He laughed. “Have some toast, and I’ll show you.”
After breakfast, little John threw himself affectionately into Emily’s lap. “Did you know Clarabella chased Mr Beaumont half across the yard?” he asked.
Emily glanced at Oliver. More and more intriguing. “I did not,” she said.
Oliver heaved a mock-pained sigh. “You’ve ruined the surprise.” To her, he added, “Clarabella is a pig.”
“I named her,” John said proudly.
“She sounds as though she might be a delight, but she is a menace,” Oliver said, his mouth twitching as though he could not quite keep hold of his straight face. “That beast ate one of my boot’s tassels.”
Emily had another strange desire to laugh. Oliver sparked that desire inside her more and more the longer she remained in his company. “Serves you right for wearing such expensive boots in the farmyard.”
“I knew you would take her side!”
Emily could not hold her smile inside any longer. “Have you yet to make peace with poor Clarabella?”
“Poor Clarabella? I have to take my life into my hands every time she is released from her pen.”
“Clarabella likesme,” John said, snuggling closer. Emily, who had not been subject to the unconstrained affection of small boys before, and who found she liked it very much indeed, held him tighter. “I think she doesn’t like Mr Beaumont.”
“That much is obvious,” Oliver said, and held out the affected leg, boot sans one tassel. “I even bribed her with a carrot, but my overtures were ruthlessly overturned.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t like carrots?” Emily suggested.
“She eats rotten turnips,” Oliver said. “The idea that she could dislike carrots is preposterous.”
John squealed with laughter, both at the sight of the afflicted boot and the exaggerated woe in Oliver’s voice, and Emily chuckled. Oliver looked rather overtly pleased with himself.
Mrs Chambers summoned John to do his letters and plied Emily with warm layers galore—mittens and cloaks and scarves—until she was so thickly bundled, she could barely see. Then, when both Oliver and Mrs Chambers were satisfied she would not catch hold, he offered her his arm.
“Allow me.”
She stepped outside on his arm and inhaled deeply. In Dalston, not a day went by without venturing outside at least once, either to the market or some other shop in the village, or else feeding the chickens and tending to her little vegetable garden with whatever skill she possessed.
So far, she had mastered potatoes, turnips and cabbages, and thought she could go the rest of her life without eating more of any.
“How very gallant,” she said as Oliver supported her.
“It may surprise you to learn that Iwastaught how to be a gentleman.”
“Did you forget or merely disregard those lessons?”
“You wound me! One must first know the rules in order to break them.”
“If you expect me to be impressed with your flagrant lack of respect for rules, then you have missed your mark.”
He shot her a mischievous glance. “Why, darling, I didn’t think I wascapableof impressing you, but I’m pleased to learn I was wrong. How, pray, could I achieve such a notable event?”
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said.
“I’m not! If Icouldimpress you, I should make the attempt immediately.”
She didn’t say that he had already impressed her with the readiness he had thrown himself into the hurdy-gurdy lives of these people; how stoic he had been in the face of his injury; how selfless he had been when he had ridden out to find a physician for her. If she did, she would be voicing things that she didn’t dare acknowledge even to herself.
“It is an impossibility,” she said.
He clasped his hand to his chest. “Shall I ever recover from this blow to my heart?”
