Rexanne Becnel Read Free Page A

asked.
    “Yes, ma’am. Right here, ma’am,” Mrs. Leake’s son, Martin, said, bobbing his head beneath the teetering load of flour sacks balanced upon his shoulder.
    “And the molasses?”
    “Already in the wagon, ma’am, beside the candles.”
    “Good. Now there’s the matter of cake flour. I’ll need some extra fine milled flour for my cakes.”
    Just then Mrs. Leake came out from the storeroom, her arms overflowing with bolts of linen. Spying Phoebe, she gave her a quick nod. “I hope you’re not in a hurry, Phoebe girl.”
    “No. But will there be any flour and soap left for us?”
    “I’ll see there is. Meanwhile, just set your goods over there.” She indicated one corner of the counter. “Mayhap you’ll prefer to come back in a half hour or so.”
    “Perhaps I should. Is something going on at Farley Park?”
    “Indeed. Himself has decided to take up residence. Not just a visit either, or so I hear. That’s his housekeeper come to oversee the purchases. ’Scuse me, but I can’t talk now.”
    As they wove their way past the scowling housekeeper and her two assistants, Helen tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Who’s Himself? I never heard of anyone named that.”
    The wiry woman must have had ears like a cat, for she turned her sharp gaze on Helen, then Phoebe. “For your information, James Lindford, Viscount Farley, has taken up residence in his ancestral home after many years away. I’m certain he’ll introduce himself to the mayor, the vicar, and the magistrate once he’s settled in. Until then, I’ll thank you and the rest of the villagers not to speculate on the reason for his return, or the duration of his stay.”
    Then with a pinching grip she halted poor Martin. “Let me see that salt. I’ll not pay good money for salt with grit or chalk mixed in.”
    Outside Phoebe and Helen shared a look of consternation. “My goodness,” Phoebe said as they started toward Mr. Blackstock’s residence. “She certainly was cross, wasn’t she?”
    “Just like Grandmother used to be,” Helen remarked. “That’s what happens when you get old.”
    Phoebe shook her head. Out of the mouths of babes. But it was true. Phoebe’s mother had died less than a fortnight ago, but already the difference in their home life was apparent. Without Emilean Churchill to disapprove and scold, there was no longer a need to tiptoe about, burying any hint of ebullience or joy or just plain silliness. No more excessive adherence to the polite manners her mother had demanded of her and her sister, Louise, and more recently, of Helen.
    Duty, obedience, moral exactitude. Those were the bulwarks that had formed her mother’s life. Their household had been a silent, unhappy place. But not any longer.
    If only Phoebe could escape this nagging sense of guilt. She should be sadder that her mother had died. But her sadness was more for the way her mother had chosen to live.
    She shook off those thoughts and said to Helen, “If Lord Farley’s housekeeper is cross, I suspect it’s because the viscount didn’t notify her that he was coming. Just like a man,” she added, under her breath.
    Though she’d never met Lord Farley, Phoebe had heard talk of him all her life. For the most part he was considered a fine gentleman with quite the head for business, especially considering that he’d come into his title so young in life. His mother’s pride and joy. A good landlord, according to his tenants, albeit an absent one. Apparently he’d had to be the man of the family for his mother and his two half-sisters, and had managed all their estates until they’d married.
    Left unsaid, however, were the facts that he was past thirty and not yet wed himself. The gossips held that he preferred the excitement of town life and traveling abroad to the pastoral quiet of the Yorkshire countryside. It was also whispered that he was quite the ladies’ man, and that he’d cut a considerable swath through society.
    As the properly raised