The Memory of Your Kiss by Wilma Counts Page B

“Isn’t he beautiful?” she cooed, as she sat in her bed, bolstered by pillows, and held him close.
    Henry, dressed for travel, had popped in to say good-bye. He laughed softly. “Beautiful? Red and wrinkled as he is? If you say so, my dear. If you say so.”
    “But just look at this shock of dark hair—that comes from you. His eyes are from me—and my father. I do hope they won’t change. Mrs. Hatfield, the midwife, says they often do. And he has such spirit!”
    Henry grinned at his wife and touched a forefinger to his son’s cheek. “I assume by ‘spirit’ you mean he has a healthy set of lungs. He does that.”
    She cuddled the baby closer and said, “Pay your father no mind, my son. In time, he will learn to appreciate all your attributes and achievements.”
    “Just as soon as they manifest themselves.” Henry rose and kissed her on the forehead. “I must be off, my dear.”
    “For how long did you say?”
    “A fortnight. Maybe longer. I will write you.”
    “All right.” As the door to her bedchamber closed behind him, she turned her attention back to the baby.
    Life settled into a comfortable routine. Sydney refused to be one of those society mothers who relegated total care of their children to nursery maids. She was also determined that, though she had not brought a great estate to this marriage, she would have something of value to offer. She worked closely with the housekeeper, butler, and the head gardener to ensure that the Hall itself was operated efficiently and smoothly.
    Then one day, she took on a new role—one outside the conventional duties of a countess. Henry was away and Sydney was just finishing breakfast with the twins and her own brother and sister, when Mr. Roberts, the butler, appeared to announce that Mr. Stevenson, the estate steward, wanted to speak with her.
    “He says it is rather urgent, my lady.”
    She found the steward, a man of perhaps forty years, pacing in the library, his hands behind his back, a worried expression on his face.
    “Good morning, Mr. Stevenson. Won’t you sit down and tell me what the problem is?” She gestured to a chair in a nearby grouping and took one of them herself.
    The steward sat, his hands splayed on his knees. He seemed nervous. “I am sorry to trouble you, my lady. Not a matter for a woman, don’t you see. Ordinarily, his lordship would handle this, but he is not here and you having grown up in Windham and all—well, it just seemed logical to at least ask you about it.”
    “And what is ‘it’ exactly?” she asked.
    “You know the farmers Davis and Newton?”
    “Oh, dear.” She knew immediately what the problem might be. “Those two have hated each other for years. Ever since Darlene Ryan chose to marry Tom Newton instead of Fred Davis. But—good heavens!—that was over twenty-five years ago.”
    “Their feud escalated this week.”
    “Not over that same plot of land again, I hope. I thought they were to share it as grazing land.”
    He nodded. “That was the plan, but Newton fenced off part of it and planted a garden. Davis’s pigs got into it and destroyed it. Davis says it was an accident, that Newton’s fences weren’t well built. Newton, of course, says it was deliberate. Last night Davis’s barn caught fire. He’s blaming Newton. The Davis men were drinking and plottingrevenge last night. I’m afraid someone’s going to end up dead over this squabble.”
    “You may be right,” Sydney said. “When we were children all those boys—Davises and Newtons—had tempers that were quick to flame. Many a black eye resulted. What to do? What to do?”
    “Perhaps if we sent word to Lord Paxton,” Stevenson offered.
    “He is in Ireland. By the time we got word to him and he could reply or return, it would be another fortnight. No, we must handle this ourselves, Mr. Stevenson.”
    They sat in thoughtful silence for several moments, then Sydney said, “Send for the grown men of both families. You and I shall