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Oliver ignored him and walked through the vapor streaming from the team of white Percherons' muzzles and moved towards the small cottage on the far side of the garden. A peach and gray colored kitten skulked out from behind a pile of firewood, saw him, and scrambled up the nearest tree trunk.
He swallowed, desperate to moisten his dry mouth as anticipation bubbled up inside of him.
He enjoyed the trips Queen Charlotte bid he make on her behalf. They provided him with a chance to escape the insanity that currently seemed to have the entire royal staff in its clutches, as well as on opportunity to escape the nerve-wracking encounters with the three young ladies who seemed to have decided he was a good marriage prospect.
Opportunities to visit this particular farm remained his favorite requests.
“I fail to understand why anyone would choose to live this way. With his talent, Mr. Wickham would be successful in London, and he wouldn’t have to bother with cows, sheep, and pigs.”