“And it was only because Mr. Harris was nasty to me,” added Maddy.
“If he was nasty to Maddy, I would have punched him, too,” John said darkly.
“Me, too,” Henry agreed.
“And me,” Lucy said.
“Young ladies do not punch people,” Jane told her.
Lucy pondered this. “Then I would have kicked him.”
Nash tried not to smile as her sisters tried to explain to the little girl the error of her ways. None of their explanations pleased her.
“But if I must not punch or kick or bite, what can I do when someone is mean to me?” she asked, frustrated. “Maddy?”
They all looked at Maddy.
“It’s most unjust, I agree,” she said. “My grandmother used to carry a stick and if anyone was nasty to her she would hit them with it, but I would not recommend you do that, Lucy. It’s something only for older ladies, not young girls.”
“Did you hit Mr. Harris with a stick?” Lucy persisted.
She hesitated, clearly debating the wisdom of telling them the truth. Nash waited, curious to see how she would handle the question. The question of women defending themselves was a thorny one; theoretically women—ladies, at least—were never supposed to find themselves in such a position. It was up to the men of her family to protect her. But when you had no man to defend you . . .
What would she have done if he hadn’t been there? It did not bear thinking about. She had courage enough for two, but Harris was a big, strong man with an ugly temper.
“No, I slapped him, hard across the face,” she told them. “But that was my bad temper showing. I should not have done it. Most of the time the best defense a lady has is her tongue. No, not poking it out, Lucy, I mean using words.”
“Like when Maddy’s cross with us for being naughty,” Jane said.
“Something like that, yes,” Maddy agreed. “Though if you are ever in real danger from some bad person, Lucy, you may punch and kickandbite. Now, that’s enough talk about fighting. Suppertime is for eating and conversation. Jane, will you pour everyone a cup of milk, please?”
The table fell silent as the children drank their milk.
Checking to see that Maddy was occupied flipping pancakes, John leaned over and whispered, “Will you teach Henry and me to fight? We need to learn. Some of the village boys—” He broke off as Maddy turned around.
Nash knew what it meant. They were being bullied and keeping it from Maddy. Nash, to his shame, knew all about boys and bullying. “I’ll teach you.”
At that, Maddy shot him a hard glance over the children’s heads. “Mr. Rider will be leaving shortly, John, so you mustn’t expect too much from his promises.” She hadn’t missed the exchange at all.
“Leaving?” The children turned to him in dismay. “When, sir? Where are you going?”
Nash found it surprisingly difficult to tell them. “I’ve recovered from my injuries,” he said apologetically, “and must be on my way.”
“But what of your memory, sir?” Jane asked.
“It’s returned.”
“What, all of it?” Henry clearly hoped the answer would be no.
Nash ruffled the boy’s hair. “Yes, every bit. My name is Nash Renfrew and I was coming here to visit my new home, Whitethorn Manor.”
“Sir Jasper’s house?”
“Yes, I’m his nephew. He left it to me in his will.”
The children brightened visibly. “Then we’ll be neighbors, sir.”
“Enough questions, children,” Maddy interrupted. She placed a platter of pancakes in the middle of the table. “Careful, the plate is hot.” She stripped off her apron and went to take her place at the head of the table.
