“Splendid.” He was looking at the dish of potatoes, cabbage, and bacon with utter terror.
“Something amiss, Mr. Sinclair? Do you not care for Bubble and Squeak?” Hester inquired politely, taking a sip of her own wine. “This is the country. We dine on simple fare.”
“Not at all.” He took a spoonful and placed it carefully on his plate, followed by half the loaf of bread and a large piece of cheese.
Hester filled her own plate, noting that Sinclair picked out the potatoes and bacon, and furiously pushed aside the cabbage as if it might attack him. Sinclair truly didn’t care for cabbage, it seemed. A pity. Because Hester meant to tell Mrs. Ebersole to serve cabbage at every meal. Maybe she could starve him back to London.
Hester sipped her wine and considered all the things a gentleman from London might not like about the country. Vermin. Cabbages. The crowing of roosters.
“Plotting my demise, Mrs. Black?”
“Not at all, Mr. Sinclair. I was only considering how quiet you’ll find the country after living in London.”
He shrugged, the moss of his eyes flat and giving no hint to his thoughts as he watched her. “Do you always attack your meals with such relish, Mrs. Black?”
Hester paused in her chewing, taking a swallow of wine. Joshua had often proclaimed her appetite unseemly for a woman. But she worked hard all day, as much as or more than some of her farmhands. And as much as she ate, Hester’s frame stayed sparse with few hints of softness. Still, her cheeks reddened in embarrassment before considering that Sinclair had given her another weapon against him.
Hester shoveled more food into her mouth, groaning loudly in pleasure. Drops of grease splattered on her chin.
“Really, Mrs. Black. I’ve seen feral dogs with better table manners.”
“I am hungry. The result of hard work. I doubt you know the feeling.”
“Of hunger? I assure you I do.” There was an odd glint in his eyes. “And they say we are uncivilized,” he muttered under his breath.
Hester put down her fork. “Who?”
A short bark of laughter came from him as he buttered a piece of bread, as gracefully as he did everything else. “You’ve nothing on my sister, Tamsin.”
Chapter Six
Hester awoke thefollowing morning refreshed and full of renewed enthusiasm, her mind spinning with how she might best run Sinclair off. She’d start with food. Before retiring for the night, she’d instructed Mrs. Ebersole that Sinclairadoredcabbage and wished it to be served at every meal. Even breakfast. He simply could not get enough of it.
Mrs. Ebersole looked dubious, given Sinclair’s horror at the Bubble and Squeak, but nonetheless, agreed.
Then Hester found Jake, one of her farmhands, and asked him to move King George closer to the house for the benefit of Mr. Sinclair. Sinclair, she explained, simply adored the sound of a cock crowing to herald the dawn. King George, Hester’s cantankerous rooster, was excellent at waking the entire household.
True, King George and cabbage might not force Sinclair to leave, but it was an excellent start. Sinclair needed to depart Blackbird Heath before the good people of Horncastle’s opinion of Hester Morton, now Black, became any worse. Hard enough growing up as the daughter of the town sot, a pathetic creature pitied and derided by most of the town, without also becoming known as a harlot.
Donning her oldest dress, apron and boots, Hester set out to walk along the fields as the sun was rising. She’d heard King George greet the dawn, his crow sounding like thunder as near as Jake had put him to the house. Hester had even startled at the sound. When she left Sinclair last night, he was still nursing a brandy in the front parlor, a book in his lap. Mrs. Ebersole had found him a bottle of brandy stashed in the kitchen. Apparently, what he’d found earlier in sideboard didn’t meet his expectations.
Overindulged fop.
It was strange he’d been reading. Hester never considered that gamblers read a great deal. Neither her husband nor father put much stock in the value of books.
She did hope Sinclair hadn’t stayed up into the wee hours drinking his brandy, only to be awoken by King George.
Giggling to herself, Hester climbed up the small hill so she could see the morning light filtering over her fields. Pride filled her at the sight of all she’d accomplished. When Joshua had first brought her to Blackbird Heath, Hester had been a determined, desperate girl of twenty, one with only dim recollections of the farm her grandfather once owned. Where Joshua saw the shabbiness of Blackbird Heath, Hester saw a challenge. She’d worked and struggled to make Blackbird Heath a home and had hoped to pass it on to children one day.
A sigh left her.
There was a reason Joshua Black had still been a bachelor at his age. An injury in his youth made physical relations difficult and the possibility of children impossible. The marriagehadbeen consummated. Barely. Physical relations were sparse thankfully and after a time Joshua ceased seeking Hester out at all.
She didn’t mind. She was more interested in Blackbird Heath.
On more than one occasion, particularly if he had lost a great deal at the most recent house party he attended, Joshua would insist Blackbird Heath needed to be sold. Mr. Scoggins, a large landowner in the vicinity had wanted to purchase Blackbird Heath for some time, but never managed to offer enough to sway Joshua. Especially after she would dutifully trot out the ledgers, pointing out to her husband the profitability of Blackbird Heath.
Wouldn’t it be better, Hester would say, to have a steady source of income? A place to return to? If he sold to Scoggins, all of that would be gone.
