Page 46 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Yer mother had a protector?”
He nodded. “Still does.” He watched as she absorbed that. Did she understand what he meant? His mother was a courtesan, and he, a by-blow.
“But you went to school with Lord Linsel and others. Sons of the peerage.”
He nodded. “It is not uncommon. My father recognized me as his. Unapologetically.”
“But you are not legitimate?”
“No.” Would she treat him differently? She meant to marry a vicar’s son. Would she turn him out of her house as a good Christian woman should?
She sighed. “That’s a difficult way to grow. Not truly a son, not really a man.” She looked in the direction of the village. “I feel like I spend my life proving I am just as good as them.”
“Better.”
“Wot?” She grimaced. “What?”
“You have proved yourself better. Smarter, more capable, sweeter.” He leaned forward. “You seem an important part of this village. Did they never truly accept you?”
She didn’t look at him. She was busy pulling out tea leaves, a combination from three jars in some mysterious recipe.
“I am loved by my neighbors, sought after by those who have ailments. I know all the village tales and am centered in some of them.” She sighed. “But I aim for the vicar’s son and the living he will have.”
“But there has been a shadow.”
“O’ course,” she snapped, her hands slapping onto the hardwood table. “Always in whispers about me mum. Always remembering I ran with the gypsies and worked with the witch-woman when Mum got sick. Was I to refuse learning when it paid for Mum’s medicines?”
“Of course not.”
She nodded, her eyes bright. “No. O’ course not. But tell that to the pious ones.”
“They won’t hear it.”
“They will when I meet my relations in London.”
He doubted that. Small minds would remain small. They reveled in it. And in the silence, the kettle began to sing.
She pulled herself together at the sound. Her eyes might shimmer from years of suppressed fury, but her hands were steady as she poured the tea.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“None,” he answered. He’d learned to like it dark and strong, and he’d rarely had money for anything sweet.
“Good,” she said with a rueful smile. “’Cause I got no milk. It’d just spoil.”
“Because you’re leaving tomorrow?” It was a guess, but the tidiness in her house spoke of closing down for a trip.
“On the mail coach.” She passed him tea in a plain cup and saucer. “And you were going to tell me about the woman. The blonde like me.”
Had Cara ever been like her? He couldn’t imagine that woman drying lavender in her kitchen or helping a neighbor with her children. Certainly, she’d never had to drag a pig halfway across a county.
“She looked like you,” he said. “And I was looking for a woman, I suppose.” He smiled and gestured to the seat at the table. “Sit down. We cannot share tea with you fussing with the leaves.”
She’d put away the jars but was now searching for something in the cupboard. “I was looking for some biscuits and jam, but…”
“Gone?”
She pulled down a jar of berry preserves and held it to the candlelight. “Mum’s favorite.”
