Stretching out his fingers, Drew tossed aside the soiled handkerchief and marched back to the house in search of Mrs. Ebersole, who would surely know how to get dung out of trousers.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have commented when they dined that Mrs. Black devoured her supper like one of the starving dock workers in Spittal. Well, fine. She’d had her revenge. It was only that he’d never seen a woman consume so much food in such a short period of time and with such gusto. Smacking her lips and groaning in delight. He could still smell the lingering scent of cabbage in the air.
Beets. Turnips. Carrots. Potatoes. Drew could tolerate any of them. Butnevercabbage.
The smell alone made him want to pinch at his nose.
Thank goodness for the bread and cheese. He’d ended the evening with brandy, reluctantly procured by Mrs. Ebersole. The brandy had nearly erased the aroma of cabbage still clinging to his clothes. He’d waited patiently for Mrs. Black to retire, then boldly made his way to the study, and pulled out a stack of ledgers. He’d fallen asleep atop the desk, exhausted from his journey, cabbage and Mrs. Black.
King George woke him. The rooster seemed to be right outside the window. Upon further inspection, Drew realized the room he’d been given was directly above the study. Odd that the rooster wasn’t closer to the hens.
Upon seeing Mrs. Black’s surprise at his appearance, not so strange after all.
Taking care to discard his boots outside, Drew went in search of Mrs. Ebersole. He should never have underestimated Mrs. Black. He’d thought the threat to her reputation might be enough, but it seemed she was made of much sterner stuff.
And possessed such a lovely mouth. Especially today. When she smiled.
It was almost worth stepping in rooster dung.
Almost.
Chapter Seven
“Mrs. Ebersole. Aword, if you please.” Drew addressed the bulldog of a housekeeper, who regarded him as if he were some sort of vermin invading the house. If he wasn’t careful, she’d chase him with a broom.
“Mr. Sinclair.” Mrs. Ebersole bobbed politely. “What can I get for you?”
Drew’s suffering had stretched out an entire week. King George crowing just beneath his window before the sun even rose. Copious amounts of chicken dung, among other types of animal refuse, seemed to appear no matter what route he took to walk the fields or view the barns and other outbuildings. Cabbage served at every meal. Yesterday, the offending vegetable had been snuck inside the scrambled eggs he’d requested for breakfast.
Drew regarded the housekeeper of Blackbird Heath. She was a slightly sour, mannish looking woman who often smelled of tobacco or onions. He imagined her walking about outside in the evenings, smoking a cheroot and managing to avoid the chicken dung. Her opinion of Drew was akin to Mrs. Black’s.
“I was wondering, Mrs. Ebersole, if we could discuss the dinner menu.”
“The dinner menu?”
“I would like future meals to be absent of cabbage, if you please.”
“But—” her bushy brows drew together in confusion. “You insisted I serve it at every meal. It’s one of your favorites.”
Drew cocked his head. “When did I ask you to do so?” Had he had too much wine one night while pouring through the ledgers in the study? No, not even completely foxed would Drew ask for cabbage.
“Well,youdidn’t sir. Not directly. You requested it of Mrs. Black, and she in turn, informed me of your preferences. Cabbage at every meal.”
That little—“Didn’t you notice, Mrs. Ebersole, that I never eat any of it? In fact, I won’t even allow one leaf to touch my plate?”
Mrs. Ebersole raised a brow. “I did wonder considering Mrs. Black claimed it to be your favorite. But I thought maybe I wasn’t preparing it as you’re accustomed to.”
“I’m accustomed to not eating it. Ever.” Drew ran a hand through his hair. “I know Blackbird Heath is famed for its cabbage, but I beg you, no more.”
“Wasn’t always,” Mrs. Ebersole offered. “Famed for cabbage.”
Drew knew that from Patchahoo’s research, but there seemed to be some discrepancy as to when Blackbird Heath had become more working farm than a lord’s country retreat. “This was once the estate of a baron, was it not?”
“Lord Marker. But that was before the Roundheads.”
“Oh, yes. Dreadful fellows.”
Mrs. Ebersole shot him a look. “Lord Marker lost his estate and his head. The Blacks were staunch supporters of Cromwell and awarded this land. They renamed the property Blackbird Heath. The family fortunes took a hit once Cromwell was gone and something else had to be done. Built the barns and mill. Planted crops and kept sheep to keep them whole. Mr. Black, God rest his soul, never cared much for his home, which is why I imagine he wagered it.” She dared him to say differently. “And why you’re determined to sell it. I wish you all the luck with that, Mr. Sinclair.”
