‘Oh, the Amazons tolerated them for procreation, Mrs Baxter.’ Miss Nithercott’s cheeky grin suggested she knew all about procreation. Of course she did. She apparently knew everything. ‘They abducted men from rival tribes and used them as slaves after they had mated.’
Max nearly choked on his own potato at her phrasing. ‘What else do you do besides digging?’ Enough was enough. Wombs and loins were one thing. Mating and talk of procreation quite another. And they still had to eat dessert. His sister beamed, delighted he had finally deigned to join the conversation.
‘I like to read. I write. I sketch.’
‘Such solitary pursuits. Don’t you ever feel lonely?’ Eleanor said exactly what Max was thinking. ‘Unless you have other family at home?’
‘No. It is just me—I am an only child so it is what I am used to and I do not mind the solitude.’ Although he was sure her eyes said differently.
‘I have never been good with my own company. Growing up I always had Max. A few months before he ran away to sea, I married Adam and had my children. I like the noise and chaos of family, Miss Nithercott. They are my greatest joy. Have you never been tempted to have one?’
Was that sadness he saw in her eyes? Regret? ‘To have a family one must first have a husband, Mrs Baxter, and I am afraid that ship sailed long ago.’
Chapter Eight
Dig Day 764: honey, not vinegar...
‘Your ship hasn’t sailed! You are still young and uncommonly pretty. Isn’t she uncommonly pretty, Max?’
Her host grunted in response, making it difficult to know if he either agreed or disagreed.
‘I refuse to believe no man has ever offered for you.’
‘I was engaged. Once. He died.’
‘Oh, that is awful! Am I allowed to enquire how?’
‘He was a military man. The cavalry. He was fatally wounded at Salamanca.’ Poor Rupert. It still made her sad to think about it even though it had been three years.
‘And there has been no one since?’
Nor before. Rupert had been the only man who could tolerate her in more than small doses. ‘No.’
‘But never say never, Miss Nithercott... Perhaps Cupid might strike again?’
‘Perhaps...’ And perhaps pigs might fly. ‘You ran away to sea, Lord Rivenhall?’ Effie deliberately changed the subject. Talking about her marital situation always made her feel awkward because inevitably it led to admitting all the reasons why she was still a spinster and was doomed to be one for ever. ‘I did not know you were in the navy. Merchant or Royal?’
‘Royal, of course.’ Mrs Baxter positively glowed with pride. ‘When our father forbade him from ever joining, Max took himself to Portsmouth and enlisted as a cabin boy. From there he rapidly rose up the ranks regardless of Papa’s constant and verbose disappointment. By the age of twenty he was already a master and became Captain of his own ship at just seven and twenty. He sailed alongside Nelson at Trafalgar and has earned a huge heap of medals.’
‘Very impressive.’ Not that Effie’s reluctant and mostly mute host appeared to want to talk about it judging by the intense focus he was putting in to slicing his meat. It was obvious he had had no hand in issuing tonight’s invitation and wasn’t particularly pleased about it either. But for Mrs Baxter’s sake Effie would persevere, even though she wasn’t entirely sure why the woman had thought it appropriate to extend an invitation when her brother was so against it. ‘How old were you when you joined?’
‘Twelve.’ Again it was Mrs Baxter who answered. ‘Our father positively exploded when he realised and immediately dashed to Portsmouth to retrieve him, but Max was already bound for the West Indies by the time he got there. After that there was no stopping him, of course. Max’s calling was always the sea. And he looks particularly dashing in a uniform.’
Something she could well imagine. With his height and build and brooding, mysterious presence she could picture him at the helm. Or stood precariously on the yard arm, one hand clutching the rigging while the other shielded his dark eyes as he stared out to sea. The wind riffling his long black hair... Gracious! Where had that come from? Clearly she had read a little too much Mrs Radcliffe last night before bed to be thinking such fanciful thoughts! Thoughts which were most unlike her nowadays. She had ruthlessly trained herself to stop romanticising about attractive gentlemen. Those foolish fantasies always ended in disappointment.
‘Are you still in the navy, Lord Rivenhall?’ The moment the words were out Effie regretted the question because Mrs Baxter appeared anxious and the surly lord’s jaw clenched as his expression clouded.
‘No.’
One word. No explanation, but a pointed glare at his sister.
‘I suppose it is difficult to juggle the responsibilities of an estate this size and a command a ship at the same time?’ She was babbling, and perhaps making an already tense situation worse, but for some reason she felt the urge to pour oil on what she sensed were very troubled waters.
Silence.
Until Mrs Baxter filled it. ‘Max was wounded during the naval blockade of the Americas Miss Nithercott. Privateers attacked the ship and tried to scuttle it. He nearly died when...’ Her words trailed off at the incensed expression of her brother and she pasted an unconvincing smile on her face before she stared down at her dinner. ‘But thankfully he didn’t and is all mended now... As you can plainly see.’
Physically, perhaps, but Effie suspected the scars he carried were more than skin deep if the emotion swirling in the suddenly stormy depths of his dark eyes were any gauge. The moody Lord Rivenhall was quite a way shy from being mended. ‘From what I have read it was a difficult war.’
