as could Kirsten, all too often.
“You ask him to prolong his stay, Suze,” Della said. “Tell Mr. St. Michael we’re shy a few handsome, dancing bachelors, then have Mr. Nash give you some waltzing lessons.”
Susannah’s brows drew down, and as the coach clattered from rut to bump to rocky turn, her gaze became sweetly, prettily thoughtful.
Also determined.
* * *
“Lovey, if you put fewer cakes on the tray, then the Pontiff of Haddondale might not stay as long.” Nick punctuated this observation with a kiss to his wife’s temple. “Not that I’d encourage my dearest lady to anything approaching ungraciousness.”
Though, of course, his wife was incapable of ungraciousness. Leah was also incapable of idleness, which was why Nick had had to track her down to his woodworking shop, to which she alone had a spare key.
“I do wonder how Nita put up with Vicar,” Leah said, glowering at a stack of foolscap on the workbench. “If he didn’t feel compelled to add a line of Scripture to his every observation, he might also be on his way sooner. I fear he aspires to match his son up with our Della, which match you will not approve, Nicholas.”
Nick added coal to the brazier, because his shop was at the back of the stables, where warmth was at a premium. Leah worked with fingerless gloves, the same as any shopgirl might have when totting up the day’s custom.
She sat on a high stool, but Nick was tall enough to peer over her shoulder.
“As my countess wishes, but, lovey-lamb, why are you hiding here?” Nick certainly hid here from time to time, and only Leah would disturb him when he did.
She tossed down a pencil and leaned against him. “You are so marvelously warm. Where is your coat, Nicholas?”
“My countess will keep me warm. You’re working on menus.”
The Countess of Bellefonte nuzzled her husband’s chest. “I hate menus. I hate mutton, I hate soup, I hate fish, I hate that Cook expects me to remember which we ate Tuesday last and in what order, and I hate most of all that, for some reason, one must never serve trifle at the same meal as lobster.”
This was old business, this jockeying between Leah and the staff she’d inherited upon becoming Nick’s wife. She’d won over the maids and footmen, and Hanford was devoted, but Cook was temperamental and contrary.
“Shall I have a word with Cook?” Nick dreaded the prospect, though Leah had taken Cook on more than once.
The countess straightened and tidied her stack of papers. “You shall not. Household matters are not your domain, Nicholas, though I appreciate your willingness to entertain Vicar when he comes snuffling around.”
His Holiness had a prosperous figure for a man of the cloth, because Nick supported the living generously. Nick put Leah’s menus aside, turned, and hiked himself up onto the bench, so he faced his wife.
“What was Vicar going on about,” Nick asked, “with all that ‘the Lord will provide for the less fortunate according to their deserts,’ and ‘the laborer is worthy of his wage’?”
Leah rested her head on Nick’s knee, a rare gesture of weariness.
“He was referring to Addy Chalmers,” she said. “Nita likely prevailed upon the vicarage for some charity. Addy has a number of children and her family turned their backs on her years ago.”
“Five children now. Five living,” Nick said, for Nita had reminded him of the total rather pointedly. According to Nita’s clipped recitation, the oldest was eleven, an age at which Nick had been haring all over the shire on his pony, his half brother Ethan at his side, and nothing more pressing on his mind than whether to put a toad in the tutor’s boot or in his bed.
“Five children,” Leah said, “and winter is only half over. I’ll send a basket. I should have sent one by now. Children must eat, despite the sins of the mother or the father. I, of all people, know this.”
More old business, for prior to their marriage, Leah had endured her share of scandal and heartbreak. Nick had his spies in the stables though, and knew Nita had already seen to the basket.
“Addy Chalmers doesn’t sin in solitude,” he said. “My most enthusiastic sinning was ever undertaken in company. To the extent that Nita’s charitable, she has my admiration, but she has no regard for her station.”
Leah patted his thigh, then straightened, which was prudent of her. A man married less than a year was prone to certain thoughts when private with his wife, particularly when that dear lady was in need of comfort, the door was locked, and the brazier giving off a cozy warmth.
Alas, Leah had also recently become a mother, and restraint was still the marital order of the day.
And the night.
“I have endless admiration for Nita,” Leah said. “She’s been very helpful acquainting me with the household matters, but, Nicholas, I don’t think galloping off at all hours to tend to the sick and the dying is making Nita happy.”
“It’s not making her married, you mean. Perhaps she can find a younger son who’s turned up medical.”
Though where Nick would find one of those for Nita, he did not know. This medical younger son would have to be a forward-thinking chap with some means. Nita needed somebody with a light heart too, not full of death or Scripture, and it wouldn’t hurt if the fellow were inclined to have a large family.
Nicholas’s father had maintained that women with large families were too busy managing their own broods to wander into mischief. Nita didn’t wander into mischief, she charged at it headlong.
“Come spring, we’ll open a campaign to see Nita settled,” Leah said. “Kirsten, Susannah, and Della will abet us. I think Della has taken an interest in Mr. St. Michael.”
Of all the burdens Nick shared with his dear wife, the burden of being head of his family was the one he most appreciated her counsel about—even when she was wrong.
“Della isn’t out yet, lovey. She shouldn’t be noticing any gentlemen.” Besides, Nick had St. Michael in mind for Kirsten, who, like St. Michael, suffered no fools and didn’t put on airs. “Why do you think Della is considering St. Michael?”
Leah hopped off her stool and took her stack of papers to the brazier. One at a time, she fed her menus to the flames.
<
br /> “When was the last time Della stirred from her rooms before late morning, Nicholas?”
Well, damn. “When your handsome, desirable, and ever-so-widowed brother Trenton came to call over the summer.”
“Your strategy to have the family breakfast together isn’t working, you know.”
Denying the Haddonfield siblings breakfast trays in the hope they’d at least start their day from the same table had been Nick’s strategy, and Leah had been against it. She’d given the staff the appropriate orders, however, and thus she bore the brunt of the family’s disgruntlement.
“Then deny them even tea trays,” Nick said, for the situation was vexing his countess and stern measures were in order.
Leah balled up half a sheet of paper and tossed it into the fire. Probably lobster and trifle on Tuesday night.
“Will you forgo your morning chocolate too, Nicholas? Will you make me give up mine? Your siblings are not sheep, to be herded together for the convenience of their shepherd.”
The only full-time shepherd Nick employed had a fondness for the bottle.
“Damned sheep,” Nick grumbled. “My sympathy for the challenges Papa faced as the earl grows daily. I ran into Edward Nash at the apothecary yesterday. He hinted strongly that the very herds St. Michael wants to buy would make a lovely dowry for Susannah.”
Another half sheet went hurtling into the conflagration. “Mr. Nash is presuming.”
Mr. Nash was hinting and dithering, while poor Susannah likely went to bed each night praying for a ring from the man. Nick could not afford a large cash settlement for each sister, and Nash’s hints hadn’t been entirely unwelcome.
“We own an embarrassment of sheep, lovey mine, maybe even enough to entice two handsome bachelors to the altar, but what aren’t you telling me?”
Two pieces of paper remained. These Leah folded and stuffed into a pocket of her cape. “The moon was bright last night, Nicholas.”
Nick hopped down and wrapped his arms around his wife, for he could hear voices beyond the door and what Leah had to say was for Nick’s ears only. Her shape had changed since she’d become a mother, and she fit against him more comfortably than ever, though her logic eluded him.
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