She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
His heart melted. How could anyone possibly deny such a simple request? Hudson supposed his disbelief was precisely why their class lines could never cross. He didn’t see anything wrong with dirt and cattle. He was common. The fact that he could not imagine her world proved he didn’t belong anywhere near it.
Just like she would never fit in his world.
He escorted her into the first tent with more than a little trepidation. The clouds of dirt dusting up from their boots and the heavy air thick with the pungent scent of animals in close quarters had never bothered him before. But would it send Lady Tabitha running now?
He glanced down at her.
Her eyes were wide and shining. If she was offended by the smells or appalled by the dirt, she gave no sign.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing. “Sheep. Why, they’re huge!”
Hudson could not hide his grin. If she found these ordinary sheep bigger than expected, he could not wait for her to realize just how large cows could be.
“Let’s take a closer look,” he suggested.
“Can we?”
“I don’t see why not. That’s what they’re here for. All of the animals are on display.”
“Show me.” She grasped his arm without seeming to realize she was doing so.
Hudson felt the touch through every stitch of his clothing. He hoped she’d never let him go.
“This way. There are even contests to determine which of these beasts is the best of all its peers.”
She sent a surprised look up at him, her eyes filling with laughter. “Like the May Day king and queen?”
“But without the thrones, or crowns of flowers,” he conceded.
“It sounds lovely.” She peered over the railing at the milling sheep. “They look so soft. Do they bite?”
Before Hudson could reply, the farmer in the pen strode up to greet them. “Did I hear you say you’d like to touch one of my beasts?”
“Oh!” Lady Tabitha stammered. “I… All I meant was…”
The farmer made a low, wheedling sound and a young sheep with a black face and thick white wool waddled over to the side of the railing. “Go on, then. This is Chicory.”
“Chicory,” she repeated softly, stretching hesitant fingers over the wooden railing just far enough to graze the sheep’s wooly flank. Lady Tabitha turned wide, delighted eyes toward Hudson. “She’s soft. Not scratchy at all!”
“The older the animal, the coarser the fleece,” the farmer explained. “Chicory is eight months old.”
“Eight months! Then she has plenty of wool-making years ahead of her.”
“And milk and cheese,” agreed the farmer. “Unless a butcher buys her.”
Lady Tabitha snatched her hand back from the railing. “You can’t eat her!”
Hudson laughed. “Didn’t you tell me your previous experience with livestock was limited to the appearance of meat at your dinner table? You do realize that all such meals were once animals like this one.”
She looked so horrified, he felt bad for teasing her.
“It’s all right,” he assured her, then turned to the farmer. “How much are you selling Chicory for?”
“Don’t eat her,” Lady Tabitha begged, her voice strangled.
The farmer named a price.
