Page 8 of A Rogue to Cherish

Tim, who seemed to have mastered a bored expression, looked at her but answered the other young man, “I was told to bring a wheelbarrow.”

Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to cause a ruckus. “If it’s not convenient for me to use a wheelbarrow, perhaps you have a bucket or something else,” Wren told the red-faced lad. “There’s no need to be angry.”

The boy snatched the handles from Tim and hurried away, pushing the wheelbarrow in front of him.

“What now?” Tim asked, looking after where the other lad went. “A bucket?”

Wren nodded, and he went to a small shed and pointed. “There are plenty in there.”

He expected her to fetch it herself? And do all the weeding as well? Why was he even here? Wren gave him a pointed look, and he let out a breath and went into the shed, emerging with two buckets. He then placed them where she motioned. “Pull these,” Wren instructed, pointing at a bright green, tendril-like weed that had done its best to overtake the garden. To her surprise, Tim kneeled and began yanking the plants, then tossing them into the bucket.

Once again, she got onto her knees and started working, the entire time wondering what occurred inside. Was Mr. Grant to be a guest for more than one day? What exactly was his relationship with her employer?

“I hear you need a wheelbarrow,” a masculine voice right behind her startled Wren. It was one of the men who worked with the livestock. He was probably her age, with a youthful plumpness to his face and a cheerful look about him. “I am Albert. I brought this wheelbarrow.” He motioned unnecessarily to the item. “Do you need me to take whatever you will put into it away?”

So far, she and Tim filled two buckets with weeds and had begun to just pile more on the ground. “Oh, thank you. No need. Tim can do it.”

Tim, who’d grown bored with the task of lazily plucking a weed here and there, came out of his stupor and walked to Albert. “I will do it. I can take the weeds to be burned.” Then Tim looked at her, and it was obvious he expected her to put them into the wheelbarrow.

Wren had had enough. “Put all of this into there.” She pointed. “Have care lest you get a scratch on your soft hands.”

Tim lost his permanently bored expression and sneered. Albert laughed. “Aye, our Tim is not one for hard work.”

“Or any work if you ask me,” Wren said, satisfied to see Tim doing as told.

Albert winked at her and walked away whistling, past a maid who glared in her direction. It occurred to her that she would have to learn who to get to know and who to avoid.

*

“Wren.” Her auntappeared at the edge of the garden later that afternoon. “You must be famished.”

Wren realized she’d not eaten since the morning and indeed, she was quite hungry. She got up and followed her aunt, stopping at the well to draw some water so she could wash the garden dirt from her hands. Then, they ate in the kitchen at a small table in the corner while the cook and maids worked around them with quick efficiency.

Wren leaned closer to her aunt. “The stableman named Albert brought a wheelbarrow and talked to me. As he returned, I noticed there was a maid who was not happy about it.”

Her aunt sniffed. “Do not bother with them. There is always something going on between the lasses and the lads who work here. Best to keep to yourself and not worry about such things.”

It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to know, but it didn’t matter. The last thing she was interested in was any kind of entanglement. Wren’s priority was to work hard and make money so that she could help her aunt with expenses. But there was one thing that interested her about the household, and she couldn’t help but ask, “The man, Mr. Murray, is he related to Lady Roberts?”

At this, the kitchen maid snickered, then quieted when the cook gave her a stern look. Her aunt’s cheeks pinkened. “He is a friend of the family.” She changed the subject abruptly. “Finish your chores promptly. I wish to go home and have enough time to help out at the vicarage.”

*

Lucinda was uncharacteristicallyundemonstrative and lacking in any sort of excitement at his arrival. Usually, the woman would greet him with her hands outstretched for him to take in his.

Pretending not to notice, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to both her cheeks and then lowered into a chair across from the settee in which she sat. Dressed in a pale lavender gown that would have been better suited for someone a quarter of her age, hair pulled up in a youthful arrangement, and cheeks stained with rouge, the woman fought hard to remain young. Unfortunately, her attempts to appear youthful usually had the opposite effect. Today, she appeared pale and sallow in the sunlight that shined through the window.

For months, he’d chosen to ignore her appearance, pretending to find the woman attractive. And it was true that, from portraits on the walls, she had been quite attractive when she was younger. Perhaps because of this, she had married three times. But it didn’t stop her from being widowed. After the last husband, with both Lord Roberts and her youthful appearance gone, she’d remained a widow. The now-departed Lord had left the bulk of his fortune to Lucinda, making her a wealthy woman. So instead of remarrying and chancing the loss of that wealth, she’d taken lover after lover.

Grant was her latest.

A maid entered and poured tea. Plump scones and jam were placed on plates before them.

“Have Rufus come see me,” Lucinda told the maid. The young woman nodded and hurried away. Grant speculated how, anytime young women were near, Lucinda watched him like a hawk. Truly, he considered it comical, as he was well-versed in how to make a woman feel as if she was the only one who mattered. Even if he noticed someone who took his attention, he made sure to keep his observations discreet.

“Where have you been?” Lucinda asked without preamble. “You must know we must discuss what occurred between you and my son.”

He mulled over how to best reply. “His attack was unprovoked. As you can imagine, I was unprepared and defended myself by hitting him. I am told he is unharmed.”