“Have you ever been to the Maid’s Inn, Mrs. Black?” Drew said nonchalantly, regarding her from beneath his lashes. It was an unwelcome thought that Hester despised him so much she’d send a hired thug after him.
“The Maid’s Inn?” Her cheeks pinked. “Is that in Horncastle?”
Drew watched her, trying to discern any hint of guilt. She was blushing but—“Yes, in Horncastle.”
She shrugged not looking him in the eye. “I haven’t been to Horncastle in some time. Blackbird Heath keeps me quite busy. Even if I did venture to town, I doubt I’d have reason to visit an inn.”
“They have excellent lamb. I thought perhaps you’d sampled their fare. Quite good.” Drew immediately regretted the words, belatedly recalling that Hester had once begged for scraps at the back door of the Maid’s Inn. “I only meant—”
Hester colored further. “I’m afraid I have not dined there,” her voice was small. Pained. She lifted her chin to Drew. “Perhaps you should share your findings with Mrs. Ebersole,” Hester replied, trying not to smile. “I’m sure she’d welcome your suggestions.”
Mrs. Ebersole would be more likely to roast Drew on a spit much like the lamb. And he would deserve it for saying such a thing to Hester, meant or not.
“Perhaps I will. Don’t let me keep you from your chores.” Drew went back to his eggs. “I’m sure King George and his harem need feeding. Potatoes need to be protected from blight.”
Hester had picked up her tea, but the cup paused mere inches from her lips, blinking at him. “Blight?” Her brows drew together.
Drew had been walking the fields first out of curiosity and then out of genuine interest. When at Dunnings, his family had tried a list of crops, but anything save cabbage refused to grow in profusion. The small plot of potatoes Aurora attempted to grow thrived until signs of blight appeared. She’d cried for days over those damned potatoes.
“I grew up in the country. I know I’ve mentioned it to you.”
“Yes, but—”
“I know quite a bit more than the averagewastrel, Mrs. Black.” Drew’s experience with blight had been brief, but he knew a great deal about the worms that liked to feast on cabbage. A farmer near Dunnings had offered his help when the cabbage became infested. There was nothing that could be done for the potatoes.
“Northumberland. That would be my guess.”
Drew’s fingers tightened on his fork.
“The posh London accent you affect slips at times.” She gave him a knowing look, waiting for him to respond.
He tried so hard to hide Dunnings from everyone, but of course, this little harridan had figured it out. Well, that was fine. He knew a great deal about Hester now as well thanks to Scoggins. They had more in common than she could possibly imagine.
“A good guess, Northumberland.” Drew didn’t bother to elaborate further. He didn’t care to discuss Dunnings or Spittal. Just the thought had spoiled his breakfast.
The silence between them lengthened until Hester fidgeted in her chair before finally coming to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my crops.”
He knew from viewing the potato field and speaking to Dobbins, one of the farmhands, that Hester resolutely refused to give up on the potatoes though the blight was becoming apparent. She seemed to think digging up the infected plants would save them all, but it wouldn’t. He should allow her the folly. It was as blatantly foolish as her proposal to be his land manager. “Burn the smaller field, Mrs. Black,” he said quietly. “If you do not, you will lose all.”
“What do you care, Mr. Sinclair?” she returned stiffly. “If all my potatoes go bad, if my sugar beets rot, if my hens stop laying, what do you care?”
“I don’t want the value of the estate to be affected,” he retorted, setting his fork down with a clang.
Hester spun on her heel and left the dining room. The back door slammed shut a few moments later.
Drew sat back, pushing away the plate of eggs. Even if Dunnings hadn’t spoiled his appetite, Mrs. Ebersole had used too much pepper. A show of her dislike.
Hester marched past the window, skirts flapping about her legs. The sun glinted on her hair, turning some of the strands aflame and lighting her strong, determined features. She was headed towards the fields but would probably stop to check on the hens and King George first. She wouldn’t take the advice to burn the field because Drew had given it.
“I am, after all, nothing more than a card playing wastrel,” he mused out loud.
“You said it, Mr. Sinclair. Not I.” Mrs. Ebersole appeared at his shoulder. “The wastrel bit.” A deep sigh came from the housekeeper. “But I agree with you, the field should be burned. The blight will spread to the other fields. I’ve told her so myself. I suppose you won’t be wanting any cabbage served for your highbrow friends, will you?”
Drew considered the older woman. What would she do if he sold Blackbird Heath? Or Dobbins? Jake? The little maid who rushed out of his way whenever she caught sight of him? “Mrs. Ebersole, where would you go if I sold the farm?”
The housekeeper’s eyes grew pained, her features tightening, reminding Drew of a troll. She was a remarkably unattractive woman. But her eyes blazed with the same defiance that lit Hester’s. “Won’t be your concern, will it, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I suppose not.”
