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assistance.”
    She’d done nothing except blink back tears and handle a few buttons, and yet, after Mr. St. Michael had boosted her onto her horse, he lingered a moment arranging the drape of her skirts over her boots.
    “Not every titled lady would have tarried in the cold for a mere lamb,” he said. “I should have left the matter to Kinser’s good offices. This is his flock.”
    “Kinser is likely the worse for drink.” Nita had complained to Nicholas of this tendency the last time she’d had to make up headache powders for Mr. Kinser.
    “An occupational hazard among shepherds, particularly in cold weather. That was a fine little tup, and he’ll be worth a pretty penny.”
    Mr. St. Michael looked like he wanted to say more. Nita plucked a bit of straw from his hair and barely resisted the urge to brush at the shoulders of his coat.
    “Ready to go?” George asked, climbing into the saddle.
    Mr. St. Michael swung up and nudged William forward. “I believe you mentioned a toddy, sir. I’m sure the lady would enjoy one sooner rather than later.”
    They rode home in silence, the wind at their backs. Nita would enjoy a toddy, and then she’d excuse herself from whatever domestic diversions were thrown at her and bring a few extra blankets and provisions to Addy Chalmers and wee Annie Elizabeth.
    * * *
     
    “I cannot fathom why Elsie Nash has not remarried,” Kirsten remarked when she, Susannah, and Della were tooling home, hot bricks at their feet, scarves wound round their necks. “She is the dearest woman.”
    “Perhaps she’s content to be a member of Edward’s household,” Susannah said. “He has no lady of his own, and a widowed sister-in-law makes a fine hostess.”
    Susannah, in her sweet, determined way, aspired to become Edward Nash’s lady, and Mr. Nash seemed keen on the idea too.
    “Elsie can waltz,” Kirsten said. “Do you suppose Edward can? You might offer to teach him, Suze, if he hasn’t acquired the knack.” Because for all his memorized couplets of Shakespeare, Edward Nash was in line for a mere baronetcy when some great-uncle or second cousin died. He was rural gentry until that distant day, and likely ignorant of the waltz.
    “How would one offer such lessons to a gentleman?” Susannah asked.
    In a lifetime of trying, Kirsten would never be as innocent or good as Susannah.
    “One asks him, in a private moment, if he might assist one to brush up her waltzing skills before the assembly,” Kirsten explained. “One stumbles at judicious moments in judicious directions when such assistance is rendered, apologizing all the while. One is befuddled by the complexity of the steps.”
    Susannah’s consternation was both amusing and worrisome. In the absence of any real authority over her own person, a woman benefited from having a bit of guile.
    “Nita doesn’t care for Mr. Nash,” Della said from the backward-facing seat. Little more than her face showed from a swaddling of blankets and lap robes. “I can’t say I do either.”
    “Have you a reason for your dislike of Edward?” Susannah asked.
    “Elsie Nash is not happy in her brother-in-law’s household,” Della said.
    Kirsten didn’t particularly like Edward Nash either—he had too high an opinion of himself for a man who’d inherited his holdings and done little to make them prosper. He was handsome, though, and he doted on Susannah. Edward and Susannah would have lovely, blond, handsome, poetry-spouting children together.
    A dozen at least.
    “Widowhood is not generally a cheerful state,” Susannah said.
    “Elsie’s husband died more than two years ago,” Della countered. “She has a child to love, and yet she’s not—”
    “She’s not at peace,” Kirsten ventured. “Maybe she’s lonely. Pity Adolphus is too young for her.” Because George, despite his grand good looks and abundant charm, would likely never marry.
    “She moves like an older woman and has silences like an older woman,” Della said,