wandered over to the sofa and glanced down at her fingers, rubbing the calluses she’d earned from their millinery efforts. They were already disappearing.
A great many things had changed in the past few months. Their widowed sister-in-law, Carrie, was married, and happily so, while Petra and Marguerite continued to go against their brother’s wishes and maintain their independence. Neither of them wanted to marry again. Once was enough for Petra, certainly. In her experience, men promised you the moon to get what they wanted, then did exactly as they pleased. She had been little more than a child with stars in her eyes when she married Harry. How hurt she had been to discover he’d only married her because his father had wanted the connection to nobility. She certainly wasn’t going to make that sort of mistake again.
Marguerite gasped, ‘The Thrumbys have sold the business.’
‘What?’ Petra hurried to look over Marguerite’s shoulder.
‘Avery included a note with Carrie’s letter. Here, read it for yourself.’
Petra scanned the note written in a firm male hand. The Thrumbys had received an offer for the business from a Bond Street competitor and had agreed to sell. The new owner created her own hat designs, therefore Marguerite’s were no longer needed.
‘At least they will continue to employ the ladies in the village to make up the hats,’ Marguerite said, her voice full of resignation. ‘The quality of their work is exceptional.’ She gave Petra a wan smile. ‘All due to you, dearest. You taught them well.’
‘Dash it all. That is so unfair. We needed that income.’ She bit her lip at the pained look on Marguerite’s face. ‘Now what will we do? Ask Red for help, I suppose.’
Marguerite shook her head. ‘No. We will think of something. In the meantime, we will be frugal.’
They were already careful with every penny. ‘I wish I could help more.’
Marguerite pursed her lips. ‘We will have to cut back on meat... It is so expensive.’
‘Well, Red better not hear about that, or it will be all the excuse he needs to put us back on the marriage mart.’
Marguerite paled. ‘He is sure to find out eventually. I have to think of some other way to augment our income. Sometimes publishers need illustrators for their books. I will write to them and send some examples of my drawings. Perhaps I can use a nom de plume.’
Petra nodded. ‘Good idea.’ A recollection of something she’d seen on her way to the village popped into her mind. ‘Why don’t I see if I can pick some blackberries for jam? We have lots of sugar in the pantry.’
Marguerite gave her a grateful smile. ‘Excellent idea. A good supply of preserves will help us through the winter.’
It wouldn’t be enough, though. But Petra had an idea about that, too. The countryside was full of free food if one knew where to look. Blackberries were just the start.
Not too many minutes later, Petra had equipped herself with an old straw hat, a large wicker basket and covered her oldest spring muslin with an apron that had seen better days.
Outside, a light breeze cooled the warmth of the sun and she strolled along swinging her basket until she arrived at a blackberry bush hanging over the lane. The last time she noticed it, the brambles had been covered in little white flowers. Now the prickly canes were weighed down with gleaming clusters of black fruit.
Unfortunately, they were on the other side of a ditch and hanging over the top of a dense hedge far too high for her to reach.
Bother. They hadn’t looked so high when she was travelling in the trap.
The other side of the bush grew in a field belonging to the Longhurst estate. On that side, the berries were temptingly easy to reach even for a short person such as she. A wooden stile a few feet from where she was standing offered perfect access to the field and the blackberries.
Besides, who would care? No one had lived at Longhurst since she and her sisters had arrived at Westram more than a year ago. According to the locals, the new Earl was away fighting on the Peninsula and cared not a bean for the estate. In consequence, there was no one to care if she trespassed. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had planted the brambles. They were part of nature’s bounty.
After a quick glance up and down the road, she hiked up the skirts of her old blue gown and climbed over.
Wary of fierce thorns bent on ripping her clothes to shreds, she pushed into the bush using her basket as a shield. Soon it was full of shiny blackberries and becoming quite heavy. A trickle of sweat ran into her eye and she wiped it away on the corner of her apron.
She picked a berry and popped it into her mouth. Mmm...delicious. And exactly right for jam. She tasted another just to be sure.
The jingle of a bridle and the sound of a horse’s heavy breathing had her whipping around.
A tall fair-haired man with an amused expression on his handsome face gazed down at her from the back of a huge brown horse. He leaned forward and let his glance travel down her length. It lingered at her feet.
She glanced down. Heat rushed to her face at the sight of her stockings bared to her garter at the knee because her skirts had tangled with the thorns when she turned. She pulled them free.
When she looked up again, his light blue eyes were twinkling and he wore a charmingly boyish smile. The sort of smile a man knew would cause the nearest female to forgive him.
Her stomach fluttered wildly. She tried to ignore it. Harry had worn the same sort of smile when he sought her forgiveness each time that he had strayed. As an unmarried girl, she had adored that smile. As a wife, she had come to dread it. She’d learned it meant he’d made yet another conquest and was trying to jolly her along as if it meant nothing.
No, a gentleman’s smiles and promises, no matter how charming or sincere they seemed, were definitely not to be trusted. She schooled her expression into cool politeness and dipped a curtsy. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good day to you, wench.’ His voice was deep and rich and smooth. ‘May I ask what you are about?’
Wench? Pinpricks shot across her shoulders. ‘What does it look like I am doing? I am picking blackberries.’ Dash it. She should not have responded so sharply.
‘My blackberries,’ he said with another smile.
Oh. She winced. ‘Then you must be Lord Longhurst.’
‘Indeed.’ He inclined his head slightly.
It seemed the wanderer had at last returned. ‘Well, sir, this fruit may grow on your property, but since they grew without the aid of any man or woman, it might be argued that they have no particular owner.’
He frowned. ‘Are you one of my tenants?’
He thought she was a farm labourer’s wife. Dash it all—was she supposed to wear her best gown to go blackberry picking? For a moment she was tempted to play along, but she did not know this man or his character. At first glance, he looked handsome and charming, but she knew better than to judge anyone by appearances. Or at least, she did now. Besides, it would be embarrassing when he later caught her
