Joshua, thankfully, hadn’t pushed her. He’d taken what he wished for his amusements and left her to run the farm as she saw fit.
Last night, as she lay in bed, listening to the breeze blow through the curtains of her bedroom window, Hester allowed herself to consider what her life would become if she had accepted Sinclair’s proposal. No responsibility. She could leave this tiny corner of Lincolnshire and Horncastle with all of the bad memories of her childhood and become someone else.
Tempting.
She looked out at the sun gilding her beautiful fields as it rose in the sky.
But what Hester wanted most, the only thing she’d ever cared about, was a place to call her own. Great wealth would never be possible for her. Or influence. Not even love. But she had the land. Animals. Growing things. Those things gave her a sense of purpose. The dirty half-starved child she’d once been, daughter of the town sot who had gambled away every bit of coin he possessed or drank it away. Thomas Morton had been a poor excuse for a father. A wastrel of a man who cared more for a hand of cards than his own flesh and blood. Her childhood was a series of progressively smaller cottages, until Father was reduced to renting them a room in Horncastle above the tavern.
Never again.
She turned and strode resolutely toward the chicken coop. King George must be congratulated on his performance this morning if he was about. Jake had put a large bowl of feed for him just beneath Sinclair’s window last night and would do so every night that charlatan was in residence.
Reaching the chickens, Hester went to the barrel containing their feed, tossing out handfuls into the dirt. King George appeared from a spray of bushes, strutting forward and pecking at her skirts.
“Splendid job this morning, Your Majesty,” she praised the rooster.
“Set better than a clock,” a silky masculine voice said from behind her.
Hester turned slowly to face him. The bane of her existence awake and freshly shaven, clothes neat as a pin. Not looking the least out of sorts.
How incredibly annoying.
Hester had debated putting something lumpy in Sinclair’s mattress to ensure his night was as uncomfortable as possible, but decided King George would be enough.
She’d been wrong.
“Mr. Sinclair.” Hester kept tossing out the feed. “I didn’t expect you up so early.”
“Did you not, Mrs. Black? The country is only quiet in the evenings. I fear the mornings are more boisterous. You’ve named your rooster King George?” He entered the enclosure.
Hester faced him, taking in the expensive boots on his feet. The finely tailored trousers. His trunks with spare clothing would take some time to arrive from London and there was a large pile of chicken dung lying between her and Sinclair.
“I did, Mr. Sinclair. He’s quite regal, don’t you think? You are free to inspect him,” she gently lured Sinclair forward. If he didn’t see the dung, it was hardly her fault.
“Is Queen Charlotte about?” He took another step, still not looking down.
“No, but I do have Elizabeth the Eggcellent Egg Layer and Mary Tudor. Mary is a little bitter. She doesn’t produce as many eggs.” She tried to stop the smile on her face as Sinclair stepped right into the middle of—
“Bloody hell.”
The dung, probably King George’s leavings, splattered upward, staining the edge of Sinclair’s trousers, and coloring his boots.
“Oh, dear.” Hester pretended to be horrified. “You should watch where you walk, Mr. Sinclair. This is a farm, after all.”
“Yes, the countryside seems littered with unpleasantness.” Sinclair looked over at her before going to the small fence and knocking the dung from his boots. Next, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped off the bottom of his trousers, grimacing the entire time.
Hester pursed her lips. She’d been hoping for curses. A flailing of the arms as he realized certain clothing might well be ruined. Perhaps screeching like a small child.
“I’ll just go and clean up, shall I?” Sinclair said in a bemused tone.
*
Conniving shrew.
Drew didn’t blame Mrs. Black completely for the dung coloring his trousers and boots. He’d forgotten what it was like to walk through a place where animals roamed about. Mrs. Black hadn’t bothered to warn Drew and he’d been too busy watching a strand of copper hair dancing against her cheek to pay attention to where he stepped.
Things would be so much easier if her hair was a muddy shade of brown.
