Page 13 of Nice Earls Do

For several silent moments, she did not attempt an answer, though some variation of the question had been swirling among her thoughts for days—no, years. She was a woman of means, a widow with a significant measure of independence. What did she intend to do with her good fortune?

“I’ve been thinking...”

Oliver fished inside his coat and retrieved the little notebook and pencil he kept tucked in his breast pocket. Lists had always been a preoccupation of his, a way of working through problems. After moistening the tip of the pencil against his tongue, he held it poised above the paper. “Yes?”

“Now that I’ve read it, I do appreciate how Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping celebrates the value of women’s domestic contributions to society, while still making it clear that so-called women’s work is indeed work, and not always a labor of love. I wish...” She paused, hoping not to wound with her next words. “I wish I had been possessed of such a manual twenty years ago.”

Oliver only nodded without looking up and wrote two words at the top of the blank page.

“Or rather, I wish I had had something to reassure me that it was perfectly natural for a lady to want—oh, I don’t know—to be heard on political matters, and not just smile and nod at her husband’s opinions. Or to study economics, and not merely sufficient arithmetic to balance the household accounts. To dance, yes, but also to run and swim and...” She waved a hand, searching for something outrageous and snatching from the air a golden childhood memory. “Even play cricket if she chooses.”

“Sort of the opposite of a conduct manual, it sounds like.” He jotted down a few more words.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed with a laugh. “But really, I haven’t any ambition to write books—and who would buy such a thing, if I did? Young ladies are the ones who need to hear such advice, and their reading is strictly monitored.”

Oliver tapped the end of the pencil against his lips, looking thoughtful, and then wrote down something else. “Something less expensive, then. Something easily paid for with pin money and just as easily passed from friend to friend. Perhaps a periodical.”

“You mean, some sort of ladies’ magazine?” Oliver was scribbling furiously. She sighed. Such publications were filled with fashion plates and advice that only perpetuated the problem of female dependence. “No, no. That’s not at all what I—”

Before she could finish the thought, crisp footsteps sounded in the corridor. Her heart began to hammer, thinking they must belong to Kit.

Mrs. Rushworth appeared in the doorway and curtsied. “I do beg your pardon for the delay, ma’am. Mr. Oliver. I’ll have your dinner brought in right away.”

“What of Lord Stalbridge? Won’t he be joining us?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Goode. I just spoke with him, and he asked me to give you a message.” She paused and thrust her shoulders back to deliver the speech she’d evidently rehearsed on her way to the dining room. “As it happens, the children are now set to arrive tomorrow, and His Lordship says we won’t be needing your assistance after all.”

“Tomorrow?” Tabetha echoed, incredulous. “Then I should think his need for assistance would be all the greater. Why—?”

“Now, now, Mrs. Goode.” Oliver pushed to his feet, tapping on the table’s edge with his pencil. “As you’ve always told me, we must respect the client’s wishes. I’m sure you’ll agree that Lord Stalbridge has had a trying day. Perhaps he’ll think better of his decision in the morning.”

“Mayhap,” agreed Mrs. Rushworth doubtfully. “Anyway, I’ll see to your dinner.”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Tabetha said, rising. Something else must have happened to change Kit’s mind so abruptly. She needed to find him, to reassure him, to explain...as best she could....

“Mrs. Rushworth,” Oliver said, “I’m worried about this good lady. She hasn’t really been herself all day.” Turning his head to evade the housekeeper’s line of sight, he sent Tabetha a conspiratorial wink.

Bewildered, she narrowly managed to disguise her huff of disbelief as a cough.

“You poor dear,” Mrs. Rushworth crooned, then barked out, “John!” The footman sprang into view. “Fetch a supper tray to Mrs. Goode’s room. Make sure there’s tea.”

“Might I be so bold as to suggest a warm bath might also be of benefit?”

“Mr. Oliver!” Tabetha protested. So much unnecessary work for the servants. And she’d be trapped in her room an hour, at least.

The footman, who seemed to share at least one of Tabetha’s reservations, sent a sidelong glance toward the housekeeper for confirmation.

“A capital idea. Go on, then,” urged Mrs. Rushworth. John hurried away.

“Now, allow me—oh, dear.” Oliver, who had rounded the end of the table and held out his arm to escort her from the room, broke off abruptly and patted his chest instead. “I’ve just remembered, I left Mrs. Goode’s notes in the nursery. So careless of me.” Both she and Mrs. Rushworth looked pointedly at the notebook, still lying on the table. “Oh, not these,” he insisted, reaching across the table to snatch it up and tucking it away. “I should really run up and fetch them before I forget again.”

Tabetha couldn’t help but frown. What on earth was Oliver up to?

“I’ll be glad to see you to your room, ma’am,” Mrs. Rushworth offered.

“Excellent, excellent,” Oliver exclaimed, looping Tabetha’s arm around the crook of the housekeeper’s elbow, as if she were suddenly too feeble to ascend the stairs without assistance. “I entrust her to your care.”

“There now,” Mrs. Rushworth said, firming her arm and covering the back of Tabetha’s hand with her own. Tabetha hadn’t a prayer of slipping free. “You can be sure if Lord Stalbridge knew how things were, he wouldn’t be in any hurry to send you on your way.”