Page 41 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)

T he next morning, Jillian lay in bed and thought upon all she had learned the day before.

She was gratified to discover that she remembered a good deal of what Mr. Boyd had told her.

She reviewed their conversation in her mind, walking from field to field in her imagination, remembering the sights and sounds of farm life, but also the tutelage of her companion.

When her thoughts reached the memory of the fallow ground that had been plowed and left to rest, she pulled up short.

What was the crop Mr. Boyd had recommended for the unused land?

At the moment he had told her, she had become distracted by a little lamb in the grass beyond the fence who had spied his mother and dove in under her legs, tail waggling furiously, head bumping up against her belly to release the milk he eagerly sought.

Jillian’s concentration having been interrupted at that point in Mr. Boyd’s deluge of information, the name of the suitable crop had been missed and not recorded in her notes.

No matter , she thought cheerfully as she bounded out of bed.

She would walk across to the field and ask one of the laborers if they knew what crop it was.

She could, of course, delay until Saturday and ask Mr. Boyd then.

But why wait? If she filled in the gaps of her knowledge now, she could write a lovely long letter to Lewis and tell him all that she had learned.

She was hoping to have heard from Lewis herself.

Even a short letter inquiring whether she had arrived safely and that all was well.

Preferably some mention of the plans he had for their future once they both returned to Munro.

Ideally, a roguish reference to missing the taste of her body.

Anything to suggest she was on his mind and that his thoughts were occupied with mending the distance that had crept in between them since the start of their marriage.

But there was nothing.

Jillian told herself he was probably very busy. He was no doubt throwing himself wholeheartedly into the causes he stood for in Parliament. And when the season was done, he would surely put his energy just as fully into their private cause.

She must be patient.

Still, a few lines to show he had not quite forgotten her would have meant much in the parched landscape of their relationship.

All the more reason to send a letter of her own. She would set the tone. Here, see, I am thinking of you. I carry your interests at heart. These pages show my commitment. Please write back and do the same.

Jillian grudgingly allowed Wallace to dress her before slipping from the house without breakfast. She would see to the needs of her stomach later.

First, she would gain the answer she needed for her letter.

The sooner it was sent, the sooner she would hear back from Lewis.

She pictured his delight at seeing pages and pages of farming insights.

He might even use some of his newfound knowledge in his arguments on the floor of the House of Commons.

He would speak with confidence and carry the secret pride that his wife supported his endeavors.

He would be grateful that he had married her, remembering all that she was to him.

It would inspire him to do better by her.

Perhaps he would inquire if the house he had first picked out for them was still available—a place where they could again be fully themselves.

Oh, how she wanted that! Every fiber of her being yearned for such a reconciliation. Anything less would be a betrayal of the promises they had made. After all, their marriage vows had not been the first declarations of commitment between them.

Fond memories of their visits at Munro House lifted her steps into a lightness she had not felt in ages. At least, not toward Lewis. In no time, and with the echo of a smile upon her face, she had reached the fallow field that was her intended destination.

As luck would have it, Mr. Boyd appeared on horseback, a cloud of dust surrounding him as he drew to a halt.

“Mrs. Bradford. I had not expected to see you here today. Have I forgotten an arrangement?”

“Not at all,” Jillian called up to him. “I was really looking for anybody who might tell me which crop you intended for this unused land. You shared so much important information yesterday, and I admit that not all of it made it into my notes.”

Mr. Boyd lifted his cap and scratched his head with the same hand before replacing the item atop his slightly unruly mop.

“I am not surprised. I think I rather overdid the details of my lecture. However, since we only had the one opportunity, I could not think what might be unimportant enough to leave out.”

“Oh,” Jilly replied, perking up at the possibility of another morning with her old friend, “it was only limited to one meeting because I did not want to impose upon your time. But if you are willing to share more of your wisdom, I would gladly follow you on your rounds until your teachings are exhausted.”

Mr. Boyd hesitated. “Perhaps we shall deal with your question today and you may send such knowledge as you have to Mr. Bradford. If he is desirous of more detail, he should feel free to ask me and I will reply when I have a spare hour.”

Jillian, however, was not easily discouraged.

“That is a generous suggestion.” She caressed the long, velvety nose of the horse.

“And yet I cannot help but feel that such correspondence would demand more of you than an easy verbal exchange between us while you are seeing to your duties. Besides, I enjoy learning.” She cocked her head cheekily.

“You would not deny me such a worthwhile education, I hope.”

Mr. Boyd’s habitual seriousness was deepened by a small frown. “Certainly not. Perhaps Mr. Bradford would share his and my correspondence with you? Then you may learn together. That would seem more acceptable to the public eye than his wife accompanying me on my rounds a second day.”

“But we are friends!” Jillian’s face screwed up into a shape she hoped matched her disgust. “And we have been such long before I even met Lewis.” She stepped back and threw her arms out to encompass the entirety of their surroundings.

“We are observed by scores of farmhands who follow all our movements across the estate. What better chaperone can we have? Not that I need one, as a married lady.”

Simon Boyd lowered his eyes and shook his head slowly. “Alas, I do not make the rules. Children may play together in fields where adults may no longer walk with equal innocence. At least, not as innocence is perceived.”

Jillian waved a hand about before thrusting it on her hip. “Then I shall invite Ellena to join us. Surely, the sobering presence of a viscountess will silence all doubts?”

Mr. Boyd replied with a calm and patience that was so much a part of his nature.

“I understood that her ladyship has not been home since she was married nigh on two years ago. It would be strange, indeed, if she should choose to wander the estate neighboring the one she has actually come to visit, especially when she has her young son with her.”

“You are far too sensible, sir,” Jillian said, her mouth shifting into a sulky pout. “It appears I am to do without your enlightenment unless my husband deems it fit for me to read what you send him.”

“I’m afraid we are bound by propriety, ma’am.”

Jillian rolled her eyes. “Ugh! Not you, too! There seems to be no end to the number of people who will lecture me on the subject.”

“I offer no lecture, Mrs. Bradford. I merely wish to protect your reputation. That is what a friend would do, is it not?”

“I suppose I cannot argue with that,” grumbled Jilly. “But you shall not wriggle out of the dance we agreed to on Saturday.”

He made a small bow with his head. “I would not dream of it. Those are far less formal circumstances, and the rigid rules of society will be somewhat relaxed. Only one dance, mind you,” he added sternly. “I will not have you spoken of in slanderous tones.”

“My boringly intact reputation thanks you, I suppose,” Jilly said.

Mr. Boyd closed one eye and stared at her with the other. “I do not think the value of an unsullied reputation is to be scoffed at. Once lost, it is almost impossible for it to be restored. As your friend, I would urge you to remember that.”

Jillian released a protracted sigh. “I know, I know. Contrary to everyone’s opinion, I do not purposefully seek out ways to break the rules. But there are just so many of them! And they seem to have multiplied since I became Mrs. Bradford. I miss the simpler years of my childhood.”

Mr. Boyd leaned back in his saddle. “Ah, so do we all. But I think you will find it is not so bad as all that.”

“I have yet to see any advantages.”

Mr. Boyd let his gaze flow along the length of the horizon.

“All of this”—he indicated the activities within their view—“works smoothly because I have ensured that it does.” A small, nostalgic smile snuck across his mouth.

“I can no longer catch tadpoles in the afternoon after my lessons are done. I do not steal jam tarts when my mother isn’t looking.

My hours are long and the tasks never-ending.

But I make a difference. That was not possible to the same degree when I wore a boy’s britches and dreamed a boy’s dreams.”

Jillian’s eyes were now firmly on the ground.

The toe of her boot traced small furrows in the dry earth.

“I would share your sentiment if such opportunities were also available to me,” she said softly.

“All that has changed since I became Mrs. Bradford is that my world has narrowed considerably. I am expected to find joy in idleness and great shows of wealth. Nothing has any real purpose. My life had far more meaning when I was helping my mother or playing with my brothers or saving Ellena from a life too similar to what I have now.”