28 December, 1822
The Cruikwork Cottage, Leicestershire
“When were your last courses, Miss Parker?”
The midwife’s crackly voice pulled her back from that wondrous night to the present. She searched her memory… she’d never been terribly regular, but… she could go no further back than Lady Clitheroe’s house party, as if her whole life had begun there, and wasn’t that just ridiculous?
“If you can tell me your last courses, this will take but a few moments.”
A sharp rapping at the door saved her.
The elder Mrs. Cruikwork peeked in. “There’s a servant from the manor come to fetch you, miss. Says it’s urgent.”
Mel jumped up. “I’ll be right along. Good day to you, Mrs. Astrop.”
She hurried through to the cottage kitchen, where the floor had been swept and the smaller children sat at the table spooning the vile chowder. A young groom in Loughton livery waited just inside. Holding her breath, she hurried out of the door and into the yard. Jilly was there supervising the older children as they gathered tools and ladders.
The groom handed her a note.
What could it be? No one would know to contact her here. Unless, perhaps Hermione had left word with her man of business that they’d be stopping at Loughton Manor. That was entirely possible. Perhaps there was a problem at Hermione’s cottage in Hampshire. Or… Grandfather. He’d suffered a stroke some weeks ago, but his secretary had written that he was improving.
With a prayer that the news was not something too terrible, she unfolded the paper and scanned the few words.
Heart sinking, she wished for Fitz. Her grandfather’s man, Mr. Smith, was waiting for her at Loughton Manor. It could only be bad news, the worst news; news that would mean an increase in her income, and leave another hole in her heart.
She steeled herself, picked her way across the yard to Jilly and asked her to let Lord Loughton know that she’d been called back to the manor on urgent business.
With the groom following, she rode along silently, grateful for the cold air stinging her cheeks while she battled her emotions. She was Major Parker’s daughter and she must not cry like a ninny.
She found Mr. Smith in the parlor, warming his feet by the fire. As he stood to greet her, she spotted the black band on his arm and her knees wobbled.
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Miss Parker, Mr. Sawley has passed away.”
“Lost part of the roof in that fierce storm last month.” There was no accusation in Cruikwork’s tone, nevertheless, shame rose in Fitz.
Their steward had suffered the same influenza that took father. He wasn’t yet up to the task of managing Loughton Manor, and Fitz ought to have come home sooner.
Fitz walked along next to Cruikwork, who was leading the donkey pulling the laden cart. Fitz had persuaded a more prosperous tenant to part with spare wood and tiles for roof repairs, payment to be a reduction of the next quarterly rents and young Harry Cruikwork’s help with the next harrowing.
“I sent word to the manor,” Cruikwork said, “but her ladyship said the steward was still down with the lung fever.”
And he himself had been in London when that fierce storm hit, meeting about his inheritance with solicitors, and bankers, and government functionaries. He’d also been spending plenty of hours at his club. And then there’d been a visit to Coke of Norfolk, and another party near Enderby.
“The fault is mine, Cruikwork. I should have seen to the matter. I’m sorry.”
The truth was, that though he’d been seeking a way out of his problems, he’d spent much of that time in his cups.
“Besides assisting with your leaky roof, Cruikwork, how can I help make your lot easier so Jilly isn’t bashing you with a fire poker?”
Cruikwork took in a deep breath and told him about one of the farms with a larger dwelling and an older tenant. The man had recently been widowed and was debating a move to Manchester to live with his only son.
Perhaps there was a way to help Cruikwork. He wasn’t a layabout or a drunk. In spite of his war wounds, he worked hard. Perhaps he needed a more spacious home and a way to bring in enough money for Jilly to have an occasional new pair of gloves or a bonnet.
When they arrived at the cottage, Jilly greeted them, a sheepish expression on her battered face. “My lord, Miss Parker asked me to tell you, she’s been called away.”
“She’s gone?” Of course she’s gone, you numbskull. She’d been promising to leave since the moment she arrived on his front step. No matter what she said about goings on amongst her father’s men and their women, no woman in her right mind with a chance at independence would want to be burdened with this lot of tenants.
“A groom came for her not long after you left.”
And it had taken Cruikwork and him over an hour to wheedle the neighbor down, pack the cart, and persuade the crotchety donkey out into the snow.
“Said it was urgent.”
“Go on, my lord,” Jem said. “The boys’ll help me get this patching done.”
Jilly lifted her chin. “And I’ll help.”
He looked from one to the other.
“I’ll keep my temper better, my lord,” Jilly said.
Jem took her hand. “As will I.”
The pink in Jilly’s cheeks deepened. Theirs was a stormy relationship, formed out of necessity, but not lacking in real caring. Plus, there were the children they had together, and, if he was reading the signs right, another one on the way. Despite the business of the fire poker, Jem was a lucky man.
“She seemed fair worried about something,” Jilly said.
It took no more persuading for Fitz to say his farewells, though his heart was heavy. Mel had seen what his life was and what hers would be, and she likely wanted nothing of these burdens. Though he couldn’t imagine her ever bashing him with a fire poker over tight purse springs.
The thought made him smile and he urged his horse into a quicker pace. He wouldn’t let her go without another attempt to win her back. And another after that, if need be.