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Autumn rain poured down in dense sheets, leaving Jemma unable to even see the manor house. Her family’s estates in northern England were never her favorite, and today, when she’d wanted to enjoy her new brown-velvet riding habit and canter through the fall leaves, this biblical deluge happened.
There weren’t going to be many more days of riding over hill and dale for her.
By Christmastide she’d be married, to a man she’d never met, and while his deep pockets would buy all the lovely clothes Jemma could want, as well as help secure her father’s bill in parliament, it would mean that Jemma would be expected to host lavish parties and balls in London. At least she would be when she wasn’t bearing children.
No more long afternoons reading.
Or quiet lunches on the banks of a stream.
No more giggling with friends over awkward young men on the dance floor, choosing which was the most swoon worthy.
Jemma sighed. As a proper lady, she shouldn’t cry over having the same fate as all women of her station.
“I’m sorry about the downpour,” muttered a soft Scottish voice from behind her.
She turned towards the new groom. “I doubt you’re in charge of the weather, Fitz.” He must have finished putting up her mare, and she couldn’t let her eyes linger on him too long. He seemed to not be good friends with a razor, and his light brown hair curled over his forehead in such a way she had to constantly stop herself from brushing it to the side. His trousers fit well, which she’d again noticed when he’d bent over to inspect her mare’s shoes, and he had a loose linen shirt on with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms. And she had no idea why Fitz even bothered with bracers, they perpetually seemed to be off and hanging at his sides.
Jemma had done an atrocious job of ignoring him since he’d been hired three weeks ago and had found herself more interested in horses and the stables than she’d been since she was twelve. She had come up with half a thousand questions, and Fitz had always been eager to answer her. Every time they talked, her stomach felt odd, as if there were butterflies trying to take flight.
Fitz bobbed his head and answered her. “Aye, Miss, I’m not, but I still wish it was a pleasant day for riding. You’ll be back to the city soon.”
“Oh, please don’t remind me.”
His face fell. “I’d thought you’d be glad to go, and that the city would be brimming with dashing young men, fine fashion, and soon there’ll be holiday cheer.”
“It’s simply…I shan’t be returning. I’m to be married.”
An expression that Jemma wanted to call alarm passed over Fitz’s face, though he quickly schooled his features into something bland. “Who is this lucky gentleman who you’re giving your hand to?”
“Some Viscount, and I’m giving nothing. I’ve been informed of my marriage. He will present himself upon our return to formally ask for my hand, and I will be a dutiful daughter and say yes.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could make it better. You should be treasured.” His eyes fell to the paving stones beneath their feet.
“Put on a pedestal and shown off on special occasions?”
Fitz put his hands on his hips and looked heavenward. “No, loved. Allowed to set your own destiny.”
“And are you, Fitz? Is serving in a stable fetching and carrying for a lady what your idea of destiny is?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I wanted to be here.” His eyes raised to hers, and something hot raced down her spine.
“Still, after knowing what it’s like?”
Something flickered over his face, something resigned, and he shook his head. “I thought I might go south and tend to the horses in London, but I think now I’ll write my mum and tell her I’ll take over the bakery after all.”
“Bakery?”
“I’m not just good with the horses, I know how to make rolls that taste like morning itself.” One side of his mouth rose up. “My brother had planned to take over the shop, but my mum wrote he’s gotten himself married to a lady that owns a tavern and that he feels better suited to that. My mum can’t run it by herself forever, so I suppose I’ll make a go at it. The place makes a tidy sum every year, and I’ve never minded the work.”
Jemma was fascinated by his smile, and how happy he seemed. What would it be like to look forward to your future? “Will you be wooing all the local girls when you get home?”
Fitz’s head ducked. “Maybe after a while.” His voice was far less sunny than a moment ago. Jemma had nearly forgotten the rain from how it’d warmed her. For a moment, Jemma was confused, but then it struck her with perfect clarity. Fitz had been looking at her as much as she’d been looking at him, but with her getting married, there was no reason for him to stay as she’d be leaving to join her husband’s household.
The unfairness of all of it crashed into her like a galloping horse.
“Let’s sit,” she said, tucking her hand into his elbow as if he was escorting her to dinner. He directed her to a nearby haybale, and carefully helped her to sit. He plopped down beside her and dropped his head into his hands. “Fitz,” she pulled her glove off and gently touched his elbow. “If a woman were to be your wife, at the bakery, what would her days be like?”
“Why’d you want to know that? It’s not much like what fine ladies such as yourself do.” He sounded sour and she hated it.
“It’d be a favor to me.” Jemma gestured at the sheeting rain. “We are stuck in here, alone except for the horses, and I want to…I want to hear you talk.”
His face brightened, and it was the truth, the sound of his voice sent shivers down her legs, but also she wanted to think about what he’d say when her own days stretched out bleak and monotonous in front of her. And maybe imagine the sweet yeast and sugar scents of a bakery instead of the damp straw one of the stables.
“A bakery means early hours; you have to be up before most folks to have the bread ready to sell. My wife will mix the dough the night before and leave it near the banked fires to rise. In the wee hours we’ll knead it together, and while I bake the loaves, she’ll get a start on making the sweets breads and biscuits we’ll sell throughout the day. I’ll take over when the children wake, and she’ll make sure they’re dressed and send the older ones to their lessons and bring the younger ones with her to the front of the shop, they’ll play behind the counter as she opens the store and sells the morning’s loaves and buns.”
“You’re always together?”
“Aye, working and to the church on Sunday morning followed be a day of rest. The store closes around supper, earlier if everything is sold, and then it’s time to clean a bit and get the next day’s dough set to rise. A dinner together, though I should say I’d never make my wife cook that on her own. I didn’t let my mum when I was a lad. There’s time for stories and games, and if there’s money for someone to watch the shop, then my wife would make the rounds with me as I bought milk, butter, and flour, or went out to pick berries for jams.”
“Hard but honest work.”
“There’s magic in it,” he said softly, his hands moving in the air as if he was kneading imaginary dough. Jemma’s attention was caught by the play of muscle as she tried to imagine a life without maids or carriages. “I think you’d like some of it,” he said, eyes drifting closed. “Some of it is so scientific, and there’s experiments to do to alter recipes.”
Jemma agreed, though she expected she would need to learn how to live a life where you couldn’t simply buy a new dress. Or a bonnet. She stretched out her fingers, trying to imagine them red and rough, but mostly imagined them holding a child, or intertwined with a lover’s whose voice--
“What about you,” Fitz asked.
“Me?”
“What do you expect from this soon to be husband?” There was a flash of emotion across his face again, and this time Jemma was almost certain what she saw wasn’t fear, or alarm, but something more akin to jealousy.
Her heart crept into her throat. “Well, not much, I suppose. I expect him to dine with me perhaps once a fortnight. And I’d be appreciative if he didn’t bring the French pox home to me.”
Fitz sputtered and coughed. She patted his back. “Oh,” he finally managed weakly.
“I shan’t love him, nor him me. I’ll be a broodmare. And mostly useless when I’ve served that purpose, except to host grand parties that make people congratulate him on how well he’s doing.” Tears welled up and she covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, Miss…Jemma, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Surely it won’t be that bad. I don’t think I can stand knowing that’s to be your fate.”
He made soft, soothing noises as if he was talking to a skittish horse while lightly dragging his fingertips down her arms until he could take her hands in his and lower them from her face. His anxious sky-blue eyes peered into hers.
“Why are you so handsome?” she whispered, and he startled slightly. “Handsome, and sweet, and you talk about a life lived surrounded by those you love.”
“It’s a hard life, a lot of work. Not the kind you ask a lady to do.”
“No, of course not. I’m simply good for laying back and gritting my teeth while my husband has his way with me. When he remembers I exist.”
“Jemma,” Fitz said, low and urgent. It was such an incredibly impropriety that his hands were on her. Not that anyone could see them through the driving rain. “You can’t…you deserve to be happy. You must be wrong.”
“I’m not.” She sighed in resignation and her eyes closed.
Fitz shifted closer to her on the hay bale, his thigh pressing warm against hers. He smelled sweet, male, and more than a little like horse. Jemma inhaled sharply as warm breath ghosted against her cheek. Impossibly soft lips pressed to hers.
Fitz was kissing her.
Insistently.
She couldn’t help it, she kissed him back. He groaned and his hand cupped her cheek. The kiss went from being a tentative slide of lips to a ranging inferno of gasps, tongues, and teeth. The area between her hipbones lit on fire and a heaviness settled in her breasts.
Fitz’s other hand went to her dress and tugged, as if he was trying to pull her closer. His lips went to her neck and she whimpered.
“What are you doing?” she managed to pant.
“Ruining you. Then you can’t marry Lord Awful, and you can be sent away to some small country estate instead, where you can ride to your heart’s content and read all the books you can find.”
Her hands sank into his hair. “Even if we’re caught, it might not be enough.” Her mind was whirring with possibilities. “And you’d be whipped, or worse, and lose your position.”
“Don’t care what they do to me, I’m going to save you.”
“You might have to get me with child to properly ruin me.”
Fitz paused and swallowed hard. “Don’t… don’t tell anyone it was me. If we’re not found out I can come along with you wherever you go. You can tell everyone I’m the only groom that can handle your mare right.” He looked pained and her own heart felt ready to crack.
“The bakery—” she protested. He’d been so happy about it and she wouldn’t ruin that dream for him.
“I won’t leave my child, even if no one can know. My da walked out on my mum when I was ten. I’m not him. I won’t do it.”
She wouldn’t resign him to some life slinking in the shadows, separated from who he loved when clearly his only wish was to share a life with them.
There was only one thing for it.
Jemma blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, just…wait here then. I’ll go up to my room, change into my maid’s frock, and take all the coin and jewels I have.”
He frowned. “What?”
“I’m running away with you. We’ll hide in the hay cart that’s under the eaves and ride it into town. From there it’s a short stagecoach ride north to Scotland. We can get married and have babies together and I’ll try not to do things wrong. We’ll tell everyone I was a maid you ran off with.”
Fitz appeared stunned. “Alright,” he said slowly, something glimmering in his gaze, something she wanted to call hope.
“You can tup me after we marry tonight.”
A grin crept across his face. “Alright.” This time the word came out stronger.
She kissed him again, deeply, then hurried through the rain to the manor house. Inside she squelched her way upstairs, leaving wet footprints on the stairs, and hastily switched her frock for one of the plain ones her lady’s maid wore. Jemma changed to her plainest shoes, though they still looked too fine for the dress, but there wasn’t a thing to be done for that. She had a bit of pin money saved up and secreted it along with the jewels in her room into hiding spots on her person. She took a thick cloak and rushed down the back way to the stables.
Fitz was there, a small bundle in his hands, and a blanket draped over his arm.
“You’re here,” he said, sounding surprised and giddy. She kissed him again in reply. What perfect lips to kiss for the rest of her life. They hid under loose hay in the cart, and once the rain had completely stopped, a horse was hitched to the front and a jolt passed through the cart. The driver whistled as he drove, and Jemma smiled against Fitz’s shoulder. They were pressed tight together, snug under the hay, and she hoped that the feeling of freedom washing over her in waves would never end.
It was the best hayride she’d ever been on.
****
Five Years Later
Jemma pushed her hair back from her face as she waited for Mrs. Ramsey to make up her mind. Every morning the woman hemmed and hawed as she looked at the loaves and buns, and then got the exact same thing.
The rolls were already in a bag, waiting.
Jemma glanced out of the corner of her eye at her young son, who was the spitting image of his father, and who was currently rolling around on the floor with the new puppy he da had brought home.
Her daughter toddled on chubby legs over to grip the counter, smiling up at her mum.
Jemma rested a hand on her belly and soon to be born babe in it kicked fiercely.
From the back Fitz appeared, setting out new loaves of the herbed barley bread that so many of their customers loved. She was very proud of that creation. He paused to speak to his children, then pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before returning to the kitchen.
“You’re a lucky woman, Mrs. Fitz,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “That man loves you something fierce.”
Jemma was very aware of how lucky, and loved, she was. She never regretted her choice, though it had been a learning curve to go from part of the peerage to being the wife of a baker, and at first the other wives in the little town, a few miles outside of Glasgow, had accused her of putting on airs, and rightfully so, but in a year of arriving and after having her first child, she’d made fast friends. Now the entire populace loved any event that brought someone from the nobility to their wee town, because Jemma knew exactly how to handle them and part them from their money.
“I simply don’t know what I’d do without him,” Jemma said.
Mrs. Ramsey eyed her middle. “Not have as much fun, for starters.” Jemma blushed and shared a laugh with the woman. “Now I think I shall take six of your orange glazed buns, please.”
Jemma nodded and handed the prepared bag over, thanking Mrs. Ramsey profusely while sliding the coin she’d paid with into the drawer. They’d need to pay for butter soon, and both the wee ones needed new shoes. Perhaps there’d be enough for several yards of the lovely pink checked fabric she’d seen at the shop. Her daughter would look dear in it with her fair hair and eyes.
There was a faint murmur as a woman in a large hat entered. It hid her face, until she was right at the counter and looked up at Jemma.
“Mother?” Jemma asked, startled. Her mother put a hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened almost comically as she looked Jemma over and caught sight of the two little ones behind the counter.
“You could have been the wife of a viscount,” her mother hissed, though she was clearly taken back at suddenly being face-to-face with her daughter.
Jemma put her hands on her hips. “Turns out I rather didn’t want that. What are you doing here? Because if it’s just to shame me, or my children, I’m not going to have it.”
“I’ll have a raspberry scone,” her mother said, sweeping off her ridiculous hat. “And a chat. I’ve been looked ever so long for you.”
Jemma had expected almost anything but that. She shooed her son off to get his father and came out from behind the counter with a scone on a plate, along with jam.
Fitz, flour on one cheek, which she’d lick off if her mother wasn’t right there, took over the counter.
Her mother frowned. “Wasn’t that fellow a groom?”
“Yes,” Jemma laughed. “We disappeared at the same time, surely it was obvious what we’d done.”
Her mother deflated. “I suppose so.”
“I sold the jewels, which were more than enough to buy this building, upgrade the kitchen, and start accounts for four children to pay for apprentice fees or schooling. If there’s more little ones, I’m not sure what I’ll do.” Neither her nor Fitz had quite expected how easily and rapidly their family would grow.
It seemed he just had to wink at her, and she was expecting.
“You’ll write your mother is what you'll do. I’ll make sure the accounts you have are more than enough to start them right, for these little ones and anymore yet to come.”
Jemma could have been knocked over with a feather.
Fitz had picked his little girl up and set her on the counter. He was making her laugh, but also sending very worried looks towards Jemma.
“Is he a good sort?” her mother asked in a low voice.
“My husband is the best father and companion I could have ever asked for. We’re side-by-side, always. Sometimes I ache from standing and wish someone else would draw me a nice hot bath in a copper tub, or serve me chocolate on a tray every morning, but then my husband will kiss me, and my children will laugh, and I will find myself very content.”
Her mother took her hard. “You did the right thing. Never tell anyone I said that. But you did the right thing.”
“Does father know you’re here?”
“More or less, he calls my efforts a fool’s errand and pays little mind to them. It’s a wonderful kind of freedom, truthfully. I shall stay in the coaching inn, if that’s alright with you, I would like to get to know my grandchildren.”
Jemma nodded. “On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Do try and get the innkeeper to buy from us. The bakery he uses is the one he’s always used, but it changed hands and the new owners aren’t near as good, nor are they kin like the previous ones. Take him some rolls and herbed bread and see if he’s interested.”
Jemma’s mother’s chest puffed up. “I am Lady Simmons. He’ll be buying from you by tomorrow.”
“Thank you, and it’s good to see you, but I should let Fitz get back to the kitchens. He’ll be making biscuits for afternoon tea now.”
“I’ll be back by to sample them.”
“And I shall make the two little ones sit with you so you can work on their manners.”
Her mother beamed.
The moment Jemma walked behind the counter, Fitz snagged her with an arm about her waist. He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Everything alright?”
“I think so. My mum’s here alone, and just to visit.”
“She does know I’ve quite thoroughly ruined you?” Fitz glared at the door.
Jemma swatted her arm. “I think the two children and the eight-month belly say that well enough.”
“I’m ruined too,” Fitz said, his lower lip pushing out. “I’m ruined for any other woman besides you.”
“The biscuits will be ruined if you don’t hurry.”
He kissed her nose and disappeared into the kitchen, his son trailing after him, probably because of the biscuits.
“Mummy,” her daughter asked, her curls bouncing as she shook her head. “Tea?”
“Not yet, go play with the puppy.” Jemma helped the little girl get down.
Her life was the opposite of ruined. It was full of love and family. She’d known all those years ago, tucked against Fitz in the hay cart, that whatever her future held, that it’d be brilliant as long as Fitz was there.
Jemma did so love being absolutely right.