Nevan
We were walking through the lower gardens when I saw the horse approaching from the main road.
Rosamund was beside me, her arm looped through mine, her free hand resting against her stomach in the gesture that had become as natural to her as breathing.
She was telling me about a recipe Fanny had described for ginger tea that was supposed to settle morning nausea, and I was listening rather than commenting because I did try to suggest something and I was reminded that she was the one carrying the baby.
"Fanny swears by it," Rosamund was saying, "but Mrs Harlow insists that peppermint is better, and they've been arguing about it since breakfast. I think Mrs Harlow is going to win because she controls the kitchen, but Fanny has the stubbornness of a mule and—" She stopped. "You're not listening."
"I'm listening. Ginger versus peppermint. Fanny versus Mrs Harlow. My money is on Harlow."
"Then why are you looking over there?"
