When Pritchard’s Erma shifted a bit, Mia Selwyn leaned over her, murmured something, and took the baby from her. Gideon had forgotten her presence for a moment. She cast him a glance that was puzzled at best, as if trying to fit him into her universe.Let her try.
Erma stood and dipped a curtsey on unsteady feet, causing Gideon’s breath to catch. He took her hand and urged her to sit. “None of that. Mrs. Anders, is it? Pritchard told me you needed fuel and have no one to chop wood. The Woodglen farrier won’t miss a bit from his mountain of coal now and then.”
The old woman smiled at him and did as he bid. “Thank you kindly, my lord.”
“Hardly that. Mr. Kendrick will do,” Gideon said, the words coming out as if dragged through gravel.
“Duke’s son, ain’t you?” she retorted.
“Alas, yes,” he replied, setting Erma off in a burst of laughter.
He took the sack of coal and carried it to the hearth. Pritchard held the woman’s hand in his tenderly. “Dunno what Marshall will say about this, but I’m here for today, at least. I missed you, old girl.”
The younger woman never spoke. She sat staring at her lap. Pritchard described a horrific accident; Gideon had seen women traumatized like that after mine accidents. There was little anyone could do for them except give them time to heal. Time and tasks that needed doing.
Miss Selwyn approached and put the baby in the younger woman’s lap, gently wrapping her arms around it and waiting to be sure she took firm hold. “I have to leave now, Sally.” She straightened and peered at Erma. “I’ll bid you good day, Mrs. Anders. Thank you for your fine work. I left the coins on the table with this week’s mending. There’ll be more next week.”
“Thank the viscount for it,” Erma said.
Miss Selwyn’s tight lips when she nodded suggested the viscount, who Gideon remembered as a pinchpenny, had nothing to do with the arrangement. She swept on her bonnet, a plain straw affair, and tied it in a pert bow under her chin before donning her cloak.
She surprised Gideon when she stopped and inclined her head to him, curiosity, held in check by reserve, still lurking in her eyes. “Mr. Kendrick. Thank you for your kindness to the Anders family.”
He followed her out, leaving Pritchard with his Erma.
“Miss Selwyn, a word!” he called. The shaggy dog of dubious origins who had been guarding the door stopped when she did and turned to glower at him.
Her eyes, he noted when she turned, were dark blue and bright with intelligence, adding warmth to his attraction. “What is it?” she asked.
“I owe you an apology.”
“What on earth for?” she asked.
“The other day. On the road. You startled me, and I feared an accident, but that is no excuse for my rudeness,” he replied.
For a moment, he thought she meant to chastise him for a catalog of such sins. She didn’t. “Your fine friend Hannibal made sure neither of us came to grief,” she said, smiling over at the horse. As if in response, the beast walked right up to her and nudged the side of her head.
What sort of lady attracts so many ferocious animals to behave like lapdogs?
She reached up and soothed Hannibal’s nose with a laugh. “No apologies needed from either of you.”
“I had been on the road for hours, and I wasn’t at my best,” he added.
She peered at him speculatively, and he feared she would ask about his deformities. “We all suffer from the trials of travel, Mr. Kendrick. Thank you for your kind words, though.”
Their eyes held, but there seemed nothing else to say. She broke contact, dipping her head. “Good day, Mr. Kendrick.”
“Good day, Miss Selwyn,” he said, returning the gesture.
“Come, Hector,” she commanded, and the great lump of a dog followed meekly.
Watching her depart, he was struck by something. “Is it common for young ladies to walk about unaccompanied in Dorset?”
She stopped, her back still to him. “Whyever not, Mr. Kendrick?” He could hear amusement in her voice. “Everyone in Nether Abbas and surrounding knows me. Who would care? Besides, I’m not unaccompanied. I have Hector.” She walked on.
Who indeed?A gentleman should. A gentleman should offer to escort her. The urge ate at him, but instinct told him she wouldn’t welcome it any more than he would welcome someone rushing to assist him mounting his horse.Pride is a prickly thing.
Chapter Five
