Frederick had made for a nativity reenactment
involving only animals. Rosalinda, it seems, was intended for the
part of archangel.
"She's all white, you see. But we had to test
lowering her from the loft. Christmas is six weeks away, and we
can't leave it all for the end."
"That explains the broken rope," the earl
said in a queer voice. "What happened to the gate of the pen?"
"Kicked on the way down. Swung the wrong
way," Freddy answered. "Flew out and landed in the pen. Mother sow
took offense and whacked right through the gate on a run. Maybe I
should fetch her?" He looked around hopefully.
"An all-animal reenactment?" Chadbourn asked
in a strangled voice.
"Yes, well, Freddy thought the runt pig would
make a good baby, and Bertha," Randy pointed to the dog, "is ever
so good a mother, so we thought it might work." He scratched his
head. "But we don't have sheep, and I can't see who might be a
king."
"Perhaps it wasn't one of our better ideas,"
Freddy mumbled. "Needs work."
"Apparently it does," the earl said, looking
like he was holding his breath.
"Both of you, hayloft now. That sow is too
lazy to go far." Catherine cut in. To their credit, they both
obeyed.
She stared after them. What on earth could
she say to this man after that recital? She looked around to see
him biting his lip to keep from laughing. Amusement or mockery? She
had no way to tell. When he sobered, his question surprised
her.
"Did your crew bring in sufficient silage for
winter?" he asked, looking at the animals. He sounded genuinely
interested.
"Of course. We had a good harvest across the
board. Why do you ask?"
"Did most of the county enjoy a good
harvest?"
Catherine launched into an overview of yields
for the year, crop by crop, compared to the past three harvests for
the farms thereabouts. She caught herself in her peculiarly
unfeminine enthusiasms and colored. "That's more than you asked,"
she said. "Do you have an interest in farming?"
He smiled and looked as if he were about to
say something, but changed his mind. Silence became
uncomfortable.
"Thank you again," she began.
"Tell your husband I admire the condition of
your orchard. Your fences are first-rate," he said.
"I-I'm not married," she stammered. "The farm
is my father's." Damn the man. At twenty-six, Catherine knew well
enough that the age when women married had passed. She also knew
that option had never been available to her. She didn't need some
prancing nobleman to rub it in.
The earl looked disconcerted. "My apologies,
ma'am. To your father, then, Miss—"
"Catherine," she replied, with a belated
curtsey to his title.
He waited a moment, but when she didn't add a
surname, he mounted and rode off.
Chapter Two
Will's laughter followed him home. It broke
loose as soon as he rode out of earshot and was no longer in danger
of offending his charming hosts. Angelic goat! He couldn't remember
the last time he'd laughed so hard. Mercury trotted toward Eversham
Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the
neighbors.
Even the confirmation that most of the county
enjoyed a good harvest buoyed him. He admired the woman's
knowledgeable account. It proved he had been right to fire
Eversham's land steward. The fool had botched the harvest. He put
what little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting
hay. His incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being
right gave Will cold comfort.
His elation dimmed completely when Stowe,
Eversham Hall's morose butler, greeted him in the foyer.
"Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord," the
old man intoned. "She said to tell you it is most urgent."
"It always is," Will muttered, as he dragged
his feet up the stairs toward Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired
fences paled next to the damage Emery Wheatly had done in private.
He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive little sister to a
weeping bundle of misery.
If God is just—and I know He is—coals are
being heaped on Emery's sinful carcass right now,
involving only animals. Rosalinda, it seems, was intended for the
part of archangel.
"She's all white, you see. But we had to test
lowering her from the loft. Christmas is six weeks away, and we
can't leave it all for the end."
"That explains the broken rope," the earl
said in a queer voice. "What happened to the gate of the pen?"
"Kicked on the way down. Swung the wrong
way," Freddy answered. "Flew out and landed in the pen. Mother sow
took offense and whacked right through the gate on a run. Maybe I
should fetch her?" He looked around hopefully.
"An all-animal reenactment?" Chadbourn asked
in a strangled voice.
"Yes, well, Freddy thought the runt pig would
make a good baby, and Bertha," Randy pointed to the dog, "is ever
so good a mother, so we thought it might work." He scratched his
head. "But we don't have sheep, and I can't see who might be a
king."
"Perhaps it wasn't one of our better ideas,"
Freddy mumbled. "Needs work."
"Apparently it does," the earl said, looking
like he was holding his breath.
"Both of you, hayloft now. That sow is too
lazy to go far." Catherine cut in. To their credit, they both
obeyed.
She stared after them. What on earth could
she say to this man after that recital? She looked around to see
him biting his lip to keep from laughing. Amusement or mockery? She
had no way to tell. When he sobered, his question surprised
her.
"Did your crew bring in sufficient silage for
winter?" he asked, looking at the animals. He sounded genuinely
interested.
"Of course. We had a good harvest across the
board. Why do you ask?"
"Did most of the county enjoy a good
harvest?"
Catherine launched into an overview of yields
for the year, crop by crop, compared to the past three harvests for
the farms thereabouts. She caught herself in her peculiarly
unfeminine enthusiasms and colored. "That's more than you asked,"
she said. "Do you have an interest in farming?"
He smiled and looked as if he were about to
say something, but changed his mind. Silence became
uncomfortable.
"Thank you again," she began.
"Tell your husband I admire the condition of
your orchard. Your fences are first-rate," he said.
"I-I'm not married," she stammered. "The farm
is my father's." Damn the man. At twenty-six, Catherine knew well
enough that the age when women married had passed. She also knew
that option had never been available to her. She didn't need some
prancing nobleman to rub it in.
The earl looked disconcerted. "My apologies,
ma'am. To your father, then, Miss—"
"Catherine," she replied, with a belated
curtsey to his title.
He waited a moment, but when she didn't add a
surname, he mounted and rode off.
Chapter Two
Will's laughter followed him home. It broke
loose as soon as he rode out of earshot and was no longer in danger
of offending his charming hosts. Angelic goat! He couldn't remember
the last time he'd laughed so hard. Mercury trotted toward Eversham
Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the
neighbors.
Even the confirmation that most of the county
enjoyed a good harvest buoyed him. He admired the woman's
knowledgeable account. It proved he had been right to fire
Eversham's land steward. The fool had botched the harvest. He put
what little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting
hay. His incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being
right gave Will cold comfort.
His elation dimmed completely when Stowe,
Eversham Hall's morose butler, greeted him in the foyer.
"Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord," the
old man intoned. "She said to tell you it is most urgent."
"It always is," Will muttered, as he dragged
his feet up the stairs toward Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired
fences paled next to the damage Emery Wheatly had done in private.
He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive little sister to a
weeping bundle of misery.
If God is just—and I know He is—coals are
being heaped on Emery's sinful carcass right now,
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