Page 17 of Impossible
“I don’t mind those either. I like snow the most, I think.”
He snorted. “I’m beginning to think you like everything. Is there nothing that peeves you?”
“Grumpy viscounts with disdain for romance novels.” She laughed softly.
He shook his head and drove from the track onto a narrower lane. “If I peeve you, it can’t be for long.”
“Life is too fleeting to harbor ill will. Besides, feeling angry or upset isn’t pleasant. I’d much rather be happy.”
He brought the cart to a stop in front of a small stone cottage and several outbuildings. His gaze met hers, and her breath stalled at the intensity in his expression. “You can simply decide to feel happy whenever you want?”
“It’s not always simple, but I do try.”
He got down and came around to help her out. By the time they moved back to the other side of the cart, a woman had emerged from the cottage. Of medium height with a tidy cap atop her gray hair, she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Good morning,” she called out as they approached.
When the viscount said nothing, Ada moved swiftly toward the woman. “Good morning. I’m Miss Treadway, ah, secretary to Lord Warfield. And this is his lordship.” She swiveled her body to see where he’d ended up.
He stood a few feet away, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“My goodness,” the woman said softly, but not so softly that Ada couldn’t hear. She dropped into a curtsey. “What an honor to receive you at our humble farm, my lord.”
Warfield said nothing, but he at least inclined his head. Couldn’t he say good morning? He didn’t have to smile, though that would have been nice.
Ada turned back to the woman and smiled on his behalf. “He’s delighted to be here. You are Mrs. Spratt?” She guessed one of the names she recalled from the estate ledgers.
“Yes, indeed,” she said warmly. “Would you care to come inside? I just took some bread from the oven.”
At that precise moment, Ada got a noseful of the scent of fresh bread. Her stomach grumbled in response. “That would be lovely.” She looked back to the viscount and inclined her head toward the cottage.
Warfield appeared tense, his jaw tight as the muscles in his neck worked. Still, he walked toward the cottage, and when Mrs. Spratt stood to the side at the door, he went inside.
Ada followed their hostess into the small but neat main room. The kitchen area was in the corner, and the bread sat on a table where she clearly prepared food.
“Mr. Spratt should be here any time. He’s just finishing his morning chores. There’s so much to do, and it’s just the two of us.”
Opening her ledger, Ada took the pencil from her pocket and recorded the couple’s names as well as the information she’d already gathered. Then she asked a series of questions about the farm while Mrs. Spratt cut the bread. The woman answered as she slathered butter on the bread, then brought a piece to each of them—first to Warfield.
Ada held her breath, but he took it from the woman with a slight nod. He did not, however, immediately eat it. Ada had no such patience. She could hardly wait to take a bite. It smelled delicious, and she told Mrs. Spratt so.
“Nothing like fresh bread,” Mrs. Spratt said with a grin. “Ah, here’s Mr. Spratt.”
The door had opened and in walked the woman’s husband, a tall, rather fit man past middle age. Ada would guess them to be in their late fifties. Mr. Spratt removed his hat and clutched it in his hands.
“John, you’ll never guess who’s here,” Mrs. Spratt said, handing Ada her slice of bread. Ada snapped her ledger closed, clasping it and the pencil in one hand while she accepted the bread with the other.
“I can see it’s his lordship. What an honor to have you in my house, my lord.”
“The pleasure is his,” Ada responded before waiting to see if Warfield would respond.
“Yes, it’s my pleasure,” Warfield said, surprising Ada as she took a bite of bread and accidentally bit her cheek. “This is Miss Treadway. If you have any issues that require my attention, please convey them to her.”
Mr. Spratt looked at Ada in disbelief. “Is she the new steward?”
“No, she’s the secretary,” Mrs. Spratt answered. “She’s just making notes in that book.”
Ada hurriedly worked to finish her bread, both because it was the best bread she’d ever eaten and so she could get back to writing. Mr. Spratt still looked skeptical.
