“Might she have eaten something that disagreed with her?”
He scratched his head. “It’s entirely possible. The animal did get out of the paddock earlier. I found her in the herb garden.”
“My father always considered it best to keep a sick horse eating unless they’re colicky.”
Fletcher’s eyes widened. “He did?”
“Father was a farmer, too. He would keep the animal warm and begin to feed it lucerne as soon as it rallied. For a limited period, lucerne hay is very nourishing, although it can cause bloat long term.” She smiled. “Of course you must know this.”
Fletcher bowed again, respect in his gaze. “Your father was well-informed in the ways of animal husbandry, your ladyship.” He began to remove the bit, bridle, and saddle from Flynn’s horse. “You’ll be wanting a hot drink and some food. Please go on up to the house. My wife has stoked up the fire.”
“I believe you impressed Fletcher,” Flynn said as they walked along a path bordered by shrubs to the farmhouse. The lady of the house was busy preparing to receive them. The windows of the whitewashed building where alight and smoke rose from the chimney in the thatched roof.
The door swung open. A short, rounded woman with a white cap and an apron over her dress dithered in the doorway, her cheeks reddened, her eyes wide. “Lord and Lady Montsimon. Please, please come in.”
Flynn noticed her dress was buttoned up wrongly as she bustled inside. “Come into the parlor. The fire is well ablaze.”
“How kind of you to rise from your bed to attend us, Mrs. Fletcher,” Althea said warmly as Montsimon helped her out of her cape.
“It’s my pleasure, my lady,” Mrs. Fletcher said in a breathy voice. “I have laid a table with food for ye. Fletcher has ale for ye, too, my lord.”
The modest parlor was simply furnished and comfortable with a brown sofa and well-worn green chairs by the fireplace, a pipe stand on the table beside it. A table was spread with a cloth and laden with plates, bread, cheese, a cold joint of meat, and a pie of some sort.
“We are beholden,” Althea said appreciatively, “are we not, Montsimon?”
“Indeed, we are.” He smiled at Althea. Her enthusiasm was almost tangible.
“After you’ve eaten,” Mrs. Fletcher said, “I have made the bed up in our son’s bedchamber with clean linen. It’s a small room, but I hope it will suffice.”
“We shall be eternally grateful, Mrs. Fletcher,” Flynn said. He put an arm around Althea’s waist. “We are bone weary, are we not, my love?”
Althea cast him a look that would put a thundercloud to shame. She stepped forward out of his embrace. “Yes. I declare I shall sleep like the dead.”
