didn’t dare mention persistent coughs, sore throats, or head colds, though they were on her mind.
“I’m inclined to practice the pianoforte today,” she replied. “Some pieces that might allow the musicians a break at the assembly.” Then she’d check on Annie.
“Thoughtful of you,” Leah said, and to Nita’s surprise, a look went the opposite direction, up the table, from countess to earl.
“Mr. St. Michael,” Nita said, “have you plans for today?”
He would say nothing of their shared biscuits and cider, of that Nita was certain. Did he know she’d nearly kissed him, nearly turned a sweet, friendly embrace into something sweet, friendly, and improper?
Why hadn’t she?
Mr. St. Michael had a dimmer view of marriage than Nita did. He wouldn’t have followed a stolen kiss with awkward declarations or lewd presumptions.
“As it turns out, I’m off for London later today,” he said. “Word came last night that one of my flocks has taken sick. Bellefonte, your man Alfrydd was good enough to send a pigeon for me to Oxfordshire, but in the absence of encouraging news this morning, I must go.”
Another look went winging around the table, this time from Kirsten to Susannah to Della—and what was Della doing at the breakfast table twice in one week?
“A pity that anybody should have to attempt the King’s Highway at this time of year,” the countess said. “Nicholas, please pass the teapot to our guest.”
Nita ate something—eggs, possibly bacon, buttered toast—then excused herself. As Mr. St. Michael had recited his plans for the day, he’d done Nita the courtesy of keeping his gaze elsewhere, yet would a hint of regret have been so inappropriate?
Rather than seek him out and ask such a brazen question, Nita applied herself for the next hour to country-dances at the pianoforte.
“If you hit those keys any harder, the poor instrument will lose its tuning.”
Tremaine St. Michael had ventured into the music room, a pair of worn saddlebags over his shoulder. Nita brought the music to a cadence and folded the lid over the keys.
“Mr. St. Michael. I gather you’re leaving us.”
Leaving her.
He took a seat on the piano bench, which left little room for Nita. “I honestly don’t want to, my lady. I looked forward to turning down the room with you, learning how you cheat at cards, or singing a few verses of ‘Green Grow the Rashes, O.’”
“Mr. Burns again?”
“At his philosophical best. Will you walk with me to the stables, my dear?”
The door to the music room was open, which preserved Nita from an impulse to kiss Mr. St. Michael. She’d refrained the previous night—good manners, common sense, some inconvenient virtue had denied her a single instant of shared pleasure.
“I’ll need my cloak.”
Mr. St. Michael stayed right where he was, which meant Nita was more or less penned onto the piano bench.
“I told the earl the Chalmers boys would be useful in any effort to harvest timber from the home wood,” Mr. St. Michael said. “They’ll know where the deadfall is, where the saplings haven’t enough light. The girl, Mary, is plenty old enough to start in the scullery.”
Nita hadn’t dared make that suggestion, though many apprentices began work at age six.
“Mary is needed at home, especially now that the new baby is here.”
“The baby has a mother.” Mr. St. Michael rose, his tone quite severe. “An infant that young ought to be in her mother’s care.”
Nita came to her feet before he could assist her. “Addy tries, but she can’t find honest work, and that leaves only what vice the men in the shire will indulge in, and she drinks.”
Such was the fate of women who did not preserve their virtue for marriage. Mr. St. Michael spared Nita that sermon, though Nicholas had alluded to it enough to disappoint Nita more than a little.
As if any of her brothers had preserved their virtue for holy matrimony? As if they knew for a fact that Addy had cast her
“I’m inclined to practice the pianoforte today,” she replied. “Some pieces that might allow the musicians a break at the assembly.” Then she’d check on Annie.
“Thoughtful of you,” Leah said, and to Nita’s surprise, a look went the opposite direction, up the table, from countess to earl.
“Mr. St. Michael,” Nita said, “have you plans for today?”
He would say nothing of their shared biscuits and cider, of that Nita was certain. Did he know she’d nearly kissed him, nearly turned a sweet, friendly embrace into something sweet, friendly, and improper?
Why hadn’t she?
Mr. St. Michael had a dimmer view of marriage than Nita did. He wouldn’t have followed a stolen kiss with awkward declarations or lewd presumptions.
“As it turns out, I’m off for London later today,” he said. “Word came last night that one of my flocks has taken sick. Bellefonte, your man Alfrydd was good enough to send a pigeon for me to Oxfordshire, but in the absence of encouraging news this morning, I must go.”
Another look went winging around the table, this time from Kirsten to Susannah to Della—and what was Della doing at the breakfast table twice in one week?
“A pity that anybody should have to attempt the King’s Highway at this time of year,” the countess said. “Nicholas, please pass the teapot to our guest.”
Nita ate something—eggs, possibly bacon, buttered toast—then excused herself. As Mr. St. Michael had recited his plans for the day, he’d done Nita the courtesy of keeping his gaze elsewhere, yet would a hint of regret have been so inappropriate?
Rather than seek him out and ask such a brazen question, Nita applied herself for the next hour to country-dances at the pianoforte.
“If you hit those keys any harder, the poor instrument will lose its tuning.”
Tremaine St. Michael had ventured into the music room, a pair of worn saddlebags over his shoulder. Nita brought the music to a cadence and folded the lid over the keys.
“Mr. St. Michael. I gather you’re leaving us.”
Leaving her.
He took a seat on the piano bench, which left little room for Nita. “I honestly don’t want to, my lady. I looked forward to turning down the room with you, learning how you cheat at cards, or singing a few verses of ‘Green Grow the Rashes, O.’”
“Mr. Burns again?”
“At his philosophical best. Will you walk with me to the stables, my dear?”
The door to the music room was open, which preserved Nita from an impulse to kiss Mr. St. Michael. She’d refrained the previous night—good manners, common sense, some inconvenient virtue had denied her a single instant of shared pleasure.
“I’ll need my cloak.”
Mr. St. Michael stayed right where he was, which meant Nita was more or less penned onto the piano bench.
“I told the earl the Chalmers boys would be useful in any effort to harvest timber from the home wood,” Mr. St. Michael said. “They’ll know where the deadfall is, where the saplings haven’t enough light. The girl, Mary, is plenty old enough to start in the scullery.”
Nita hadn’t dared make that suggestion, though many apprentices began work at age six.
“Mary is needed at home, especially now that the new baby is here.”
“The baby has a mother.” Mr. St. Michael rose, his tone quite severe. “An infant that young ought to be in her mother’s care.”
Nita came to her feet before he could assist her. “Addy tries, but she can’t find honest work, and that leaves only what vice the men in the shire will indulge in, and she drinks.”
Such was the fate of women who did not preserve their virtue for marriage. Mr. St. Michael spared Nita that sermon, though Nicholas had alluded to it enough to disappoint Nita more than a little.
As if any of her brothers had preserved their virtue for holy matrimony? As if they knew for a fact that Addy had cast her
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