Tremaine's True Love (26 page)

“Then Horton should find a younger assistant.”

St. Michael was a dab hand at solving other people’s problems. Children would cure him of that arrogance if Nita didn’t see to it.

“I’ve told Horton that,” Nick said, “and he scoffs at the very notion. Vicar agrees with him and says the problem is that Nita lacks a proper sense of her place in the world. I cannot say the man is wrong.”

Though neither was Nita to blame for allowing others to need her.

The cat on the far side of the door was aggravatingly persistent.

“Your vicar may not be wrong,” St. Michael said, “but he’s not very Christian either. If he did more to inspire his flock’s charitable impulses, Lady Nita wouldn’t be scouring your larder for the parish poor.”

The Scots were of necessity a practical people, also fiercely loyal to family. St. Michael would not criticize Nita for her generosity or caring, and that was some relief.

“The old vicar was a kinder soul,” Nick said, feeling abruptly chilly. “We miss him.” Nick missed his father too. Sorely, every day. For the first time, it occurred to Nick that Nita must miss her papa every bit as much if not more.

And her mama and her other married brothers, for whom she’d made Belle Maison a well-organized, comfortable home.

“You are worried for your sister’s happiness,” St. Michael said, taking the hammer from Nick’s grasp and hanging it again in its assigned location. “That speaks well of you. Whatever funds you have set aside for Lady Nita, I will triple them upon our marriage and you can manage them as you see fit. I want six rams, one tup, and six ewes, of my choosing.”

“Agreed,” Nick said, “but only because you will give Nita those happy years, those children and grandchildren. Choose the best of the herd, if you can convince her that she need not accept every obligation put before her, that she’s dear and precious in herself.”

The hammer would not hang straight for St. Michael, and the damned cat would not cease scratching at the door, so Nick took pity on the beast.

“I have promised your sister we can bide near her family for much of the year, though the matter of children is in the Almighty’s hands.” St. Michael paused in the open doorway. “As for that other—the sore throats and whatnot—she’s done with it, particularly with the infections and diseases. As my countess, she’ll have many agreeable tasks to keep her busy, and her health will no longer be put at risk for others. I’ve warned her that I take seriously the welfare of my dependents, and Lady Nita is done waging war on illness and death.”

Nick would have been more reassured by this pronouncement had Nita been present to confirm it. St. Michael at least had the right objective.

Nick offered his hand. “Best of luck, St. Michael, and welcome to the family.”

St. Michael shook firmly, then departed, leaving Nick once again in the cat’s company, with no earthly idea what manner of wedding gift to make for his oldest sister.

* * *

“That is ten pounds,” Kirsten said.

“Not my ten pounds,” Nita replied, stuffing the money back into the pocket of her cloak. “Mr. St. Michael asked me to pass it along to Addy, but one hesitates.”

“You think she’ll drink it?”

Kirsten rode a flighty, elegant mare with a fine opinion of herself, though this morning, Hecate was content to plod along at Atlas’s side.

“I often wonder how I’d fare, were I in Addy’s place,” Nita said, turning down the lane that led to the Chalmers cottage. “If a young man wheedled my virtue from me, got me with child, then abandoned me, opening the door for his family and mine to turn their backs on me as well, how would I manage?”

“You’re thinking of Norton? Any one of our brothers would have brought him up to scratch, Nita.”

Atlas stumbled, an occasional bad step in snowy footing common for even the most sure-footed horse.

“I’m thinking of myself, of whether I could have borne to become Norton’s wife. I wanted to be in love with him, but—” Compared to what Nita felt for Tremaine St. Michael, her attraction to Norton Nash had been more curiosity and boredom than affection.

And loneliness. Heaps and years of loneliness.

“Norton was more fun loving and less vain than Edward,” Kirsten said, “but Elsie got the pick of that litter.”

While Susannah had made a play for the runt.

“I’m encouraged whenever I see smoke coming from Addy’s chimney,” Nita said, drawing Atlas to a halt before the rickety porch. “Smoke means Addy hasn’t left her children to freeze to death.”

Kirsten unhooked her knee from the horn and slid down, her mare taking a sidewise step to enliven the maneuver.

“Is that why you didn’t call upon your fiancé’s escort for this outing?” Kirsten asked, running her stirrup up its leather. “You worry that someday, you’ll come up this lane and find another dead baby?”

Nita got off her horse, for once finding Kirsten’s blunt speech appropriate. “Nobody talks about it, but I delivered that child and I do fear for her siblings.” Babies died with appalling frequency, but a baby stood no chance when the mother resumed drinking shortly after her lying-in.

“I’ve always wondered how the men of this parish engage Addy’s services,” Kirsten said, passing Nita one of the two sacks they’d brought. “Many of those fellows grew up with her, saw her at services, and knew her parents. How can they undertake
dealings
with a woman whom they knew was once respectable, when they might instead offer her gainful employment?”

“Lady Nita!” Evan stood in the doorway, his little face wreathed in smiles, the blue scarf about his neck and the ends dangling nearly to his knees. “And Lady Kirsten! The baby’s awake, and I’m learning the letters for my name.”

“Letters are a fine thing,” Nita said, entering the cottage. Addy sat before the hearth in the rocking chair, Annie cradled in her lap. “Addy, hello.”

“My ladies.” She rose, bobbing a curtsy with the child in her arms. “Evan, close that door or we’ll all freeze. Mary, wipe your brother’s nose.”

“How is Annie,” Kirsten asked, “and how are you, Addy?”

“Annie is better, and we’re managing.” Managing did not mean the cottage offered any hospitality. Even a cup of tea was an extravagance beyond Addy’s means.

“Managing is the best many of us can do,” Nita said, peering at the baby. “Her color’s good and she’s breathing well.”

Addy kissed the child’s brow, the gesture both defensive and protective. “I’ll not lose this one. Not this one too.”

Kirsten took the sack Nita had been clutching. “Children, I’ll slice you some bread, and there’s butter and jam in these sacks somewhere. Perhaps you’ll help me find them?”

The household afforded no more privacy than it did hospitality, though Kirsten would hardly gossip and the children were absorbed with the prospect of good food.

“I do not judge you, Addy,” Nita said, taking off one glove and running a finger over the child’s cheek. “I certainly do not judge wee Annie.”

The baby rooted against her mother’s shoulder, a normal, healthy infant indication of interest in nutrition, the same interest shared by the other children.

“Come sit with me,” Addy said, moving toward the sleeping alcove.

Nita followed her behind the curtain to a pathetically tidy square of bedding, an extra blanket—one Nita had brought when she’d first learned Addy was carrying—folded at the foot of the bed.

Addy passed over the baby and loosened her jumps in anticipation of nursing her child. When her clothing had been rearranged, Addy put the baby to her breast with the detached efficiency of an experienced mother.

“I want to tell you something, my lady.”

Dread swept up from Nita’s middle, like a cold gust tearing into a cozy parlor from a window slammed open by a winter gale.

“You’re not surrendering this child to the parish,” Nita said. “I’ll not take her to the foundling hospital either.”

The baby latched on greedily, her mother wincing with afterpains. The late countess, a mother of seven herself, had said those were often as painful as the birth pangs, and yet Nita envied Addy her discomfort.

“I’ll not surrender the child to the parish,” Addy said, “though I understand why you’d think that of me. I need paper, Lady Nita, and pencil, for I’ve a letter to write. I hate to ask, when you’ve done so much for me, but I have a cousin in Shropshire who last I heard had longed for children and been unable to have them. Her husband’s a kind man, and she wrote to me even after Mary came.”

That would have been as much as ten years ago, and yet Addy still clung to hope regarding this cousin.

“You’d send the baby to her?” Nita hated that notion, for a newborn needed her mother.

“And Evan. Jacob and Esau are good, sturdy boys, but Evan needs a trade. I won’t want to, and certainly not until the baby is weaned, but I cannot—”

A combination of emotions chased across Addy’s once-pretty features. Determination, resignation, anger, and despair were all made more passionate by the mother-love nature intended every child to know from the moment of birth.

“You cannot what, Addy?” Nita asked. Beyond the curtain, the cottage had grown quiet as the older children consumed the bounty of bread, jam, and butter.

“I cannot continue as I’ve been doing. I can’t go back to it, Lady Nita. You might think I’ve grown accustomed to the shame, to the men, but I haven’t. I want better for my Annie, and for Mary too.”

Did anybody ever grow accustomed to shame? To guilt? “What about their fathers? Might they at least help the children?” Did they feel any shame?

“The only one I know for sure is Mary’s father, and he’s gone. His family won’t help, and Mary’s growing too pretty.”

Nicholas might allow Mary to join the kitchen staff at Belle Maison, but then what of the younger children?

“Mr. St. Michael asked me to give this to you,” Nita said, drawing the ten pounds from her cloak. “It won’t solve any greater problems, but it will give you time to heal from Annie’s birth, to write to your cousin, and consider your options.”

Addy used one finger to break the suction between the infant and the nipple, and switched the child to the second breast.

“That’s from Mr. St. Michael?” Addy asked, looking anywhere but at the money.

“He will not expect anything in return. He and I are to be married, and he once lived as a poor lad would, Addy. This is for the children.”

Nita tucked the money under the single thin pillow at the head of the bed. The pillowcase still had a border of fine white work, suggesting it was a relic of Addy’s trousseau.

“We’ll miss you here, Lady Nita, but he’s a good sort, your Mr. St. Michael.”

Beyond the curtain, Evan quietly asked for more bread and jam. His siblings remained silent in the face of that bold request, but Kirsten must have obliged, for soon a chorus of, “Please, Lady Kirsten, me too!” followed.

“You needn’t miss me,” Nita said. “Mr. St. Michael has said he’ll find us a property in the neighborhood.”

The idea was satisfying, like fresh bread, butter, and jam for a lady’s soul. In that single magnanimous gesture, Tremaine had assured Nita that she could still contribute to her community, still uphold the tradition passed down to her by her own mother.

“I don’t attend services, my lady. Vicar made it clear I was not welcome.”

“I didn’t mean you’d see me only at—”

The baby made a noise suggesting her nappies were in immediate need of attention.

“One end fed, the other end clean,” Addy said with good-humored patience. She passed Nita the baby, did up her bodice, and took Annie back. “I didn’t kill my babies, Lady Nita.”

The stink one small baby could create was prodigious. “I would never accuse you of that.”

“Because you’re too kind. When I know I’m carrying, I try to stay away from the gin and have only the small pints most women drink from time to time. Spirits are dear, and my children need to eat. I drink so I can earn money.”

So Addy could tolerate the attentions of her customers in other words. Nita rose from the bed.

“You needn’t explain this to me, Addy. Many other women would have put their children on the parish and gone to London by now.” Though the parish might not accept these children, notwithstanding that they’d lived their entire lives in Haddondale.

“Nothing but disease awaits me in London, I know that,” Addy said, laying the child in the middle of the bed. “I also know many would rather I leave, but I can’t do that to my children. I try not to drink, and when the babies come, as long as I can, I stay with them.”

“But they must eat, so you resume your activities in the village.”

Addy drew the curtain back, revealing the four older children gathered around the hearth, all eagerly demonstrating their letters for Kirsten.

“And to do that, I drink. I also drink when one of my babies dies, though God knows, heaven must be an improvement over what I can offer them here.”

That sentiment was so miserable, so honest, Nita could not accept it.

“Look at your children,” she said. “They’re warm enough, they have food in their bellies. You have more means to care for them now than you’ve had for months, Addy Chalmers. You will write to your cousin; I will speak to Nicholas. Surely Belle Maison can use a scullery maid or a shepherd boy.”

On the bed behind them, the baby fussed, waving small fists in the air.

“You should burp her,” Nita said, “when her nappy has been tended to.”

“I smell a stinky,” Evan chirped from the hearth.

“I’ll change her,” Mary said, springing up and snatching a clean cloth from a stack on the table.

“They’re good children,” Nita said, “and you’re right to want something better for them. I will be back, Addy, with pencil and paper, at least.”

Jacob, Esau, and Evan were apparently smitten with Lady Kirsten, for when she rose, their little faces fell.

“Time to go?” Kirsten asked a bit too cheerfully.

“If you’re done with your scholars,” Nita replied.

Addy rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too.

Nita mentally added some simple books to the list of provisions she’d bring when next she visited, and soon she and Kirsten were back in their respective saddles, though they rode into the wind on their homeward journey.