Rexanne Becnel by The Heartbreaker Page A

his throat. “I have an idea. If you’re interested, Izzy, I could start your riding lessons tomorrow.”
    The girl eyed him with cautious interest, but not nearly so much enthusiasm as she directed to Phoebe. He went on. “You’re old enough to learn how to ride, and perhaps we can come by here to get more of Miss Churchill’s goat’s milk. Would that be convenient?” He directed that last to Phoebe.
    Under Lord Farley’s intent scrutiny Phoebe felt a spurt of confusing emotion. Unwonted pleasure; unwonted panic.
    She knotted her hands beneath her apron. “Of course you may come. And I would be happy to provide all the goat’s milk Leya needs.” Then like a goose she just stood there, as gauche and awkward as he no doubt expected a simple dairymaid to be.
    He nodded once, then turned away. What else did she expect? She would not let herself weave foolish fairy tales over a man like him when the proof of his indiscreet manner of living stood squarely in front of her.
    She and Helen watched as he sat with Leya in the cart and let Izzy once more handle the horse. They waved when he waved, then silently watched as the cart and its passengers made their slow way along the seldom-used cart track up to the main road.
    Helen leaned her head against Phoebe’s arm. “D’you think Himself will teach me how to drive a cart?” she asked. “And maybe, one day, how to ride a horse?”
    Phoebe heard the wistful note in her niece’s voice, and wished she could banish it. This was Helen’s first real interaction with any man other than Martin and the Reverend Peggerson at the church. Martin was as simple as a child, though, and the vicar was as stern and intimidating as Helen’s grandmother had been.
    Lord Farley, however, had been kind and gentle with his daughters. Phoebe had noticed; impossible for Helen not to notice too.
    “Lord Farley is an important man and probably very busy, sweetheart.”
    “Yes, but…maybe, if I ask very nicely.”
    “Yes. I think maybe he might. Especially if you tried harder to be nice to Izzy.”
    Helen wrinkled her nose, then gave a great, put-upon sigh. “All right, I’ll try. But she’s not very nice to me.”
    “She seems to be getting better though. Don’t you think?”
    After a long while the child nodded. “A little.”
    The next morning dawned raw and cold, with an angry spring storm goading the sea into a frenzied thrashing against the cliffs below the house. For Phoebe the wet boom and crash was as familiar as a lullaby, more wind than rain.
    Helen and Bruno stayed indoors while Phoebe tended the goats and chickens. There would be no laundry today. But that didn’t mean there would be no chores. Her winter firewood was nearly used up, which meant she would need a new load from Martin—which meant she would have a lot of sewing to do in exchange.
    Perhaps today she could clean out the cupboards so at least that would be out of the way when she tackled the rest of the spring cleaning. And she could start a new batch of cheese.
    So she gathered up the egg basket and the milk bucket, and ducking her head against the cold sting of the erratic rain, she hurried across the muddy yard and back to the house.
    Inside all was snug and warm, and she and Helen passed the morning in quiet activity. Given the weather, she doubted they would have visitors, and as the day wore on, she became doubly sure.
    After their midday meal Helen dozed in the big over-stuffed parlor chair, her book forgotten in her lap, while Phoebe turned her attention to the cheese. Rennet, ripening milk, cheese cloth. The pleasantly sour fragrance was like the crashing waves, part of the fabric of her life. Her mother had hated both, as had Louise. As for her father, it was hard to say, for he’d spoken so seldom, and then primarily for utilitarian purposes.
    Would Helen grow to cherish the everyday sounds and smells of their simple life? Or would the child one day want to escape, like her mother before