Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(85)

The pregnant woman gaped at her.

“And I brought you a basket,” she added brightly. She swung around, holding the basket out to the children. “There are sweets inside,” she tempted, dangling the basket in front of her.

The children shrank away, huddling into the corner with expressions of abject fear. The smallest one, a tow-headed boy who couldn’t have been above two years old, clutched his sister’s leg and began to cry.

“All right,” said Lucy, slowly backing away. “No need to get upset. I’ll just leave it on the table, see?” She deposited the basket on the table.

“Thank you, my lady.” The pregnant woman’s reply was barely audible, and her eyes remained downcast.

“You’re welcome.” Lucy clasped her hands in front of her. “Miss Osborne, I suppose I’ll wait in the carriage.”

The young lady’s gaze did not turn from her patient. “Yes, that would probably be best.”

A quarter-hour later, Miss Osborne returned to the phaeton with her little valise. Well, Lucy thought. That had not gone entirely as planned. She refused to show her disappointment in front of Miss Osborne, however. Of course the children would be terrified of an elegant lady who was a stranger to them. Given the fact that the previous Lady Kendall had died several years ago and been in declining health even longer than that, the children could not know how a proper countess behaved. On her next visit, they would all be tugging at her skirts.

They drove on to the next cottage. This time, Lucy did not allow Miss Osborne to leave her behind. She grabbed up the basket and followed the young woman up to the tiny, thatched-roof dwelling. She knocked on a door, and they were admitted to a small, dank room. The light that struggled through the single window revealed the room’s two occupants. A boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, held the door open with a bandaged hand. On the narrow straw-tick bed, a young girl sat quietly, her legs crossed beneath a threadbare brown wool skirt.

“Albert, Mary. This is Lady Kendall.”

The door slammed shut behind them. Lucy wheeled about to regard the boy.

“What?” he asked, registering Miss Osborne’s disapproval. “Surely her royal highness here don’t expect me to bow?”

“How is your hand?” Miss Osborne asked, changing the subject.

The boy shrugged, still staring up at Lucy. “Better, I suppose. It still hurts like the devil, but it don’t seem to be festering.”

Miss Osborne set her valise on the small table and opened it. “Let’s have a look at it, then. Come sit.” She beckoned him with a tilt of the head. Albert obeyed, eyeing Lucy with all the suspicion and scorn a twelve-year-old boy could muster.

Lucy decided to focus her charitable efforts on Mary. She crossed the room—a matter of only two paces, it being a small room—and sat on the bed beside her. The child’s mousy hair hung around her face in wild, tangling curls. Big brown eyes stared out at Lucy from a thin, pale face.

Lucy smiled. Mary mirrored the expression with a gap-toothed grin.

“How old are you, Mary?”

The girl kept smiling.

“She don’t talk,” Albert called from the table. He winced as Miss Osborne prodded his wound.

“But she understands me. Don’t you, Mary?”

Mary nodded. She held up one open hand, her bony fingers fanned wide.

“You’re five?”

The girl nodded, and her smile spread wider still.

Lucy uncovered the basket on her lap. “What luck! I have a special biscuit here baked just for a five-year-old girl.” She held out a circle of shortbread. “Do you like biscuits, Mary?”

The girl snatched the treat from Lucy’s hand and lifted it to her mouth.

“Don’t eat it, Mary.” Albert’s voice was tight with pain. “It’s a Kendall biscuit. It’s probably poison.”

“Poison! Wherever would you get such an idea? Of course it isn’t poisoned.” She couldn’t understand where these ridiculous notions had originated, but they began to grate on her nerves. It was one thing for Lucy to think disparaging thoughts about her own husband, but quite another to hear him maligned by complete strangers.

Lucy turned back to the girl. “You go ahead, Mary. Eat it right up.” The girl clutched the biscuit in her hand, uncertain. “Or,” Lucy said gently, “you may wait to ask your mama and papa first, if it will make you feel better.”

“They haven’t any parents.” Miss Osborne dabbed at Albert’s wound with a rag soaked in pungent liquid.

Albert gritted his teeth. “My father ain’t dead.”

“Perhaps he isn’t. But he isn’t here to settle the matter, now is he?” Miss Osborne wound a strip of clean linen over Albert’s palm. “You may eat the biscuit, Mary.” She silenced Albert’s objection with a look. “It isn’t poisoned.”

Mary devoured the biscuit in a flash, then held out both hands for more. By the time Miss Osborne finished dressing Albert’s hand, Mary had downed three biscuits, a hunk of hard cheese, and most of a cold chicken leg. Lucy wished she’d brought a bigger basket. The child was clearly underfed. She glanced at Albert. He looked rather scrawny, too.

As they rose to leave, Lucy fished in her reticule for a shilling and held it out to Albert. “Here,” she said. “Buy yourself some biscuits. Mary ate them all already.”