Nan said gently, “We’ve all been given gifts, Thora, and ought not hide them away. They remind us that we are blessed and loved. They give pleasure to those who see them—especially to the one who bestowed the gift in the first place.”
Thora formed a thin smile. “Well, Frank isn’t here to see it.”
“No, but his son is. And you are.” Nan reached over and lightly pressed her arm. Thora willed herself not to pull away.
“I think it is time to bring your blue heart out of hiding, Thora. Let others see it and appreciate it. And you as well.”
“Well. Thank you, Nan,” Thora said stiffly. “I shall try to remember your advice.”
Nan relaxed back against her pillows. “No, you won’t. Always were stubborn . . .” Her eyes looked suddenly heavy, ready to close.
“Nan?” Thora asked in concern. “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
“Just to rest awhile. Such weariness settles on me. Often at the most inconvenient times.”
“But I thought you were going to eat dinner with Tal . . . Walter and me?”
“I don’t think I shall after all, Thora. Just set aside a few bites of your famous pie, will you? I shall have a tray in my room later. But for now, I fear I must sleep.”
Thora rose. “Then perhaps I had better go as well. We can eat together another time.”
Nan’s eyes flew open again. “No, Thora. Walt has gone to such trouble to clean the place and find a good hen. Don’t disappoint him because I am such a weak ninny, please?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Nan said, “I was not good about visiting when you lost Frank and then John, so it would mean a great deal to me if you would dine with Walter.”
Thora realized Nan had echoed her own words back to her and managed a small grin. “Very well, then. I shall,” she said. “If it makes you feel better.”
“Yes . . . much better . . .” Nan’s eyes drifted closed.
Thora left Nan’s room, disappointed and a little uncomfortable at the notion of dining alone with Walter Talbot in his home. She wasn’t exactly sure why she felt ill at ease. She was not overly concerned about propriety and doubted anyone would think twice about her dining with a former employee while his ailing sister-in-law slept in the next room. Though she would probably omit that last detail if asked to recount the visit later.
Thora had never been skilled in making small talk and anticipated the meal would be awkward and the conversation stilted. Over the years, she and Talbot had had hundreds of conversations—brief and professional, or sometimes curt when tensions grew high or carriages late, but never awkward. She hoped she could think of something appropriate to say.
He looked up when she entered the kitchen, his gaze flickering over her unrelieved grey gown. “Did you forget your shawl?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I gave it to Nan. Thought it might help keep her warm.”
“That was kind of you. Is she ready to join us?”
“No. She wants to sleep, but insists we go ahead without her. She says she will eat in her room later, and asks that we save her some pie.”
“Of course.” He sighed. Disappointment and something else crossed his face.
“Can you be trusted not to eat it all?” Thora teased, to cheer him up.
He looked up at her, the sadness in his eyes falling away. “For Nan’s sake, I shall exhibit a modicum of self-control.”
He gestured for her to precede him into the dining room. Thora wondered if they would sit formally at head and foot like a married couple. Where had that thought come from? She inwardly chastised her foolishness.
Instead Walter had set two plates on the table—one at the head, the other to its right. He pulled out the chair for her at the head of the table.
Thora said, “This is your place, surely.”
“There is no need for formality between us. Besides,” he said with a grin, “I know you like to be mistress of all you survey.”
She did not return his grin. Did he think she aspired to be mistress of his home? She had never given such an impression, surely. She felt herself grow increasingly uncomfortable. What was she doing there? What was he doing?
She was tempted to leave then and there. But then she recalled Nan’s plea, and sat down. Besides, she would not want this fine meal to go to waste. She was eager to see how the pie had turned out.
Thora reached for her table napkin, but Talbot clasped his hands. “Shall we give thanks for the food?”
“Oh. If you like.” It was the Sabbath after all, she supposed. Though she was not accustomed to praying before meals.
Talbot closed his eyes, and in his low voice said, “Heavenly Father, we thank thee for this food and for our health. Please have mercy on Nan in her affliction. Strengthen and relieve her. Thou knowest the infirmity of our nature, and the temptations that surround us. Give us a thankful sense of our many blessings; that we may not deserve to lose them by discontent or indifference. Amen.”
Thora studied his face as he looked up. “Were any points of that prayer aimed at me?” she asked, feeling unaccountably defensive.
He held her gaze. “Not intentionally. But if something pricked your conscience, then perhaps—”
“If the prayer fits, wear it?” she finished for him, adapting the old adage.
“Something like that. In all truth, I was thinking of my own blessings, failings, and temptations, but like it or not, you are human too, Thora. So I daresay you may have a few of those yourself.”
Of course she had failings. But she didn’t like him pointing them out. She said, “Surely the reliable Talbot doesn’t struggle with temptation?”
He served her a chicken leg, thoughtfully remembering it was the piece she preferred.
“I can think of one temptation quite easily,” he said with a lift of his knife. “She is sitting directly across from me. Or perhaps affliction is more accurate.”
He was teasing her, she knew, and told herself not to let him bait her. If he saw her as an affliction, he would not have invited her over. A temptation? Surely not.
She helped herself to a wedge of pork-and-veal pie and shoved a forkful into her mouth to keep from saying anything she might regret.
Talbot followed her example and took a bite of the layered pie. “Delicious, Thora. Just as I remember it.” He closed his eyes to relish the taste. “No. Better.”
“I am glad you think so.”
She took another bite, pausing to savor the combination of flavors, savory and salty and even sweet. It was delicious. She hoped the McFarland girls enjoyed theirs.
They kept the conversation light after that, talking of the inn, favorite regulars, and Colin’s progress and continuing struggles. Their conversation was well seasoned and comfortable. Like the rich, nurturing food.
Afterward, they tidied the kitchen together, though Talbot insisted he would do the washing up later on his own. He wanted to have time to show her around the old homeplace before Thora had to leave.
They began with a tour of the house, talking in hushed tones to avoid waking Nan.
“I would like to build on,” he said. “A small study or conservatory with windows overlooking the garden.”
“What garden?” she asked, and quickly wished she’d bitten her tongue. Why was criticism her first response?
“Nothing much yet, beyond a small kitchen garden. But I am planning one. Let’s go outside and I’ll show you.”
They did so, and when they reached the plot, Talbot said, “Mrs. Bushby has come out to advise me, and has even offered to share cuttings from her own perennials. She says the soil is fertile, though could use more manure. . . .”
“Sounds like plenty of manure has been unloaded already,” Thora murmured.
“Hm?”
“Never mind.”
Mrs. Bushby was a widow as well, Thora knew. Was she really so helpful, or did her interest in the bachelor-farmer extend beyond his . . . fertile soil?
T
albot gestured her forward. “Come, I’ll show you the rest.”
They strolled around the farm’s perimeter, Thora noticing the stone walls and wooden fences were all well maintained. He had been busy. Talbot pointed out the barn, explaining his plans to add a forge so he could keep his horses shod and equipment in good repair.
As they passed the farm’s main gate, Thora observed, “The place needs a name. Most farms and cottages around here have them, as well as estates, of course. Ivy Cottage, Fairmont, Thornvale, the Grange, Lane’s Farm . . .”
He shrugged. “We’ve always just called it the farm. Or the homeplace.”
“Not very original.”
“Perhaps I ought to have a sign made to hang there on the gate?”
She nodded. “A good sign is important, my father always said.”
“Then I shall add that to my ever-mounting list of tasks.”
They reached a rise and together stood overlooking the surrounding countryside. He pointed out the borders of his property.
She said, “You could let part of this land to tenants, you know. Or hire more help to increase yields, and then use the money to buy Lane’s Farm. He’s thinking of selling, I hear.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “That’s the Thora I know. Never satisfied. Always looking to conquer more territory.”
“And you, Talbot? Are you satisfied being a yeoman farmer? I have seen you manage a large staff and dozens of passengers from thirty carriages a day, with income and expenses to match.”
“Money and success aren’t everything, Thora. I want to make improvements, yes, but have no need to become some powerful landlord. I want to have time to fish. Read. Spend time with the people I care about.”
He looked at her. “What about you, Thora? What is it you want out of life, now that The Bell is in Jane’s hands?”
“What do I want? You make it sound as if I can pick from a lengthy menu.”
“Well, do you plan to return to your sister’s?”
She blinked up at him. She’d forgotten how tall he was. “I . . . suppose that depends on what happens with The Bell.”
“Does it?” He stepped nearer and lowered his voice. “Thora . . .”
He broke off at the sound of an approaching horse and carriage.
They walked to the front of the house in time to see the Paleys arrive. They exchanged greetings, and Thora noticed the vicar and his wife send curious looks her way.
Talbot explained, “I was just showing Mrs. Bell around the farm.”
Mr. Paley nodded his understanding. “Don’t stop on our account. We have only dropped by to visit Nan for a bit.”
Mrs. Paley added, “You two go ahead with your tour.”
Talbot tied up the horse, showed them inside the house, and then returned to Thora. “Where were we?”
They walked on.
“I would like to plant trees as well,” Talbot said. “Maples, I’m thinking. For color in the autumn.”
“Trees? My goodness. You are thinking ahead. How long do you plan to live?”
“See me as ancient, do you? I am only a year your senior, Thora. Don’t forget.”
“I don’t forget. I feel every one of my years. And I have no plans to plant trees I shan’t be around to see.”
“Thunder and turf, Thora. You speak as though you have one foot in the grave already. You are only one and fifty—”
“Hush.”
“And in robust health, as far as I can see. You will live for another twenty or thirty years.”
“Just to spite you.”
“Nothing would please me more. I hope you live to see your ninetieth year. And I see it with you.”
She shot him a look. “Oh, I shall I outlive you, you old codger, make no mistake about that.”
“That’s my Thora. Out to win every contest she enters.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort, “I am not your Thora.” But she bit back the words just in time. A common turn of phrase—that’s all it was. But . . . the invitation, the meal, the care for his appearance, the pride in showing her his farm, and his anticipation of her reaction . . . ? No, no, no. Surely she was reading too much into it.
When she remained silent, he went on. “Mrs. Bushby said flowering trees would give the place charm. She said it could use a woman’s touch, and I have to say I agree.”
Her again. Was Martha Bushby offering herself for the job? Thora said, “Nan has lived here for years, and if she hasn’t added to the farm’s charms in all that time, I doubt anyone else could do so.”
“Nan has been sickly for most of those years. But I wasn’t thinking merely of feminine decorations. You know I have long admired your abilities in managing property and staff, Thora.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “Not to mention your pie-making skills.”
“You want to hire me as your housekeeper?” she said tartly. “If the inn fails, I just might take you up on that. I’ll be needing a way to earn my keep.”
A flash of irritation crossed his face. “No, I don’t want to hire you, Thora, I—”
The farmhouse door opened, and the Paleys came out.
Thora forced a smile and walked toward them. “And how did you find Nan?”
“Weak, I’m afraid,” Mr. Paley said. “But her spirits are good.”
“She is rather proud of that shawl you gave her,” Mrs. Paley added. “That dash of color is so warming to her complexion.”
Mr. Paley looked from one to the other. “We’re heading back to town if you would like a ride, Thora. Or . . . are you not finished with your tour?”
“Oh, I think we’re finished, all right,” Talbot said flatly. “I will help you gather your things.”
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Rachel surveyed the Thornvale dining room, lit by candelabra, laid with the family china and crystal, and decorated with a tiered centerpiece of fruits and flowers. Her cook had prepared an extravagant dinner, using all the silver tureens and serving dishes for, she was sure, the last time. Even if Mr. Ashford kept her on, the woman mournfully predicted, a young man in trade would not appreciate fine dining and would probably want stew and gruel served in pewter tankards.
They had not hosted a party since before her father’s illness and financial problems. They’d had to let their old butler go when their fortunes took a turn, and Casper, already in his sixties, had retired to neighboring Wishford. But he had returned for this special dinner, in honor of his former master. His waistcoat puckered at the buttons, but he still cut an authoritative figure. They had hired two footmen to serve as well.
Rachel returned to the hall to await their guests just as her sister descended the stairs. Ellen looked elegant in a black silk evening gown, far more fashionable—and low cut—than her own. Ellen and her maid had arrived a few days before, in time to pack up her china, jewelry, and a few mementos, and to help plan the seating arrangement for the party. It was good to have Ellen at home one last time. Her sister’s blithe conversation had distracted Rachel from the sad removal to come.
“Ready?” Ellen asked.
“Ready.”
Ellen studied her face. “Will it be difficult for you with him here?”
Rachel did not need to ask whom she meant. “No. It’s all so long ago. I’m fine.” She smiled, and hoped it was convincing.
Ellen patted her arm. “Fortitude, my sister. No sadness tonight, hmm?”
When Casper announced the arrival of Sir Timothy and Miss Brockwell, Rachel grasped a nearby chair back to steady herself, and avoided her sister’s gaze. How handsome Timothy looked in his dark evening clothes, white waistcoat, and cravat. He bowed and she curtsied, glad for a chance to look down.
“My mother sends her regrets,” he said. “She is home with a minor cough she does not want anyone else to suffer.”
Privately, Rachel was relieved. Lady Brockwell intimidated her.
Ellen elbowed her and beamed a smile at the brother and sister. “Welcome. Thank you for coming
.”
Rachel focused her attention on young Justina, so pretty in silk the lightest wash of rose pink. She complimented Justina’s finely curled and arranged hair, and the young woman admitted shyly that her mother’s lady’s maid had done it. That gave Rachel an idea. She wondered if Lady Brockwell would consider engaging Jemima as a second lady’s maid for Justina. Rachel doubted she would be able to employ her once she left Thornvale. But there would be time to worry about that later.
Mercy and her aunt arrived. Mercy wore an evening gown several years out of fashion in muted mauve and ivory. Her aunt, in startling contrast, wore a bright purple gown with a dyed-to-match feather in her wispy grey curls. Matilda’s happy face was as bright as her dress. Old Mr. Nikel, dapper in evening clothes, took her arm and led her to a chair, and the two talked easily together. It pleased Rachel to see her two eldest guests enjoying each other’s company, and congratulated herself on including them in their party.
Seeing Justina, Matilda smiled coyly and said, “Did I hear from your mother that we shall have another reason to celebrate soon?”
Justina ducked her head but made no reply.
In her stead, Sir Timothy answered, “I think that is safe to say.” He smiled from Matilda to Justina, but his sister refused to meet his gaze.
“Not now, Timothy, please.”
“You are right,” he replied. “Today is about Sir William.”
“And nothing is settled,” Justina insisted, then turned to Rachel. “Now. Miss Ashford, we heard you had a visit recently from a relation of yours . . . ?”
“Yes.” Seeing in the girl’s pleading look that she wished to change the subject, Rachel elaborated, “My second cousin, Nicholas Ashford. He seems an agreeable—if somewhat shy—young man. But I am certain he will make a fine master of Thornvale. In time.”
She was not at all certain, but felt duty bound to present the awkward young man in the best possible light. Usurper or not, they were family, however distantly related.