Read Online Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes - Free Book Online
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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sad, Nita regretted the question.
“Not bad,” Addy replied, taking a nibble of sausage. “Mary was the worst. I nearly bled to death after she was born, and then her father’s family wanted nothing to do with her. This is good, spicy sausage. Evan, you may put my boots on to go out for a moment, but don’t you take a chill, and mind Lady Nita’s gentleman friend.”
Addy’s boots were too large for him, of course, and the coat he tied around his waist with twine was too large as well, but a too-large coat could be a blessing when the wind was sharp and a little boy’s trousers ended several inches above his ankles.
“Is your fellow good-looking?” Addy asked when Evan had gone.
Nita hacked a potato to bits—a potato she would have forgotten to add to the pot, but for Mr. St. Michael’s reminder. Addy had long ago lost the knack of standing on ceremony, probably as much an occupational hazard for soiled doves as it was for those who attended birthings.
“Mr. St. Michael’s looks are not excessively refined, and he’s not my fellow,” Nita said, going after a second potato. “But he recites poetry, loves children, and once upon a time, he was very, very poor.”
Which Nita’s family likely would not have guessed in a thousand years.
* * *
Tremaine had spent years forgetting how dirty poverty was, though the state of his fingernails brought the reality back quickly. He’d also forgotten that boiling laundry was an art, which the child Mary had apparently studied.
Stale bread rubbed on the linen would have taken out the grease stain on her pinafore she’d assured him, though of course no bread survived long enough in her household to become stale. Hot milk should have been applied to the jam Evan had got on his sleeve—though no milk could be spared for such a vanity.
Most of the items they’d boiled had been small, stained, and threadbare, a metaphor for life as those children knew it.
“You’re very quiet, Mr. St. Michael,” Lady Nita observed.
“Thinking about Mr. Burns’s mouse,” Tremaine replied as the horses clopped along in the direction of Belle Maison. Laundry was a tedious undertaking, thus much of the afternoon had been wasted at the malodorous cottage. At least the laundry had allowed Tremaine to remain outside in the fresh air, while Lady Nita had been indoors, cooking, mending, and cleaning.
And likely breathing through her mouth.
“Nobody will believe we spent the past three hours trotting about the shire,” Tremaine pointed out. “Not in this weather.”
“They won’t ask.”
Lady Nita had trained them not to ask, in other words.
On this refreshing hack through the nearer reaches of destitution, Tremaine had picked up two splinters, a twinge in his left shoulder—a dull ax was an abomination against God and Nature—and dirty fingernails.
Lady Nita was still tidy, serene, and unruffled by their visit to the cottage.
“Your brother won’t have to ask us what we’ve got up to,” Tremaine said. “He’ll interrogate the grooms about how long we were gone and in which direction we rode. He’ll inquire in the kitchen about bread, milk, sausage, tea, salt, sugar, and other necessities. He’ll inspect your hems and my boots as we pass him in the corridor.”
Even the Earl of Bellefonte would recognize the stink of boiled cabbage clinging to their clothing.
Tremaine’s recitation did not please her ladyship. She turned her face up to a frigid breeze, as if seeking fortification from the cold.
“Nicholas might ask,” she said, “but he won’t interfere, though he probably wishes all the infirm and indigent would simply leave the realm, or his little corner of it.”
No, Bellefonte wished his sisters would leave—for the dubious comforts of holy matrimony. In this, his lordship was simply a conscientious English patriarch.
“Then why not marry?” Tremaine asked. “You’d be out from under your brother’s roof.” Though Bellefonte appeared to
“Not bad,” Addy replied, taking a nibble of sausage. “Mary was the worst. I nearly bled to death after she was born, and then her father’s family wanted nothing to do with her. This is good, spicy sausage. Evan, you may put my boots on to go out for a moment, but don’t you take a chill, and mind Lady Nita’s gentleman friend.”
Addy’s boots were too large for him, of course, and the coat he tied around his waist with twine was too large as well, but a too-large coat could be a blessing when the wind was sharp and a little boy’s trousers ended several inches above his ankles.
“Is your fellow good-looking?” Addy asked when Evan had gone.
Nita hacked a potato to bits—a potato she would have forgotten to add to the pot, but for Mr. St. Michael’s reminder. Addy had long ago lost the knack of standing on ceremony, probably as much an occupational hazard for soiled doves as it was for those who attended birthings.
“Mr. St. Michael’s looks are not excessively refined, and he’s not my fellow,” Nita said, going after a second potato. “But he recites poetry, loves children, and once upon a time, he was very, very poor.”
Which Nita’s family likely would not have guessed in a thousand years.
* * *
Tremaine had spent years forgetting how dirty poverty was, though the state of his fingernails brought the reality back quickly. He’d also forgotten that boiling laundry was an art, which the child Mary had apparently studied.
Stale bread rubbed on the linen would have taken out the grease stain on her pinafore she’d assured him, though of course no bread survived long enough in her household to become stale. Hot milk should have been applied to the jam Evan had got on his sleeve—though no milk could be spared for such a vanity.
Most of the items they’d boiled had been small, stained, and threadbare, a metaphor for life as those children knew it.
“You’re very quiet, Mr. St. Michael,” Lady Nita observed.
“Thinking about Mr. Burns’s mouse,” Tremaine replied as the horses clopped along in the direction of Belle Maison. Laundry was a tedious undertaking, thus much of the afternoon had been wasted at the malodorous cottage. At least the laundry had allowed Tremaine to remain outside in the fresh air, while Lady Nita had been indoors, cooking, mending, and cleaning.
And likely breathing through her mouth.
“Nobody will believe we spent the past three hours trotting about the shire,” Tremaine pointed out. “Not in this weather.”
“They won’t ask.”
Lady Nita had trained them not to ask, in other words.
On this refreshing hack through the nearer reaches of destitution, Tremaine had picked up two splinters, a twinge in his left shoulder—a dull ax was an abomination against God and Nature—and dirty fingernails.
Lady Nita was still tidy, serene, and unruffled by their visit to the cottage.
“Your brother won’t have to ask us what we’ve got up to,” Tremaine said. “He’ll interrogate the grooms about how long we were gone and in which direction we rode. He’ll inquire in the kitchen about bread, milk, sausage, tea, salt, sugar, and other necessities. He’ll inspect your hems and my boots as we pass him in the corridor.”
Even the Earl of Bellefonte would recognize the stink of boiled cabbage clinging to their clothing.
Tremaine’s recitation did not please her ladyship. She turned her face up to a frigid breeze, as if seeking fortification from the cold.
“Nicholas might ask,” she said, “but he won’t interfere, though he probably wishes all the infirm and indigent would simply leave the realm, or his little corner of it.”
No, Bellefonte wished his sisters would leave—for the dubious comforts of holy matrimony. In this, his lordship was simply a conscientious English patriarch.
“Then why not marry?” Tremaine asked. “You’d be out from under your brother’s roof.” Though Bellefonte appeared to
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