Page 40 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)

F or the first time in a long while, Jillian woke up early and greeted the day with a smile. Without waiting for Wallace, Jillian dressed herself in another of her simpler garments, brushed and tied her hair back with a ribbon, and made her way down to breakfast.

Mr. and Mrs. Trenton were already seated, the master of the house behind a newspaper, and the lady busy pouring tea for him.

As Jillian entered, Mr. Trenton stretched out his arm and collected the cup, bringing it to his lips without taking his eyes from his paper or acknowledging his wife’s thoughtfulness.

“Would you like some tea, Mrs. Bradford?” asked the hostess.

“That would be lovely,” replied Jillian, even though she had no real desire for any. She merely wanted to create an opportunity for Mrs. Trenton to be appreciated. “Mmm,” she sounded, taking a sip. “Delicious. It is your own blend, if I am not mistaken.”

Mrs. Trenton’s eyebrows arched and her mouth opened in a half smile. “Why, Mrs. Bradford, you know your tea. Did Lady Bradford teach you?”

“Her daughter did.” Jillian took another sip before placing the cup back onto the saucer, making a delicate clinking sound. “It was one of the less tedious things she taught me.”

“I can imagine your experience at Oakwoods was quite a shock at first,” Mrs. Trenton said with no underlying condescension.

“Oh, yes,” Jilly answered plainly, “and London even more so. I had hoped for a life that more closely resembled what I was used to. But circumstances dictated otherwise.” The last sentence was uttered with some ill-concealed bitterness.

Jilly gave the buttering of her toast her full attention to avoid saying anything more.

From behind the newspaper, Mr. Trenton’s voice sounded out unsympathetically. “Lots of women would give their eyeteeth for the circumstances you lament.”

Jilly paused the buttering process and stared at her toast, biting down on her tongue to keep herself from tossing back an equally uncalled-for remark. This time, it was Mrs. Trenton’s turn to busy herself with her breakfast, her shame apparent in her flushed cheeks.

In the midst of the loaded silence, Ellena entered the breakfast room.

A lifetime of experience and a sharp mind guided her to a quick assessment of the situation.

“I knocked on your door,” she told Jillian, “but I see you are quicker to dress than I. I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?” She cast a grim glance at her father.

“The bed was most comfortable, thank you,” answered her friend. “And your mother makes an excellent cup of tea. I am hoping she will show me how to make this particular blend. I believe Miss Bradford would find it to her taste also.”

“And everyone treats you well?” asked Ellena pointedly, staring down at her father.

As if by some lever, his newspaper crushed down toward his lap, and the humorless face was revealed. “What are you on about?” he snapped. “Of course everyone treats her well. Our servants know their duty.”

Ellena glided toward an empty chair, saying as she went, “So pleased to hear it. Lord Howell will be most grateful that our dear friend has been so well received.”

At the mention of those two magical words—Lord Howell—Mr. Trenton grew somewhat more amenable. “Well, of course, any friend of his lordship… A very fine gentleman, indeed… How is my son-in-law? Business good?”

“It is not something we frequently discuss,” said Ellena, settling into the seat the footman held for her, “but I am sure I would have noticed if something were amiss. The answer to your question must therefore be ‘Yes, Father, business is good.’”

Jillian, who had never enjoyed conversation about finance any more than she did matters of politics, quickly introduced what she considered a more pleasant topic. “Does young Christopher enjoy Trenton Grange?”

“Oh, yes!” Ellena turned bright eyes to her mother. “I was thinking of taking him for a stroll into the village. Shall we ladies make a day of it?”

“Viscountesses do not stroll along country roads, Daughter,” came the rigid tones of Mr. Trenton. “You may take the carriage. I have no need of it today.”

Ellena pressed her lips together in a tight line. “I think you will find, Father, that a viscountess may do almost anything she wants. But I will certainly take a footman to carry any parcels we acquire. And if we tire, I will send him home to fetch the carriage to collect us.”

Both parents froze with shock at her outspokenness.

Mrs. Trenton hastily brought her cup up to her mouth, but Jillian noticed she did not drink.

Instead, she held the fine porcelain in front of her lips to hide a slowly spreading smile.

The crinkle at the corners of her eyes were harder to disguise, but she was likely unaware that they had formed.

Mr. Trenton, on the other hand, was growing a fine shade of indignant red. He seemed to be fighting an internal battle with himself. His self-control must have won because he pulled his newspaper up and open with some ferocity and said, from the hidden recess of its pages, “Suit yourself.”

Jillian did not want to undermine her friend’s small triumph, but she had to respond to Ellena’s suggestion.

“I’m afraid you will have to go without me,” she said.

“I would usually like nothing more than an outing of this nature, but I have promised to meet with Mr. Boyd to learn what I can about his latest farming innovations so that I might share these insights with Mr. Bradford.”

“I’m not sure it is proper for you to meet with the gentleman alone,” said Mrs. Trenton.

“We will be out in the open for all to see,” Jillian countered. “There will be at least twenty farmhands to chaperone us. Not that a married lady needs one.”

“It’s not a woman’s place to learn about farm work,” Mr. Trenton grumbled from behind his screen of words.

“I am sure you would agree,” Jillian said, mustering as much patience for the man as she could, “that a woman’s place is wherever her husband needs her. Since Mr. Bradford cannot meet with Mr. Boyd himself, I am a willing ambassador for him.”

But Mr. Trenton was not deterred in his opinion.

A portion of the newspaper came down once more, though his mood only warranted a folding of one corner so that he might see over it.

“If Mr. Boyd has such meaningful advice to share, he could do so in a letter sent directly to Mr. Bradford. There is no need to have a lady”—Jillian was amazed he willingly counted her as such—“traipsing up and down the fields, making a mockery of her position.”

Now it was Jillian’s turn to glow with suppressed irritation.

She had heard enough of this sort of chastisement from the Bradfords, and even Lewis himself.

The only reason she did not speak up as she would have with them was for the sake of Mrs. Trenton, who was already shrinking into herself as the commanding tones of her husband had their effect.

“Father,” Ellena interceded, “I am sure Mrs. Bradford values your wisdom in such matters and will take it into due consideration.”

“What is there to consider?” he wanted to know.

“Could you pass me the strawberry preserves, Mother?” asked Ellena, her father’s question left hanging. “Shall we ask Cook to make us a picnic? Or shall we have a light luncheon at the inn?”

Mr. Trenton glared at her, waiting to be acknowledged. He waited in vain. Unused to such treatment, he focused his attention on Jillian, perhaps viewing her as a weaker target.

Jillian shoved the last piece of toast into her mouth, washed it down with the remainder of her tea, and pushed her chair back to stand.

“If you will excuse me,” she said to everyone and no one, for she did not dare to make eye contact, “I do not wish to be late for my meeting. Mr. Boyd shall not think that a member of the Bradford household has such poor manners.”

Here at Trenton Grange, it was easier to escape from the master’s attempts to prescribe to her.

He was a lone tyrant and his status less commanding.

Her experiences at Oakwoods and in London had been more restrictive.

Today, at least, she could step from the house when she wished.

On any day she liked, she could meet with Mr. Boyd, attend a country dance, walk to the village, delight in the meadow.

Her steps felt light, in spite of the brief shadow cast by her surly host.

Simon Boyd was already waiting for her, even though she was a little early. Despite his dusty boots, the rest of him appeared clean and well-groomed, as was his habit. His notebook was tucked under one arm and he nodded when she waved her own notebook at him to show she was well prepared.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bradford,” he said, “I see you are ready to take copious notes. That is commendable. However, we shall be walking and talking, so you may have to wait to jot down your thoughts when I am engaged with the various men who report to me.”

“I shall do my best. I hope I shan’t have to ask you to repeat yourself too often. I would like to think I am not an addle-brained sort of woman.”

“That is not how I remember you,” he said, offering reassurance with the sincerity of his tone rather than a smile.

Mr. Boyd proceeded to walk at a fairly brisk pace, which Jillian matched with reasonable ease, partly because he was not much taller than her.

He pointed out the crops they were growing, some of which were new and some of which were planted on rotation every three years.

He explained what was working well and which attempts had failed.

Jillian soon tired of all the facts and figures, struggling to hold them in her head until Mr. Boyd paused to speak to one of the laborers and she could scribble down the salient points.

She became distracted by the smell of the fresh alfalfa, the bouncing lambs with their wriggly tails, the low call of a cow to her calf.

After an hour, she had managed to store several pages of information in her notebook and likely forgotten several pages more. But her soul was full and she felt worn out in a healthy, satisfied sort of way.

“You have done well, Mrs. Bradford,” Mr. Boyd said. “Mr. Bradford cannot be anything but pleased with your kind interest on his behalf.”

Jilly hugged her notebook to her chest like a trophy. “Thank you for allowing me to tag along. I have learned much, but I fear we have but scratched the surface of all there is to know.”

Mr. Boyd allowed himself a sardonic smile. “I am relieved to hear it. If you had mastered all I could teach in one morning, my employer might think my position could be too easily filled.”

“Oh, heavens, no! It is clear to me that you have your hands full from dusk until dawn. Everything that runs smoothly on the estate does so because you have your finger on the pulse of all activity.”

“That is very kind of you to say. Speaking of which, I had better get back to it. The day is but half-done. There is still much that needs my attention.”

Jillian was sorry for him to go. She had enjoyed his company, even if it had meant learning an exhaustive list of facts and theories.

Here in the fields with Simon Boyd, she was not bound by a pointless array of rules for dining, sitting, speaking.

No one would comment that her features looked common if they became tanned by the glorious sunshine.

She could speak of animal husbandry without being thought of as crass.

She could climb a fence and not be called unladylike.

And then there was the dance on Saturday.

“Will you be attending the roof-wetting celebration?” she asked Mr. Boyd.

He nodded. “I will.” It was hard to tell from his solemn response whether or not he was looking forward to it.

“I shall be disappointed if I have no one to dance with, as Mr. Bradford is not able to attend, especially since the informal nature of the event allows me, as a married woman, to dance at all. It seems a sin for a woman as young as I to be denied such a jolly activity and I have been looking very much forward to this opportunity. Sadly, many of the staff have grown wary of me now, even though we were all quite comfortably acquainted before.” She formed what she hoped was a pitiful expression and added, “Perhaps you will do me the kindness of partnering me in a reel or two.”

“It would be my privilege. Though I am quite certain that, away from the strict rules of service, many of your friends will enjoy your company again. You will have no shortage of partners, if I am correct.”

“Perhaps if you set an example with the first dance, others will follow.”

“Then that is what we shall do.”

Jilly lowered her lashes shyly. “Thank you for accommodating my doubts. I did not used to have so many.”

“It is no great task. There is no need for thanks.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate it.”

“I am happy to oblige.”

“Until Saturday, then.”

“Until Saturday.”

It had been a simple exchange, but there had been such a shortage of these for so long, Jillian found herself deeply moved by the small kindness.

She headed back to Trenton Grange with a happy heart, crossed the path that led to the village, and paused.

With Christopher along, Ellena and her mother would not have gotten very far on their outing.

There was still time to catch up. It would be the perfect way to shake her mind free of her intensive morning lesson on farming.

A quick shift in direction and she was on her way to join them, savoring the sweet scent of the imminent presence of summer. She bloomed as the flowers did, her face, like theirs, turned to the sun. The warmth of it matched the glow of satisfaction within.

She was truly home again.