Chapter Twenty-Five
The small group in residence at Brantmoor had developed an unspoken synchronicity which saw them all at breakfast together most days. It was odd, in Emma’s estimation, as they unfortunately had not seemed to have done so in the interest of seeking each other’s company.
In truth, it seemed, they all sought at audience with John. Emma’s eyes traveled the room. They were all here—not just at breakfast, but at Brantmoor—because of John. His duchess, his sister, and his friend, all strangers brought together by a single point of connection, she mused.
Only Mr. Brydges seemed to be getting much of the attention from the man in question, though. The two gentlemen dominated conversation at breakfast, but even that observation was true on the greater scale than simply the morning meal. The men were forever off on some estate business or matter to be addressed in the stables.
“You’ve my undivided attention today,” John said to Brydges, as though prompted by Emma’s very thoughts. “We can discuss the improvements you are proposing for the stables.”
Mr. Brydges nodded his acceptance of this invitation. “Perfect. You will not be at the Glendon farm, after all, then?”
“The Glenburn farm,” John corrected, “and no I will not. It seems I have forgotten today is market day in Brantmoor Village.”
“Market day?” Emma asked, intrigued by this turn in the conversation. “Does Brantmoor Village still have a market?”
“Yes and no,” John said. “Brantmoor Village hasn’t had a prosperous active market since…well, I suppose I don’t know. Market day is probably inaptly named. It’s more about revelry than trade, I suppose. It is once yearly, in summer.”
“Then it is more of a fair?” Emma asked.
“I understand so, yes”.
“Do you mean to say you’ve never been?” Emma asked.
John seemed taken aback by Emma’s question. “The family is generally not in residence for Market Day. We would be in town now if not for Charlotte’s arrival,” he explained. “There is a fete at harvest time that is sponsored by the family. We are always in attendance for that occasion.”
“Well, we are in residence now,” Emma pointed out. “There is no reason why we should not attend this year.”
Her husband chewed a bite of toast thoughtfully before answering. “Now that I think of it, you are right. Frankly, I regret not arriving at this conclusion myself. Everyone is well aware we are in residence. We should absolutely attend.”
Emma smiled at him. “Lovely,” she said, with a nod. “An outing shall do us all some good.” And she truly believed it would. It would certainly do her some good. Hopefully, it would be beneficial to Charlotte’s disposition as well.
“That sounds a brilliant idea,” Mr. Brydges declared.
Immediately Emma turned to Charlotte, concerned this effusive approval from Mr. Brydges would threaten Charlotte’s view of the day’s plan.
Charlotte’s pout validated her concerns. She turned to Emma with a saucy tilt of her head. “Now that I am such an elevated personage, what am I expected to don for such an outing?”
“Naturally, you should wear your most elegant evening wear,” Mr. Brydges offered up before Emma could answer. “How else will the simple townsfolk recognize their betters?”
Charlotte glared.
Emma did as well.
“Sheath your sword, Brydges,” John said, his own expression conveying his disapproval of the man’s heckling. “What has gotten into you?”
Mr. Brydges only frowned.
Emma sighed and turned her attention back to her disgruntled protégé. “Which of your day dresses have been completed?”
“The pale blue and the lemon-colored one with the white flowers,” Charlotte replied, somewhat mollified by her brother’s defense.
“You should wear the plain blue,” Emma told her.
“You don’t have to wear a plain dress to spite Brydges,” John said with an emphasizing glare for the other man.
“The blue will be better,” Emma stated more firmly.
Charlotte gave a rare obedient nod. “I don’t remember the village,” she said. “How far shall we have to walk?”
“The walk could be a bit far,” John cautioned.
Charlotte’s eyes had already begun to expand like blue blooms in spring.
“The ladies shall take the comfort of the carriage,” Emma quickly announced. “The gentlemen can ride,” she added. Though she did not wish to encounter Charlotte’s response if the entire party had planned to proceed on horseback, neither did she yearn to spend even a few minutes enclosed in a carriage with both Charlotte and Mr. Brydges.
John caught Emma’s eye and smiled. She sensed he approved of her suggestion, whether the outing or the means of conveyance, she couldn’t be sure. Regardless, she was quite pleased, in spite of herself, at his approval and at the prospect of a day in the company of her husband.
* * *
Brantmoor Village was situated immediately adjacent to the eastern border of the Brantmoor lands. It was not as near as one might expect, however, given the vastness of the estate. The ladies traversed the distance in the carriage as Emma had suggested, but John was happy to ride.
It was a distinctly pleasant day. Beyond that, he took a measure of pride in riding through the verdant hills dotted with livestock. This was the land to which he belonged. He belonged to the land more than it belonged to him; that fact had been impressed upon him these past few weeks—more so than he’d ever understood before his time away.
Perhaps he’d been too young before to comprehend the responsibility of it, or perhaps his father had never taken the time to impress upon him the philosophy of stewardship. Regardless, John understood now in a way he couldn’t before.
In Boston, John had spent hours on a hard wooden chair at a cramped desk in the corner of a dimly lit room making tidy rows of entries into ledgers as the ships came and went. He made entries until his knuckles ached and swelled, then he collected his wage and prized it all the more both for what he’d paid of himself in exchange for it and how badly he had needed it. His hard work alone did not guarantee his wage, however. In a much larger, richer office two floors above his own, the merchant had reigned over his shipping enterprise. If the enterprise failed, his position would disappear and the wages with it.
The tenant farmers on the Brantmoor estate were no different. They worked hard to till the land and harvest the crops, and they valued the spoils of their labor, but their future and security depended upon much more than their individual efforts. Their livelihoods and their hopes for their children and grandchildren depended upon the prosperity of the entire estate—upon the diligent stewardship of its master.
The village is no different, John thought, reining in his horse as it came into view.
He and Brydges had ridden ahead of the ladies, willing to remain confined to neither the carriage’s path nor its pace. They dismounted just outside the village and waited for the carriage to arrive. It was not far behind and the ladies were soon handed down from its interior.
The group turned down the single thoroughfare that traversed Brantmoor Village and boasted the requirements of rural life—a parish church, a pub, a smithy, a school, and a post office. The usually sleepy village was teeming with activity. People, animals, and assorted carts filled the span from the small inn and public house all the way to the miller’s cottage at the far end of the lane. As the foursome stood in front of the inn, taking in the scene before them, John watched both women with curiosity, eager to assess their reactions.
Any concerns he might have had on either score were unfounded, as both women gazed upon the revelry with enthusiasm. John even spied his wife’s toe tapping in time to the music when the breeze shifted her skirts.
The innkeeper, if that was fair title for a man who presided over two available rooms above a small public house, had a weathered trestle table set up in front of the pub from which he filled cups from pitchers of ale while his wife bustled in and out of the timber frame building in an effort to keep him supplied with freshly filled replacements.
“Good day, Mr. Cluett,” John called pleasantly, leading his party toward the man and his ale.
“Good day, Your Grace,” the man called cheerily back, managing both a beaming smile and an abbreviated bow without an interruption in cup-filling.
John turned back to his entourage. “Our esteemed publican, Mr. Cluett,” he said to the group. “Mr. Cluett, may I present the Duchess of Worley, my sister Lady Charlotte, and my friend Mr. Brydges.”
Charlotte and Brydges nodded politely in acknowledgement, but Emma stepped quickly forward. “Mr. Cluett and I have met,” she said with a wide, warm smile for the ruddy-faced man. “He and his wife were my saviors when I was out riding last week and caught by the rain. How lovely to see you again. Has your son’s ankle healed?”
“Oh, it’s on the mend to be sure, Your Grace,” he said with a vigorous nod and a deeper reddening of his complexion. “And always pleased to be at your service.”
John thought they could all do with a cup of ale, but noticed then that the convenience of serving in the open meant villagers could drink as they wandered, but it also meant each had brought their own cup. Certainly Mr. Cluett was not so well-off as to allow his tankards and mugs to go wandering off down the lane.
“Mr. Cluett, I must apologize,” John told him. “We are without cups, sir.”
“Nothing of it. Nothing of it,” he said, with a flustered wave toward a young boy who rushed forward with four dented but serviceable mugs. John noted the hint of a limp in the boy’s gait.
“How were you injured, Samuel?” John asked.
Samuel cast a questioning look toward his father who answered with an affirmative nod. Eyes cast downward, his fingers fidgeted as he explained. “I was foolish and took a dare, Your Grace. Will Gibbon said I couldn’t get across the creek in a single leap. I caught a tree root on the far side and turned my ankle.” He looked up then with a mischievous glint shining from brown eyes nearly covered by shaggy hair of the same color. “I made it full across, though.”
“Well done,” John said with a respectful nod. “I remember the first time I made it full across, and I can assure you it was not my first attempt.”
The words won him an admiring look from both his wife and the boy, the former being unexpected, but pleasant all the same.
Once Mr. Cluett had distributed a full mug to each and John had laid the appropriate coin atop the wooden table, their party wandered slowly onward to see what else Market Day had to offer. As John had understood, the purpose of the day was not for the regular trade of merchants, but rather for the farmers and villagers to become merchants for the day, offering for sale the handicrafts and homespun goods they made as hobby or necessity.
Emma enthusiastically greeted the vicar’s wife, to whom he’d introduced her at Sunday services. The graying but still handsome woman returned the greeting happily, without hint of anxiety or intimidation. She gave a slight curtsy in deference to the rank, but that was all. John had noticed his wife had a way of making others comfortable, diminishing the difference in status, while many in her position would have done the opposite.
“What a great pleasure for us that you are able to be here,” Mrs. Sharpe said, taking in the entire party with her comment, though her curious gaze lingered on Charlotte for a bit longer than the others. “Everyone has brought out their best for Market Day. I’ve just purchased a pendant from Mrs. Hawkins.” To illustrate her words, she lifted a small pendant that hung from her neck for better viewing.
His wife had stepped forward to peer closely at it. “Is that made of wood?” she asked.
“It is,” Mrs. Sharpe confirmed with a nod.
Emma’s eyes brightened at the confirmation. “How clever! Charlotte, just look at this lovely pendant.”
Charlotte did indeed step forward and with some genuine curiosity, John was happy to note. “It is very well done,” Charlotte commented once she had inspected the item.
“Did you say Mrs. Hawkins made it?” Emma asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Sharpe said, taking Emma by the arm and beckoning to Charlotte. “Come and see what else she has made.”
The ladies of Brantmoor followed the vicar’s wife a bit farther down the lane to where the smithy’s wife flitted to and fro around a small cart she had draped with a cloth. John watched as the women leaned over it in some excitement, perusing the items displayed there with interest.
“I do believe even your sister may be enjoying this outing,” Brydges said, sidling up to John as he watched the ladies and sipped his ale.
She did not, for once, seem determined to wear the pout that had become as customary for Charlotte as epaulettes on regimentals. “I daresay you may be right.”
“She ought to smile a bit more. If she’s to distract the ton from their questions regarding her past, I would expect she’ll have better success with charm than unpleasantness.”
John eyed his friend. “Do not think I don’t notice how you seem to enjoy provoking that unpleasantness. You might exercise more charm yourself and have some sympathy for her predicament.”
“She’ll find London society far more provoking, I assure you.” Brydges drank from his own mug and walked alongside John as they followed in the wake of the ladies, who had continued down the lane.
“I expect she will,” John said, eyeing his friend carefully. “Just as I expect you will be helpful to her cause in London, rather than antagonistic.”
Brydges nodded affably. “You can rely on my full support. I only mean that our behavior will not matter a whit if Lady Charlotte does not amend her disposition.”
“Her disposition will amend itself as soon as she feels more comfortable with her surroundings,” John said. “Shall we see what the ladies have found?”
They found Emma, Charlotte, and the vicar’s wife hovering near a cart full of flowers and presided over by a girl whom John did not recognize, but judged to be a few years younger than Charlotte. He had made a diligent effort to recall all the people of the estate and village over the past weeks, but he could not yet name their children.
He watched as his wife selected a large yellow bloom, which she immediately affixed to her bonnet, and another bright pink one which she applied to Charlotte’s. Mrs. Sharpe nodded her approval of these additions. Emma plucked another bloom from the cart and held it up in the sun admiringly.
“I have never seen a rose this shade,” she told the girl, exclaiming over the bloom.
John didn’t see anything particularly notable about the shade, which he would have described somewhere in the space between orange and brown, but in truth, he’d never paid particular attention. And if one could trust anyone’s gardening expertise, he was inclined to trust his wife’s.
The girl blushed under the admiration of the duchess. “I don’t know as it’s a rare color or not, ma’am, Your Grace. These roses have grown behind the mill for all of my life.”
Emma waved the flower slowly beneath her nose, as though taking in the scent while she spoke. “Behind the mill? Are you the miller’s daughter, then?”
“Yes, ma’am, Your Grace,” she said, adding a little curtsy for good measure. “They grow quite well there. The yellow ones grow a bit farther down the hill. I’ve taken to tending them a bit, but I can’t seem to coax as many blooms from the yellow as I do these.”
“Well, what a lovely discovery,” Emma said, smiling as though thoroughly enchanted by both the flower and the girl. “I should so love to come and see them sometime. Would that be all right?”
The girl’s blush deepened. “Oh, of course, ma’am, Your Grace. I’ll show you any time you’d like.”
“Splendid,” Emma pronounced, reaching into her coin purse to pay the girl for the flowers she’d selected. “I shall call upon you soon, my dear, and we can discuss roses. I am quite looking forward to it.”
Their party continued onward, leaving the beaming young girl behind.
Hours later, they had left countless joyous expressions in their wake. The Duchess of Worley had managed to charm an entire village in an afternoon by the application of genuine interest and artless compliments. She accumulated numerous purchases, still more admirers, and had personally returned their borrowed cups to Mr. Cluett with expressions of sincere gratitude for the consideration.
She had been perfectly simple, and thus entirely magnificent.
John watched his wife and his sister as they were once again handed down from the carriage after their brief return journey to the house, noting the transformation in the appearance of both ladies. Their eyes were bright and their complexions heightened by the sun and the day’s enjoyment, but most striking were the adornments. The plain dresses and bonnets in which they had departed that morning were now resplendent with flowers, handmade jewelry, ribbons of various colors, and even a shawl fringed with carved wooden beads.
The women swept into the house with Brydges behind them. John followed more sedately, his chest swelling with a lightness that belied the crunch of gravel underneath the weight of his boots.
His wife would have been ridiculous in any London drawing room in her present garb, but what a pity that London society should not ever see her thus. She was utterly delightful.
And breathtakingly beautiful.
He was impatient to tell her so—impatient for his turn to stand in the warm light she cast all around her.
He stopped.
Panic suffused him.
It was not only in his mind, where he’d always assumed panic must reside, but throughout his entire form. His sturdy legs weakened. His breath constricted. Bile rose in his throat.
He placed one hand on the thick stone of the entry way, drawing on its solidity when he had none. How could he have been so weak? Why hadn’t he recognized what was happening?
He was thoroughly infatuated with his wife.
He shook his head.
It was a foolish mistake, nothing more, brought on by the proximity of the day. He knew too well the damage caused by sinking into a mad obsession with one’s own wife.
John stood, again relying upon his own sturdiness to hold himself upright. He would not fall prey to weakness again.