“The master wishes to see you,” Nan announced as she shuffled into the kitchen with an empty basket on her hip, having finished hanging out the laundry in the yard. Her normally sallow cheeks were rosy with cold, and her hands were nearly blue after handling wet bed linens and Lady Blythe’s underthings. She set down the basket and held her hands out to the fire, sighing with contentment as they began to regain their normal color. “I saw him coming out of the stable,” she added.

“How did he seem to you?” Petra asked, wondering if he regretted the argument with Lady Blythe and was perhaps already reconsidering his intentions toward her.

“Sore-headed and shame-faced,” Nan replied. “Serves him right for drinking like a peasant.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Petra laughed. Nan really was too outspoken at times, a trait that earned her the back of Lady Blythe’s hand at least once a week.

“Tis the truth,” Nan shrugged. “I saw him being sick behind the stable. If I ever marry, I’ll find a man who has an aversion to drink. Nasty, it makes them, and violent.”

“Was Lord Devon violent toward you?” Petra demanded. Nan shook her head, and Petra suddenly wondered what Nan’s life had been like before she came to serve Lady Blythe. Nan had her opinions and was always up for a gossip, but she never talked about herself. Petra always assumed that there wasn’t much to tell, but perhaps she was wrong. Some memories were too painful to share. Could be that this place was a refuge for her as much as it had once been for Petra herself.

“Lord Devon is the exception. He gets maudlin when he drinks, but not belligerent, like some. You know how men can get when their blood’s up. They need to kick and punch someone, someone who’s too weak to defend themselves and won’t put up much of a fight. Can’t have their manhood challenged. Can they?” Nan asked with disgust. “That’s about the only thing I recall about my father — his fists, and how often he used them.”

Nan wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the hunk of venison she planned to make for supper. She skillfully impaled it on a spit and positioned it above the flames, where it would roast until suppertime, filling the house with its appetizing smell. If Thomas was too unwell to eat, Nan would get a nice portion for her own supper, since she ate whatever was left over from the mistress’s table.

“You’d best go see him now. He said he’d be waiting in the parlor. Likely wants to say his piece before his mother wakes from her nap, the old sow.”

Petra couldn’t help smiling at the girl. Nan had spirit; she’d give her that. It might not serve her well when it came to staying in Lady Blythe’s good graces, but perhaps saying what was on her mind made her feel a little less downtrodden. “All right; I’m going,” Petra replied and left Nan to her work.

Petra tried to push aside a feeling of apprehension as she hurried toward the parlor, but she couldn’t help worrying. If Thomas still wished to marry her, she’d feel beholden to him, and if he’d changed his mind, she might lose her position. Neither outcome would bode well for her. Petra entered the room and approached slowly, not wishing to disturb Thomas, who sat staring into the flames, his expression pensive.

“Ah, Petra, come in. Sit down,” he said, getting to his feet as a sign of respect. He reached out, as if to caress her cheek, but snatched his hand back, recognizing the intimacy of the gesture. Thomas held out his hands instead, enveloping Petra’s in his own. His hands were large, warm, and calloused. Thomas wasn’t a man who enjoyed idleness, despite his wealth. He often worked right alongside his men, loading sacks of wool, driving the ponies, and delivering shipments to the waiting ships, unlike Robert, who preferred not to get his hands dirty and conducted most of his business in taverns.

Petra took a seat and waited for Thomas to speak. He looked tired and upset, his face pale, and his eyes bloodshot from overindulgence in drink the night before. Petra wished he’d look away, but his gaze never wavered as he studied her face.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he finally said. “Today of all days.”

“Is something wrong, Thomas?” Petra asked. She didn’t think an argument with Lady Blythe would leave Thomas this unsettled. He used to argue with her all the time in days past, standing his ground despite his mother’s ire. Thomas had always been dutiful, more so than Robert, but he resented his mother’s bullying ways and preferred to decide for himself, even when the outcome was a foregone conclusion, much as his betrothal had been.

These days, Lady Blythe had little power over her sons, who ran the family business and controlled the Devon wealth. She liked to pretend that she still held sway over them, but in truth, they had no need of her counsel or her sharp tongue. They indulged her desire to feel involved, and gave her the respect sons owned their mother, but their personal choices were no longer any concern of hers. They were grown men, and masters onto themselves.

“Petra, I’m leaving tomorrow. I must visit the sheep farmers before the shearing starts. I’ll be gone a fortnight, possibly longer.”

Petra nodded, wondering what the urgency was. Normally, the sheep weren’t sheared until the spring, allowing the animals, especially lambs, the extra protection of their fleeces during the winter months. Once the shearing began, the wool came in continuously for weeks, the pack-whackers and pickers working practically non-stop to prepare the fleeces for shipment.

“There’s trouble a-brewing,” Thomas said, shaking his head in dismay, or maybe disbelief.

“What kind of trouble?”

“There’s a wool merchant in Lavenham. Walter Nevins is his name. I’ve never met the man myself, but have heard him mentioned. He’s ambitious and shrewd,” Thomas said. “And ruthless. He seems to have come into a sum of money. An inheritance from a relation, no doubt. He’s putting that money to good use. Nevins has been visiting the sheep farms, and offering men who’ve worked with us since the days of my father a higher price per sack of wool in an effort to cut us out.”

“How much more is he offering?” Petra asked. She had no notion of what a sack of wool went for, but to buy as much fleece as Thomas and Robert did would require a fortune, even without paying more per sack.

“Enough to make the farmers think twice about refusing. If he buys up our share of the fleeces, our profits will suffer, and we might not have enough put by to buy fleeces next year, opening the way for Nevins to pay the farmers less, since he would have eliminated the competition.”

“Would the Guild not have something to say about that?” Petra asked.

Thomas shook his head. “The Guild cannot be expected to eradicate competition among its members. That would harm everyone in the long run. We all negotiate our own terms and prices. Nevins is within his rights.”

“What will you do?” Petra asked. She never imagined that the wealthy worried about their income, and just assumed that they led comfortable, well-provided for lives. This was a glimpse into a world she knew nothing about.

“I will visit all the farmers and remind them of their commitment to us. We’ve treated them fairly and guaranteed their annual income for decades. Nevins might be paying more this year, but that doesn’t mean that this price will apply in the future, or that he will return to buy from them in the coming years.”

“And what if they refuse?” Petra asked. Her mother always said that a bird in the hand was better than two on a branch. More money this year might outweigh the fear of making less in the future.

“If they refuse, then I will renegotiate the terms and offer them a higher price. I cannot allow Nevins to steal my livelihood from me, nor will I.”

“Then I wish you Godspeed, Thomas, and hope that you will put this Nevins in his place.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Thomas finally smiled, his eyes filling with gratitude and hope.

“Petra, I know that you are recently bereaved and need more time to consider my proposal, but I’ll have you know that I told my mother of my intention to marry you.”

“So, I’ve heard,” Petra replied, smiling back. “Your mother is none too pleased.”

“She’ll come around,” Thomas replied, dismissing Lady Blythe with a wave of the hand. “I won’t press you for an answer now, but I would like to settle things between us when I return. Please, think about my proposal most carefully. I really am very fond of you, and I will give you and your children a good life, regardless of what happens in the coming weeks. You have my word.”

“You shall have my answer when you return, Thomas.”

Petra rose to her feet and was about to leave when Thomas came up behind her and took her by the arm. He pulled her close and bent down to kiss her, his lips gentle against hers before he deepened the kiss, his desire for her obvious. Petra didn’t resist, but neither did she return his kiss. That would have been a promise of sorts, and wouldn’t be fair.

“Something to remember me by,” Thomas said as he released her. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Not at all. Safe journey, Thomas.”

Petra fled the parlor, eager to get away and think. Thomas’s kiss hadn’t been unpleasant, and had she not seen Avery again after all these years, she would have welcomed it. Only an utter fool would refuse a proposal from a man like Lord Devon, especially when Avery was in no position to offer her a future.

But the heart wants what it wants, Petra thought as tears welled in her eyes. Oh, why did Avery have to come back?