Regina Scott (15 page)

Yet Gwen’s attitude must have rubbed off on him, for everywhere he looked he saw signs of care and beauty: flower boxes under the windows overflowed with the last dusky buds of autumn, the air was scented with roasting meat. Tall Mr. Williamson tipped his hat in respect, wooden box tucked under the arm of his tweed coat, as he hurried toward the church.

On the corner of the lane, Ruth Newton was crouched beside a group of rapt children, with no care for the dirt brushing her fine skirts. Their high voices rose in a song that brought a smile to her face, making her appear younger, prettier. She still blushed when she caught Trevor’s gaze on her.

Gwen took it all in stride, smiling at this person, waving to another. This was her place, her people, and Trevor could only envy her that. He felt as if the village, the church, even the mountain were calling to him. A shame he could not be sure of his answer.

T
revor had to admit that the village was more interesting than he’d suspected. Perhaps it was because he had such a charming guide.

“There’s the market,” Gwen explained, pointing to a long, low building near the church. “People from all around bring goods and food in on Tuesdays during the summer months.”

“And the other months of the year?” Trevor teased.

She elbowed him good-naturedly. “Who needs to eat the other months, Sir Glutton?”

He laughed as she steered him to a little shop next door to the George. The multipaned windows were crowded with everything from a high-crowned beaver hat to a bushel of rosy apples. Inside, the store was narrow and deep, but a wooden chandelier overhead shed warm light on wares that were just as eclectic. One wall was obscured by bolts of
bright muslin and warm wool, and the other was filled with produce and tools of various kinds. The oily scent of beeswax mixed with the dry scent of tea. Trevor recognized the burly fellow behind the high counter at the back as the village constable.

“Mr. Casperson,” Gwen greeted him. “I was just showing Sir Trevor where to buy whatever his heart desires.”

Casperson rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again. “My pleasure to serve, sir, though in all fairness I must say that Mrs. Delaney has a fine shop just around the corner for papers and ink and books and such. Imports them all the way from London.”

“Such a distance,” Trevor marveled with a conspiratorial wink to Gwen.

“Oh, we spare no expense, sir,” the shopkeeper said, bulbous nose high with his own regard. “We are the purveyors of culture here in Blackcliff.”

“Mr. Casperson also arranges the assemblies in the market hall,” Gwen explained.

“Indeed, indeed,” he boomed. He made a great show of rearranging the tea canisters on his pocked wooden counter. “And speaking of which, Miss Allbridge, I wondered whether you would be gracing us with your presence this Saturday. I for one would appreciate seeing your smiling face across the line in a dance.”

The fellow was recommending himself to her. Trevor felt the urge to step between them, assert
his place. But that was ridiculous; he had no right to such behavior when it came to Gwen Allbridge.

She scrunched up her nose. “You are too kind, Mr. Casperson, but I’m not sure my father will be up to it.”

The words were out before he knew it. “If you feel the need for an escort, Miss Allbridge, I would be happy to oblige.”

Casperson ogled him, mouth agape. Gwen looked nearly as surprised. “Why, how kind, Sir Trevor. I’d be honored.”

“Good,” he said, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself. “It’s settled, then. I suppose I’ll need to talk to the cobbler about dancing shoes. In the meantime, perhaps you could be so good as to provide us with a few of those apples, Mr. Casperson. I suddenly find myself ravenous.”

Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam was escorting her to the assembly! The masters of Blackcliff had rarely condescended in the past, although Squire Lockhart generally came for a short while as a courtesy. The thought of attending on Trevor’s arm made Gwen feel like an enchanted princess in the stories her mother had read her as a child, as if she’d woken from a deep sleep to find the world a bright and wonderful place. Everything had to be simply perfect! So, she set about making it so.

She enlisted Ruth Newton’s aid in altering a dress for the assembly, buying a length of velvet for an
overskirt. She spoke with Mr. Casperson about the arrangements, then set about improving them with his grudging permission.

The quartet he had hired to play was quite fine, but Gwen talked Rob Winslow into building a raised dais for them to play on and then hung bunting about it as well as the whitewashed walls of the market hall. She worked with Mrs. Delaney to polish the floors until she could see her reflection in the old wood. The only difficulty in all her work was that it kept her away from the Hall.

“We’ll get along without you,” her father assured her when she lamented over dinner one night. “Sir Trevor and I have plenty to keep us busy. You have a higher calling right now.”

Gwen felt it, too. Her prayers seemed to be reaching heaven again, for everything went exactly as she hoped.

She wanted this to be the best assembly Blackcliff had ever hosted. She encouraged all the women to bring their best cider, pastries, cheeses and fruits for the refreshment table. She even convinced Mr. Casperson to provide real beeswax candles for the brass chandeliers that lighted the huge hall and David Newton to loan a number of fine chairs from St. Martin’s to line the walls.

“I’ve never seen the place so lovely,” Mrs. Delaney marveled the afternoon of the assembly as they finished putting the final touches on the room.
“You are to be congratulated, Miss Allbridge. You’ve worked hard for this day.”

Gwen knew she should be tired, but she felt full of life, full of joy, for the first time in a long time. As she tweaked the last curl into place beside her face that night, she thought she might glow just as much as Mr. Casperson’s candles. She spun in a circle, watching her gown twirling about her ankles.

“A picture you look,” her father said from the doorway.

Gwen turned to him and felt her smile evaporating. “Why aren’t you dressed? You said you’d come this time.”

He waved a hand. “You’ve no need for me along to enjoy yourself.”

“That is not the point, and you know it.” She advanced on him. “You’re Blackcliff’s steward again. That changes everything.”

“Doesn’t change how I feel,” he protested stubbornly. “A dance is no place for me without your mother.”

Gwen put out a hand and touched his tense arm. “She would have wanted you to go on living, Father.”

“And you, as well. Yet you won’t even make her syrup.”

Gwen pulled back. “That’s not the same thing at all. I simply don’t want to get it wrong.”

He snorted. “You’ve never gotten a recipe wrong in your life. Admit it—you miss her, too.”

“Of course I miss her! The house seems too large, my contribution too small. But we cannot continue on like this, Father!”

He patted her shoulder. “Now, then, don’t upset yourself. Go and have a grand time with Sir Trevor.”

In the end, that was all she could do.

She had her dancing shoes in a cloth bag and her walking shoes on under her cloak when there was a rap at the door. She threw it open with a ready smile, only to find a stranger on her doorstep. He was tall, with a long nose, powdered wig and gilt buttons on his royal blue coat.

“Squire Lockhart and Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam of Blackcliff request the presence of Miss Gwendolyn Allbridge,” he intoned to the air above her head.

Gwen peered around him to find Trevor grinning at her from the window of a fine carriage. Four horses, white as snow, waited regally for her in front of the hunter-green coach. The footman went ahead of her and threw open the door, but it was Sir Trevor who reached for her hand and helped her into the gracious interior.

“Welcome, Miss Allbridge,” the squire said from beside Sir Trevor. They had both seated themselves in the rear-facing bench so that she might have the place of honor facing forward. The squire’s sturdy frame was covered in black, from his flowing cape to his breeches and patent shoes. His cravat and stockings were as white as his horses.

“How kind of you to take me up,” Gwen said to him.

“Couldn’t refuse Sir Trevor’s request,” the squire said with a look of amusement to Trevor. “He seemed to think you deserved a coach and outriders, at the very least. This was the best I could do.”

Gwen thanked him again, then turned her smile on Trevor. His multicaped greatcoat hid all but his stockings and the black shoes he’d ordered from the cobbler for the occasion, yet, to her mind, his ready smile made him all the more presentable as the coach set off for the village.

Theirs was one of the only carriages discharging before the door of the market hall. Wagons and carts crowded the lane, and Mr. Billings at the George had opened his stables for the waiting horses. Other people made their way on foot, ladies lifting their hems and gentlemen stepping around puddles. Lanterns blazed on either side of the wide door, and light and noise streamed out each time it opened to admit another group.

Inside, Gwen and Trevor pulled off their outer garments and hung them from pegs with the others. Turning, she found Sir Trevor staring at her.

She plucked at the green-velvet overskirt, lifting it off the pale white muslin of the gown. She’d thought she looked rather well in the short, puffed sleeves and lace-edged square neck. “It was my mother’s. Ruth altered it for me.”

“My esteem for Miss Newton’s talents continues
to increase,” he said. “But then, the gown is only as lovely as the woman wearing it.”

Gwen beamed. “Many more of these compliments, sir, and you will quite turn my head.”

“Then I shall count my work as finished, my dear.”

Gwen excused herself a moment and went to the ladies’ retiring room to change into her dance slippers. When she returned to Trevor’s side, she found the market hall was already crowded. So many people thronged the cavernous space that she could barely make out the decorations.

Gwen adored their quarterly assemblies. Everyone fifteen years or older in the parish was welcome to attend, and families from as far away as the lower part of the valley had been known to join in. Along the far wall, Mrs. Delaney was making use of the chairs from St. Martin’s to talk with Rob Winslow’s father, the blacksmith. Ruth Newton—in a dashing muslin gown with a modest neck edged in lace and the hem trimmed in pale pink ribbon—was serving cider to one of the squire’s tenants at the refreshment table along the back.

Gwen knew everyone by name, had grown up among them, had dosed many of them since her mother’s passing. As Sir Trevor led her around the room, her neighbors paused in their conversations to nod, dip curtsies, or bow in respect.

She knew it wasn’t her that they acknowledged with such deference. It was the man beside her.
She’d thought Trevor Fitzwilliam magnificent the day he had arrived. Tonight, in his black-velvet coat and dove-gray breeches, he was beyond magnificent. He stood taller than any other man in the room. His green eyes were bright with wit and merriment; his dark hair gleamed in the candlelight. The ladies whispered behind their fans as he passed, and their gazes followed him around the room.

Oh, how she’d have liked to keep him to herself all night, but that would hardly be proper. Besides, she knew having the master of Blackcliff here meant a great deal to everyone. She dared not monopolize his time, but at least she could offer him her first dance.

She loved dancing, too: the spritely rhythm of the music from the quartet, the twirl and march of the steps, the thrill of catching a look from her partner as they passed in the center of the figure. She clapped and promenaded and stepped back and forth and to and fro, her skirts swishing about her.

“You are in fine looks tonight, if I may say so, Miss Allbridge,” Mr. Casperson said when she and Sir Trevor progressed past him in the dance.

“Thank Ruth Newton and your fine establishment,” Gwen replied with a grin. “She did the work and you supplied the material.”

She took Sir Trevor’s hands and danced with him back up the line. His smile was all for her, and suddenly it seemed the music faded, the calling voices stilled, until he was her entire world.

When had that happened?

Gwen stumbled, and he caught her up and turned her back into her place at the top of the line.

“All right, my dear?” he asked with a smile.

Gwen could only nod. She was in love with Trevor. And why not? He challenged her, made her think about her actions. Until he’d come into her life, she hadn’t realized how many of the gentlemen in Blackcliff merely bowed to her wishes, regardless of whether her actions were the best for all concerned. Trevor was made of stronger stuff.

Could he love her in return? She’d wanted him to love Blackcliff for the villagers’ sake, for her father’s sake. What if he loved it for her sake?

What if he loved her?

Her face was blazing, and she knew it wasn’t from her exertions. As soon as the set ended, she hurried for a chair.

“Are you all right?” he asked again, following her, dark brows knit in concern.

Gwen waved a hand. “Fine. Just a bit winded.”

He shook his head. “You are the most energetic woman I have ever met. I cannot believe a set of dances affected you.”

She could not tell him the truth, that it was his presence that was affecting her. “Even
I
get winded, sir. But you needn’t sit out with me if you’d prefer to dance. I’m sure any number of ladies would be delighted to accompany you.”

His frown deepened. “How could I enjoy myself
knowing you were unwell? Let me bring you something to drink.” He strode off before she could disagree.

Gwen put a shaky hand to her head. She had to get ahold of herself. Trevor deserved to enjoy the evening, and her thoughts, swirling faster than her skirts, were not going to spoil everyone’s hard work. By the time he returned, she was smiling pleasantly and could accept the cider he offered with a polite word of thanks.

“Go on,” she urged when he looked as if he would hover. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

He glanced around the room, which had only grown more crowded. So many couples had stood up to dance that four lines had been formed. “I’ll never find you again in all this.”

“Nonsense,” Gwen said with a grin. “I’m the only redhead in Blackcliff, and you are the tallest man here. We couldn’t possibly miss each other.”

He smiled at that, and her heart leaped inside her. “If you’re certain.”

“I’m certain. I would not want it said I kept you all to myself.”

He took her free hand and bowed over it. “Only know that you keep my heart.” He straightened and strolled off.

Oh, but she must be blushing again. She felt warm all over. How did Ruth bear it as oft as her face flushed? And how could Gwen bear it if Trevor left? He would be taking her heart with him.