To live with such resentment . . . Maddy would wish that on no woman, least of all herself.
She went on to tell the bees of the more serious problem of Sir Jasper letting her down, and the problem of the rent on the cottage that was no longer payable in honey.
“I’ve insisted on an audience with this heir—when he gets back to England, if ever—and will try to oblige him to honor Sir Jasper’s word, but I fear he will . . . No, you’re right, it’s not sensible to dwell on fears for the future. One must work and take care of the children and hope for the best, I know.”
The bees buzzed back and forth. She knew they listened. Probably it was the queen who lived in the center of the hive who wanted the news, making babies her entire life and never getting out, poor thing. Like Mama.
Grand-mère was right. Talking to the bees always brought a sense of peace and comfort. Maddy felt better for getting her worries off her chest, and now there was weeding to be done.
She loved this garden, with its neat rows and ordered squares. She’d made it herself, wresting it, with the help of the children, from a tangle of weeds.
She knelt by a patch of yellowing leeks and began to pull them out. There were still potatoes and onions left, but she needed to get the summer vegetables planted. The period after winter and before the new growth was harvestable was the hungry time in the garden, the same as for the bees.
Ironic to reflect that she’d hated this garden at first, furious and resentful that she was forced to grow vegetables or let the children starve, furious that Papa had been such a careless spendthrift that his children were left with nothing—worse than nothing: there were debts.
Mr. Hulme had saved them from debtor’s prison, at least.
And if she wasn’t sufficiently grateful to repay him in the way he wanted, well, that was Papa’s fault, too. He should never have put her in that position in the first place.
She hoed vigorously between the rows, taking satisfaction from the destruction of the new weeds poking their impudent noses through the soil, stealing the goodness from her tender new seedlings.
He lay back against the pillows, pricked by guilt. He shouldn’t have laughed. Of course she was upset. Nobody liked to be laughed at.
But the idea of the vicar forcing a marriage between himself and Miss Woodford had struck him as so unlikely. Even without knowing anything about himself, he could see at a glance that they came from very different backgrounds.
She lived in a laborer’s cottage. He was pretty sure he’d never even been in a house so small and cramped. His fascination with it told him as much. So tiny and yet six people lived here. Seven, counting himself.
And so tidily organized, everything in its place and not a single thing that he could see that did not have some practical function. No items of beauty or culture, just workaday necessities.
There were anomalies, however—her accent, for one. And the children’s. They spoke as he did, properly, without strong regional inflections.
Perhaps she was a gentleman’s daughter, fallen on hard times. It made the question of marriage between them no less unlikely, but if she were gently born, he could understand why she’d been offended by his laughter.
When people of once-good family lost their position in society, it made them all the touchier about being shown respect. Hewould apologize when she returned to the cottage.
He dozed for a while but woke when he heard her returning.
“Could I have some hot water, please?” he asked, struggling to sit up. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning, and when he opened them, she was standing beside the bed, framed by the faded red curtains, as lovely a sight as any he could imagine, her face flushed and a little rosy from her time outdoors.
She watched him gravely, a cup of steaming liquid in her hand.
“I’m sorry for what I said before,” he began. “About it being prepo—”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said quickly, with a look that indicated she had no intention of discussing it further. She held out the cup. “Here, take this.”
He took it and caught a whiff that made him glance at the contents. It was some kind of browny liquid. He wrinkled his nose. “What is this?”
“Willow-bark tea. It will help with the headache. And ginger which will help with the nausea.”
He handed it back to her untouched. “Thank you, but no. I want hot water for a shave.” He ran a hand over his rough chin and gave her a rueful smile. “I have it on good authority that I look like a vicious ruffian, some kind of pirate.”
She smiled. “You mustn’t mind Rev. Matheson. His bark is worse than his bite. I’ll get you some hot water, but first you need to drink this.” She held the cup out again.
He made no move to take it. He didn’t want any medicine. The last lot of stuff she gave him had given him lurid dreams. “No, thank you.”
“I’ve been steeping it all night.” She added in a coaxing voice, “And I’ve sweetened it with honey to help with the bitter taste.”
How old did she think he was? “I don’t care about the taste; I don’t want it because the last medicine you gave me did strange things to my mind.”
