Thirteen

Susannah’s birdhouse had been easy. Nick had devised a structure that looked like a set of shelves holding various volumes—Fordyce’s Sermons, Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets, Wordsworth’s latest poems. These, Nick fashioned into a home for birds, two stories of books high, the finished product fooling the eye from only a few feet away.

“Nita took me by surprise,” Nick informed a fat, white tomcat who sat on the workbench washing its right paw. “One hardly knows what to give her, she’s so damned independent.”

The sketchbook in front of Nick was open to a blank page, the same blank page he’d been staring at for an hour.

“Sheep, maybe, because she’s attached the affections of the Sheep Count, but what if she disdains his suit?”

Nick drew the pencil from behind his ear and tried a few lines in the direction of a woolly merino.

“Sheep don’t typically hang about in trees.” Neither did books, come to that. “Cats do.” Kirsten might like a cat-shaped birdhouse if ever she found a man she couldn’t demolish with feminine indifference.

Fifteen minutes later, Nick tossed down his pencil, disgusted, for his birdhouse sheep all looked like clouds with cloven hooves.

“Nita might have cornered St. Michael in some cozy parlor and made him recite more poetry to her, might have dragged him into the village to get the gossips excited, might have gone off to count lambs with him, but no. She must deal with some colicky infant or worse.”

The cat stropped its head on Nick’s chin and left a trail of brown paw prints on the white page.

A tap on the door interrupted Nick’s musings, while the cat switched directions and made another pass beneath Nick’s chin. Nick’s countess had doubtless come to rescue him at last from his doleful musings.

“Come in, lovey,” Nick said without turning. “I’ve missed you sorely and need some kisses to cheer me up.”

“I’d be happy to indulge you, Bellefonte,” said an accented male voice, “but your brother George might become jealous, to say nothing of your countess’s consternation.”

Well, hell. Nick closed the sketchbook and pivoted on his stool. “St. Michael, good morning. I was expecting my countess.” And what had George done now to provoke such a comment?

“You make your birdhouses here?” St. Michael stood inside the door, studying Nick’s workshop. He wore riding attire, his greatcoat was open rather than buttoned, and his hands were bare.

“I do, and I come here to think.” The cat put two paws on Nick’s shoulder, as if contemplating assuming a perch there.

“Lady Nita has accepted my suit,” St. Michael said, reaching for a “book” then drawing his hand back. “A trompe l’oeil. Very clever. I didn’t think old Fordyce would be to your taste.”

“I have sisters, and thus Fordyce graces our library. They read him when they’re in want of merriment. I suppose you’ve come to talk about the damned sheep?”

In other circumstances, St. Michael might have been a friend. He was shrewd, did not stand on ceremony, and enjoyed the pragmatic outlook of those born to a former generation of Continental aristos, and yet he wasn’t quite what Nick had envisioned for Nita.

“I’ve come to talk about Lady Nita’s settlements, assuming you’ll bless our union.”

St. Michael left off inspecting the birdhouse and moved on to the tools Nick had hung along one wall. Some Nick had made himself, the grips smoothed to exactly fit his grasp.

“You aren’t like any earl I’ve met before,” St. Michael murmured, “and I’ve met plenty.”

“You aren’t like any sheep farmer I’ve met before. With respect to the settlements, my father set aside funds for each of my sisters, but his means were modest.”

“I am not marrying your sister because I need more coin, Bellefonte,” St. Michael said gently. He lifted a hammer off the wall. “This could do some damage.”

The handle was oak, the weight one Nick had forged as a younger man.

“Stop playing with my toys, St. Michael. The purpose of the settlements is not to entice you to offer for the lady. She is your prize, and woe to you if you don’t realize that. The settlements are for Nita, so she knows we value her and will see her provided for should she be widowed.”

Though Papa hadn’t managed to set aside enough to guarantee that outcome, unless Nita was widowed in great old age. Nick had explained these circumstances to his sisters and had yet to find a remedy for it.

The cat commenced kneading Nick’s shoulder, needlelike claws digging through the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat.

St. Michael set the hammer back in its bracket and plucked the cat away just as Nick would have set the beast on the floor. The dratted pest commenced purring as St. Michael scratched it under the chin.

“How can I have a serious negotiation, Bellefonte, when you allow even the beasts to do as they please with your person? What is your position on the sheep?”

“Leave the sheep out of this. I’ve had other offers.”

St. Michael’s fingers paused, and the cat commenced switching its tail. “Other offers? Plural? Does Lady Kirsten have a suitor perhaps?”

“None of your damned business, but if she did, he’d doubtless want those sheep too.”

St. Michael resumed studying the birdhouse, as if the books were truly titles on a library shelf. “If you are thinking of the sheep, I am their best option. I take excellent care of my livestock.”

“I’m thinking of my sisters. Edward Nash knows Susannah’s portion is modest, and he’s willing to accept valuable consideration in place of coin.”

St. Michael made a face, like a cat who’d chanced upon a cream pot undefended in the pantry and had taken a lick only to find the contents soured.

“Lady Nita does not favor a match between Mr. Nash and Lady Susannah,” St. Michael said as the cat purred in his arms. “Please ask her why.”

“Lady Nita has reasons of her own to take the Nash menfolk into dislike. I cannot allow her fancies to cheat Susannah out of a decent match.” Though Nick didn’t care much for Edward. The man dressed his widowed sister-in-law like a farm wife, took no interest in his nephew, and leered at tavern maids despite paying his addresses to Susannah. “Nash is the first man Susannah has looked upon with favor, and thus I am bound to encourage such a match.”

“Lady Nita’s objections to her sister’s choice are specific to Mr. Edward Nash. I strongly urge you, for the sake of Lady Susannah’s well-being, to speak with your sister.”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” Nick asked, rising from his stool. “Nita Haddonfield could teach stubbornness to Irish mules. If she’s disinclined to broach a topic, it remains unbroached.”

St. Michael deposited the cat on the workbench. It sat upon Nick’s closed sketchbook, tail wrapped around its paws in perfect, insolent contentment. Nita’s suitor took Nick’s vacated stool, lounging back to prop his elbows on the workbench.

“You’ll be glad to give your sister into my keeping?” St. Michael asked.

Sisters were not livestock, to be surrendered in the marketplace for a sum certain.

“In the churchyard,” Nick said, “I will present a vapid smile for all the biddies, and I’ll accept good wishes on Nita’s account with my usual faultless good cheer. To all save my wife, I will pretend to be vastly pleased that Nita will be your comtesse, but, St. Michael, I’d hoped every one of my sisters would be treated to something of a proper courtship.”

“If I’ve found favor in Lady Nita’s eyes, isn’t that courtship enough?”

Apparently more than enough, if Della’s mutterings were to be believed.

“I am angry at my father,” Nick said, dragging a second stool up beside St. Michael’s. “I’m frequently angry at the late earl, which he likely considers repayment of a consideration long overdue.”

The cat’s scratchy tongue swiped across the top of Nick’s ear. The little beast had remarkably foul breath.

“My rage at my parents lasted years after their deaths,” St. Michael said. “My father’s willingness to die amid his wealth, I could understand—France was his home—but my mother had a choice. She could have remained in Scotland and raised her sons or returned to the greater comfort of my father’s holdings in France. She chose the luxury, despite the peril, and my grandfather, who might have stopped her, deferred to her husband’s authority. Lady Nita would choose her children. She’s a reliable partner, and she and I will get on well enough.”

Kirsten, George, and Della had each assured Nick that Mr. St. Michael was getting on with Nita famously.

At all hours, and in the privacy of her ladyship’s bedroom.

“I think you underestimate my sister,” Nick said, sitting forward, out of range of cat kisses. Let St. Michael deal with overly affectionate felines.

“Most men underestimate most women, and I suspect the ladies like it that way,” St. Michael said, dragging the cat off Nick’s sketchbook and holding the creature up like a feline rag doll. “Have you no respect, cat? Bellefonte is not one of your pantry strumpets, to endure your overtures.”

The cat was still purring, even dangling at St. Michael’s eye level.

“He can’t hear you,” Nick said. “Poor blighter’s deaf as a dowager duchess. I’ve a physician friend who pointed it out to me.”

“You’re sure he’s deaf?”

“David, Viscount Fairly, trained as a doctor in Scotland and is canny as hell. He demonstrated the cat’s disability in various ways. Poor creature can’t hear a thing, though he senses vibrations, has excellent eyesight, and does not lack for female companionship.”

Maybe deafness around females wasn’t entirely a curse.

“Interesting.” St. Michael set the cat back down on the workbench. “If you don’t do something with those sheep soon, they’ll develop all manner of ailments. You’ve a few smaller specimens among them already.”

To hell with the damned sheep. “You’re not getting those sheep, St. Michael. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Now the cat perched, one paw on Nick’s shoulder, one on St. Michael’s.

“Will Nash get them?” St. Michael asked.

Persistent, the both of them, though it was some consolation that the cat liked St. Michael. Nick put the presuming feline out in the saddle room, while St. Michael remained at ease on his stool.

“I’m upset with the late earl,” Nick said, “not because his circumstances precluded lavish dowries for my sisters. Rents do not provide the income they once did, taxes climb yearly, and launching more than a half-dozen children is expensive. Papa did the best he could.”

“And yet you’d read dear Papa the Riot Act now if you had the chance,” St. Michael said. “Why? He did not abandon you in a strange country where you knew little of the languages and nothing of the customs. He did not go running back to his chateau, while you subsisted on tough mutton and endless church services.”

Beneath St. Michael’s curiosity lay hard memories. Nick hoped Nita, with her tender, lonely heart, was not marrying a hard man.

“Papa knew he was dying,” Nick said, though the words were difficult. “He sent us all away. Beckman was to take the Three Springs estate in hand. I was to find a bride. George lingered in the vicinity of Cambridge, mostly to keep an eye on Adolphus, and the girls were banished to relatives and house parties. My brother Ethan, from whom Papa had been estranged, was invited to make a final call, and Nita was allowed to remain at Belle Maison.”

“Because of her medical knowledge?” St. Michael suggested.

“Nita is very knowledgeable, but she’s still unmarried, for all she’s had her Seasons. I am angry with my father for taking advantage of Nita. She ran this place while my brothers and I were sowing wild oats, while her mother fell ill, while the old earl faded.”

Nick’s recitation was drifting from an explanation to a confession, and maybe that was appropriate.

“Lady Nita did a fine job,” St. Michael said. “Many women find ways to be useful despite spinsterhood.”

Nita would have her hands full with this one, but so too would St. Michael have his hands full.

“Nita did not graduate from the schoolroom to spinsterhood, you dolt. She graduated from the schoolroom to widowhood, without any of the intervening years of laughter and happiness, without any babies or grandbabies to love, without even the preservation of a spinster’s unworldliness. Her mother was something of a healer, but Nita has far eclipsed her mother’s example, and trespasses now on all manner of miseries with impunity.”

St. Michael’s features shuttered, suggesting Nick’s point eluded his grasp.

“I thank you for passing along your fraternal sentiments, Bellefonte, but we’ve yet to resolve the settlements.”

Leah had counseled Nick to patience where St. Michael was concerned, and as ever, the countess had seen clearly.

“Listen to me, St. Michael, or there will be no need to discuss settlements. Women like Nita need to feel needed. Papa took advantage of that, until Nita forgot she could say no, until she thought all the burdens she shouldered, the babies she could deliver, were the sum of her value. Leah has relieved Nita of the weight of running Belle Maison, and Nita has gone halfway into a decline over that kindness.”

Nick picked up his hammer, and as it had for years, it fit his hand perfectly.

“I’m guilty of colluding in this sad tale,” he went on, “but I’m charging you with setting matters to rights. Let Nita attend the lying-ins if you must, but no more sickrooms for my sister, no more tending gunshot wounds, no more putrid sore throats or gangrenous toes, no more—”

At the door, the cat scratched to be let in. Nick’s woodworking shop was the warmest place in the barn by virtue of braziers full of hot coals, in addition to the proximity of large, shaggy horses.

“You allowed her to deal with…that?” St. Michael said, abruptly appropriating a very French portion of dismay.

“Makes me bilious to think of it,” Nick said, using a hasp to stir the coals in one of the braziers. “The allowing started before my father fell ill, so yes. Nita knows her herbs, but she’s also a competent surgeon and physician. Dr. Horton is behind the times in his science, and most people around here know it and take advantage of Nita accordingly.”

“Then Horton should find a younger assistant.”

St. Michael was a dab hand at solving other people’s problems. Children would cure him of that arrogance if Nita didn’t see to it.

“I’ve told Horton that,” Nick said, “and he scoffs at the very notion. Vicar agrees with him and says the problem is that Nita lacks a proper sense of her place in the world. I cannot say the man is wrong.”

Though neither was Nita to blame for allowing others to need her.

The cat on the far side of the door was aggravatingly persistent.

“Your vicar may not be wrong,” St. Michael said, “but he’s not very Christian either. If he did more to inspire his flock’s charitable impulses, Lady Nita wouldn’t be scouring your larder for the parish poor.”

The Scots were of necessity a practical people, also fiercely loyal to family. St. Michael would not criticize Nita for her generosity or caring, and that was some relief.

“The old vicar was a kinder soul,” Nick said, feeling abruptly chilly. “We miss him.” Nick missed his father too. Sorely, every day. For the first time, it occurred to Nick that Nita must miss her papa every bit as much if not more.

And her mama and her other married brothers, for whom she’d made Belle Maison a well-organized, comfortable home.

“You are worried for your sister’s happiness,” St. Michael said, taking the hammer from Nick’s grasp and hanging it again in its assigned location. “That speaks well of you. Whatever funds you have set aside for Lady Nita, I will triple them upon our marriage and you can manage them as you see fit. I want six rams, one tup, and six ewes, of my choosing.”

“Agreed,” Nick said, “but only because you will give Nita those happy years, those children and grandchildren. Choose the best of the herd, if you can convince her that she need not accept every obligation put before her, that she’s dear and precious in herself.”

The hammer would not hang straight for St. Michael, and the damned cat would not cease scratching at the door, so Nick took pity on the beast.

“I have promised your sister we can bide near her family for much of the year, though the matter of children is in the Almighty’s hands.” St. Michael paused in the open doorway. “As for that other—the sore throats and whatnot—she’s done with it, particularly with the infections and diseases. As my countess, she’ll have many agreeable tasks to keep her busy, and her health will no longer be put at risk for others. I’ve warned her that I take seriously the welfare of my dependents, and Lady Nita is done waging war on illness and death.”

Nick would have been more reassured by this pronouncement had Nita been present to confirm it. St. Michael at least had the right objective.

Nick offered his hand. “Best of luck, St. Michael, and welcome to the family.”

St. Michael shook firmly, then departed, leaving Nick once again in the cat’s company, with no earthly idea what manner of wedding gift to make for his oldest sister.

* * *

“That is ten pounds,” Kirsten said.

“Not my ten pounds,” Nita replied, stuffing the money back into the pocket of her cloak. “Mr. St. Michael asked me to pass it along to Addy, but one hesitates.”

“You think she’ll drink it?”

Kirsten rode a flighty, elegant mare with a fine opinion of herself, though this morning, Hecate was content to plod along at Atlas’s side.

“I often wonder how I’d fare, were I in Addy’s place,” Nita said, turning down the lane that led to the Chalmers cottage. “If a young man wheedled my virtue from me, got me with child, then abandoned me, opening the door for his family and mine to turn their backs on me as well, how would I manage?”

“You’re thinking of Norton? Any one of our brothers would have brought him up to scratch, Nita.”

Atlas stumbled, an occasional bad step in snowy footing common for even the most sure-footed horse.

“I’m thinking of myself, of whether I could have borne to become Norton’s wife. I wanted to be in love with him, but—” Compared to what Nita felt for Tremaine St. Michael, her attraction to Norton Nash had been more curiosity and boredom than affection.

And loneliness. Heaps and years of loneliness.

“Norton was more fun loving and less vain than Edward,” Kirsten said, “but Elsie got the pick of that litter.”

While Susannah had made a play for the runt.

“I’m encouraged whenever I see smoke coming from Addy’s chimney,” Nita said, drawing Atlas to a halt before the rickety porch. “Smoke means Addy hasn’t left her children to freeze to death.”

Kirsten unhooked her knee from the horn and slid down, her mare taking a sidewise step to enliven the maneuver.

“Is that why you didn’t call upon your fiancé’s escort for this outing?” Kirsten asked, running her stirrup up its leather. “You worry that someday, you’ll come up this lane and find another dead baby?”

Nita got off her horse, for once finding Kirsten’s blunt speech appropriate. “Nobody talks about it, but I delivered that child and I do fear for her siblings.” Babies died with appalling frequency, but a baby stood no chance when the mother resumed drinking shortly after her lying-in.

“I’ve always wondered how the men of this parish engage Addy’s services,” Kirsten said, passing Nita one of the two sacks they’d brought. “Many of those fellows grew up with her, saw her at services, and knew her parents. How can they undertake dealings with a woman whom they knew was once respectable, when they might instead offer her gainful employment?”

“Lady Nita!” Evan stood in the doorway, his little face wreathed in smiles, the blue scarf about his neck and the ends dangling nearly to his knees. “And Lady Kirsten! The baby’s awake, and I’m learning the letters for my name.”

“Letters are a fine thing,” Nita said, entering the cottage. Addy sat before the hearth in the rocking chair, Annie cradled in her lap. “Addy, hello.”

“My ladies.” She rose, bobbing a curtsy with the child in her arms. “Evan, close that door or we’ll all freeze. Mary, wipe your brother’s nose.”

“How is Annie,” Kirsten asked, “and how are you, Addy?”

“Annie is better, and we’re managing.” Managing did not mean the cottage offered any hospitality. Even a cup of tea was an extravagance beyond Addy’s means.

“Managing is the best many of us can do,” Nita said, peering at the baby. “Her color’s good and she’s breathing well.”

Addy kissed the child’s brow, the gesture both defensive and protective. “I’ll not lose this one. Not this one too.”

Kirsten took the sack Nita had been clutching. “Children, I’ll slice you some bread, and there’s butter and jam in these sacks somewhere. Perhaps you’ll help me find them?”

The household afforded no more privacy than it did hospitality, though Kirsten would hardly gossip and the children were absorbed with the prospect of good food.

“I do not judge you, Addy,” Nita said, taking off one glove and running a finger over the child’s cheek. “I certainly do not judge wee Annie.”

The baby rooted against her mother’s shoulder, a normal, healthy infant indication of interest in nutrition, the same interest shared by the other children.

“Come sit with me,” Addy said, moving toward the sleeping alcove.

Nita followed her behind the curtain to a pathetically tidy square of bedding, an extra blanket—one Nita had brought when she’d first learned Addy was carrying—folded at the foot of the bed.

Addy passed over the baby and loosened her jumps in anticipation of nursing her child. When her clothing had been rearranged, Addy put the baby to her breast with the detached efficiency of an experienced mother.

“I want to tell you something, my lady.”

Dread swept up from Nita’s middle, like a cold gust tearing into a cozy parlor from a window slammed open by a winter gale.

“You’re not surrendering this child to the parish,” Nita said. “I’ll not take her to the foundling hospital either.”

The baby latched on greedily, her mother wincing with afterpains. The late countess, a mother of seven herself, had said those were often as painful as the birth pangs, and yet Nita envied Addy her discomfort.

“I’ll not surrender the child to the parish,” Addy said, “though I understand why you’d think that of me. I need paper, Lady Nita, and pencil, for I’ve a letter to write. I hate to ask, when you’ve done so much for me, but I have a cousin in Shropshire who last I heard had longed for children and been unable to have them. Her husband’s a kind man, and she wrote to me even after Mary came.”

That would have been as much as ten years ago, and yet Addy still clung to hope regarding this cousin.

“You’d send the baby to her?” Nita hated that notion, for a newborn needed her mother.

“And Evan. Jacob and Esau are good, sturdy boys, but Evan needs a trade. I won’t want to, and certainly not until the baby is weaned, but I cannot—”

A combination of emotions chased across Addy’s once-pretty features. Determination, resignation, anger, and despair were all made more passionate by the mother-love nature intended every child to know from the moment of birth.

“You cannot what, Addy?” Nita asked. Beyond the curtain, the cottage had grown quiet as the older children consumed the bounty of bread, jam, and butter.

“I cannot continue as I’ve been doing. I can’t go back to it, Lady Nita. You might think I’ve grown accustomed to the shame, to the men, but I haven’t. I want better for my Annie, and for Mary too.”

Did anybody ever grow accustomed to shame? To guilt? “What about their fathers? Might they at least help the children?” Did they feel any shame?

“The only one I know for sure is Mary’s father, and he’s gone. His family won’t help, and Mary’s growing too pretty.”

Nicholas might allow Mary to join the kitchen staff at Belle Maison, but then what of the younger children?

“Mr. St. Michael asked me to give this to you,” Nita said, drawing the ten pounds from her cloak. “It won’t solve any greater problems, but it will give you time to heal from Annie’s birth, to write to your cousin, and consider your options.”

Addy used one finger to break the suction between the infant and the nipple, and switched the child to the second breast.

“That’s from Mr. St. Michael?” Addy asked, looking anywhere but at the money.

“He will not expect anything in return. He and I are to be married, and he once lived as a poor lad would, Addy. This is for the children.”

Nita tucked the money under the single thin pillow at the head of the bed. The pillowcase still had a border of fine white work, suggesting it was a relic of Addy’s trousseau.

“We’ll miss you here, Lady Nita, but he’s a good sort, your Mr. St. Michael.”

Beyond the curtain, Evan quietly asked for more bread and jam. His siblings remained silent in the face of that bold request, but Kirsten must have obliged, for soon a chorus of, “Please, Lady Kirsten, me too!” followed.

“You needn’t miss me,” Nita said. “Mr. St. Michael has said he’ll find us a property in the neighborhood.”

The idea was satisfying, like fresh bread, butter, and jam for a lady’s soul. In that single magnanimous gesture, Tremaine had assured Nita that she could still contribute to her community, still uphold the tradition passed down to her by her own mother.

“I don’t attend services, my lady. Vicar made it clear I was not welcome.”

“I didn’t mean you’d see me only at—”

The baby made a noise suggesting her nappies were in immediate need of attention.

“One end fed, the other end clean,” Addy said with good-humored patience. She passed Nita the baby, did up her bodice, and took Annie back. “I didn’t kill my babies, Lady Nita.”

The stink one small baby could create was prodigious. “I would never accuse you of that.”

“Because you’re too kind. When I know I’m carrying, I try to stay away from the gin and have only the small pints most women drink from time to time. Spirits are dear, and my children need to eat. I drink so I can earn money.”

So Addy could tolerate the attentions of her customers in other words. Nita rose from the bed.

“You needn’t explain this to me, Addy. Many other women would have put their children on the parish and gone to London by now.” Though the parish might not accept these children, notwithstanding that they’d lived their entire lives in Haddondale.

“Nothing but disease awaits me in London, I know that,” Addy said, laying the child in the middle of the bed. “I also know many would rather I leave, but I can’t do that to my children. I try not to drink, and when the babies come, as long as I can, I stay with them.”

“But they must eat, so you resume your activities in the village.”

Addy drew the curtain back, revealing the four older children gathered around the hearth, all eagerly demonstrating their letters for Kirsten.

“And to do that, I drink. I also drink when one of my babies dies, though God knows, heaven must be an improvement over what I can offer them here.”

That sentiment was so miserable, so honest, Nita could not accept it.

“Look at your children,” she said. “They’re warm enough, they have food in their bellies. You have more means to care for them now than you’ve had for months, Addy Chalmers. You will write to your cousin; I will speak to Nicholas. Surely Belle Maison can use a scullery maid or a shepherd boy.”

On the bed behind them, the baby fussed, waving small fists in the air.

“You should burp her,” Nita said, “when her nappy has been tended to.”

“I smell a stinky,” Evan chirped from the hearth.

“I’ll change her,” Mary said, springing up and snatching a clean cloth from a stack on the table.

“They’re good children,” Nita said, “and you’re right to want something better for them. I will be back, Addy, with pencil and paper, at least.”

Jacob, Esau, and Evan were apparently smitten with Lady Kirsten, for when she rose, their little faces fell.

“Time to go?” Kirsten asked a bit too cheerfully.

“If you’re done with your scholars,” Nita replied.

Addy rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too.

Nita mentally added some simple books to the list of provisions she’d bring when next she visited, and soon she and Kirsten were back in their respective saddles, though they rode into the wind on their homeward journey.

“How do you stand it?” Kirsten asked before they’d reached the end of the lane.

“Stand the smell?”

“The smell, the dirt, the hopelessness. Addy isn’t much older than you, and she’ll likely die soon of the pox, cold, starvation, or sheer melancholia. I don’t want to go back there, Nita. I should be kinder, I should be braver, but I don’t want to go back there. Addy is fallen, and those children are doomed.”

Atlas plodded along, head down. The weather seemed to have subdued even Kirsten’s mare.

“I don’t want to go back either.” Nita never wanted to go back, not to a home where babies had died, not to see that infection would soon take a man’s life if he were unwilling to part with his foot, not to offer useless tisanes to an aching old woman who longed for heaven.

“Then why do you do it?” Kirsten wailed, swiping at her cheek with the back of her glove. “Why do you make yourself stare at that mean, smelly cottage, those pinched faces, that dear little baby?”

Kirsten had barely glanced at the baby.

“I thought Addy’s drinking was what had taken the last child from her,” Nita said. “I couldn’t bear for that to happen to wee Annie.”

Kirsten sniffed. “Everybody knows Addy’s drinking cost that child her life.”

“Everybody’s wrong,” Nita said. “I was wrong too. The child’s death sent Addy back to the gin. Babies sometimes die for no reason, and this was apparently one of those times. I want Annie to live. Her mother wants that too.” Like any normal mother would want her child to live, thrive, and have a chance in life.

“While her father wanted to dip his wick,” Kirsten spat, “and then likely stand up with you or me at the assembly. I accompanied you to that household because I was curious, Nita, not because I’m prone to Christian charity. I wanted to see how low Addy Chalmers had fallen, wanted to see what became of a woman without virtue. I’m sorry.”

Nita steered her horse around a frozen puddle rather than observe that Kirsten had seen all of that on her first visit to the cottage.

“Frightening, isn’t it?” Nita said. Frightening and exhausting. “I’ve committed the same lapses in judgment Addy has, and so apparently has Suze. Suze and I suffer no consequences, while Addy has lost all.”

“Not all. She has those children, and—like half the ailing people in this shire—she has you.”

Nita urged Atlas to a trot, anxious to return to her intended. Kirsten was right though. The ailing people in the shire did have Nita, so rather than ride straight for home, first she’d pay brief calls on Alton Horst and Mary Eckhardt.