Page 48 of The Trouble with a Dare

“Sterling Oak, will you stop trying to divert me by dangling a carrot in front of my nose like a stubborn mule? I will not be distracted.”

“For heaven’s sake, love, can a man not eat his breakfast in peace?”

He looked tetchy, though his tone was mild enough.

Grace smothered the desire to lose her temper. She knew many men would have told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own damn business by now, and it was his business. He had taken over his father’s farm and taken it to bigger and better things. She knew that people respected him and sought his opinions about modern techniques, and many men far his senior came to seek his advice.

“I only wish to discuss such things with you, Sterling,” she said, forcing herself to keep her words even and with no hint of complaint. “I do not wish to interfere in your work, only to understand, so you might speak to me about—”

“Do you not think I might like to speak to my wife about things other than my work when I get home?”

She heard his frustration clearly and knew she ought to back down, but she had always been too stubborn for her own good.

“Oh. I see,” she said curtly. “You wish to converse about poetry and art and music, and pretend nothing difficult has happened in the course of your day. I am not to know about the problems you face, not to worry my poor feeble brain if you are anxious, but ignore it and prattle on about latest fashion for bonnet trimmings?”

“Yes, damn it,” he said, angrily setting down his knife and fork. At once, his expression became pinched with regret. “I beg your pardon, Grace. I ought not to have spoken so. Please excuse me.”

With that, he pushed back his chair and rose, although he’d barely eaten a third of his breakfast.

“You have not finished eating,” she said, furious that he would not stay and discuss this with her.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered. “I’ll see you later. Have a good day.”

“Sterling,” Grace said as he left the room, but he did not pause. She threw her napkin to the table, struggling to heft her bulk from her chair. Moving quickly was becoming increasingly difficult, so she called after him. “Sterling, don’t you dare—”

The front door slammed shut.

“Oh!” she fumed. “Wretched, pig-headed man.”

Too annoyed to eat any more herself, Grace tried to busy herself about the house but was too irritated to settle to anything. In the end, she retreated to the kitchen and made some scones, soothed somewhat by Mrs Gladwish’s gossiping with the kitchen maids and the busy atmosphere of the warm room. Once the scones were done and still warm, she packed them in a basket and fetched her cloak and bonnet. She had failed with Sterling this morning—stubborn fellow that he was—and whilst she was in such a challenging frame of mind, she might as well make herself thoroughly vexed by confronting his mother.

With this monumental task in mind, Grace set off, basket in hand.

The cottage was neat and well maintained, as was everything on the farm. The lime-washed walls were bright with fresh paint, and the thatched roof new and neatly clipped, giving the place a rather welcoming, appealing quality like a large, friendly dog. Martha had planted a small garden with winter veg, and climbing roses scrambled up and over a small arch by the front gate. The roses had long since gone over, but it was perfectly charming all the same.

Grace made her way up the path to the front door, certain she had seen the curtains twitch. Whether the occupant would admit to being at home, she was not at all sure. With her heart beating a little too fast, Grace gave a firm rap of the knocker and waited. She waited so long she had almost decided to leave when the door opened. Mrs Oak stared at her with an expression that was not the least bit welcoming, but Grace stared back, undaunted.

“I’ve made you some scones,” she said with a bright smile, holding the woman’s gaze and daring her to turn her away. “And brought you some of my own bramble jam, too. It’s rather good. Shall we try some, and you can tell me how much better your own is in comparison?”

She held out the basket in offering.

Grace thought she saw a glint of surprise in the woman’s eyes, but it vanished quickly enough. Silently, Mrs Oak took the basket, stepped back, and held the door open for her.

Grace walked into a small but neat parlour. Though it was sparsely furnished, everything was of excellent quality and polished to a high shine.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Mrs Oak said, closing the door and disappearing into the kitchen with the basket on her arm.

As she’d been left to her own devices, Grace took off her bonnet and gloves and folded her cloak neatly over the back of a chair. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, as the weather had turned chilly some weeks ago. She gravitated towards it, holding her hands out to warm them. Above the mantel was an odd assortment of bits and pieces. A rock shaped like a heart; a crudely carved dog, or perhaps it was a horse; a faded childish drawing of a house, with sheep dotting the hills like fat little clouds. Another carving—this one rather better—of a plump ewe and another, smaller one of a sleeping lamb, stood in the far corner. Before Grace could take a better look, Mrs Oak came back in bearing a tray with a large brown teapot under a knitted cosy, and all the accoutrements for making tea, plus the scones piled on a plate, butter, and the jar of jam.

“Sit down, then, and stop making the place look untidy,” Mrs Oak said, settling herself to pour the tea. “How do you take it?”

“Not too strong, milk and sugar, please,” Grace said. “I’ve noticed the baby gets agitated if I take it too strong,” she added, smoothing a hand over her belly with a smile.

Mrs Oak darted a look at her, her eyes falling to Grace’s stomach before she continued with the tea. She handed Grace her cup before seeing to her own.

“Thank you,” Grace said, wondering how this was going to play out.

“Why did you come?”