It was not easy to tear her gaze away from his earnest, businesslike stare, when longing for the man had flooded her body with the most bewildering sensations.
She managed to look away and took the further precaution of folding her arms across her chest to avoid hurling herself into his embrace.
Hullo?
She called mentally to herself.
Answer the question, Grace.
Where . . . should they start?
A stray thought of how he’d looked the day he had rescued Denny from the river flashed through her mind. She could still see him soaked to the skin, his white shirt near transparent, clinging to his sculpted chest.
She closed her eyes, trying to rout the picture from her mind.
Sane and decent.
Right.
Do you really think I’m beautiful?
she nearly blurted out.
Me?
He must need his eyes checked. “Yes, ahem. Let’s see . . .” She forced herself to focus on the rare opportunity at hand.
He was offering his help, and all of Thistleton needed it. Fortunately, sanity returned while he waited, studying her with a curious look.
“First and foremost, I suppose—if it were up to me, I would start with making sure we get whatever late-season crops into the ground that could be sown now—to be harvested this autumn.”
“So we’ll need workers.”
“And livestock,” she said with a nod. “Chickens, for the eggs. We might restock the old dovecote on the Grange, as well. Goats, sheep. A few cows if possible.” Her ideas came faster, flying off the list she had been making for so long in her head without any hope of ever really seeing it come to pass.
Oh, ye of little faith,
Papa had so often teased her. Yet here was the answer to their prayers—oddly enough, in the form of a consummate sinner.
“Repairs to the worst homes should be made before the cold sets in, and coal stores and kindling bundled for the winter. But my main concern is food,” she told him. “You see the prices now, and with the weather all out of sorts, if it’s this cold in June, how bad will it be in January? Nobody’s ready.”
“This will pass, you know,” he assured her softly, lifting his big, warm hand to cup her cheek. “We’re going to get through it, don’t you fret.”
She nearly melted at his reassuring touch. “That’s what they say. And yet I feel like I’ve been telling myself for years that things will get better, but nothing ever changes.”
“It’s changed now,” he said firmly as he held her gaze. “You’re not alone in this anymore. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m here now, and I’m not going to let you shoulder all the problems of this village on your own anymore.” He took her hand between his own and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
She watched him, overwhelmed.
“Come along now.” Keeping her fingers snug in his warm grasp, he handed her up to the driver’s box. “It’s late, and you’ve had a long day. You should be getting home to your father before he starts to worry.” Then he went around to climb up easily onto the passenger side.
She was still in a bit of a daze as they drove back to the village with nary a word between them.
“Good night,” he said when she let him off in the main square to go speak to the old men and Farmer Curtis.
“Good night, Lord Trevor,” she answered faintly.
In tremulous silence, she watched him walk away, then she drove on home through the darkness. The way was familiar, but moonlight dusted the countryside with a snow of powdered pearl.
She still could not believe all that had happened today, and yet, with every yard of ground her weary horses covered, the higher her heart soared.
By the time she reached the parsonage, she feared that she was dizzyingly, dangerously smitten.
Quite possibly in love.
“There you are! I was just beginning to worry.” Papa looked up from his studies as she floated by the open door to his office.
Grace returned and leaned dreamily in the doorway, still barely knowing what to think of all that had transpired.
Her father furrowed his brow and studied her from over the rims of his spectacles. “What is it, daughter? I can see the wheels turning even from here. What’s happened?”
“I’m not quite sure, actually . . .”
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes!”
He arched a brow, scrutinizing her. “Anything I should know about?”
“Well, it’s Lord Trevor,” she said abruptly, and could hear the lingering amazement in her own voice.
“What about him?” Her father studied her face from across the room.
“I invited him to come along with Calpurnia and me on our charity calls today.”
“Really? That was very clever of you. And did we learn his mettle?”
“Oh, yes. It would seem so, Papa.”
“Well?”
She shook her head at her father, marveling. “He says he’s going to help.”
Papa studied her keenly from over the rims of his spectacles. “Indeed?”
T
hree times throughout the night, Grace was jolted awake by a dream of falling. Each time the dream woke her, she lay there for an hour, unable to fall back asleep—her blood astir, her mind awhirl with thoughts of Trevor—and with contemplating the mystery of what was happening between them.
How could anyone sleep in such a state of flying exhilaration? Happiness . . . confusion . . . and a lingering disbelief that a bona fide hero could have taken any such notice of her. He might hate being called that, but she knew now that was what he was. It wasn’t just idle gossip in the papers.
He was the genuine article.
Perhaps she was too trusting, but it didn’t even cross her mind to doubt he’d do what he said. She put her faith in him.
By the time she finally drifted off again, the world beyond her window had lightened to a predawn gray, and the dewy air was thick with birdsong.
As morning crept over the countryside, she slept on, her cat curled on the opposite pillow, until, gradually, high-pitched voices invaded her slumber.
They were calling her name.
“Miss Grace! Miss Grace! We need to see you!”
“It’s important!”
Her lashes fluttered in irritation.
“Miss Grace!”
She lifted her head off her pillow and furrowed her brow, recognizing the familiar voices of the Nelcott twins.
When she heard them banging on the front door of the parsonage just below her bedroom window, she suddenly sat bolt upright as the memory of the last time Kenny had come pounding on her door came flooding back.
What now?
The cat jumped aside indignantly as Grace climbed out of bed and rushed to the bay window, still in her night rail. When she opened the casement, a rush of bracing wind blasted her in the face and woke her up entirely. “Kenny? Denny? I’m up here!” she called down to them. “What’s the matter?”
The boys backed away from the front door and came into view.
Denny grinned. “There you are!”
“Miss Grace, come quick! You have to come down to the village!” his twin hollered.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” Denny answered merrily. “Miss Callie gave us a shilling to come fetch you!”
“Why?” she exclaimed.
“Lord Trevor’s men brought loads of neat things to Thistleton on the canal boats! Everyone’s there! You have to come and see! Lord Trevor’s taking charge of everything!”
She blinked. “He is?”
“Hurry!” Kenny insisted. “You’re goin’ to miss his speech!”
“Speech?” she echoed in wonder.
“C’mon,” Denny urged his brother. “Let’s go back and watch them work the crane!”
Having carried out their mission to bring her the message, the boys dashed off again. Obviously, the twins did not intend to miss out on all the excitement.
And neither did she!
Grace pulled the window shut, rather dazed. She could hardly wait to see what was going on down in the village.
“Nine thirty!” she mumbled when she saw the clock.
Oh, blast.
All her tossing and turning last night had made her oversleep. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she scrambled to wash up for the day and get dressed.
She quickly donned a beige walking dress with dark blue embroidery.
Mrs. Flynn looked up from scrubbing the floor as Grace ducked into the kitchen to snatch a piece of bread. “Morning,” she said absently, then poked her head back into the kitchen before rushing off to get her bonnet. “Have you seen my father?”
“He went out on his morning walk, Miss.”
“Oh—thank you!” Was she the last person in Thistleton to find out about the excitement of the day? Yet she had helped to plan it—well, at least a little.
It was a quarter till ten when she finished downing a few hasty swallows of tea and finally strode out onto the drive, still pulling on her gloves.
She shook her head over her late start. Walking briskly into town, the gusty wind buffeted the brim of her bonnet so she had to stop and retie her ribbons on the way.
The day was overcast, gray clouds like puzzle pieces with silver sun shining behind them.
The moody sky flung down a brief sprinkling of raindrops as she spotted the crowd gathered on the edge of the village around the canal boats’ little dock.
For most of its journey, their branch of the Great Midlands Canal wended its way peacefully through the green fields of the countryside on its way to the next large town; but at Thistleton and countless other villages along the route, barges could stop to load or unload goods. Their rural dock, like so many others, was nothing elaborate: just a plain stone wharf area about thirty feet wide, with a sturdy iron crane to do the lifting.
A gentle, curving lane led down to the water’s edge, its mild grade meant to make the arrival and departure of heavily laden wagons easier. Grace looked on, mystified, to find the lane and the open wharf area thronged with the citizens of Thistleton, all come to watch the great unloading.
The twins had not exaggerated. Half the village had turned out this morning. How had they all known to come? she wondered. Well, word had got out somehow. There was a festival atmosphere, and no wonder. This was the most excitement they’d had in Thistleton in many years.
Gracious, what all had been happening while she had been asleep? she thought, perplexed and a little put off by her lack of awareness, let alone any say, into whatever new business was afoot in
her
village. But one thing was clear.
Trevor had obviously been busy overnight.
She could only conclude that his meetings with the village elders had been fruitful. As she reached the back of the crowd, she realized how smart it had been of him to go to the old men first with ideas about how to help the village. This show of respect from a newcomer would earn him their acceptance.
Greeting her friends and neighbors here and there, she started weaving her way toward the water’s edge and gradually got a better view of the proceedings.
Three plow horses lumbering along the towpath alongside the canal had pulled three long, low barges to a halt near the rusty iron crane.
The canal boats were laden with mysterious tools and crates and barrels, pallets of lumber and neat stacks of bricks.
Grace caught her breath when she saw Trevor aboard the first one, giving orders to several men who apparently had also arrived on the boats.
She gazed dreamily at him for a second, enjoying the fleeting sunlight on his shoulders, the wind riffling through his long hair, and the chill in the air rousing a ruddiness in his cheeks.
Then she spotted Callie waving to her from over by the towpath, up at the front of the gawking crowd. The debutante beckoned to her eagerly.
Grace went and joined her.
“Where’ve you been?” Callie exclaimed. “You’ve been holding up everything!”
“I have?”
“He wouldn’t start without you. Good thing I sent the boys to fetch you, isn’t it?” Callie waved to Trevor. “Lord Trevor, she’s here!” she called. “He’s going to address the village.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know for certain. Isn’t he gorgeous?” she interrupted herself with girlish glee when he turned in answer to her call and waved, flashing a handsome smile, indeed.
Grace waved back, lifting a gloved hand, but though she could not help blushing, she refused to stare.
“He’s got something up his sleeve,” Callie continued. “I heard him tell your father he’ll be counting on you to help organize the people—though I’m not sure what he has in mind.”
“You’ve seen Papa?”
“He’s over there.” Callie nodded toward the crowd.
Grace followed her gaze and spotted her father conversing with Emily Nelcott. A gruff, weathered stranger was with them; he had an honest face, hard-hewn like a very battle-axe. Yet as Grace watched, baby Mary bouncing on her mother’s hip charmed the rugged warrior. He cracked a smile at the babe’s antics, seemingly in spite of himself, and whatever he said to Mrs. Nelcott, the long-grieving widow beamed, to Grace’s shock.
“Who are all these men?” she asked Callie.
“Former soldiers. They work for Lord Trevor or his Order or something. The one there, talking to Mrs. Nelcott, he’s their leader. Sergeant Parker. Lord Trevor told us Sergeant Parker has served as a bodyguard to many important people, even some of the Order agents’ wives. He is their most trusted man.”
“Really,” she murmured, staring as Kenny and Denny appeared on either side of their mother and instantly started peppering Sergeant Parker with their usual barrage of questions.
Grace shook her head to herself. Had Trevor imported a crop of husbands into Thistleton among all his building supplies?
Bemused, she glanced again toward the canal boat. This time, Trevor caught her gaze and sent her a wink.
A little sigh escaped her. Thankfully, Callie didn’t notice. Little did the man know he had spent half the night waltzing with her in her dreams.
A moment later, he jumped up onto a pallet of bricks and lifted his arm to signal for the crowd’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming out to meet me and to hear what I have to say. For those I haven’t met personally yet, my name is Lord Trevor Montgomery. As you probably know by now, I’m the one who bought the Grange. I’m very keen to get the farm producing again. So if you know anyone who’s looking for work, please send them to me. I’ll need at least fifty good laborers.”
As Grace stared at him, lips parted in amazement, she was sure this had to be another dream.
The man was carrying out, nay, exceeding her father’s original intentions when the reverend had invited him to come out to Thistleton. This was more than either of the Kenwoods had ever hoped for. Jobs for the able-bodied. Some genuine hope for the future that they wouldn’t run out of food. An infusion of money into the town meant livelihoods.
Dignity.
“I’ve been told by wiser heads than my own”—he gestured toward Farmer Curtis and the old chess-players— “that it’s still possible to get a good crop of rye into the ground for the autumn harvest. That should be hardy enough to withstand the cold. But we’re running short on time.
“Therefore,” he announced in a deep, strong voice, “anyone who’s willing to work hard with me now to get the crops in quickly will be entitled to wages as well as a one-percent share in the proceeds from the sale of this harvest, beyond what is put aside for the needs of the village.”
A murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd.
“If you’re interested, give your name to Sergeant Parker. He’ll put you on the list and figure out where we can best use you.
“Also,” he continued, “I seem to have ordered more lumber and other supplies than are necessary for my own repairs to the farmhouse. Since we have so much extra, and since you’ve all been so kind in welcoming me to your fine village, let me make a neighborly gesture in return and offer my men’s services and my own to help my new friends with any pressing repairs to your houses or shops you need done before winter.”
The whole town stared at him shock.
“Why would you do such a thing?” one of Lord Lievedon’s ill-used tenants yelled out.
“Fair question,” he replied, “and the answer’s simple. I’ve been traveling abroad for the past several years. Now that I’m back in England, Miss Kenwood pointed out—I trust you all know the rector’s daughter?”
Grace went motionless as everyone turned and smiled fondly at her. Two hundred faces, and she knew them all as well as she knew her own.
Nevertheless, all the attention suddenly struck her shy again. She wished she would’ve taken a little more than five minutes to get ready before running out of the house.
She saw Trevor smiling as though he, too, could feel the town’s affection for her and was, indeed, relying on it.
“Miss Kenwood pointed out that if the weather’s this cold now, we’d all do well to ready for winter early this year. Make sure our homes are warm, sufficient stores in our larders to get us through till spring.”
“Easier said than done,” one of the shopkeepers muttered loudly.
“I know, believe me,” Trevor answered to the whole assembly. “All of England is enduring hardships right now. The past decade has been difficult on all of us. We’ve lost many friends, family members. These are not easy times. But if we pull together, I believe we can make good strides and make sure our neighbors are ready for winter before the cold sets in. So is anybody with me?”
“I am!” cried Calpurnia, shooting her hand straight upward to volunteer, which brought a doting chuckle from the populace, who had watched their little local princess grow up from an adorable child into a beautiful girl.
“Us, too!” the Nelcott twins whooped, jumping in place.
“And I!” the Reverend Kenwood called in his best Sunday sermon voice, sonorous and rolling.
And that was all that anyone needed to hear.
There was no higher authority in a country village than the word of a sensible pastor. The Marquess of Lievedon himself did not truly outrank Papa, at least in the eyes of these folk.
With his declaration of support, the matter was settled. Grace watched in fascination, realizing that her father had just publicly placed the trust of the entire village—and thus his own good name—in Lord Trevor’s hands.
It was Papa, after all, who had summoned the hero to Thistleton.
Maybe he was shrewder than she gave him credit for, considering how he was always misplacing his spectacles . . .
Trevor nodded back to Reverend Kenwood in dutiful respect, as though accepting the mantle, and from that day on, all of Thistleton rallied around the new owner of the Grange.
T
he next two weeks brought a buzz of activity the likes of which the village had not seen since Colonel Avery had readied the menfolk to go to war.
Trevor deployed his army of civilians to attack the challenges of peacetime, dividing them up into squadrons and bringing in new recruits in the form of farm helpers.
These were never easy to find at this time of year, when proper farms were in the height of their haymaking, the busiest time of year on any English farm. All the most experienced hands were already working for others, so Trevor had to go to the nearest large town, Melton Mowbry, to hire men. The workers he brought back told of decimated crops at so many farms where so much of the hay had been destroyed, there was precious little to harvest.