Page 54 of An Unfamiliar Duke

Movement near the bridge caught her eye, and she turned to see a sheep wander away from the small herd grazing behind the man. As it ambled toward the bridge, Rosalind eyed the broken pier anxiously. No matter the deluge below, the sheep obviously had no qualms about testing the bridge’s integrity. It ducked under the warning rope that hung across the bridge’s entrance and meandered onto the deck.

Rosalind moved closer to her end of the bridge. “Go back!” she shouted, waving her arms in warning.

The sheep paused, staring at her with unblinking eyes. Seconds later, it continued forward.

“Botheration,” Rosalind muttered. “No wonder sheep are considered senseless creatures.”

Still unaware of the sheep’s movement, the man sliced another branch and worked to free it from the tangle of shrub limbs.

“Excuse me!” Rosalind shouted, but the river snatched her voice and washed it downstream.

Taking a step back, she scoured the hedgerow. A rock, almost double the size of her fist, was half hidden in the long grass. Rosalind seized it. Walking to the edge of the riverbank, she hurled it across the water in the direction of the man. It barely made it halfway across the river, but the splash was enough to catch his attention. He looked up and spotted her immediately.

“The sheep,” she called, pointing to the bridge.

He took in the situation in one glance. Straightening, he put two fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. A black-and-white sheepdog darted out from behind the hedge and started for the bridge. The man whistled again. This time the tone was different, and the dog crouched on its haunches, crawling under the rope, its eyes on the sheep. The third whistle was a short burst, and the dog circled the sheep. The foolish animal skittered sideways to avoid its rescuer, but once again, the dog shifted, moving to stand between the sheep and the bridge’s drop-off.

Rosalind watched spellbound as the shepherd and his dog worked as one to drive the sheep back across the bridge to the safety of the pasture. The sheep gave a disgruntled bleat as it rejoined the herd and then dropped its head and began to graze.

“Many thanks, Your Grace!” The distant voice drew her attention back to the shepherd and his dog. The man tugged on the brim of his hat.

“That was marvelous,” she called back.

She could not tell if he heard her, but he issued a final whistle to call his dog to his side and then resumed his work on the hedge.

The man was undoubtedly David Beckett. Her gaze shifted from the shepherd at the hedge to the distant cottage. A thin spiral of smoke was drifting upward from the chimney. How had the roof fared after all this rain? Rosalind assumed that Sebastian’s steward would have informed him if the family’s situation had worsened severely, but her heart went out to Mrs. Beckett and the children. They had probably been trapped indoors with a dripping, drafty roof all this time.

The possibility of another outing—one with more purpose than a simple morning stroll—took root in her mind. With one last look at Mr. Beckett and the sheep, she headed back to the house.

Chapter 22

When Rosalind entered the Finley Park kitchen, the smell of baking bread filled the large room. A pan of Chelsea buns sat on the wooden table, and Mrs. Shoup was putting another pan into the oven.

“Good morning, Mrs. Shoup.”

“Well, good morning, Your Grace.” The cook bobbed a curtsy, her look of surprise softened by pleasure. “What can I do for you?”

Rosalind eyed the steaming buns. They looked divine; they would likely taste the same. “When I wrote the menus with Mrs. Frost earlier in the week, I requested Chelsea buns for tea today. I realize now that I did not specify how many, and I wondered if perhaps you made a few extra.”

“Not to worry. I learned a long time ago that if the master is in residence, one batch of Chelsea buns is not enough.”

“How many extra will he eat?”

“As many as I’ve made,” Cook said with a chuckle. “But if you’re needing some yourself, there’s plenty to share.”

Rosalind smiled. “I am coming to understand why His Grace holds you in such high esteem.”

Mrs. Shoup waved away her compliment with a tea towel. “I’m glad to be of service—to you both. Now, tell me how many buns you’ll be needing.”

“I was hoping to take them to the Beckett family,” she said.

“Ah, well then.” Mrs. Shoup took a basket off a shelf. “I reckon you’ll want half a dozen at least.” She put a clean cloth in the bottom of the basket and set seven buns on it. “There,” she said, folding the upper edges of the cloth over the warm bread. “If anyone asks, we shall say that seven is a baker’s half dozen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shoup.”

“I’m glad you’re going up there, Your Grace. I’ve told Mary to get word to me when the baby comes, but with all this rain . . . Well, it will be right good to know that she’s coping.”

“I agree,” Rosalind said. She lifted the basket off the table. “I shall have Vickers send for the carriage right away. Perhaps I will arrive at the cottage in time for Edith and Elsie to have your Chelsea buns for luncheon.”