She fell silent and stared down the road.
He followed suit.
Soon, Little Whittington rose into view, a small town, picturesque. The unusually named Lucky Goose was near the end of town and busy even at this early hour. Once in the yard, George leapt down and handed the reins to a stable boy, then held his hands up to Jane.
“I know you’re angry with me, Jane.”
“Hmph.” She accepted his embrace, putting her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her to the ground.
He let her go as soon as her feet touched and strode toward the inn.
She followed and greeted everyone by name as they entered.
“Is that Lord Abbington,” Mr. Crank, the innkeeper asked.
“It is,” George said, raising a hand in greeting. “Are there any puff pastries remaining?”
Mr. Crank beamed. “I’ll send out two.”
“No,” Jane said. “One will suffice. I know how popular they are, and I would not wish to keep someone else from the pleasure of the pastry. And have it wrapped up, please.”
“Such a thoughtful girl you are,” Mr. Crank said before disappearing into the kitchen.
Jane sat at a small, clean, scuffed table, and George sat across from her.
He stretched his legs out under the table until his feet brushed her skirts.
“You’re smiling at me. Stop. It’s unnerving.” Jane straightened her shoulders and turned away from him.
“I’m thinking how happy Sir Peter will be to find himself kissed by such a pretty lady. Does he still make his daily rounds?”
“Yes. It’s no later than eight of the clock. That means he’ll be snoozing in the curate’s garden.”
“I thought as much. A romantic locale for a tryst. Lucky you.”
“You’re a brute.”
Mr. Crank ambled up with a small bundle wrapped in paper and tied with a string. “Here you are, my lady. Do enjoy.”
She stood and took it. “Thank you so much. If you send a special order of them to the manor for Christmas, we’ll compensate you well.”
Mr. Crank winked. “Consider it done.”
George and Jane left the horses at the inn, and together, they walked the short distance to the curate’s cottage in silence.
At the gate, Jane peered past the tangled mess of rose bushes, to a patch of yard not shadowed by the cottage. There in the sun lay the pig. A massive pig, hairy and spotted. She took a breath in, then forcefully exhaled it.
She turned to George, her hands on her hips. “I say again—you are a brute.”
“Have you kissed Apple?”
“I have.”
“And a dog or cat of any sort?”
“Yes.”
George shrugged. “I’m sure it’s much the same. Sir Peter is an excellent fellow.”
