Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“Itrust you more than a servant in this matter,” Robert had said that morning, pressing a folded letter into Jasper’s hand.
“It is from the Archbishop’s secretary. The silver font for the baptism was sent ahead by carriage but did not arrive last night as expected.
The vicar in the village believes it may have been delivered to him in error.
I would be obliged if you might see it safely retrieved. ”
And so, Jasper found himself riding into the village early that morning. It was hardly a task suited to a duke, fetching misplaced church silver, but Robert’s request had been earnest, and Jasper had long ago learned that friendship sometimes demanded the ridiculous.
Besides, the exercise was preferable to lingering about the manor.
He had grown restless under the suffocating air of domestic bliss.
The Duke and Duchess of Aberon were forever exchanging tender glances, their child was the subject of every conversation, and their friends were spilling over with laughter and plans.
Jasper felt like an intruder at his own amusement, the odd piece in a set that otherwise fitted perfectly.
And then there was her.
Lady Matilda had taken to haunting the edges of his mind, whether he wished it or not. She avoided him with admirable precision, yet the memory of her sharp words on the terrace lingered like a thorn beneath his skin.
He had told himself it was irritation, nothing more. But irritation ought not to leave a man awake half the night, replaying every flicker of her expression, every tremor in her voice.
He cursed under his breath as he swung down from his horse before the modest stone vicarage. It was best not to dwell on her. After all, he had a task at hand.
The vicar greeted him with excessive nervousness, bowing and fumbling his words at the sight of the Duke of Harrow himself upon his threshold. But the man soon recovered enough to produce a large chest wrapped in protective cloth.
“The silver font, Your Grace. Delivered here by mistake, though we kept it safe.”
Jasper lifted the lid, inspecting the gleam of polished silver within. All was present and undamaged. He closed it with a firm snap and gave a curt nod.
“You have done well. Lord Aberon will be relieved.”
The vicar beamed at the praise, and Jasper arranged for the chest to be loaded into a hired cart, ensuring its return to the manor.
The vicar, still hovering anxiously, clasped his hands together. “Then all is ready for the baptism, Your Grace?”
Jasper gave a slight shrug. “I should think so. The Archbishop’s secretary will have the final word, but the font is safe, and that was the chief concern.” He inclined his head in polite thanks. “You have done your duty well. Lord Aberon will be most appreciative.”
The man flushed with pride at the acknowledgment once more, bowing so deeply that his spectacles nearly slid from his nose. Jasper gave him a curt nod once more before turning back to where his horse waited.
As he took up the reins, he paused. The village square was just beginning to stir in earnest. The shutters were drawn back, shopkeepers were laying out their wares, the market stalls were still being set in order.
A handful of villagers called greetings to one another, their voices carrying in the clear air.
For a fleeting moment, Jasper considered remaining. He could wander among the stalls, perhaps allow the bustle of ordinary life to occupy him, rather than the thoughts that had dogged him of late.
But Robert would want word that the silver font was secured, and Jasper had no wish to appear idle when entrusted with the matter. With a faint sigh, he swung himself into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight.
He cast one last glance over the square, which was quiet still, not yet dressed in the full colors of the market day. Then, he set his heels to his horse’s flanks. The animal moved forward at a steady trot, its hooves striking the cobbles with measured rhythm.
The village slipped behind him, fields stretching out beneath the broad sweep of sky. Jasper kept his gaze fixed ahead, telling himself it was only right to return promptly.
And if there lingered the faintest whisper of disappointment at having no reason to tarry, he pushed it down with practiced ease.
“But what if we were to find jet beads?” Cordelia exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as the carriage jolted over the rutted road. “They would gleam like midnight fire against the grey, I am certain of it.”
“And silver thread to scatter light across the bodice,” Hazel added, more measured, but no less enthusiastic. “It need not be ostentatious, Matilda. A few careful stitches could transform the gown entirely.”
Evelyn leaned forward from her seat beside her sister, her hand warm upon Matilda’s arm. “Or pearls,” she said, her smile tender. “I can just see them, like drops of dew upon morning silk.”
Matilda laughed then, startled by the rush of affection and excitement pressing in from every side.
“I beg you, do not make me the envy of every lady in attendance. This is your child’s baptism, Evelyn.
You are the duchess, the mother of the hour.
I should never wish to outshine you, nor could I, even if I tried. ”
Evelyn’s green eyes softened further, brimming with that particular brand of love that always left Matilda undone. “You will not outshine me, dearest. You will shine in your own right, like a star that has been hidden too long, only waiting for its moment.”
The words pierced through Matilda’s heart, so tender they nearly undid her composure. For years she had felt herself shadowed, diminished, an afterthought in every room. To hear Evelyn speak so, with no envy, no censure, only love… it was almost too much.
Cordelia clapped her hands together, her bracelets jingling. “Yes, precisely! A star! Let us make her so dazzling that even the chandeliers of the ballroom will be put to shame.”
Hazel gave a small, indulgent shake of her head, though her lips curved in fond amusement. “You exaggerate, Cordelia. Still,” she glanced at Matilda with kindness in her eyes. “I do confess the idea pleases me. It is long past time you allowed yourself a little sparkle.”
Matilda lowered her gaze to her lap, though a smile touched her lips despite her best effort to suppress it. To be fussed over, to be cared for so warmly, filled her with something she had not felt in years—anticipation.
That was when the carriage jolted once, twice, and then gave a most dreadful lurch before groaning to a stop.
Cordelia yelped and clutched Hazel’s arm. “Good heavens! Have we been attacked?”
“No highwayman would dare in broad daylight,” Hazel said firmly, though she grasped the side of the carriage with a frown.
The driver’s voice came from outside. “Beg pardon, ladies. If you’d step down, I fear there’s trouble.”
They descended in a flurry of skirts and shawls, Matilda blinking at the sun as the driver crouched near the wheel.
“What is it?” Evelyn asked, gathering her pelisse about her.
“The axle,” the man said, running a hand along the wood. “It’s weakened, snapped clean through.”
“Can you mend it?” Hazel’s voice was brisk and practical.
He scratched his head. “Perhaps. If I can rig something to hold till we reach the village. But I’d not stake my life on it.”
Cordelia sighed dramatically. “So we are stranded, then. How romantic! If only a band of gallant knights would ride by.”
“Cordelia,” Hazel said dryly, “this is not Camelot.”
Matilda hid a smile behind her gloved hand. “If we cannot continue, then perhaps we might walk into town?” she suggested, though she suspected the answer.
The driver shook his head. “Too far, my lady. Three miles at least. Best to turn back to the manor on foot if you must be moving.”
Evelyn’s lips pressed together. “And lose the chance to find what we need for Matilda’s gown?”
Hazel folded her arms, practical as ever. “Well, what are we to do? Stand here until some passing cart takes pity? Wait to be rescued like helpless maidens in a tale?”
Cordelia’s eyes brightened with mischief. “That sounds rather diverting. I’ve always wanted to be rescued.”
Matilda rolled her eyes, though warmth crept into her chest at the absurdity of it all. “I am certain no knight will be galloping by today,” she said in a wry tone of voice.
Suddenly, a faint drumming reached them. It was steady, insistent and drawing nearer across the road.
Cordelia’s eyes widened in triumph. “Do you hear that? A gallant knight approaches! I told you so.” She clasped her hands together with girlish delight.
Hazel turned sharply, her brows drawn. “Impossible. Who would be galloping at such a pace here?”
But Matilda hardly heard them. The sound quickened, echoing in her chest like her own heartbeat. She turned, gaze fixed on the bend of the road where dust began to rise in a thin, pale cloud.
A figure appeared in the guise of a tall rider on a horse that was sleek and powerful, as its hooves struck sparks, carrying him closer. Matilda’s breath caught. Even at a distance, she knew the easy seat in the saddle, the careless confidence of the posture. No, surely it could not—
And then the sunlight caught him, brightening familiar features.
Her heart lurched. Disbelief seized her, followed by a rush of something hot and ungovernable that tangled in her throat.
Oh no. Good heavens, no. Please, no…
For galloping toward them, with reins loose in his scarred hands and the wind in his dark hair, was the Duke of Harrow himself.