Free An Early Engagement by Bárbara Metzger Page A

and then she had to repay the calls and hospitality, didn’t she? It was good practice for his sister, too.
    And do you know what? she wrote to Smoky. Everyone seems to like me. I suppose that’s what comes of being a rich, titled married lady. Even Squire Kimball has forgiven us for the orchard incident, and Vicar has not mentioned the ant colonies in at least a month. So you needn’t be concerned that I am not fit for polite company.
    Finally, there was the money. She was not about to live like a pauper anymore, not when she was a wealthy young woman. Her old home was turning into a crumbling mausoleum through lack of funds and attention; her new one would not follow suit. No more cheeseparing, no more dilapidated furnishings or cold and damp accommodations. But new carpets made the draperies look faded, and new, bright hangings showed how threadbare the upholstery had become. Simply taking charge of the household showed how the china was chipped, mice had gotten into the pantries, the linens were darned past redemption, and the servants needed new livery, especially if they were to be inundated with callers eager to find fault with the new mistress of Stockton Manor.
    Coming out of mourning, Emilyann also needed an entire new wardrobe, since her schoolgirlish frocks were hardly suited to a countess, or her still slim but more mature figure. She could not spend days shopping and being fitted without taking her new sister-in-law, who knew more about fashions than Em ever would, or would care to, or dear silly Aunt Adelaide, who was so pleased to hand over the managing of the place. Of course those ladies needed new outfits, too.
    Then there was the estate, and Geoff’s pigs. She read his journals with more enthusiasm than she read Nadine’s La Belle Assemblée and came to agree that hogs and turnips were indeed the crops of the future. Geoff came to learn not to let her make pets of the piglets, or he’d never get any to market. As for the tenant farmers, Emilyann believed with all her heart that those old friends who shared their lemonade and fresh bread with a hobbledehoy little tomboy deserved better conditions now that hers were so improved.
    She also decided to reestablish her father’s racing stud at Stockton, as an investment. Breeding mares, proven stallions, and likely young colts all took money, men to care for them, and decent stabling conditions. Of course she had Jake to advise her, and he knew all there was to know about horses, as she wrote to Stokely, so there was sure to be a profit in a few years.
    Smoky wrote a letter back, forbidding her to do any such thing as pour a fortune into four-footed gluttons, no matter how fast. Unfortunately, she replied, the mails were so slow, two mares were already in foal. Did he have any preferences for names?
    Wife, he wrote, I have received letters from my bank, my man of business, and my brother Thornton. What in hell are you doing?
    What she was doing was having the time of her life. She had a family and friends and looked better than she had in years. She kept busy using her head and time and money, all for good purposes, doing what she was born and bred to do, and coincidentally proving to Smoky that she could manage. Repent the hasty marriage? Not on your life.
    * * * *
    “Repent, ye sinners! Repent your evil ways before your souls burn in eternity. Repent, I say!”
    Hell and damnation, indeed. What in bloody hell was Morgan Arcott doing sitting on a deuced hard pew at one of the Reverend Brother Blessed’s spiritual meetings? Trying to turn his wife up sweet again, that was what. Might as well try to teach a cow to sing. He repented, all right. He repented that damned marriage, letting the chit slip through his fingers that way. His sources of credit had dried as fast as the ink on the wedding lines, forcing him back to Ingrid, who was fool enough to give his niece her blessings—and a damned pricy tea service.
    “Renounce the temptations of the flesh;