Tremaine's True Love

by Grace Burrowes

  Addy’s smile was so sad, Nita regretted the question.

  “Not bad,” Addy replied, taking a nibble of sausage. “Mary was the worst. I nearly bled to death after she was born, and then her father’s family wanted nothing to do with her. This is good, spicy sausage. Evan, you may put my boots on to go out for a moment, but don’t you take a chill, and mind Lady Nita’s gentleman friend.”

  Addy’s boots were too large for him, of course, and the coat he tied around his waist with twine was too large as well, but a too-large coat could be a blessing when the wind was sharp and a little boy’s trousers ended several inches above his ankles.

  “Is your fellow good-looking?” Addy asked when Evan had gone.

  Nita hacked a potato to bits—a potato she would have forgotten to add to the pot, but for Mr. St. Michael’s reminder. Addy had long ago lost the knack of standing on ceremony, probably as much an occupational hazard for soiled doves as it was for those who attended birthings.

  “Mr. St. Michael’s looks are not excessively refined, and he’s not my fellow,” Nita said, going after a second potato. “But he recites poetry, loves children, and once upon a time, he was very, very poor.”

  Which Nita’s family likely would not have guessed in a thousand years.

  * * *

  Tremaine had spent years forgetting how dirty poverty was, though the state of his fingernails brought the reality back quickly. He’d also forgotten that boiling laundry was an art, which the child Mary had apparently studied.

  Stale bread rubbed on the linen would have taken out the grease stain on her pinafore she’d assured him, though of course no bread survived long enough in her household to become stale. Hot milk should have been applied to the jam Evan had got on his sleeve—though no milk could be spared for such a vanity.

  Most of the items they’d boiled had been small, stained, and threadbare, a metaphor for life as those children knew it.

  “You’re very quiet, Mr. St. Michael,” Lady Nita observed.

  “Thinking about Mr. Burns’s mouse,” Tremaine replied as the horses clopped along in the direction of Belle Maison. Laundry was a tedious undertaking, thus much of the afternoon had been wasted at the malodorous cottage. At least the laundry had allowed Tremaine to remain outside in the fresh air, while Lady Nita had been indoors, cooking, mending, and cleaning.

  And likely breathing through her mouth.

  “Nobody will believe we spent the past three hours trotting about the shire,” Tremaine pointed out. “Not in this weather.”

  “They won’t ask.”

  Lady Nita had trained them not to ask, in other words.

  On this refreshing hack through the nearer reaches of destitution, Tremaine had picked up two splinters, a twinge in his left shoulder—a dull ax was an abomination against God and Nature—and dirty fingernails.

  Lady Nita was still tidy, serene, and unruffled by their visit to the cottage.

  “Your brother won’t have to ask us what we’ve got up to,” Tremaine said. “He’ll interrogate the grooms about how long we were gone and in which direction we rode. He’ll inquire in the kitchen about bread, milk, sausage, tea, salt, sugar, and other necessities. He’ll inspect your hems and my boots as we pass him in the corridor.”

  Even the Earl of Bellefonte would recognize the stink of boiled cabbage clinging to their clothing.

  Tremaine’s recitation did not please her ladyship. She turned her face up to a frigid breeze, as if seeking fortification from the cold.

  “Nicholas might ask,” she said, “but he won’t interfere, though he probably wishes all the infirm and indigent would simply leave the realm, or his little corner of it.”

  No, Bellefonte wished his sisters would leave—for the dubious comforts of holy matrimony. In this, his lordship was simply a conscientious English patriarch.

  “Then why not marry?” Tremaine asked. “You’d be out from under your brother’s roof.” Though Bellefonte appeared to dote on his sisters—on most of his sisters.

  Lady Nita glanced back in the direction of the cottage, which now boasted a cheery plume of smoke from the chimney, a load of chopped wood on the porch, and a deal of laundry laid over the bushes and porch railings in hopes it would dry rather than freeze.

  “I have no use for marriage,” Lady Nita said. “If I hadn’t attended Annie’s birth, she’d likely have died. Addy was decent once, and she does not cope well with her fall from grace. Women in such circumstances can give up—”

  She fell silent as the wind gusted, the breeze rewrapping the tail of her ladyship’s scarf so the wool covered her mouth.

  The horses plodded along the frozen lane while Tremaine considered Lady Nita’s point: an evening she might have spent embroidering by a cozy fire was instead spent seeing that a baby arrived safely into the world. She was justifiably proud of that, and yet she was also troubled.

  “You hope,” Tremaine said, “that by attending the birth, you did the child a service, rather than a disservice, for life in that cottage is precarious indeed.”

  Lady Nita’s plow horse shuffled onward, head down, gait weary—for the horse, too, had been out at all hours in bad weather. As the wind continued to whip through the bare branches of the hedgerows, tiny flakes of snow came with it.

  Any shepherd boy knew the smaller the snowflakes the more likely the weather would turn nasty in earnest.

  “Here is the rest of the syllogism,” Tremaine said, because Lady Nita’s family had apparently neglected to say these words to her. “Babies will be born and babies will die, and it’s the duty of those amply blessed to aid those in precarious circumstances. However, because babies do die, we all occasionally need a pretty waltz and a pleasant evening in good company. Martyrs have many admirers but few friends, Lady Nita, and worst of all, they never have any fun.”

  On the Continent, where decades of war had laid waste to much that was good, sweet, and dear, people seemed to grasp this. Life was for living, for rejoicing in, not for suffering through. In the Highlands, where thrift had become a cultural fixture, the same rejoicing was brewed into the very whiskey and song that punctuated every celebration.

  Lady Nita swiped at her cheek, as if a stray snowflake might have smacked into her, then she did it again on the other cheek.

  “I love to waltz,” she said, gaze on the horse’s coarse mane. “I love to sing, and I like nothing better than to join my sisters for great silliness over cards, until we’re laughing so hard we’re in tears. Nicholas would take even that from me to see me married to some viscount or lordling.”

  She tapped her whip against the horse’s quarters and sent him into a businesslike canter.

  Tremaine followed several yards behind and grappled with a realization. His objective was no longer strictly a profitable transaction with Lord Bellefonte, for where Lady Nita was concerned, a point had to be made about life and her entitlement to some of its joy.

  Then too, a woman constantly in the company of the ill and impoverished was a woman at risk for illness herself, of the body or of the spirit. Lady Nita’s brothers were remiss in not protecting her from those harms, though Tremaine lacked any authority to correct their oversights.

  And yet he could not stand idly by while Nita Haddonfield martyred herself on an altar of guilt and obligation. He was bound for Germany at week’s end if Bellefonte would not offer terms for the sheep, but in the remaining two days, the choice of weapon belonged to Tremaine:

  Waltzing, singing, or cards.

  Or perhaps all three.

  * * *

  “Damn fookin’ cranky besom yowe! Git ye doon the now!”

  Kinser’s affectionate profanity seemed to impress the wayward ewe—“yowe”—not one bit. She’d leaped up onto the stone wall marking the boundaries of the pasture, and considered freedom with what George took for ovine glee.

  “Perhaps we should leave her to find her own way off the wall,” George suggested. “She won’t jump back into the pasture if we’re glow
ering at her.”

  “She’ll nae leave her own kind,” Kinser said. “Unless she takes a notion to ramble aboot the shire. That un’s piss-all contrary.”

  Every damned denizen of the pasture struck George as contrary—much like the Haddonfield womenfolk—but he hadn’t trusted Kinser to get the ewes moved before worse weather arrived. Kinser was contrary and, more to the point, plagued with a fondness for both whiskey and warmth.

  A small boy came trundling down the lane on the far side of the stone wall. He moved with the trudging gait of a child bundled up against the elements and stopped when the ewe baa’d at him.

  “Tell her to get down,” George called. “Wave your arms and chase her back toward us.”

  “That be the Nash lad,” Kinser said. “On his way hame from Vicar’s.”

  The boy apparently grasped the situation, for he rushed the sheep, waving his arms and making a racket. She bounded down from her perch and scampered back to the herd bunched at the far end of the pasture.

  “That’s it, then,” Kinser said, taking another pull from his flask. “My thanks, Master George. Best get ye to a warm hearth soonest.”

  Kinser waved at the boy, blew a kiss to the sheep, and left George in the middle of the pasture, his toes freezing, his nose freezing, and his arse none too cozy either.

  “Digby!” George called to the boy. “I’ll take you up on my horse if you’re bound for home.”

  The child did not have to be asked twice. He scrambled onto a stile and waited for George to mount up and trot over to the fence.

  “My thanks, Mr. Haddonfield,” Digby said, climbing up before George. “B-beastly cold, isn’t it?”

  “Wretched beastly damned cold,” George said, for a boy ought to know that colorful language in the company of other fellows was quite acceptable. “You were at your Latin with Vicar?”

  “I was keeping warm,” Digby said, wiggling in the saddle, which was cold as hell against George’s fundament. “Uncle thinks I’m slow, but Vicar has a fire in the study, while the schoolroom at home is freezing.” The child’s words were nearly unintelligible, so badly were his teeth chattering.

  “Ask Vicar about the Second Punic Wars,” George suggested. “The Battle of Cannae is good for at least an hour’s diversion.”

  Digby twisted around to peer up at George. The boy had his mother’s lovely blue eyes, bright red hair, and pale complexion.

  “You know about the Second Punic Wars, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  “Every Latin scholar worth his salt knows about Cannae. Hannibal won with a smaller force because he used his wits. The Romans charged at him headlong, but he fell back with his main army while sending columns around the enemy’s flanks. The Romans thought they were charging to victory until they realized they were surrounded. Have you considered asking your mama to order a fire in the schoolroom?”

  A frigid third-floor schoolroom was no place for a solitary boy to learn anything.

  “Mama won’t allow it if Uncle has said no. I hate winter.” Digby drew himself up in the saddle. “I hate Uncle too.”

  Most little boys hated discipline and structure—George certainly had. George wasn’t particularly keen on Edward Nash either, come to that.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Digby Nash, just between us Latin scholars. The schoolroom is exactly where you want to spend your time. Nobody will bother you there if it’s kept that cold.”

  “You can see your breath in the schoolroom, Mr. Haddonfield. Uncle says that builds character. I think it saves on the coal bill and gives a lad the sniffles.”

  Digby had his mother’s common sense too.

  “Maybe a cold schoolroom does both,” George temporized as they approached the Stonebridge lane. “Make friends with the scullery maid. She’ll bring up chocolate with your nooning. As long as you’re at your studies, you’ll have all the peace and quiet you can wish for—enough to play with your soldiers, draw, read, or take a nap. I’ll send you over a few books with lots of battles in them.” Though the boy apparently had a few battles of his own brewing. “Does your mama even know how cold the schoolroom is?”

  Digby’s little shoulders heaved up and down with puerile long-suffering.

  “Mama knows,” he said darkly. “She argued with Uncle about it, but nobody ever wins an argument with him. He shouts and hits and says mean things. He thinks money is more important than anything.”

  Digby had his mother’s slight size in addition to her blue eyes and red hair, and the notion of anybody striking the child sat ill with George.

  “Don’t provoke your uncle,” George advised as the horse negotiated the frozen ruts. “In a few years, you’ll be off to school, having jolly good fun and growing brilliant with the other scholars. They’ll envy you for how much Roman history you know, and all because you managed a chilly schoolroom for a few winters.”

  Even Hannibal had grasped the value of a strategic retreat. Edward Nash was Digby’s guardian, and thus Nash’s authority over the boy—and likely the boy’s mother—was absolute.

  “I’ll be cold forever,” Digby retorted. “Uncle says I’m not to go to Harrow, even though my papa wished it. We haven’t the money. Mama says Papa set the money aside, but then Uncle starts shouting. I hate it when he shouts.”

  George’s parents hadn’t been exactly quiet, but they’d had the decency to air most of their differences out of the hearing of their children. Perhaps Edward Nash had set the funds aside for university instead of public school.

  “Give it time, lad. Things have a way of working themselves out, even when you think you’re beyond hope.”

  For little boys, in any case. For grown men, harsher truths usually applied.

  “Like you gave me a ride today,” Digby said, patting the horse’s shoulder. “I was sure I’d freeze to death on my way home. I can’t feel my toes, you know. Vicar gave me a baked potato for each pocket, but I need potatoes for my boots.”

  What the boy needed was a pony to trot him back and forth to Vicar’s house for these weekly Latin lessons, or brothers to tease and fight with, or a damned brazier in his schoolroom.

  Or a different uncle.

  “Let’s warm up a bit, shall we?” George asked. “Grab some mane, and we’ll canter.” The horse was only too happy to pick up its pace, and soon the Stonebridge stables came into view.

  “Mama’s waiting for me,” Digby said with the air of a boy enduring the entire weight of a widowed mother’s anxieties. “She frets, you see.”

  George brought his mount to the walk and ruffled a gloved hand over Digby’s crown, feeling a pang for the father who’d never see this boy reach adulthood.

  “Mind you don’t hop down,” George warned. “Nothing is worse for frozen toes than a quick dismount.”

  Elsie Nash did indeed look fretful, also half-frozen in her black wool cape.

  “Digby, into the kitchen with you,” she said, marching up to the horse. “Cook has made biscuits, and you will have at least two. Mr. Haddonfield, my thanks. Will you come in to warm up for a moment?”

  George swung down, though the last thing he wanted was to tarry in Elsie Nash’s company.

  “Afraid I can’t stay,” he said, lifting the child from the saddle and setting him down gently. “Enjoy the biscuits, Digby, and my thanks for helping out with that ewe.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Haddonfield!” The boy scampered off, having no notion of the awkwardness he left in his wake.

  “Very kind of you to bring him home, Mr. Haddonfield,” Elsie said as Digby skipped up the drive. “Edward says the fresh air is good for him, but the vicarage is two miles of fresh air each way, and Digby hasn’t Edward’s size.”

  “Yet,” George said. “Give the boy time. I’m the runt in my family, and I struggle along adequately, despite that burden.”

  Elsie ran an appraising eye over him, though her inspection was dispassionate rather than an assessment of his masculine charms.

  For Elsie Nash knew better.

  �
�Digby’s father wasn’t particularly tall,” she said, “but I wouldn’t change a thing about my son. How are you getting along, George? Your sisters natter on about the assembly and some Scottish fellow with a French title visiting the earl, but they seldom mention you. You’ve been traveling, haven’t you?”

  George stood beside his horse, trapped by manners and a nagging concern for the boy.

  “Elsie, you needn’t pretend.”

  “Pretend?”

  “I travel on the Continent because my family finds my taste in kissing partners inconvenient.” Dangerous, Nicholas had said, for certain sexual behaviors, regardless of how casually undertaken or commonplace, were yet considered hanging offenses.

  “George Haddonfield, if I were dismayed by every person I found kissing an inconvenient party in the garden, I should never have lasted a single Season as the colonel’s wife. You were kind to my son, and that is all that matters to me.”

  Elsie glowered up at him, five entire feet—and possibly one inch—of mother love ready to trounce George if he contradicted her.

  “Your son needs a brazier in his schoolroom,” George said, and Elsie’s glower disappeared like snow on hot coals.

  “Digby exaggerates, George. You mustn’t mind him.”

  “Digby is a good lad, and he’s lucky to have you for a mother.” While George was lucky Elsie had never breathed a word about what she’d seen in a certain earl’s moonlit garden.

  God help him, it hadn’t even been much of a kiss.

  “You won’t come in for a biscuit and a cup of tea in the kitchen?” Elsie asked.

  Her invitation was genuine, and the day was beastly cold. Then too, George had enjoyed the time spent with Digby—who wouldn’t like such a lad?—so he pulled off a glove and gave a piercing whistle.

  “If you could please walk my horse,” George said to the groom who came trotting out of the stables. “Up and down the barn aisle will do, and I won’t be long.”

  Elsie beamed at George as if he’d announced a sighting of blooming roses.

  “Perfect,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “You must tell me about this Mr. St. Michael. Your sisters seemed to think he might do for Lady Nita, and he’s rumored to be quite wealthy.”