Page 13 of Waiting for Love

That, Benjamin thought, was overdoing it. No one would drag her off. But Reg’s expression softened.

“We aren’t chasing you away.”

“I know. But it feels like it sometimes.”

“Oh, Livvy.” To Benjamin’s surprise, Reg walked over and wrapped his arms around his sister. Reg had always seemed the least demonstrative of the brothers. “If you want Mrs. Byrd, you shall have her.”

“Mama will be upset,” she said, her voice muffled against Reg’s chest.

“She’ll come round.” He gave Olivia’s shoulders a little shake. “It doesn’t matter who the ton anoints as this year’s most sought-after modiste. Jasper would say Taverstons don’t follow fashions, they set them.” He cleared his throat and spoke over his shoulder. “Mr. Carroll, let us put off visiting Everet until tomorrow.”

“Fine by me.” He stroked Goose’s nose. Then mounted. This was a family affair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go have a word with Willy Pyle.”

Chapter Six

October slid into November. The days grew colder and shorter, and the landscape turned from green to orange and yellow to brown in the space of a few short weeks. Olivia rode every morning unless it poured down rain. She enjoyed the freedom she had to go about without an escort at Chaumbers, but that didn’t mean she shunned company. Hazard accompanied her three times before hying back to London, claiming he daren’t leave his mother alone any longer or she would redecorate his house. Alice or Reg rode with her occasionally. Still, most often she went out alone.

To satisfy Mama, and because she did have some common sense, Olivia no longer rode in the wee hours of the morning, but waited until the sun was up. Today, she’d asked Fergus to saddle Bluebell, an old pony that was getting fat from lack of exercise, an animal she could mount without aid. She had a duty to perform, visiting the Fowlers, tenants on the estate. Noblesse oblige, Mama would say.

Yesterday, their local physician, Dr. Haraldsen, had come to pass on word that Mrs. Fowler had dropped a heavy pot on her foot. “She’ll be laid up a week or two,” he’d informed Olivia. Olivia, not Mama. Ever since Papa’s first fit of apoplexy, Mama had delegated to Olivia the task of seeing to the welfare of the tenants in little things like this. So now she was knocking on the door of the Fowlers’ cottage. She’d brought them a meat pie and a peck of apples.

Sam and Jon, mischievous little scamps whom she adored, let her in. “It’s Livia-lady,” shouted Sam.

“Ah, bless your heart,” Mrs. Fowler called out from her bed, spying the gift. Her foot was propped on what must have been every spare bit of cloth in the house, mounded up. With her uncombed hair and unkempt gown, she looked as though she’d aged ten years. “Tell your mother we’re grateful, we are.”

On previous visits, the small cottage had always been cluttered but clean; however, now there was mud on the floor and ashes spilled beyond the hearth. The air had a curdled-milk smell.

Olivia set the basket and pie pan on their small trestle table, while the boys jostled her in their attempts to hug her about the waist. “Would you like me to serve out some pie to the boys?” she asked, handing them each an apple. They laughed their delight and retreated a few steps, while continuing to watch her as if waiting for more bounty to fall from her hands.

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Fowler protested. “Mr. Fowler is in the field. He’ll be pink to see a real supper. Mabs come over from across the way the last night to boil us some beans—right nice of her—but Mr. Fowler says he don’t want to see another bean.” She waved her hand to gesture vaguely at the room. “He asked the Widow Tabor to help out, but she can’t come until tomorrow.”

Good. Gert Tabor was always looking for work. She would tidy the cottage and keep the boys fed and entertained.

Sam bounded suddenly over to his mother and tried to climb up beside her. Mrs. Fowler winced and went pale.

“Sam!” Olivia called. “See what I have?”

He turned and scrunched his face at her, curious. She reached into the basket and fished out four wooden cows, the size of her fingers, that she’d found in the Taverstons’ old nursery. She held them out. “These are for you and Jon. But you have to play with them here at the table.”

Both boys approached, eyeing the toy cows with awe.

“For us?” Jon asked. Then he looked at his mother. “Can we?”

Mrs. Fowler cleared her throat. “Yes, if you thank Lady Olivia.” She sounded teary.

They thanked her effusively in their high-pitched little-boy voices. They were so sweet that it made Olivia’s heart hurt a little.

“Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Fowler?” she asked, turning to the injured woman. There was a fine line, she was learning, between helping enough and offering too much. “I’d like to bring a pillow or two for your foot. It would be more comfortable.” The short tower of cloth looked lumpy.

Mrs. Fowler’s brow creased. “Dr. Haraldsen said to use one, but…”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow.” Olivia tousled Jon’s hair, then brought an apple over to Mrs. Fowler. She would also bring fresh milk. And a boiled chicken and some potatoes. “Try to eat a few bites if you can.”

She waved her goodbyes, went back out to Bluebell, and hauled herself into the saddle.

She left the Fowlers with a vague sense of unease. The Earl of Iversley’s tenants were better off than many, but the last two years had been hard on everyone. The neglect since Bradwell’s death was beginning to show around the edges. Benjamin would soon have the place thriving again. He was conscientious and hardworking, and the way he’d hired Willy Pyle when he didn’t have to showed he cared about the people of Iversley. But what about the little things, like meat pies and pillows?

When Vanessa returned from Binnings, the duties of the lady of the house would fall to her. But while Mama and Papa had only gone to London for short visits, Vanessa and Jasper were likely to be there for most of the year. Who would see to the little cares of the tenants? It would be awkward for Mama to return to the role. That would be stepping on the new countess’s toes. And Olivia wouldn’t be here.