a good bit of work with the child, and I think they do each other good.”
“Yes,” Nigel had said slowly, gathering his wits about him again. “Yes, the little one is quite sweet.”
“As is the lass who cares for her.” His father had given him a knowing look. The two men had never spoken about Nigel’s affection for Margaret, but he knew that his father had guessed. He cleared his throat and bid his father goodbye before anything more pointed could be said. He did not want to have to lie to his father, but he would do what was necessary to remove any hints from the conversation. He knew that if Lord Somerville got wind of any particular affection towards his daughter from the son of the gamekeeper, then retribution would be swift and likely be levelled against the father as well as the son.
This morning, he dressed in his uniform as usual, pulled back his long hair into a gentle tail at the base of his neck, and walked down to the breakfast room. The housekeeper was a short, squat little woman with greying hair tucked up into a wimple. Nigel felt a start of surprise when he saw her face.
“Miss Weston!” he cried. She was the teacher at the trade school who had given him a going over in arithmetic all those years ago.
She blushed and curtsied prettily. “It’s Mrs Cather now, I’m pleased to say. I had all but given up on romance, but it appears that I was just not looking in the right place.”
“Cather…” he remembered all at once. “The blacksmith.”
“Yes, yes.” She smiled proudly. “We’re quite happily situated, I must say, but we’re letting a larger cottage and it doesn’t hurt to do a bit of extra work on the side.”
Nigel frowned. “If you’re married,” he said, “you certainly ought to be able to return to your husband every night.”
“Oh no,” she said quickly. “It is fitting and proper for a housekeeper to take the rooms adjoining the kitchen. What would happen if the master needed something in the middle of the night?” She glowed as she looked up at him. “You’ve grown into a fine young man, Nigel Bateson – Captain, is it now? – and I’m proud to serve you.”
“No, Miss – Mrs Cather,” Nigel interjected quickly, colouring at the praise. “I appreciate all that you have said, and I know that you mean well, but we will have to dispense with some of your kinds words. Please refrain from calling me master. You were very helpful in my studies when I was a little boy, and I can’t bear having you call me such a thing now that I am a man. You may call me Nigel if you wish, and Captain Bateson if you are particular, but never master.” Before she could protest he rushed on. “As for the matter of your quarters, I am quite certain that a little extra space will be welcome. Go home to your husband in the evenings.”
“Who will serve your meals?”
“You can leave them warming on the block,” he said quickly, referring to the little box by the hearth made of stone. “And I am a bachelor who is sure to spend most of his time eating at other homes in the county. As to your earlier concern about my situation in the evenings, I can assure you that any need I have after-hours is something I can fully attend to myself. I am well acquainted with how to set a kettle on or how to carve up a loaf of bread for an evening repast.”
“What a fine young lad you’ve become,” she said again, this time more gently. “I thought perhaps you would be too grand for us now that your title was so official and your war experience so expansive. But I see you’re still a kind and humble lad at heart.”
He swallowed this additional praise as best he could and, eating a hasty breakfast, made his way out into the street. His horse was stabled at the town livery, but he knew it would be unnecessary to take the animal to the Somerville estate. The main house was in easy walking distance from the village, and he set off through the central square to the birdsong of a fresh morning.
He had almost left the town entirely behind him when he came upon a familiar cluster of tenement housing on the outskirts of town. He stopped in front of Molly Smith’s