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“We race the circuit of the park, and once that has been done, sweep through the meadow to the eastern edge, away from the London Road. In this, I will not have my people exposed. We end in the meadow that lies in between the brook and the highest hill. You would be very welcome.”
I will be there, only you will not know it…
Alwyn slipped out the way he came, through a hole in the wall Bates had yet to notice. As he made himself scarce, he heard Alfred say, “Here, take a broom, give it a try—bloody hell. Where has he gone?”
“Cursed felines,” Bates swore in response. “Always coming and going.”
Eight
Knowing thecursiowas about to take place was enough to make Tabitha as edgy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. She could not settle and discerned a flaw in having the healing shed: she had become quite used to, and comfortable with, contriving within whatever space was available and having Timothy’s company while she worked. She supposed she could fetch the cream she made, to decant into the little ceramic pots she’d gotten from Mrs. Grice, the ceramicist; it wouldn’t be out of place to work at the kitchen table. In Poitiers, she’d had to work on the floor.
In Verona, she hadn’t even had as much as that! She’d had to spread a waxed cloth on the bed!
She ought to fetch the pots and keep her hands occupied. Mrs. Grice had bartered for the cream, an excellent source of moisture for hands often dried out from working the clay. How these people survived on their skills, she did not know, if they did not accept money.
As to that, were she and Timothy even paying rent? Accommodation was her brother’s responsibility—and he had gotten an earful regarding that flat in Verona—so she would have no way of knowing. They allotted a percentage of their wages for their lodgings, and it always worked out in the end.
Tabitha realized she didn’t know exactly how it always worked out in the end.
“Timothy!” He blinked at her sharp tone, coming out of what had been a congenial silence. “Have you taken sufficient money from me for our rent?”
“The cottage comes as part of my wages.” He had been perusing his books for what seemed an hour and finally selected a volume from the shelves.
“But what about Verona?”
“Verona?” To be fair, he had every right to look at her like she was spouting utter nonsense. “That was two years ago. And we lasted there less than a week.How am I meant to work when there is not a table, much less room on the floor—”
Tabitha got up to pace. “It has only occurred to me that I may have not paid my fair share.”
“You have paid more than your fair share.” His tone was light but with a tinge of bitterness.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, but they both stilled at the sound of a scratch at the front of the cottage.
The scratch was followed by a slightly more forceful tap. “Is that—” Timothy began; both jumped when a prodigious thumping followed.
“I’ll answer, shall I?” Tabitha edged her brother out of the way and threw open the door to reveal the Duke of Llewellyn on her doorstep.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsy, and Timothy bowed. “Er. Hello. How unexpected.”
She got a dig in her side as her brother went back to his chair.
“Hello,” said the duke, and nothing further. They stood there, unmoving, as though they had looked upon Medusa. This went on for far too long; Timothy’s sigh carried across the room and over the threshold.
The duke cleared his throat. “I found the plant. You were looking for.” He raised his eyebrows and then waggled them.
“The plant?” What in the world—oh, subterfuge! “Oh! The plant. Yes.” She repeated the gesture with the eyebrows.
Timothy muttered, “Oh! The plant,” in his usual, unfortunately faithful approximation of her voice.
“I shall fetch my cloak, one moment.” She shut the door. Was she meant to ask him in? She opened it again. “Would you? Like to come in?”
The duke shook his head and wandered away from the dooryard, but not before jerking his head in an easterly direction.
She shut the door and piled on her usual complement of outer garments.
“Foraging? And on Ostara Eve, of all eves. Your work is never done, darling sister.” Timothy blinked at her over his book. “I do hope you find what you are looking for.”
“Thank you ever so much, dear brother. Enjoy readingThe Odysseyfor the one hundred and twentieth time.” Her tone was only slightly less acidic than an Amalfi lemon. She wrapped one final shawl around her shoulders; after closing the door firmly on Timothy’s snickering, she went to join the duke, who was half-concealed behind a hawthorn tree.
