Chapter 6
Thea’s father stood at the far side of the enclosure with several of the masters, making their appearance at the Spring Market whilst their stewards rushed to do their bidding.
No doubt Father would’ve stood amongst them, exchanging pleasantries before settling somewhere more comfortable to enjoy some spirits and the other delights of the market day.
For all that Frederick tried to ignore him, he felt Mr. Keats’ attention on him again and again. Those eyes, which were so like his daughter’s, studied him as he moved amongst the livestock, listening in as his steward bartered for Frederick’s future.
With a nod, Mr. Keats broke from the group, making his way across the yard, and his path was too direct for Frederick to hope that he intended to speak to anyone else.
For one fleeting moment, he considered turning away, feigning preoccupation with a nearby pen or the state of a ewe’s fleece, and when the gentleman halted before him, the silence between them stretched, taut and uncomfortable.
Around them, the air hummed with laughter and fiddles, but it was muted beneath the weight of Mr. Keats’s quiet regard.
The man’s face was fixed with that inscrutable expression of a living statue, his gaze steady and assessing in that way that made Frederick feel twelve years old.
Instinct urged him to speak, to fill the space with some light remark.
A jest, even. He’d coaxed smiles from far more forbidding faces before.
However, Frederick knew better than to attempt it.
Before Father’s passing, the two had only ever spoken when Frederick asked permission to court Thea, but being the curate’s chosen churchwarden meant they’d spent a fair bit of time together whilst managing the church’s affairs, which had cemented Frederick’s understanding of the gentleman.
Humor glanced off him like stones thrown at a wall.
Mr. Keats studied him long and hard, and Frederick forced himself not to fidget.
He wasn’t one to be easily undone; heaven knows others attempted to ruffle him, but Frederick had never seen the use in caring what others thought of him.
People were odd creatures who put too high a stock in others’ opinions.
And so Frederick stood still, the back of his neck prickling, forcing himself to remain silent as the weight of that calm, impenetrable stare bore down on him.
He felt that gaze to his bones. Call it a premonition, the consequence of a mind too long haunted by thoughts of ruin, or the sheer logic of recognizing that Mr. Keats never sought him out in conversation for any reason other than his daughter, but Frederick knew what the gentleman wished to say.
“I have heard some troubling rumors,” said Mr. Keats.
Having nothing to add to that statement, Frederick remained silent.
“Concerning your family’s affairs. Debts.” The gentleman’s speech was so expressionless that it was as though he were speaking of some minor inconvenience. Something of no importance. A little nothing that required naught but a curt statement out on the village green during a public festival.
For a heartbeat, his mind went utterly blank, and his throat tightened as a familiar prickle of heat crept up from under his collar. Then a flurry of thoughts darted through his mind like trapped birds, desperately searching for an escape.
To admit the truth was impossible. To lie, unthinkable.
“I am aware of those rumors.” Though it was difficult to speak the words, Frederick managed it. Grasping onto something that might satisfy both his integrity and Mr. Keats’ concerns, he added, “I fear my father left the estate in a bit of a shamble, and it has been difficult to sort out.”
Mr. Keats inclined his head slightly, though his gaze did not soften. “Rumors have a way of growing teeth, Mr. Voss. Best to see them defanged before they bite. If you require any assistance setting matters to rights, I do hope you will call on me. I should be glad to do what I can.”
The offer, delivered so evenly, might have sounded kind, but it struck like an accusation all the same.
Frederick forced a small smile. “That is generous of you, sir, though unnecessary. Mr. Gleason and I have matters well in hand.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” said Mr. Keats, though his tone contained no pleasure. Or displeasure, for that matter. Monotone was as expressive as the gentleman could manage. “These things have a habit of worsening if left unattended for too long.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I hope to hear better news soon,” said Mr. Keats with a slow nod before striding away, leaving Frederick to himself.
The festivities raged around him, the levity and joy swelling in the air, and for a long moment, he could only stand there, watching the man’s retreating back whilst all coherent thoughts slipped from his grasp.
Better news soon? The words rang in his ears, hollow and heavy, their meaning at once unclear and unmistakable. It was not an accusation or challenge precisely, but a warning through and through.
The laughter and chatter of the crowd pressed close, muffled and distorted, as though he were hearing it from beneath water, and his breath caught somewhere in his throat as his pulse thudded painfully in his temples.
Forcing himself to move, Frederick turned on his heel and crossed the market square. He couldn’t stay here another moment.
The grain would fetch what it fetched; the livestock would sell or it would not. Standing here, watching it unfold wouldn’t alter a thing.
***
Laughter brightened the air, rippling through the din of the market.
Though Phoebe shared her brother’s witty temperament, her humor boasted a subtlety that Frederick lacked, and in all the years that Thea had known the lady, Phoebe Voss hadn’t shown a predisposition toward boisterous displays.
She loved the sly little twits and teases that left her with that mischievous smile upon her lips.
Yet now, her laughter rang out with all the warmth of the spring sun.
However, Thea couldn’t blame her friend when the source of that amusement was so very charming.
Mr. Winwood dressed with care, though not in a manner that clamored for notice.
His coat was of a fine cut, sitting easily upon his shoulders, and the linen at his throat was crisp and white without a hint of fuss.
There were no bright hues or excessive ornament, yet the very simplicity of it spoke of good taste and the quiet confidence of a man who required no embellishment.
His features were not the classical sort that painters seized upon (for his jaw was a touch too strong and his mouth inclined toward a crooked smile), yet his charm lay in those irregularities, lending him a presence that drew the eye more surely than perfect symmetry ever could.
Handsome, yes, though not in the polished nature of a fashion plate.
Rather, he possessed a look that seized one’s attention the longer it was studied.
Watching him as Phoebe’s laughter spilled out again, Thea understood the appeal.
He was not Frederick by any measure, but there was something undeniably compelling about the gentleman.
He hardly drew breath between remarks, yet Phoebe met him word for word, the two of them caught in a rhythm so swift that there was no room for the others to join in.
“This market is a marvel,” Mr. Winwood declared, glancing around at the bustling square. “I daresay it rivals London itself.”
Phoebe gave a delicate sniff. “If London boasts gingerbread stalls and sheep pens, then perhaps you are right.”
“Ah, but it does not boast you,” he countered smoothly, his smile quick. “So I find Haverford infinitely superior.”
She tilted her head, lips twitching. “You’ll forgive me if I do not swoon at such flummery.”
“Doubt me if you must, Miss Voss,” he said, lowering his voice just enough to sharpen the moment, “but disbelief cannot alter fact.”
“As is true of opinions. They cannot alter the truth—no matter how passionately stated.” Her eyes danced as she spoke, though the words carried a hint of challenge.
“Ah, but that presupposes that what I said was opinion. Everything I said was fact, pure and simple,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation.
Phoebe’s laughter rang like sunlight breaking through clouds, and Thea found her own spirits lifting despite the knot of worry lodged within her chest; Frederick may be careworn, but at least his sister was aglow with happiness.
A clearing throat pulled the group’s attention to Mr. Godwin, who looked entirely out of place in his dark clothes. Or perhaps it was merely the strained pull of his features that lent him a far too serious air for the market.
Regardless, he bowed to the group.
“What a lovely afternoon this is. Simply lovely,” he said, glancing at each in turn, though his gaze lingered on Phoebe.
“Haverford is such a delightful town, full of charm and good order. It is no wonder, what with the influence of Sir Thomas Grenville and his lovely wife, Lady Cecilia. Their presence is a blessing upon the whole countryside; one can feel it in the very air. And the people here! So industrious. So content. It warms the heart to walk among such a community.”
His voice carried that practiced gravity of one accustomed to preaching, though he softened it with an amiable smile. However, there was nothing to say to such a statement, for it had all the hallmarks of a lecture, not a conversation.
Mr. Godwin’s expression tightened the slightest bit, and he added, “I do not know if you are aware, but your dear Mrs. Grenville is the cousin of my magnanimous patroness, Mrs. Agatha Whitcombe. It is my great privilege to serve under such a distinguished family. Their generosity knows no equal. Few men are as fortunate as I.”
Mr. Winwood’s lips curved as though suppressing a smile.
“Fortunate indeed, sir. Such lofty connections must weigh heavily on you. I do not know how I would manage it. I count myself fortunate that I am merely the youngest son of an inconsequential naval captain, and thus I needn’t concern myself with the reverent dignity required of such elevated company. ”
“It is a wonder, Mr. Godwin, that you deign to bless a lowly market with your presence,” added Phoebe with feigned concern.
“I may be blessed to experience such exalted company as the Whitcombes and the Grenvilles, but I am but a humble man of the cloth. I wouldn’t wish you to think that I, myself, aspire to be more than I am,” said Mr. Godwin with such seriousness that Thea didn’t know what to make of the gentleman, though Phoebe coughed to cover up a laugh.
“Of course not, Mr. Godwin. I am certain they and your parish are blessed because of your service,” said Mina, glancing at Phoebe and Mr. Winwood with a furrowed brow.
Mr. Godwin’s expression softened, something in his eyes shifting as he turned them upon Mina. “And you are kind enough to say so. It is difficult for me to take time away from my flock, but I am pleased to have found a place amongst Haverford.”
Thea’s spine straightened ever so slightly. Though she couldn’t say that she wished to foster a connection between her cousin and this odd gentleman, seeing any man take notice of Mina was worth encouraging. Heaven knew the rest of mankind seemed blind to her obvious enticements.
“I didn’t mean to intrude upon your conversation,” said Mr. Godwin, turning his attention back to the group as a whole.
“I did come with a purpose, beyond singing the praises of your delightful village and baronet. I noticed there is music and dancing on the far end, and I was hoping to secure a partner…”
Mina’s hold on her arm tightened, and Thea’s breath caught. Could it be?
Mr. Godwin’s gaze drifted over the group, landing squarely on Phoebe. “Miss Voss, would you do me the immense honor?”