Page 24 of The Countess Caper

“I can’t be a countess,” Tessa groaned, climbing rustily to her feet. “Look at me.”

Summer rolled her eyes, then clasped her head as if she’d been punched. “Ouch. Possibly you’re forgetting the state of the ton. I can count on one hand those who don’t wake up in worse straits daily.”

Fair point, actually.

Summer set the tray down between them, and they drank greedily of the hot, sweet tea, strong as dirt. Perfect. “I might like you after all,” Tessa said.

“Shh,” Summer replied. Her eyes were closed. “How much wine did I drink?”

“How much wine did we have in the house? Because I think that’s how much you drank.”

She groaned. “That explains why I feel so dreadful. Holly was singing this morning, and I nearly pushed her down the stairs.”

Tessa grinned. “To be fair, she is a horrid singer.”

“That poor baby is going to hate every lullaby. Even the ones that aren’t about women drowning.”

They drank two more cups of tea, ate dry toast, and decided they might not be murdered by the sun after all.

“Let’s go to the village,” Summer suggested.

“Whyever for?”

“We need the fresh air.”

Not fooled for one minute, Tessa waited, eyebrows raised.

“And for your trousseau,” Summer added smoothly, eyes twinkling.

Tessa groaned. “I knew it.” She scrubbed her face. “I haven’t made my decision. And I can’t afford a trousseau.” What would she even need? Would they have a wedding night? They must, for the marriage to be legal. But then what? It wasn’t as if she needed ball gowns or riding habits or diamond brooches. She’d had all of that and sold them off. What she needed now was decent plaster and someone who knew how to deal with a leaky roof.

“Come on.” Summer nudged her. “Iris has already left. You don’t have to worry about your soft heart seeing her pull away in the carriage.”

Tessa swallowed. “Lady Winifred, you mean.”

“No, I mean Iris. Your first baby bird has left the nest, and you have a decision to make. You always think better on your feet. And I can’t stay cooped up today—between the pickle juice Holly drinks and the bay leaves she insists on burning to protect us from spirits, my stomach simply cannot handle it.”

Summer was right. Tessa could stay here feeling sad and nauseated or she could move her body, change her surroundings. Her father had always said: Move your feet, move your fate. So, Tessa would go look at bonnets and baby rattles for Parsley.

Move your feet, move your fate.

Fox Hollow was a village not unlike most villages in England. It was a cluster of stone cottages with a few finer merchant houses, a river, and a bridge where the children threw walnuts. There was a baker and a butcher and even a small dressmaker’s shop with an endless supply of ribbon. The pub did a reasonable trade.

As it was early autumn, there were folk in the fields, flowers in window boxes, dogs napping in the shade. Summer and Tessa visited Marigold first, bringing her flowers and pretending that Parsley was a terribly genteel name. Nomi shooed them out before long. They went without protest. Parsley was a tiny, beautiful bundle of high-pitched squeaks and cries that felt exactly like rusty nails inside an aching skull. Nomi clucked her tongue and gave them each a packet of crushed willow bark.

“Bless you,” Summer murmured, swallowing it dry. “I am sure that wine was poisoned.”

Tessa laughed, then stopped when it rattled her skull. “You’re used to vintages that grace a duke’s table.”

“Are you calling me spoiled?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good, I look forward to being spoiled once more.” Summer rubbed her tongue. “That is not a normal taste to have in one’s mouth. I assure you, good champagne does not linger like this.”

“Like old cheese.”

“Sweaty feet.”