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He hesitated a moment. It really wasn’t any of his business, but then he said gruffly, “She fears that she doesn’t meet with your approval.”
“My approval?” She looked at him, puzzled. “Abigail told you that?”
He nodded.
She sighed. “I love her terribly—of course I do; she’s my daughter—but I’ve never understood her. She has these moods, so dark for one so young. It’s not that I disapprove of her; it’s that I wish I knew how to make her happy.”
“Perhaps you don’t need to.”
She shook her head. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I’m no authority, but perhaps there’s no need to try and ‘make’ her happy. After all, that chore is ultimately one that will lead to defeat. No one can make Abigail happy but herself. Perhaps you need only love her.” He looked down into her sad harebell-blue eyes. “And you already do.”
“Yes.” Her eyes widened. “Yes, I do.”
He looked away again and felt the squeeze of her fingers before she dropped her hand.
“Come, children,” she called, and started down the hill.
He watched her, her skirts swaying as she descended the hill, her hips moving in a smooth seductive rhythm, a lock of pale gold hair blowing from beneath the wide brim of her hat. He blinked as if waking from a dream and followed those slowly swaying hips.
“Where’re the badgers?” Jamie asked. The boy caught his hand, seemingly without thinking.
Alistair tilted his chin forward. “Just over the hill there.”
They were surrounded by gently rolling hills covered in low gorse and heather, the horizon clear as far as the eye could see. Farther to the west, a flock of sheep grazed like dots of down on the green and purple hills.
“But we went that way yesterday,” Abigail objected. “Miss Munroe couldn’t find the badgers anywhere.”
“Ah, but that’s because she doesn’t know where to look.”
Abigail gave him a dubious glance, and he was hard-pressed not to smile at her doubt.
“Puddles doesn’t want to walk anymore,” Jamie announced.
“How do you know?” Abigail frowned at the puppy, who, as far as Alistair could see, looked perfectly able to walk.
“I just do,” Jamie retorted. He scooped the puppy into his arms. “Oof. He’s gotten big.”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “That’s because you gave him the rest of your porridge this morning.”
Jamie started to say something rather heatedly, but Alistair cleared his throat. “I found a puddle in the kitchen this morning that I suspect Puddles may have made. Mind you take him outside for his business, children.”
“We will,” Abigail said.
“Have you thought of a name for him? He can’t be Puddles for the rest of his life.”
“Well, I thought of George, in honor of the king, but Jamie doesn’t like it.”
“It’s a silly name,” Jamie muttered.
“And what is your proposition?” Alistair asked.
“Spot,” Jamie said.
“Ah, well, that’s—”
“Stu-pid!” Abigail interjected. “Besides, he’s more splotchy than spotty, and Splotch would be an even sillier name.”
