The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“I will worship her, sir, until I cock up my toes and pass to the hereafter.”

Lord Prith said comfortably, “You don’t have to worry about things like that, my boy. My dearest Nell nests wherever she happens to find herself. Your home sounds like an excellent place for her, any and all of them. You know, now that I reflect upon things, my little girl did seem a bit on the quiet side whilst you were gone, my boy. Dare I say that she moped? Flock, are you still about, your ears all sharp?”

“Yes, my lord, but I have been staring at the epergne, my lord, wondering how best to clean all the little hidden crevices amongst all the grapes. I have barely heard a word anyone has said.”

“Good. Do you think that Miss Helen was moping—or is that too strong a word?”

“Miss Helen moped as I have also moped, my lord. I perhaps taught her through example how to mope properly. It is not too strong a word.”

“Good, I didn’t think so. She was also distracted. I would catch her looking off into nothing at all, as if dazed. One of her lads at the inn let a thief steal several bridles from the stable. She disciplined him, but her heart wasn’t in it, all could tell. She has lost flesh, which isn’t good for her, since she is well nigh perfect just the way she is.”

“Yes, she is perfect.”

“Hmmm,” Lord Prith said, drank more champagne, and looked off toward a painting on the wall. Lord Beecham glanced at the painting, a line of rabbits hanging from a skinny rope in a sixteenth-century kitchen, ready for the cooking pot. He didn’t like paintings like this though they were so very popular in nearly every dining room in London. They always put him off his feed.

“Helen isn’t perfect, my boy,” Lord Prith said. “I must be honest with you, since it appears that you see her only with honey flowing from her mouth. She is her own woman. Perhaps one could call her occasionally obstinate and, rarely, just sometimes, a bit on the stubborn side. Those words aren’t too strong, are they, Flock?”

“They are perhaps shaded by your loving parental eye, my lord.”

“She is used to doing precisely what she wants when she wants to do it. She is strong-willed and strong of limb as well. I have seen her knock a suitor from one side of the room to the other when he chanced to offend her. She didn’t break anything, but the fellow had a black eye for a week.

“She has opinions, my boy, opinions that are her own, not necessarily gently formed by her dear father. She is interested in all sorts of things, as you very well know, what with this lamp business. She is a mistress of discipline. Yes, even I know this about my dearest Nellie. Her lads always strive to please her, but when they run afoul of what is right and proper, she does discipline them. Come to think of it, they sometimes beg for it, but she is fair in her judgments and doesn’t always give them what they want.

“She won’t let you tread on her like a rug, my boy. In short, my sweet little Nell is a handful, just like her dearest mother, my precious Mathilda.” Lord Prith looked over at Flock, an eyebrow arched in question.

“Well and accurately stated, my lord.”

“Thank you, Flock.”

Lord Beecham couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Have you ever seen any of her lads in the stocks?”

“Certainly. Other villagers rent the stocks from her to carry out their own punishments. She is considered a goddess of justice in Court Hammering. Wives adore her because she won’t allow their husbands to drown their livers in her taproom.”

Lord Beecham said, “She is much more than a goddess. I must have her, my lord.”

“Yes, I can see that you must. Very well, you have my permission. Do you agree that you know what you’re getting into? That you aren’t all afloat in a man’s lust and blind to the very few nearly meaningless foibles my sweet Nellie occasionally exhibits?”

“No, not really, but I know enough to realize that I want to find out everything about her and each of her foibles during the next fifty years. Perhaps I will even wed her again upon occasion.”

“A charming thing to say, lad. Very well. Champagne, Flock. Bring a fresh bottle. Ah, and for my future son-in-law here, some brandy, nasty stuff. We don’t want to force him to drink champagne and have him puke on Helen’s slippers, now do we?”

21

GEORDIE HAD SPILLED twenty pounds of oats into a huge mud puddle. He knew he would be punished, he was whimpering in a corner, knowing it would happen, and here Helen just didn’t appear to care. She was just staring off at nothing at all. Actually, Helen couldn’t stop thinking about why Spenser had grabbed that hunk of bread and run out of the inn. Then Gwen said, “Miss Helen, the stupid clumsy lout deserves at least a Level Six.”

Geordie shuddered with both anticipation and dread.

“What? Oh, a Level Six, Gwen? Isn’t that a bit on the harsh side?”

“Twenty pounds of oats, Miss Helen, feed for the mud, not the horses.”

“Very well, then. Level Six.” Helen turned and walked back into the inn. It was nearly nine o’clock at night.

There was enough of a moon so that Geordie was clearly visible to all who wished to watch his punishment. When she heard Geordie yell, then moan, she just shook her head and went back into the small private dining parlor. She built up the fire. She took a cup of hot cider and sat there in her wing chair staring into the flames, seeing him striding out of the small parlor, practically reeling.

“Helen.”

She turned very slowly to see him standing in the doorway. “You ran away, with the bread.”