by Diane Gaston
‘Would you like one of my caps, ma’am?’ Sally offered.
‘How kind of you.’ She was sincerely touched. ‘I will consider it, but first I’ll see how it is without wearing one.’
* * *
A clock somewhere in the house struck eight as Amelie descended the stairs. She went directly to the dining room, but it was as she and Edmund had left it after the dessert dishes were removed. Amelie had said nothing to the servants about breakfast, and she ought to have done so.
She walked through the dining room to the door she and Edmund had presumed led to the kitchen. As she walked through the corridor she heard voices and headed towards them.
‘The thing is, why did Lord Northdon send them here?’ It was Mrs Wood’s voice. ‘Why now?’
‘I am worried about what Mrs Summerfield will expect,’ another voice said—Jobson, perhaps. ‘I can’t do all the cleaning of this whole house. It is too much.’
‘And I need help in the kitchen.’ That must have been Mrs Stagg.
They were all seated around a kitchen table. Mugs of tea or coffee or chicory sat in front of them as well as slices of bread and cheese.
‘Good morning.’ Amelie tried for a cheerful tone.
They all scrambled to their feet.
Her whole life she’d watched her mother deal with servants. Her mother did the job so well that their houses had always been harmonious—even when matters between her mother and father had not been.
She stepped into a room that must be the servants’ hall. ‘I could not help but overhear your conversation. Please do not worry about our being here. We know we create more work for you and that you will need more help. Perhaps you can advise me on exactly how much help you require.’
The three women stared at her wide-eyed.
She smiled. ‘I came in search of breakfast. And to speak to you, Mrs Wood. Please meet with me after I eat. Simple fare will suffice, Mrs Stagg.’ She gestured to the contents of the table. ‘Bread and cheese. Some jam, if there is any. And tea. That will do nicely for me this morning.’
They continued to stare.
‘Thank you.’ She turned around and left.
* * *
It was near the dinner hour when Edmund finally returned to the house. He walked in the front door and found the hall deserted as it had been that morning. He checked the drawing room just to see if Amelie was there, but it was empty, as well. Something seemed changed about the place, though.
It smelled better.
Maybe that was because he was no longer riding through fields dotted with cattle dung or holding pens filled with sheep. He climbed the stairs, his legs weary, his injured leg aching. He’d spent the day on his feet or on horseback, and his leg was making a justifiable complaint.
When he reached the first floor he called for her. ‘Amelie?’
Her bedchamber door opened. ‘You are back! I did not know whether to worry or not.’
She almost took his breath away, and he was struck dumb for a few moments. She was dressed in a gown of pale pink silk that shimmered when she moved. Her hair was pulled up to the top of her head and tied with a pink ribbon, but her curls were loose about her head.
He finally found his voice. ‘You look fresh.’ Not merely fresh. As lovely as a rose in bloom.
She twirled around. ‘Do I? Sally dressed me for dinner and made me presentable. Believe me, I was not presentable before.’
Very presentable, he thought. He, on the other hand, was covered with dirt from the fields, the road and the pens of sheep. He looked down at himself. ‘I need to clean myself.’
Her smile wavered. ‘Of course. I will not trouble you.’
No! He had not meant to upset her. ‘You do not trouble me, Amelie. I am eager to hear of your day, but I must get this dirt off first. ’
‘Knock on my door when you are finished, if you like.’ Her voice had turned more subdued, though. She retreated into her bedchamber.
He opened his door and went inside.
The room had been straightened, he saw immediately. His trunk was gone. Certainly part of what Amelie had done was see that the room was put in proper order.
He hated to bring his soiled clothing in there. He stripped down and washed himself and shaved again.
He found his clothes in drawers and in the wardrobe and chose his whitest linen and his formal coat and waistcoat. When he finished dressing he knocked on the door connecting their two rooms. She opened it, but her demeanour had turned wary, like a butterfly ready to take flight.
He smiled at her. ‘I suspect you had something to do with tidying my mess.’
‘Yes.’ She lowered her lashes. ‘Well, Sally, actually. Sally unpacked for you.’
‘If I do not see her, thank her for me.’ He offered his arm. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’
They walked down to the drawing room, where a decanter of wine waited for them.
‘Wine?’ He needed wine right now. ‘Nothing suits me more at the moment.’
She looked pleased.
That was an even better tonic than the wine. ‘Shall I pour you a glass?’
‘Indeed.’ She lowered herself into one of the chairs.
He poured the wine and handed her a glass, placing his weight on his bad leg. Pain shot through it and he winced.
She noticed. ‘Is your leg hurting you?’
He could be stoic and deny the pain, but why shouldn’t she know? ‘It hurts like the devil. I was on my feet or on horseback all the day.’
‘Were you? You must be exhausted.’ She took a sip of the wine. ‘What did you do? I hope you ate something.’
He sat in a chair near hers and stretched out his leg. ‘We walked over most of the fells, I think, and rode into the village. We had a mutton pie at the inn there.’
She took another sip. ‘Do not be surprised if we are eating mutton again tonight.’
‘I am famished enough to eat anything.’ He drank some of the wine and lifted his glass to her. ‘This is quite...tolerable.’
‘It is some my father left,’ she said. ‘There are about five bottles left, Lloyd said.’
He relaxed as the wine slid comfortingly down his throat. She seemed more at ease with him again.
She sipped from her glass. ‘Tell me of your day.’
He told her of walking to the closer fells, riding to the more distant ones, seeing the flock grazing. He told of people he met—the farm workers and people in the village—and how he had the sense that they were concerned about his presence among them.
‘The servants here were worried about why we came, as well,’ she said.
He gave her a direct gaze. ‘We need not tell them why we came.’
She turned away for a moment but took a breath and faced him again. ‘So what did you think of everything?’
‘The farm appears to be well-run. The workers seem well satisfied.’ He finished his wine and poured himself another glass. ‘I like Reid, but, of course, he doesn’t yet trust me. None of them trusts me.’
She looked at him questioningly. ‘Shall I show you what we did today?’
He put down his glass and stood. ‘By all means.’
She led him to the sitting room next to the conservatory. Its walls had been scrubbed clean, its carpet beaten, furniture polished, curtains laundered. A great deal of work for one day.
He walked around the room. ‘You did well, Amelie.’
She blushed. ‘There is much I wish to do in the house. Nothing extravagant like replacing furniture, but I would like to open more of the rooms so it will be more comfortable. I’d like to put plants in the conservatory, and I would love to tidy up the garden.’
She was taking an interest—that gratified him most of all. So was he, actually. For all the exertion of
the day, he’d found it stimulating. He was determined to learn everything about the running of the farm.
‘I want you to do whatever you wish,’ he told her. ‘Make this home of ours a pleasant place for us.’ It was just the two of them. He tried not to think that there might have been a third. ‘I mean it, Amelie. Anything you want.’
‘I must keep busy,’ she murmured before looking up at him again. ‘We need to hire more servants. The house is too big for Jobson to clean and Mrs Stagg needs help in the kitchen.’
‘I dare say we need footmen, too,’ he added. ‘Lloyd seems willing enough, but how much can he do? I am persuaded I do need someone to tend to my clothes, as well.’
‘And a gardener?’ She looked hopeful. ‘I would love to see the garden tended. Do you think my father will mind the expense?’ she asked.
He tried not to bristle. ‘I am not without means, Amelie. I will pay.’
‘Then let us go back to the drawing room and finish our wine, and perhaps we can make a list of how many servants we need.’ Her eyes sparkled.
Edmund’s heart swelled. Perhaps she would recover. Perhaps they could make this marriage into a good thing for both of them.
Mr Lloyd came to announce dinner—mutton stew again, but Edmund did not care. He and Amelie talked throughout the meal of what they could do for the house and the farm.
Edmund never realised how much he enjoyed having a house that was his to live in. With Amelie. Before Amelie he’d never thought of houses.
There was no fortune to be made at this sheep farm, but the day’s work had been gratifying. He looked forward, too, to the hay harvest that Reid said would commence in the next few days. And to the market days in the next few weeks. And the tupping—the breeding of the sheep.
Most of all he looked forward to making Amelie happy, to making up to her all the misery he had caused her. If he could do so, perhaps life could always be as good as it felt at this moment.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Amelie’s courses came and with it, her grief. Just as she felt a little better, her body taunted her with the reminder that her womb was empty. The bleeding and discomfort were not extreme, but she made it her excuse to stay in bed.
Her despondency had returned, and she did not want anyone to know. She smiled valiantly for Edmund, making him think her withdrawal was merely due to her monthly cycle. She fooled Sally, as well. When alone, though, she burrowed in her bed and mourned once more for what might have been.
* * *
After the third day, though, everyone became too busy to worry about her.
It was haymaking time.
‘I’ll be gone all day, I’m afraid,’ Edmund told her that morning. ‘Reid says rain is coming and the hay will be ruined if we do not get it in. Everyone must take part. Sally can stay to tend you, but the rest of the servants will be needed to help.’ His colour was high with excitement.
‘I’ll fare well enough.’ Amelie made certain to smile. ‘Do not concern yourself over me.’
* * *
A short time later Sally brought her some breakfast. ‘Do you need me all day, ma’am? Because Mrs Stagg asked if I could help bring food and drink to the fields.’
Again Amelie smiled. ‘I do not need you at all. Just take care you do not exert yourself.’
‘I will only be walking and carrying.’ She sounded eager to go.
‘Then you must help.’ Sally ought to have some enjoyment. ‘I am not ill, after all. I am well able to take care of myself.’
* * *
By mid-morning, though, Amelie could no longer stand herself. Everyone was working, and here she was secluding herself and indulging in self-pity. She could help, too, couldn’t she? There must be some task she could perform.
She already wore her most ordinary dress, one that was fit for work, but she needed more if she were to help in the fields. She left her room and made her way to the still room, where she found an apron to wear over her dress and an old pair of boots that fit her feet. In a potting shed outdoors, she found gloves for her hands, a scarf to cover her hair and a wide-brimmed hat to shade her face.
There. She was ready.
But she did not know for certain where to find the hayfields.
She walked past the farm buildings and some tidy cottages until she saw women on a hilly field raking the hay into windrows. If not for the mountains, all green and grey, to frame the scene, it looked much like Northdon Hall at haying time. She strode towards the workers, relishing the exercise after sitting and moping for so long. She filled her lungs with clear, crisp air and trudged up the hill where the women were working.
As she came close, several of the workers gaped at her as if she were some oddity from a foreign land. She searched for Edmund but could not see him.
One of the women, carrying a rake, walked over to her. ‘Do you need help, ma’am?’
‘No. Thank you.’ Amelie extended her hand. ‘I am Mrs Summerfield.’
‘Aye, I guessed who you were.’ She hesitated before shaking Amelie’s hand. ‘I am Mrs Peet. Mary Peet.’
‘How do you do Mrs Peet.’ Amelie shaded her eyes and glanced around. ‘Have you seen Mr Summerfield?’
The woman pointed. ‘Most of the men are on the other side of the hill, cutting the hay.’
‘Oh. I mustn’t bother him, then.’ Amelie had no reason to disturb him.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’ Mrs Peet asked.
‘No, there is really nothing.’
The other women, who had been watching her, went back to turning the hay. All Amelie had accomplished was interrupting them. She observed them, how they moved down the windrow with their rakes, flipping the cut grass so that it would dry in the sun.
Mrs Peet curtsied. ‘Best I get back to work, then.’ She started to walk away.
Amelie called her back. ‘Might I help?’
Mrs Peet turned and regarded her. ‘You?’ She lowered her head. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am, but what would you do?’
‘Well.’ She gestured to the windrows. ‘Might I help you turn the hay?’
Mrs Peet looked uncertain but finally smiled. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you how.’
Mrs Peet found another rake and showed Amelie how to turn the grass. The women walked down the rows, turning as they went, then they moved to the next row and worked uphill. Amelie was slow at the task, but the other women offered words of advice and encouragement as they passed. Amelie learned the names of as many of the women as she could, repeating them in her head so she would not forget.
When she reached the top of the hill, she rested a moment. Her muscles seemed to rejoice in the exercise, even though they were tired. Best of all, there was no time, no space to think. Just work. And who knew she would enjoy such labour? Was this yet another way she was different from respectable ladies?
As she started down the hill, she heard her name called.
Edmund strode towards her. ‘What are you doing here?’ He was stripped to his shirtsleeves and carrying a scythe.
She lifted her chin. ‘I am working.’
His grey eyes sparkled in the sunlight, and his face shone with sweat. Her insides fluttered at the sight of him, even though she was ready to do battle if he ordered her to stop.
He gestured to her rake. ‘I see you are working, but is it wise?’
‘Everyone else is working.’ She held his gaze. ‘I am doing my part.’
His brows knitted. ‘Do you feel up to it?’
She looked into those sparkling grey eyes. ‘I am not ill, Edmund, and I want to do this. I like doing this.’
A slow smile grew on his face. ‘I like the work, too, Amelie. But stop if you become fatigued.’
Her shoulders relaxed and her spirits rose. ‘I will.’
>
He gazed at her for a moment longer before climbing to the top of the hill and disappearing over the other side.
* * *
The sun was low in the sky when Edmund came off the hill. He walked with Reid.
‘Will we finish before the rains?’ he asked the steward.
‘Another two days like this one an’ we will,’ Reid answered.
Edmund had turned a corner with Reid. He’d been working side by side with the man these last few days, especially with the haymaking, and Edmund thought perhaps he had started to earn the steward’s respect.
He surveyed the land around him. This was not as prosperous a farm as Summerfield had been and not at all the future he’d planned for himself, but he liked the people and he liked the work.
Ahead of him, some of the farm workers walked back to their cottages side by side with their wives. Edmund envied them.
But he caught sight of Amelie heading back to the house. Beautiful Amelie. Who would have thought a viscount’s daughter would be willing to work in the fields?
‘I’ll bid you good day here, Reid. I’m going to join my wife.’ It felt good to say those words.
‘She did a fine day’s work,’ Reid said.
‘That she did.’ Edmund hurried away.
He caught up with Amelie, and she smiled when she saw him.
Edmund fell in step with her. ‘How did you fare today?’
She glanced up at him. ‘I am exhausted. Every muscle hurts.’ She grinned. ‘But I feel good.’
He felt good, too. ‘It was fine work, was it not?’
‘Does your leg pain you?’ she asked.
‘A twinge. No more,’ he replied. ‘Work seems to be helping. Making it stronger.’
When they reached the house they washed, donned clean clothes and ate more of Mrs Stagg’s mutton stew.
As they finished the simple meal, Edmund asked, ‘Should we have tea in the drawing room?’
Amelie rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. ‘To own the truth, all I want is to go to bed.’
