good.”
“We’ve killed the fatted calf for you, my boy,” Mr. Merrick said heartily. “Mind you, if this land were to be drained and reclaimed like your father’s, we’d have no end of fatted cows. These pastures would breed the fattest, most succulent calves in all of England, isn’t that so?”
So that was why Mr. Merrick was so keen on marrying me off to Edmund, I realized with sickening dismay. I should have guessed. I should have known. If I tried to eat the beef now, I thought, I might very well choke on it.
Edmund must have been looking at me closely enough to notice the color drain from my face. “Reclaimed land may breed fat cattle, but wetlands draw and breed good, fat wild geese,” he said supportively. Astonishingly he must have even noticed the faintest flicker of disagreement in my eyes, for he added quietly: “Or don’t you think so, Miss Goodricke?”
I parted my lips to speak, hesitated.
“Please, do go on,” he said, encouragingly. “You had something to say, I think.”
“The girl always has something to say,” Mr. Merrick said through gritted teeth, his eyes like daggers intended to pierce my tongue and hold it still.
I gave a small shake of my head, my eyes downcast. “It was nothing.”
“But I should like to hear it all the same,” Edmund persisted gently.
I set down my knife and fork as if throwing down armor and relinquishing weapons. I looked up defiantly. It was absurd to try to pretend to be what I was not, especially since every thought I had seemed to show on my face. If Edmund Ashfield did not like the fact that I was educated, that I took an interest in the natural world and so-called masculine concerns, then so be it. I might as well know sooner rather than later. I had always been proud of my learning, too proud maybe, but I could not, would not, consider it a shameful thing that must be concealed. I had not read the conduct book Mr. Merrick had given to me, nor had any intention of ever doing so, but I had glanced at sufficient pages to know that I could never be the kind of modest and maidenly girl it set out to create. I would never be content with a life of needlework and gossip. If Edmund wanted such a girl, then I would never be happy with him, did not want him at all, no matter how handsome he was, no matter how his smile made me feel all warm inside and aware of my body in a way I never had been before.
I gulped down my wine, swallowed, handed the glass to Jack Jennings to be refilled. Edmund was still looking at me expectantly.
“It is just that . . . well, the wild geese never breed here,” I said.
Mr. Merrick snorted derisively. “Miss Goodricke is a proper little know-it-all, I am afraid,” he said grimly. “Though I imagine much of what she says is nonsense. How can anyone possibly know a thing like that?”
I flushed hot with embarrassment and anger. “All the wild geese have flown away by spring,” I countered with quiet confidence. “Long before the mallard ducklings and the heron chicks are born. I have watched them.” Overcome suddenly with a need to make mischief, I turned my head slightly, flicked my eyes sideways at Edmund as I had seen Bess do to Ned, the stable boy, whom she had married a year ago. “I’ve never once seen wild geese climbing on each other’s backs like the cock does to the hens.”
Mr. Merrick spluttered as if the succulent beef was poisoned. This was followed by a deathly hush. I hardly dared even glance at Edmund Ashfield. But when I did I saw with enormous relief that he was grinning from ear to ear as if I had said the most amusing and delightful thing he had ever heard. I could not help but grin back at him. I had not meant to test him, not really, and yet it had been a kind of a test and my heart sang at how completely he had passed it.
“This is not a conversation for the supper table,” Mr. Merrick said when he had recovered. “Indeed it is hardly fit conversation for any young lady in any
“We’ve killed the fatted calf for you, my boy,” Mr. Merrick said heartily. “Mind you, if this land were to be drained and reclaimed like your father’s, we’d have no end of fatted cows. These pastures would breed the fattest, most succulent calves in all of England, isn’t that so?”
So that was why Mr. Merrick was so keen on marrying me off to Edmund, I realized with sickening dismay. I should have guessed. I should have known. If I tried to eat the beef now, I thought, I might very well choke on it.
Edmund must have been looking at me closely enough to notice the color drain from my face. “Reclaimed land may breed fat cattle, but wetlands draw and breed good, fat wild geese,” he said supportively. Astonishingly he must have even noticed the faintest flicker of disagreement in my eyes, for he added quietly: “Or don’t you think so, Miss Goodricke?”
I parted my lips to speak, hesitated.
“Please, do go on,” he said, encouragingly. “You had something to say, I think.”
“The girl always has something to say,” Mr. Merrick said through gritted teeth, his eyes like daggers intended to pierce my tongue and hold it still.
I gave a small shake of my head, my eyes downcast. “It was nothing.”
“But I should like to hear it all the same,” Edmund persisted gently.
I set down my knife and fork as if throwing down armor and relinquishing weapons. I looked up defiantly. It was absurd to try to pretend to be what I was not, especially since every thought I had seemed to show on my face. If Edmund Ashfield did not like the fact that I was educated, that I took an interest in the natural world and so-called masculine concerns, then so be it. I might as well know sooner rather than later. I had always been proud of my learning, too proud maybe, but I could not, would not, consider it a shameful thing that must be concealed. I had not read the conduct book Mr. Merrick had given to me, nor had any intention of ever doing so, but I had glanced at sufficient pages to know that I could never be the kind of modest and maidenly girl it set out to create. I would never be content with a life of needlework and gossip. If Edmund wanted such a girl, then I would never be happy with him, did not want him at all, no matter how handsome he was, no matter how his smile made me feel all warm inside and aware of my body in a way I never had been before.
I gulped down my wine, swallowed, handed the glass to Jack Jennings to be refilled. Edmund was still looking at me expectantly.
“It is just that . . . well, the wild geese never breed here,” I said.
Mr. Merrick snorted derisively. “Miss Goodricke is a proper little know-it-all, I am afraid,” he said grimly. “Though I imagine much of what she says is nonsense. How can anyone possibly know a thing like that?”
I flushed hot with embarrassment and anger. “All the wild geese have flown away by spring,” I countered with quiet confidence. “Long before the mallard ducklings and the heron chicks are born. I have watched them.” Overcome suddenly with a need to make mischief, I turned my head slightly, flicked my eyes sideways at Edmund as I had seen Bess do to Ned, the stable boy, whom she had married a year ago. “I’ve never once seen wild geese climbing on each other’s backs like the cock does to the hens.”
Mr. Merrick spluttered as if the succulent beef was poisoned. This was followed by a deathly hush. I hardly dared even glance at Edmund Ashfield. But when I did I saw with enormous relief that he was grinning from ear to ear as if I had said the most amusing and delightful thing he had ever heard. I could not help but grin back at him. I had not meant to test him, not really, and yet it had been a kind of a test and my heart sang at how completely he had passed it.
“This is not a conversation for the supper table,” Mr. Merrick said when he had recovered. “Indeed it is hardly fit conversation for any young lady in any
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