“Whatever you brought, I intend to enjoy with gusto,” she informed him. “And I hope you’re not too hungry, because I haven’t decided if I’ll share. Aside from biscuits with your siblings, this is one of the few meals I’ve had in England that I didn’t have to cook myself.”
His heart twisted in empathy. And perhaps a little guilt. The circumstances of his birth were unlikely to be much better than hers, but Jacob’s luck had changed dramatically for the better while he was still young.
When Baron Vanderbean had first adopted six unhappy orphans, the wide-eyed children had looked at that gargantuan house and theirheaping portions of food the same way Vivian was eyeing the picnic basket now. But after twenty years—or possibly over the course of those first several months—excess had ceased to be astonishing and started to become part of ordinary life.
“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to eat your gift?”
Vivian’s eyes sparkled. “Watch me.”
She gathered the papers cluttering the small table into a pile and carried them to the sideboard with all the other stacks of paper. After passing a cleaning rag over the surface of the table, she opened the lid to the picnic basket and began removing its contents.
“Milk… tea… coffee… lemonade… chocolate… a bottle of wine?”
“I wouldn’t presume to limit your morning libations,” he murmured.
“Apples… pears… nectarines… grapes… mulberries… figs… honey… marmalade… a full loaf of still-warm bread,anda dozen toasted slices?”
“Fruit is good for you,” he protested. “Bats like it. And bread is delicious.”
“We’ve also got pork chops… sausages… cheese… boiled eggs… and what looks like three pies?”
“Tommy and Chloe both would disown me if I packed a picnic without pies. If you don’t want one, I’ll—”
“Oh, I want them.” Vivian placed silverware and two plates on the table, then began to pile hers high. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve licked my plate.”
He smiled to himself and reached for the bread and marmalade.
Her reaction had been all that he could have hoped for. She’d accepted his presence without question, granting a peaceful ceasefire to their prior argument.
Jacob would not have been surprised to receive the opposite reaction. He had fully expected Vivian to be nosy and pushy and demandto know whatever it was that he wasn’t ready to tell her. Instead, she seemed content to wait until he was comfortable—which might be never.
“There.” She shoved her empty plate away from her. “That was—oh, blast.”
The plate banged into her spoon and sent it flying to the floor.
Jacob started to move his chair back in order to retrieve the fallen piece of silverware for her.
“No, no.” She waved a hand. “That’s what badgers are for. Rufus? Spoon.”
Rufus lifted his black-and-white-striped snout from the scrap of carpet he’d been resting on and peered around the kitchen as if waking slowly. Obediently, he yawned, hobbled forth while occasionally stretching a rear leg, scooped up the lost spoon in his mouth, and delivered it to Vivian’s waiting hand.
“You’re bamming me,” said Jacob. “You trained a wild badger to fetch fallen silverware?”
“No,” Vivian answered. “I trained him to fetch pencils, which is far more practical. Rufus was bright enough to extrapolate from there.” She scratched behind the badger’s ears. He wiggled his arse and sat on her feet. She stroked his back. “Who’s a crafty little beast? Is it you, Rufus? Is it you?”
Jacob suspected the clever one was Vivian. She was as flashy and competent and confident as his siblings, and she wasn’t even a Wynchester. IfVivianhad been Sir Gareth Jallow, she’d have told the world by now.
Instead, she remained frustratingly unpublished. Jacob wondered how many of her plays would have sold in a blink if she’d submitted them asSirVivian Henry instead of “Miss.” Probably all of them. Vivian might be more famous than Jallow by now… if she’d given in instead of fighting back.
Which one of them had made the right choice?Wasthere a right choice? Because of their individual decisions, the rich one got richer, and the poor one stayed poor. Regardless of merit.
Life definitely wasn’t fair.
Jacob couldn’t help but suffer another pang of guilt. Financially, he could have afforded to stick to her morals. If he never earned a single penny as a poet, his quality of life would not change. Whereas if anyone had bothered to pay Vivian a fraction of what she was worth, she wouldn’t be performing multiple jobs and still living off her cousin’s mercy.
“Please,” he said. “Allow me to help clean the dishes.”
“Is this a dream?” She clutched her chest, then pinched her arm. “Will I awaken in a few moments to my usual life of an empty pantry and a pile of housework?”
