Page 14 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

“W hat is your plan today?” Tavie asked over the breakfast table. The piles of eggs, scones, and bacon made it clear that Mrs. Miller was accustomed to cooking for working men. It was also evidence that her farm was successful.

“I’d like to survey the fields, if Mrs. Miller is amenable.

” Matthew’s smile was the charming one she remembered, and the shadows under his eyes weren’t as noticeable.

He’d slept well, then. That was another credit to Mrs. Miller.

She’d taken a bed with a narrow, but thick, mattress into the mill in preparation for Matthew’s arrival.

He had paid the coachman and his son to move another to the second floor before they’d returned to Hadleigh to wait at the inn. They had struggled with the weight of it, and they were grown men.

“That would be fine, Mr. Foster,” Mrs. Miller replied. “As long as you don’t mind the cart.”

“I’ve been in carts most of my life, Mrs. Miller. And I know it’s unusual, but I wish you would call me Matthew.”

The older woman blinked twice before she smiled. The quick action lit her eyes and softened her features. “It’s Eloise, then.”

Tavie watched them from across the table.

It was easy to believe that they were just alike, the widow and the man who was there to buy her property.

And for the most part, they were. Matthew had always been happiest when his sleeves were rolled to his elbows and the wind was in his hair. Eloise Miller would be in good hands.

“Tavie? Would you like to go with us?” Matthew asked.

“I’d rather not bounce about for a day or two.” She looked toward Miss Miller. “I can help Margaret about the homestead, if she’ll allow me.”

The girl stared for a moment and then nodded. Unlike her mother, she didn’t seem pleased.

“It’s settled, then.” Matthew stood and carried his empty plate to the washbasin, where he cleaned it himself. “I’ll go hitch the team.”

He left them sitting at the table, watching him go.

“He is a charming lad, I’ll give him that.” Eloise turned to Tavie, one eyebrow arched in a doubtful stare. “Are you certain he’s not turned your head, young lady?”

“There won’t ever be anything between us, Eloise.

” Tavie didn’t consider that a lie. It didn’t matter that he’d turned her head years ago and likely always would.

She had bowed to her family’s wishes and ignored her heart, and he had left without a backward glance. “He’s only doing this as a favor.”

“Your mother and father must trust him a great deal.”

Bessie Dove-Lyon trusted him, but Albert and his title had convinced Mother otherwise. And Father’s opinion always followed Mother’s.

Why be in trade when you can be a baroness, my girl?

Because you could only be a baroness if you had a baron? Because the baron wanted the dowry more than he wanted the lady that came with it? Because she didn’t want the baron, not one little bit?

“They’ve known Matthew since he could barely see over grain stalks.” Also not a lie, but if questions continued for much longer, the circle would close. “Matthew learned the business from his father, who was one of the most honorable men I’ve known. He will be fair to you, Eloise.”

That was the least Tavie could do to repay Matthew for upending his life to help her.

Eloise straightened and reached for her shawl. “Then I best get going. You two be careful that you don’t begin gossiping and forget about your chores.”

Given Margaret’s expression, gossiping was the last thing on her mind. Once they were alone, Tavie surveyed the table. “Would you prefer to slop the pigs or begin the dishes?”

Margaret gave a sly smile. “Dishes, I think.”

Tavie hadn’t expected anything different. She and James had enjoyed torturing visitors by giving them the worst chores or taking them down the bumpiest roads. It had been difficult to hide their laughter as the horses clopped along and the guests’ teeth had clacked together.

She snapped a nod and went in search of the bucket. “Mother always kept the pail near the sink. Is that where yours would be?”

“I hate the smell while I’m washing up. It’s behind the larder near the back door.”

Tavie carried the bucket, which swung easily on its rope handle, to the table.

She lifted the lid, and both she and Margaret wrinkled their nose at the smell of last night’s scraps.

The remnants of breakfast landed on the pile with a sickening plop .

All the while, Tavie was aware of Margaret’s attention.

The girl expected a reaction—perhaps a refusal or a rebellion.

“Is the sty behind the barn?” That was where theirs had been. The structure had hidden the eyesore and the smell, and the animals had cool mud and all the acorns they could crunch.

“Yes.” Margaret, denied her success, gathered the plates, and carried them to the bench.

“I’ll let the chickens out as well.” Tavie put a bit more sugar in her words than she would normally use. It was ungracious, she knew, but she couldn’t resist tweaking the girl’s ruined hopes.

The trek to the pigpen gave Tavie an opportunity for a closer inspection of the property. The barn was neat and dry, and a gray tabby lay in the doorway, sunning himself after a night of hunting mice and whatever else might dare to invade. Given his girth, he was excellent at his job.

The horses were out with Matthew and Eloise, so the stalls were empty, but the doors at the opposite end stood open, giving Tavie a glimpse of the oxen who likely pulled the plow during planting and the rakes for harvesting. The milk cow and her calf were grazing as well.

Beyond them, neatly mowed fields stretched as far as she could see, and past that, the hills were a misty blue.

For a moment, standing there, it was easy to believe that the last few years hadn’t happened, that she was still at home in the northern borders of the county waiting for her life to begin.

The stench from the bucket urged her to finish her chores, but even as she tipped it into the trough, she surveyed the construction of the pen. It was solid, and several of the rails had been recently replaced.

The chickens bolted from their house in a flurry of feathers and straw, strutting and squawking in protest at being caged too long in the morning.

“Go on with you.” Tavie shooed them from around her skirt hem.

“There are still plenty of bugs and worms to go around.” She would rather deal with fifty pigs than a flock of chickens.

The trees coaxed her down the hill, where the morning air was almost cold in the shadows, and to the river.

The water whispered over rocks and through the rushes, while the thin clouds cast dark reflections over the surface.

It was tempting to slip from her boots, lift her skirts, and go wading.

It had been too long since she’d felt smooth stones and slick moss against her toes.

Instead of following the impulse, Tavie knelt and rinsed the bucket to remove the last of the muck and the sweet smell of decay. As she returned to the house, the mill’s still, silent wheel was the only flaw in the otherwise perfect farm.

“I’ve noticed the mill is quiet,” she said as she entered the kitchen.

She was careful to leave the pail in its spot behind the larder.

It might be clean and sweeter smelling, but that was where Margaret would look for it.

“Is that for Matthew’s benefit?” She wanted to say our benefit , but suspected that would raise too many questions about their relationship.

Relationship . It was an odd word to consider. They didn’t have one, really. Did they?

Could they?

Margaret shook her head. “The stone was worn, and it cracked while the mason was re-grooving it. Papa was so angry.” She finished wiping the bench clean. “He ordered a new stone, but it didn’t arrive until after he…died.”

The hesitation in the girl’s voice touched Tavie’s heart. She had grown up adoring her father and, though they did not always agree, the thought of losing him stole her breath.

“And it’s too heavy for Mother and I to place,” Margaret finished. “We’ve tried to find a way, but nothing has worked.”

This was not the home of a family preparing to move to London. Tavie knew what that looked like, and it wasn’t calves, repaired fences, and a new millstone.

“Thank you for giving up your bed for me,” she said.

Margaret’s eyes widened, and after a moment she snapped her mouth closed. “How did you know?”

“My brother and I were often called to do the same when we had guests.” Tavie winked.

“And though we were always polite when everyone was looking, we enjoyed tormenting them in simple ways.” The girl blushed and dipped her head, but not before Tavie saw her impish smile and dimples.

She was lovely and far too fresh-faced for London.

“If Matthew buys the farm, what will you and your mother do?”

“Move to the village, I suppose.” Margaret reached for the flour tin. “My uncle is a grocer, and he’s said he can find us a place to live nearby.”

She didn’t sound excited by the prospect, and Tavie couldn’t blame her. The work here was hard, but the trade was the quiet beauty of a home they could call their own. “Town might give you more opportunities.”

“I’ve already been to school, and all Uncle Ned talks about is how much help he needs in the store,” the girl said as she went into the larder. She returned with eggs, milk, and soft butter. “And I don’t need to go to town to find a husband.”

Tavie found a broom and focused on sweeping the floor to hide her smile.

“Lots of boys seem interested, though Papa always teased that they like my bread better than anything else about me,” Margaret said as she stirred everything together in a large bowl. “And Mam says I’m still too young for marriage.”