“You have used a dam for another’s litter?” Mr. Mayfield asked.
Julia nodded but kept her uncertainty to herself. Father had had a network of farmers to call upon when such a thing was needed, farmers with dams used to taking in other pups than their own. But she had heard stories of litters being killed by dogs other than their own mother. Bumbleberry was a first-time mother with eight four-week-old pups.
“Let us see how she reacts. If she doesn’t take to them, perhaps Henry can go into town and ask after another dam to try.”
Mr. Mayfield nodded, and Julia felt the weight of his trust. He placed the blanket gently into the whelping box, then stepped back. “I shall fetch Bumbleberry, but maybe it would be best if I stayed outside for the first bit.”
Bumbleberry responded to Mr. Mayfield better these days, but seeing as how there were new puppies involved, perhaps him keeping his distance was wise. Julia nodded, then stroked and cooed at the puppies, who were crying with hunger, while she waited. The first thing she saw was Bumbleberry’s nose sniffling around the door leading to the shed, then her face poked through.
“You thought you were almost done, didn’t you?” Julia said.
Bumbleberry came directly to Julia, seeming to ignore the new puppies completely. She licked Julia’s face, and Julia scratched her ears and nuzzled her neck. Then she pulled back and took Bumbleberry’s head in her hands like she would do with one of the girls when telling them something that required their attention.
“I have a very important thing to ask of you, Bumbleberry. You have proven yourself an excellent mother, and I have five puppies in desperate need of one.” She turned Bumbleberry’s head toward the mewling puppies. After a few seconds, she let go of Bumbleberry’s head and held her breath as the dog leaned forward to sniff the puppies. She looked at Julia as though asking her what she was supposed to do with these annoying creatures.
“Please, Bumbleberry,” Julia encouraged, turning her head toward the pups again.
Bumbleberry walked to the other side of the box and leaned in, sniffing again. Once she’d investigated the puppies fully with her nose, she began to lick them, eliciting protest from the newborns. With a huff, Bumbleberry stepped into the box, nudged the puppies out of the way, and then settled down on her side as though accepting her fate. She licked and nudged the pups into position with far more instinct than she had showed toward her own litter.
“Good girl,” Julia cooed while helping to position the puppies. The first puppy latched on, then the second, third, and fourth. After several poor attempts, the fifth did as well. Julia stroked Bumbleberry’s head while praising her excellent mothering skills. After a few minutes, the shed door opened, and Mr. Mayfield came in.
Bumbleberry tensed and lifted her head, growling low in her throat.
Julia could not help but laugh at the fallen expression on Mr. Mayfield’s face, though she put a hand over her mouth to hide it.
“I had hoped she and I were past this.” He sighed with exaggeration, and then smiled. “She is lucky to have you here, Miss Julia. As we all are.”
Warmth bubbled up in Julia’s chest and went straight to her cheeks. “I have only done what anyone else would have.”
“No,” Mr. Mayfield said, looking at her with soft eyes. “Anyone else would not—nor could not—do what you have done. You truly do have a gift.”
Bumbleberry growled again, and Mr. Mayfield put up his hands in surrender. “All right, Miss Bumbleberry, I know when I am not welcome.” He put his hands down and turned to Julia. “Shall I await you in the breakfast room?”
Breakfast with him? Was that what he’d meant earlier when he’d said they would need a hot meal?
If she weren’t already blushing, she would be now as she imagined herself sitting at his fine mahogany table set with china dishes and crystal goblets. The fantasy made her painfully aware of her current state. She lifted a hand to her hair for the first time in who knew how many hours. She’d plaited it before bed, but a fair amount of curls were now tangled around her face. She could feel bits of mud dried in clumps and could only imagine how she looked.
“I am humbled and grateful for the invitation, Mr. Mayfield, but I dare not accept. I am an absolute wreck.”
“As am I.” He spread his hands to present his muddied breaches, unshaven face, and tousled hair. But if anything, he looked more handsome in this state. She was still in her nightdress, for heaven’s sake, with boots that were too big and a coat with patched elbows. But that was not the real reason she could not eat with him. She’d thought back to the meadow of primroses a hundred times in the days since it had happened. The memory was delicious, but it could not happen again. You best watch yourself, Colleen had said. Julia needed to follow that advice.
“A bowl of porridge after the bath will be sufficient.” But how she wanted to sit at his table and share a meal with him.
“Julia, after this night—”
“Anything more than that would be inappropriate, Mr. Mayfield. But I thank you for the offer.” Her insides clenched. Offending him was the last thing she wanted to do—well, other than overstep her position. She remembered her hand on his shoulder and his hand on hers. That could be justified by the intense emotions of the circumstances, but nothing could justify more than that.
He crossed his arms over his chest, setting off his shoulders, which she’d noticed before, and looking as though he were formulating further argument, which she both adored and dreaded.
She looked back to Bumbleberry, who was still watching him—a perfect excuse for a change of topic. “Though I’m disappointed that she’s reverted to her old opinions of you, Mr. Mayfield, I think it is a good sign that she’s as protective of these pups as she was of her own.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” He did not sound happy. She told herself it was because of Bumbleberry’s rejection, not hers.
“Someone will need to stay with Bumbleberry every hour for the next day or so,” she said. “To make sure she doesn’t reject the litter. And we might need to wean her own litter sooner than we planned. It will depend on how her milk production is affected by these extra mouths to feed. Some dams will produce enough for both litters; others are unable to. Thirteen puppies is a lot to ask of a new mother.”
“I shall have Henry stay with them this morning, and then Cook can prepare the beef gruel I use to wean pups from the dams. We can supplement as best we can.”
Julia nodded. “I will stay until Henry can relieve me. Thank you for . . .” She wanted to say his acceptance, his kindness, but she could not decide what was appropriate, so she said nothing.
“I shall send him in straight away.” They locked eyes another moment before Mr. Mayfield turned and left the shed.
Bumbleberry rested her head once more and fell asleep without understanding that she had saved five little lives today.
Peter
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Peter awoke, disoriented and sluggish. Mrs. Oswell had taken the girls to the vicarage, and they would return in time for bed. He checked on the puppies—Bumbleberry’s and Queenie’s. Henry was keeping the litters separated, and he’d wrapped a bundle of blankets in an old sheepskin that Queenie’s puppies were snuggled with when they were not eating—Miss Julia’s idea, he said. Peter asked the groom to spell Henry for the night with the promise of making better arrangements come morning.
Peter did not ask after Julia, though he was sorely tempted. She had been remarkable last night, and when she’d put her hand on his shoulder, he’d realized how much he wanted her beside him . . . all the time. Every thought of last night brought him back to her and the knowledge that things had changed for them. Equaled them somehow. And he needed to make some decisions.
He dressed slowly and ordered tea to be brought to his study, where a stack of correspondence was waiting for him, as well as two days’ worth of news
papers and a new periodical he’d ordered from London. He put the papers aside and skimmed the periodical instead—there was an excellent article on dog racing—while he ate; Cook had included a generous ham-and-cheese plate with an assortment of tarts and scones.
He turned to his correspondence. There were two invitations he would send polite excuses for, a notice of a new constable appointment in Elsing, and then a packet that at first confused him until he saw the return. Mr. Hastings of Hastings Staffing Services. He unfolded the packet to find four individual letters and a short note from Mr. Hastings.
Dear Mr. Mayfield,
My apologies for the delay in sending these letters of application for the position of governess. I know that time is of the essence in regard to your situation and hope that it hasn’t been too uncomfortable keeping Miss Hollingsworth on longer than you would have liked. However, I hope that the wait will be proven worthwhile as you peruse these applicants—all of whom have a great deal of experience, as you requested. Two of them, especially, seem to be very well suited for your situation.
I look forward to your response and instruction on how you would like to proceed. I am at your service, as always.
Sincerely,
M. L. Hastings
Peter dropped the letter on the desk, the four applications spread out beside it. The decision he needed to make had become urgent. What was he prepared to do?
Both Lydia and Uncle Elliott had said Julia was perfect for his household, and he could finally admit to himself that they had not meant only as a governess. His stomach flipped at the thought, and he wondered how things could have changed so quickly.
But perhaps it hadn’t been so quickly. Maybe he had simply been too scared to admit what could now be apparent from their first meeting in the broom closet. Julia was everything he did not know he wanted, and now that he’d accepted that knowledge, he was eager to move forward. However, the situation was delicate, and he needed to proceed with practical logic.
He folded Mr. Hastings’s letter around the four applications and put them aside in order to open his appointment book. He scanned the next few days in order to refresh his memory. There was a livestock show in King’s Lyn day after tomorrow, and then a buyer was coming to look at the hounds on Saturday. Monday, however, was open. He penciled in “Mrs. H in Feltwell,” felt another flutter of anticipation in his belly, and closed the book. First things first.
Amelia
Amelia found plenty to keep her hands occupied, if not her mind, upon returning to Feltwell. She helped bake for the weekly dance at the assembly hall. She dusted and gardened and made bread and tried to forget her visit to Mr. Mayfield’s house. And the confrontation with Julia. And Elliott’s parting words. She felt more and more brittle with every passing day.
On Monday, she’d gone to Louisa’s house to help little Sophie learn her letters. How on earth would that family squeeze another baby into that tiny cottage? She had been dreading a lonely evening at home when she turned up the walk of her house and saw a man standing there. It took a blink and another moment before she recognized Mr. Mayfield.
“My apologies for startling you, Mrs. Hollingsworth.” He held the brim of his beaver hat in his hands, turning it nervously. “I had hoped you would be returning soon and decided to wait.”
She was not prepared to see him or speak to him. Goodness, she could barely let herself think of him and her daughter living in that house and what could be happening between them. Each time she did, such fear and regret rose up in her throat that she felt she were choking.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, not even trying to keep the tightness from her voice.
“I wanted to speak with you.”
What on earth would he want to speak with her about? And then she knew. He was going to try to convince her to withdraw her objection. Or, she considered hopefully, perhaps he had determined to turn Julia out and wanted Amelia’s help with the transition. He had told Elliott from the start that he didn’t want the slightest hint of scandal; perhaps his honor had won out.
“We can speak in the parlor,” Amelia said, looking around as she made her way to the front door in hopes that none of her neighbors were watching. She’d had half a dozen people ask her after Elliott’s visits about the fine gentleman who had called on her, and she did not like being the center of gossip. How long had he been waiting for her in full view?
He stepped aside so she could open the door, then followed her into the parlor.
“Let me prepare some tea,” Amelia said without sitting.
“Please do not do so on my account. I am well enough without it.”
“I just finished helping my daughter with her children.” She didn’t know why she told him as much, but she was nervous and wanted him to know how devoted she was to her family.
He sat only when she did, putting his hat on his knee. She really should take his hat, but she didn’t want him to feel too welcome.
“Well, then,” she said, keeping her chin up. “What was it you wanted to discuss with me?”
Mr. Mayfield stared at his hat a moment. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Took a breath. Opened his mouth again and then finally spoke. “I would like to ask your impressions of my household.”
Amelia furrowed her brow. “I am not sure what you mean.”
“I am aware of your concerns with having Julia in my home. I would like to know if your opinion has changed since your visit. I hope that you saw how well she cares for my daughters and how honorable my intentions are toward her.”
“Intentions?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows and solidifying her position. A shimmer of power swept through her chest, fortifying her resolve. “I do not see how an employer should have any intentions toward his hired help.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment, then fixed her with a level gaze. “I can assure you that nothing inappropriate has ever passed between Julia and myself. I have been a gentleman in every respect and have done nothing to break your trust.”
“I have no trust to break, Mr. Mayfield. I have been uncomfortable with the situation from the moment I heard of it.”
“Yes, but I had hoped that perhaps the dinner party changed your mind.”
“It was a lovely evening, but it did nothing to change my mind. My daughter is not safe in your household.”
He paled slightly, and she felt a pang of conscience. He hadn’t personally done anything to earn her determination against him. But she wanted nothing to do with the Mayfields. She held his eyes until he looked away.
“You are still set against me, then.”
“Yes, sir, I am. A mother wants what is best for all her children.”
“As does a father,” he added, his voice becoming sharper, which only set Amelia’s back up that much more. “Julia loves my daughters as her own, and she is one of the kindest and most capable women I have ever known. I came today to ask for your blessing in formally courting her.”
Amelia stared at him in shock. He wants to court my daughter.
She remembered being in Vauxhall Gardens with Elliott. Him leading her to a secluded corner, and her being the one to step forward, showing her willingness and wantonness. He’d run his thumb along her cheek and told her how beautiful she was and that he felt more alive when he was with her.
Lies.
At Almack’s a few days later, she had learned that his father had died and he’d returned to East Ashlam. He hadn’t written her before he left town, but she could forgive him as he must have been overwhelmed by the turn of events. Then she’d realized that he would inherit, which meant he would have more reason to marry. And soon! She would become Lady Howardsford and live in a grand house and save her father and love Elliott with her whole heart. It had been wicked to think that way in the light of the tragedy of Elliott’s father’s passing, but with her father pressuring her to make a money
ed match and the invigoration she felt being with Elliott, how could she not have seen everything as a positive turn of events?
A week had passed. Then two. She wrote him twice, and when he did not reply, she comforted herself with the reminder that he was in mourning and certainly had a great deal of work to do with the transfer of the title. And then she did receive a letter, the words of which seared into her as hot as a branding iron. He had enjoyed their time together and wished her the best, but family matters were such that he would not be returning to London, perhaps for some time.
He’d broken her heart into a dozen pieces with that letter. Rejected. Abandoned. Not enough. The parting with Julia earlier this week came back to her as well. Rejected. Abandoned. Not enough.
“Mrs. Oswell has offered to house Julia,” Mr. Mayfield continued, interrupting her painful reminiscence. “Julia can still care for the children, but she will not be living at my home. I will do everything that is honorable and right by her, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
“You have already discussed this with Julia? You have made this plan without having spoken to me, even though you know my concerns of this very thing?”
“I have not spoken to her of this,” he responded. “I have come to you out of respect for you as her mother and because I am aware of your concerns and hoped to resolve them. But I am . . .” He took a breath. “I care a great deal about your daughter, Mrs. Hollingsworth, and would like the chance to see if we are as well suited as I believe we are, but that cannot happen without a formal and respectable courtship. I ask this of you with the hope of making her my wife and ensuring her comfort and happiness for the rest of her life. I can assure you that I will be a devoted husband to her in every way, should we suit as well as I hope.”
Lies! Just like Elliott’s endearments all those years ago. Amelia could not separate the two circumstances. “Of course you have fallen in love with her—that is what you Mayfields do. But she is not of your world, Mr. Mayfield. She has not been raised to be the mistress of an estate, the hostess of fine parties with people to wait on her and coddle her. She is your servant, and it would disgrace to both of you should you pretend she is anything different.”
Promises and Primroses Page 21
