She looked at Ethan’s steward. He was a good man and was undoubtedly giving her good advice, but she simply didn’t want to wait. Sometimes the benefits outweighed the risks.
She thought of Ethan.
And sometimes they didn’t.
“So, you’ll start tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. First thing—”
A loud yipping interrupted them as Lino, followed by a huffing Pocket, scampered up the path. She bent, scooping her little bundle of energy into her arms.
Lino wriggled happily, stretching his skinny neck to lick her face. Francesca laughed and smiled at Pocket who had finally reached them. “It looks like he eluded you again, Pocket.”
Pocket panted and attempted to catch his breath. “He seems to have an aptitude for escape, my lady,” he wheezed. The valet frowned with obvious disapproval at the dog in her arms.
“And what is he trying to escape this morning?” She scratched Lino’s ear, and the puppy snuggled against her.
“I believe the dog heard one of the footmen mention a”—Pocket glanced at Lino and lowered his voice—“a B-A-T-H, madam.”
“I see.” Francesca nodded soberly. “That would do it. Lino hates ba—water.”
“Yes.” Pocket eyed the dog again. The valet’s puckered lips reflected his opinion of anyone—animal or human—who did not appreciate the merits of a good scrubbing. Then Pocket turned his critical eye on her. “Oh, dear.”
––––––––
FRANCESCA FOLLOWEDhis glance down her mantle and saw the streaks of dirt Lino’s paws had left. She brushed at them futilely while Pocket reached inside his tailcoat.
“Allow me, your ladyship. You will only rub in the dirt.” The valet opened his coat and withdrew two hard brushes from his waistcoat.
“My lady, if there’s nothing else, I believe I will ride over to the Ingletons’ farm,” Brown said.
“Of course, Mr. Brown. Did Mrs. Ingleton have her baby yet?”
The steward shook his head. “No, your ladyship. Mr. Ingleton is quite beside himself with worry.”
“Oh, dear,” Pocket murmured, holding Francesca’s mantle between two fingers. Francesca wasn’t certain if Pocket was lamenting the state of her cloak or Mrs. Ingleton’s difficult pregnancy.
“I’ll call on her myself this afternoon, Mr. Brown.”
“I’m certain the Ingletons would appreciate that, my lady.”
Francesca smiled, but didn’t feel any sense of pleasure. Though she cared about each of Ethan’s tenants, her visits were not from a sense of obligation or duty. She made the rounds of the cottages and small farms daily because the task distracted her from the ever-present thoughts of her absent husband.
Pocket gave her mantle a last sweep with his hard-bristled brush and dropped the garment, tucking his precious instrument back in his waistcoat. Francesca pressed her lips together and swallowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Pocket’s mouth curve in sympathy.
She didn’t want sympathy, and so she focused on the house in the distance—Ethan’s house—and tried not to contemplate spending years here without him. She’d give him until Christmas, she decided, and if she’d had no word from him by then, she’d begin to make other plans.
Perhaps she’d take a trip to London while her hospital was being built, attend medical seminars and learn new practices to apply in her hospital.
One thing was certain. Though Ethan might have abandoned their new life and his home, she would not do the same. She might be tempted to retreat to Tanglewilde and the comfort of her family, but she knew that would be a mistake. She had to be strong, to make a life for herself—with or without Ethan.
“ICAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGHfor coming to visit Mrs. Ingleton and me, my lady.” In the yard outside his small home, Mr. Ingleton helped Francesca mount Thunder. “It means so much to her to have a visitor—and such a distinguished visitor at that.”
Francesca blushed. “Well, perhaps next time, there will be one more Ingleton for me to visit.”
“I sincerely hope so, my lady.” Ingleton threw a worried look at his cottage. “I sincerely hope so.”
Francesca leaned down and patted his shoulder. “Everything will be fine. Look, here comes Mrs. Pateley right now. I’m certain she’ll tell you the same.”
