Chapter 11

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 was all snug and warm, and she and Helen passed the morning in quiet activity. Given the weather, she doubted she would have visitors, and as the day wore on, she became doubly sure.

After her midday meal Helen dozed in the big overstuffed 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 only for utilitarian purposes.

Would Helen grow up to cherish the everyday sounds and smells of their simple life? Or would the child one day want to escape, like her mother before her?

Phoebe stirred a spoonful of sour milk into the fresh milk, then fashioned a milk cloth square around the top of the bowl to keep out any stray insects and dust. Outside, the rain had begun in earnest, tapping a lively pattern on the two glass windows, beating more dully on the shutters and door, and making a soft whooshing noise on the thick slate roof.

Phoebe smiled to herself as she wiped he hands, then cleaned off the sturdy kitchen table. Being alone in her own house was still a novelty, a stolen pleasure she reveled in.

Of course she wasn't alone. The sleeping Helen had curled up in the chair near the hearth with Bruno squeezed in beside her. But her little-girl snores and those of the little dog added to the ambiance of the snug cottage. It was a Spartan life with few luxuries, but it was safe and secure — or at least it would be, did the threat of their unpaid taxes not weigh so heavily upon her.

Thinking of those taxes led her to considering Lord Farley's temping offer of a paying position. She should say yes. Why was she afraid to do so?

She just was. No logical reason, but there were lots of illogical ones. The manly figure he cut, especially upon his horse; his gorgeous eyes which seemed to see far beyond the surface of her skin; his sincere efforts on behalf of his children.

Phoebe muffled a groan. She refused to waste an afternoon daydreaming about a man like him: one she could not have and should not want. So she settled cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the cupboards and went back to work.

She'd hardly begun when a sudden bang on the kitchen door jolted her alert. Before she could react, the door swung open, carrying in a gust of cold, wet air, and an equally cold, wet Izzy.

"We're here!" the child cheerfully announced from beneath a red muffler and a dark green oversized rain hood.

Phoebe stood. "We?"

"He's putting the horses in your goat shed," the girl said, thrusting back her dripping hood.

That fast, Phoebe's contentment fled. Lord Farley was here. Why on earth would he ride out on such a dreadful day to come her simple abode? "Close the door, Izzy, before we all catch our death. Come, let's get these wet things off you."

"I see the baby's taking her nap," Izzy said with a smirk. "I can play with Bruno all by myself now."

Phoebe took Izzy's cape and shook the rain droplets from it, then hung it on a wall hook. "Two points, Izzy. As a visitor, first you knock. Then you wait for the door to be opened rather than bursting in as you did."

"But it was raining and it was cold."

"And you ask your hostess before you assume you may entertain yourself with any of her possessions."

Izzy frowned at her and Phoebe braced herself for an outburst. But to her surprise, Izzy composed her face into a pleasant, if forced, expression. "Sorry. May I play with Bruno?"

"Yes. Of course you may. Go sit near the fire. Are your feet wet?"

"A little."

"Then take off your shoes and set them on the hearth to dry." She was busy situating Izzy when the second knock came. She froze, crouched before the hearth, when he knocked again and cracked the door open.

"Is anyone home?"

Phoebe drew back when he peered around through the opening. Goodness, she was dressed like a drudge.

"It's cold," Izzy called. "Close the door."

Then he was in, stamping his feet, shutting out the cold and wet, and filling her cozy cottage with his unfamiliar masculine aura. For a moment Phoebe's head spun. She was knelt on the solid floor, and yet still she felt dizzy, as if she might tilt right over.

"Good day, Miss Churchill," he said, when she continued silently to stare up at him.

Somehow she rose awkwardly toward her feet, smoothing her skirt and apron — anything to avoid looking at him. How ridiculous was that? "Good afternoon, Lord Farley." At least her voice didn't tremble like her hands did. She knotted her fingers at her waist. ''May I take your coat?"

"Thank you." In one easy movement he swung his heavy caped riding cloak off and she reached for it.

That's better. Just remember all mothers' instructions on manners and visitors and small talk and such.

Unfortunately she hadn't counted on the effect of his coat, its lingering warmth and the subtle scent that lifted from it. Wool and saddle leather, horses and rain. But there was something else she couldn't name, something heady and powerful that made her dizzy all over again.

She clutched the cloak to her too long, pressing it to her chest while she tried to catch her breath. You're acting like a fool!

As she turned and hung his beautifully cut garment on a peg beside her own plain cloak, she resolved to cease this foolish overreacting to him. The disparity between the two garments summed up the situation so well. They had business to do, that was all. He'd come for milk and perhaps more insight into raising his children. She was perfectly amenable to supplying both. Beyond that they had nothing in common.

Taking a breath, she turned back to him. "I had quite given up on you both, the weather was so horrid."

"We didn't mind the rain," Izzy said from her place by the fire with Bruno. "I'm used to it. In London it rains all the time."

"Indeed." Phoebe's gaze flitted back and forth between father and daughter. "Tell me, how did Nadia fare last night?"

"She slept through the night," Lord Farley answered. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her wry smile. "I'd forgotten how good it feels to sleep a whole night through without interruption. Thank you for that. I'm eternally in your debt. We all are."

Pleased by his sincerity, Phoebe tried not to let her smile stretch too wide. "I'm relieved to hear it."

"Such a simply solution to Nadia's misery," he said. "May I sit?"

"Of course. Would you like tea?"

He pulled out a chair at the table. "Anything warm will do."

Phoebe turned to the hearth and swung the kettle over the fire. He might need something to warm him, but she most certainly did not. Indeed, her cheeks must be fairly glowing.

"The only problem we had with Nadia," he went on, "was when we left to come here. She cried to come with us, but the cook warned about bringing a baby out in such weather."

"The cook was right. And I'm not so certain about Izzy being out either."

"But you don't mind my getting a good soaking?"

She looked up from measuring out the tea. "That's not what I meant."