Chapter 9
The estate cart, a sturdy single-horse conveyance with no pretensions, jolted as it left the Hall’s smooth gravel for the rutted lane winding into Tansy Hollow.
Phoebe steadied herself against the squabs, her shawl wrapped about her shoulders.
At least today, she was properly attired in a dyed gown rather than relying solely on the black silk to express mourning.
The housekeeper had protested using the carriage when they first set out, but Mr. Ellison managed to convince her—after all, he had posed, this would encourage procuring more provisions than she would have otherwise.
Mumbling that she would not mind a stop at the apothecary and bakery, and, oh, perhaps the haberdashery, as well, she agreed that having the carriage was the sensible choice.
Phoebe glanced out at the scatter of cottages beyond the trees, smoke curling cheerily from their chimneys.
Mrs. Redshaw, sitting opposite, gestured towards the hedgerows. “This way has seen generations of feet. All manner of carts and carriages, and still it holds firm. Masters come and go, but the Hollow remains.”
Phoebe tilted her head in amusement. “You make it sound indestructible.”
“And near enough it is, miss. Long after we are dust, the tenants will till the same soil, the bells will toll at the same church. That is the comfort of a village. Continuity.”
Continuity. How unlike her own life, tossed on her father’s whims.
Beside her, a low voice cut into her thoughts. “Continuity may be a comfort,” Mr. Ellison murmured, gaze on the road, “but it is also expectation. Every man knows the eyes of his neighbors are upon him, weighing if he holds steady or falters.”
Mrs. Redshaw hummed in satisfaction, as though he had proved her point.
Phoebe, however, turned his words over. A village might be charming, yes, but it could also be a cage. At least for some. Although she did not think it was to the village he referred, but to what, then? The new earl’s position? His own position as solicitor?
The lane dipped, and suddenly the Hollow opened before them: stone cottages, a baker’s boy darting across with steaming loaves, geese scattering. Phoebe leaned forward, lips parting. Smaller than London, yes, but so alive. How quickly she had dismissed it when she first passed through.
The cart rocked to a stop with the creaking groan of harness and leather. The party spilled out, Mrs. Redshaw brisk with purpose, two maids trailing. Phoebe breathed deeply. The air was thick with scents: peat smoke, lavender bundles, warm bread, the faint sourness of wet wool drying in the sun.
Children darted past, chasing the geese, laughter filling the air.
Voices rose all around them, sellers calling, dogs barking, hens cackling.
How had she been so mistaken during her first impression?
The village was quaint, but lively and charming.
Oh, what an injustice she had done it before!
At the time, she had only recognized its size, and pointedly, how it was not London.
But now, that was the point. It was not London.
Tansy Hollow was full of life! All so unlike London’s busy anonymity, all greed and speed.
This was altogether different. This was genuine and unhurried. Her heart yearned.
The damp grit of gravel crunched underfoot, interspersed with the squelch of mud. Passersby lifted their hems, picking their way around the puddles from last night’s rain, their half-boots already muddy.
Mrs. Redshaw guided them past a shop decorated with woven baskets overflowing with turnips, carrots with fronds still attached, and bunches of herbs tied with twine.
The sharp tang of vinegar from pickled vegetables in jars had Phoebe wrinkling her nose.
Nearly everyone they passed paid Mrs. Redshaw a deferential nod, sparing Phoebe and Mr. Ellison curious glances.
Phoebe shrugged off their side-eye looks.
As Mrs. Redshaw stopped to haggle with the apothecary, the maids wandered off. Phoebe and Mr. Ellison lingered at the street’s edge. She drank in the surroundings.
At her side, Mr. Ellison leaned close, voice low. “I’ve my eye on a sweet roll once we’re finished here.”
She blinked, surprised by the mischief in his tone. “So, you can be tempted.”
His mouth quirked. “Even clerks must eat.”
“You mentioned your mother has a saying for every circumstance,” she teased. “What would she say now? Perhaps, ‘A man who covets sweet rolls cannot covet scandal’?”
His sidelong look made her laugh before he spoke. “She would say worse, I promise you, but that is quite close.”
As they wandered, Phoebe plucked a lavender sprig from one of the bundles hanging at a shop front. “I should very much like to meet her. Do you think she’ll like Tansy Hollow?”
“She will,” he said softly. “She’s long wanted the countryside. It’ll be a welcome change to Reading.”
Her twirling of the lavender slowed. “I thought you said she lives in London.”
“Nearly. The family business is in London. My mother sees little difference between the two. Now, I can give her the quiet life she desires.”
“How enviable,” Phoebe murmured absently, tucking the sprig into the folds of her shawl. “To have both quiet and a place to belong. I can’t think your sister would like it as much, being so young—do not all young girls wish for the clamor of Town?”
“She’ll make herself an authority on village life within her first week here.” His mouth curved faintly. “She fancies herself an authority on everything, you must know.”
Phoebe laughed. “And an authority on tedious brothers?”
“The two of you would be fast friends.”
Their eyes met, the moment stretching. He smiled first, his blue eyes bright with amusement.
“May I be so bold as to ask her name?”
“Harriet.” Attention fixed on Phoebe, he followed with, “And you? Any siblings?”
“Not a one. I’m the apple of my father’s eye.”
“And so doted on, you’re now rotten to the core, I presume.”
She grinned. “You presume correctly, but then, everyone loves a bit of devilry.”
They walked past two more terraced shops and a half dozen more curious looks from villagers before Phoebe spoke again, feeling altogether bold to know her companion better, mostly, she reasoned, because the silly man could not stop stealing glances at her.
“What will become of your family’s trade business now that you’ve taken a different route?” She eyed him askance to steal glimpses of her own. Was it her imagination, or did the sunlight burnish his dusty brown hair gold?
He cleared his throat, the smile that had been playing at the corners of his lips dipping.
“To be honest, Miss Whittington, this has been on my mind a great deal lately. The business is my grandfather’s legacy, passed now through two generations.
I—” he paused both his progress and his words, clasping his hands behind him.
Meeting her gaze, he finished, “I believe the business has served its purpose. I can now grant my family their long-held wish of moving away from the city. It is my opinion that my grandfather and father, both, would approve of the decision.”
Phoebe studied him, surprised by his candor.
The man she met in the study was a different man than the one standing before her.
Oh, they were both Mr. Ellison, of course, but the man in the study was…
well… clerical. This man stood tall and proud, a man in control of family and fate.
He was a far cry from the powerful and oppressive gentleman she had seen in the Earl of Collumby’s portrait, but she could not deny the commanding poise Mr. Ellison exuded, however much unaware of it he likely was.
His steady gaze gave her an unexpected thrill.
Would he shrink back into his tidy role when they next met in the study, or would she recognize this new version of him?
He guided them forward before asking, “Do you believe in pre-ordained destiny?”
“Are we to digress into theological conversation now? Talk of the weather would be far superior if you’re in want of a topic.”
With a chuckle, he said, “Another time, then, perhaps. I daresay you’ve tricked me with your intimate questions into spilling my musings, Miss Nose.”
Rather than elicit a response, he invited her to step into the draper’s shop.
His distraction worked, for her eyes widened as the bright colors of ribbons and silks drew her under their spell.
Her fingertips brushed a bolt of lilac satin before reaching for the ribbons.
Not entirely appropriate for mourning, but…
“How is it, Mr. Ellison, that even in a village no larger than a thimble, I find temptations enough to empty a purse?”
In hushed tones, Mr. Ellison said, “Shopkeepers have a keen eye for weakness. Yours, apparently, is lilac.”
Glancing sharply, she said, “You presume much from one ribbon.”
“You’ve touched it twice.”
She arched a brow. “Insufferable spy.”
“Only methodical,” he countered. “I notice patterns. First, your confession for lilac scent and now…” He nodded to the ribbons.
“And now I am a pattern to be studied?” Their eyes held a moment too long before she laughed, turning back to the ribbons. “If you are quite finished cataloguing me, sir, you may return to your poultry accounts. Hens are easier company, I’m certain.”
With a hearty chuckle, he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers, just as Mrs. Redshaw reappeared, her arms laden with parcels.
“The village watches for the new earl,” the housekeeper announced in way of greeting. “I’ll rest easier when he’s here at last, then I can stop fielding questions I don’t know how to answer. Tell me, when is he due?”
Mr. Ellison stiffened almost imperceptibly, but his tone remained even. “Soon enough. Until then, Lobelia Hall is well managed.”
Phoebe caught the faint tension under his calm but smoothed it with a smile of her own. “In the meantime, we mustn’t keep ourselves from that promised sweet roll.”
Curiously, now, the earl’s arrival was an event she would rather delay. Her place as a guest was precarious enough, as she was only invited in anticipation of the earl. Once he arrived, she would have overstayed her welcome.
Sometime later, Phoebe settled into the carriage seat, a few parcels at her feet, one including lilac ribbons.
The sway was oddly soothing as the bustle of Tansy Hollow receded down quiet lanes.
She risked a glance at Mr. Ellison only to catch his gaze on her.
Warmth curled in her chest. Their knees brushed—briefly, all to do with the rocking of the carriage—the touch catching Phoebe’s breath.
Politely, he shifted aside, but his half-smile betrayed him.
She turned to the scenery, her skin tingling where her dress had met his breeches.
The ghost of his smile lingered with her all the way to Lobelia Hall.