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There, bundled in a dark brown coat was a little boy, curly hair poking out from beneath a knitted cap. His hands were full of snow, recently scooped up, and he hurried over to a large pile and packed it on. Only, it wasn’t a pile of snow—it was a snowman. The little boy patted on the snow he’d held and then bent down to scoop up more.
“Add some more to the bottom.” Lady Nightingale poked her head out from around the snowman, pointing to the base. “That way he won’t fall over.”
Her auburn hair was tucked up beneath what looked to be a very warm bonnet. She wore a pelisse of deep plum, with a primrose yellow scarf wrapped about her neck. Her nose was nearly the color of a few short strands of hair falling out from beneath her bonnet near her temple.
She caught sight of him and froze. The young boy—undoubtedly the son Isaac had heard about—saw his mother still and turned toward him as well.
“Good day, Lady Nightingale.”
She stood up straight, coming around from behind the snowman. “Good day to you, Lord Brooks.”
The young boy, who barely came up to his horse’s knees, looked up at Isaac, squinting against the sunlight. He smiled brightly and waved a hand covered in a thick mitten.
Lady Nightingale stepped forward, placing a hand on either of her son’s shoulders. “This is my son, Lord Hoskins. Joseph,” she said, looking down at the young boy, “this is Lord Brooks.”
The boy waved again. “Are you a viscount too?”
“Lord Brooks is a baron,” Lady Nightingale said in a kind voice. She shot Isaac an apologetic smile.
Isaac’s heart stumbled in response. There was no denying that even after being in the cold, Lady Nightingale was quite beautiful. It was a fact he’d tried hard to ignore. But as of late, since he and Mr. Allen had become friends, truth be told, he’d begun to wonder if he hadn’t misjudged Lady Nightingale.
He still didn’t trust her, not fully. Her eyes appeared far too sharp. But he was...curious, all the same.
“We’re building a snowman,” Lord Hoskins blurted out. He waved a hand in the direction of their creation.
Isaac never would have guessed Lady Nightingale would be the type to play in the snow, even with her son. It was yet another small fact that didn’t line up with the woman Isaac had thus far expected her to be.
“Then I shall not detain you long,” Isaac said to the boy. He turned to his mother. “I have only come in the hopes that Mr. Allen would accompany me on a visit this morning.”
“Oh, did you?” Lady Nightingale asked.
“Who?” her son said, looking up at her.
She patted him on the shoulder. “How about you pack some more snow over there?” She pointed to a spot near the base. “I’d hate for him to tip over.”
Her son bent down and scooped up snow once more, hurrying over to where his mother had indicated, and began packing as intensely as his little arms allowed.
Lady Nightingale took a few steps away from her son and moved closer to Isaac. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Allen is unavailable today.”
“That’s a shame.” Isaac glanced over at the cottage; he’d truly been looking forward to riding with the man.
“Yes, he’s wrapped up in business and asked not to be disturbed.”
The man had already been away for a few days last week seeing to business, and now it was taking up all his time today. One of these days, Isaac would have to ask him the particulars of what kept him so occupied. Or perhaps he shouldn’t. Some men could become quite self-conscious about their income, particularly when there wasn’t much to be had.
“I’m sure he’ll be sad to hear he missed you,” Lady Nightingale said.
Isaac returned his gaze to her. “As I am sad he is otherwise busy today.”
“Are you?”
Her question surprised him. “Indeed. I have found your cousin to be quite a good conversationalist. I enjoy his company.”
Her smile seemed to warm at his comments. Was she the type of woman, then, who took pride in knowing her relations were well-liked by others? If so, it was rather a shame she was Mr. Grant’s daughter.
Isaac made to express his well wishes and farewell but hesitated before doing so. Without Mr. Allen joining him, the idea of calling on Miss Dowding suddenly held far less excitement. Did he even want to go? He could always turn around and return to Cresthearth, but what excuse would he give Aunt Margarette if he returned so soon after leaving?
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Lady Nightingale asked after a minute of silence between them.
