″Harvey's finally considering marriage," one of the maids whispered near the washing line.
Sorcha's ears perked up. Finally. Someone else could deal with him.
She didn't even try to hide the smirk forming on her face. Harvey Wentworth—cold, arrogant, and impossible to please—getting tied down to someone rich and proper.
Good luck to her.
"Heather Deverell," another maid chimed in. "You know, the pretty one. Old money. Heard she plays the piano and used to dance ballet."
"She's gorgeous," the youngest maid added. "Like, dainty. Pale skin, perfect hair."
"And she talks proper," one of them sighed. "Not like us."
Sorcha rolled her eyes but said nothing. Let them dream. Meanwhile, she had actual work to finish.
Heather can have him. Harvey had always looked at the staff like they were dust beneath his boots. Always so polished, so disgusted by anything even slightly out of place. He'd gotten three cooks fired in one year just because he didn't like how they seasoned his lamb. Said their food made him "lose his appetite." One girl cried for days.
The cleaners didn't last either. He once told Mrs. Blythe, the sweetest woman on the team, that she must be blind if she couldn't see the dust on his windowsill. She left by the end of the week. Sorcha had watched them come and go, always with that same miserable look after one of Harvey's quiet insults.
He never yelled, he didn't need to. His cold, quiet disgust did the job just fine.
Sorcha had somehow lasted. Maybe it was because she never reacted. Maybe because she worked harder than the others. She'd scrub the kitchen spotless, then help the cook with peeling and chopping, even if it wasn't her task. The others called her the farm girl, not just because of where she came from, but because she was always busy. Her father was a respected farmer just outside the estate, and Sorcha had been hauling water and feeding animals since she was a child.
She could've slipped something into his meal, she thought, folding a towel with a little too much force. But she didn't. Not once.
He should be thankful.
"Not sad to lose your chance, Sorcha?" one of the older maids teased with a wink.
She let out a dry laugh. "I'd rather marry a goat."
They burst into laughter, and Sorcha turned back to the laundry, still smirking.
***
"I'd rather marry a goat."
The words struck like a slap. Harvey paused beneath the oak, his gaze fixed on the figure by the linen line.
Sorcha. The farm girl.
She was half-turned, folding sheets, sun catching the fine hairs along her neck. Her sleeves were rolled, apron dusty, a smudge on her cheek. She hadn't seen him yet.
"A goat, was it?" he said, voice low but cutting. The clatter of plates stopped. A maid hastily wiped her hands and scurried off, tugging the younger girl beside her by the sleeve. None of them wanted to be caught breathing in Harvey Wentworth's path. The man had fired three cooks in a single week—one for burning toast, another for underseasoning soup, and the last for simply daring to suggest he try the duck instead of the lamb.
Sorcha froze.
Then spun round, eyes wide.
"Sir Wentworth—" Her voice came out too fast, too bright. "I didn't know you'd returned."
"I gathered," he said flatly, taking a slow step forward.
She tried to smile, polite as ever. "Did you enjoy your ride?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at her. Really looked, down at her muddy boots, the undone cuff at her wrist, up to the curve of her jaw and the slight flush on her neck. His voice came quiet but cruel.
"Goats might suit you. They've got better manners than most."
The air snapped quiet between them.
Her eyes flickered, but she didn't falter. "I didn't mean anything by it, sir. Just a joke."
He tilted his head slightly. "That much was obvious. Only next time, try to be less common with your humour. You're not at the market."
Her fingers tightened around the sheet. "Yes, sir."
He moved closer, eyes fixed on hers now. "You lot think you're amusing. You're not. You talk too much and listen too little."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"See that you do," he said coldly. Then, after a pause, "Or perhaps you'd rather carry on braying like the goats you favour."
"and know that you're filthy."
The words hung in the air like a slap.
Sorcha's heart jumped. Still, she kept her posture, hands tight around her apron.
"I—helped prepare the table. For your lunch," she said, softly, though her stomach was twisting.
She looked like a doll, porcelain and dusted in earth.
Harvey's eyes narrowed. "That explains the mess. You lot can't keep your hands out of anything, can you?"
Sorcha lowered her gaze. "Would you like us to serve now?"
His voice was colder than before. "I said not yet."
He moved forward, each step deliberate. He stopped close, too close. The scent of horse, smoke, and leather filled the air between them.
She felt tiny beneath him, insignificant.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
She blinked. "I—since this morning, sir."
He raised a brow. "Long enough, then." His lips curled. "Long enough to declare you'd rather marry a goat."
Her cheeks flushed. "It was only a jest, sir. I didn't realise—"
"I don't care what you realised." He snapped, voice suddenly sharp enough to cut. "What you should realise is when you speak like a village idiot in someone else's estate, you sound exactly like what you are."
She looked up at him, eyes wide but calm. "Please forgive me. I didn't mean to offend."
She bowed her head slightly, old habits, humble, instinctive.
"Don't bow," he said, gruffly. His gaze dropped to the shape of her neck, the hint of skin, before jerking his eyes back to hers.
"Not to me. Not ever."
"Is there anything I can do to serve you?" she asked, politely, hoping to shift the mood.
"Serve me?" he repeated, voice dipped in mockery. "You wouldn't last an hour."
She felt the sting but swallowed it. Her heart was pounding.
"You'd always be beneath me," he added coldly. "And not in any way that would benefit either of us."
Her eyes flicked up, mouth parted in shock—but she didn't argue. She only pressed her lips together and nodded once.
He studied her again, this time longer. Something flickered behind his eyes, recognition? No. Disdain, surely.
"Watch your mouth, farm girl," he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. "Next time you speak of goats and marriage, I might assume you were being sincere."
He stepped back, finally. The pressure lifted slightly. Her knees felt weak, but she kept standing tall.
She murmured, "Yes, sir," and turned to the dishes.
As he left, his voice echoed behind her:
"Clean yourself before stepping into my view again."
And then he was gone.