Chapter 13
Half a chain away from the market stood St. Alban’s Church, a modest cathedral built of honey-colored Cotswold stone.
Its square tower was crowned with a weathered weathervane that creaked softly in the country breeze.
The small graveyard to the back was surrounded by a natural fence of yew trees and low dry-stone walls draped in ivy.
“We are to be over there,” Cassian rested a hand on her waist and gently guided her to the left.
Adjoining the church, accessible by a cobbled path and an arched stone doorway, was the parish meeting hall. It was a whitewashed room with exposed beams, and as they stepped inside, a large hearth that, as it was summer, was banked.
They stepped into a small marketplace where one long wooden table, scarred with use, held baked pastries, small meat pies, handwoven baskets, and rounds of cheese.
“Your Grace,” a small woman in a nun’s habit curtsied. She wore the traditional black coif and wimple of her order, framing her face in quiet dignity. “We are so delighted to have you celebrate with us. May I be so brazen as to ask if this lovely lady is your wife?”
“She is, Mother Annais.” Cassian’s charming smile enveloped his face as he bowed. “My dear Cecilia, this is Mother Annais, the lovely soul who is the head of the children’s home. She has a lovely team of housemothers that wrangle their charges into place.”
“All thanks to your generous donations over the years, Your Grace,” the nun replied merrily.
“Please do not shift the attention to me,” Cassian waved a hand modestly. “In comparison to what you do, I am a tiny cog in the machinery of your house.”
While the two spoke, he saw how Cecilia looked between them, a tiny knot in her brows.
Taking the nun’s hand, Cassian spoke to Cecilia. Dropping his tone to conspiratorial, he said, “Here is a secret you do not know about Mother Annais. Before she became a nun, she was the daughter of a Viscount. She exchanged her carriage for a coif and her diamonds for duty.”
“You honor me, Your Grace,” she said.
“As do you,” Cassian replied in cheer. “Word around town is that you were more beautiful than you are today.”
A soft flush dusted the age spots that marked the nun’s cheeks. “Your Grace, please.”
Cecilia spoke up. “Mother Annais, are any of your wards here? I would like to meet them.”
Twisting to look over her shoulder, the nun said, “The two girls selling buns are some of the older girls in the home, and they will be coming later to sing at mass. Speaking of my girls, Your Grace, how is dear Abigail?”
He saw Cecilia’s head snap back in shock and how quickly she put two and two together. He was sure she was surprised he had hired an orphan to work in his house.
“She is my wife’s lady-maid,” Cassian answered. “And she is doing a wonderful job, as I knew she would. She had a wonderful mentor to look upon after all.”
“He is right,” Cecilia spoke up. “Abigail is a lovely girl.”
“I hope you two enjoy the festival, and Your Grace, I assume that the best time for you to meet the children is after mass,” the nun smiled. “If you will please excuse me, I must attend to the girls.”
As the older woman went off, Cecilia came to peer at him long enough that Cassian cocked a brow. “What? Did I suddenly spawn a second head?”
“You are charming….”
This time, he stared at her as if she had two heads. “Which rake do you know is not charming? I’d think it’s written on page one of A Scapegrace’s Guide of Seduction, Ruination and Mayhem.”
Cassian liberally rolled his eyes and crossed the room to a table covered with oak barrels. One was cut in half and was brimming with plump apples.
“Mr. Carter,” Cassian nodded to the cidermaker, a sturdy man with a complexion weathered by long days in the sun, “I assume the orchard is doing well?”
“Very, very well,” Thomas Carter placed his broad, callused hands on his rounded belly and laughed. “I have not seen such a yield in years. May I tempt you into a glass of my newest blend?”
“Please,” Cassian slid a coin across the table and waited as the man took a tankard, filled it, and did a high, showmanship pour.
The amber liquid poured into the glass without a single splatter and with a jolly laugh. “Here, Your Grace. Please, enjoy.”
Taking the glass, Cassian took a drink. Brows lifted, he said, “Is that citrus spice I taste?”
“And mint,” Carter’s brows danced as he reached for an apple and tossed it in the air. “It lifts the spirits, does it not?”
“You have outdone yourself this time,” Cassian chimed as a sixth sense rippled over the back of his neck.
He studiously ignored the lady meandering down the aisles and stifled the instinctive thrill of the hunt that rushed through him, since he knew the lady. Tall and slender frame, the willowy silver blonde was dressed in rich amber, her bonnet secured beneath her chin with a blue bow.
“Your Grace,” Charity Winslow, the daughter of the town’s mayor, also an earl, dipped out a sensual curtsy. Blonde and demure, she had perfect manners and a spotless reputation in the town. “I have not seen you in quite some time.”
His brow ticked up, “Your father and I met three weeks ago, and you helpfully carried in his correspondence.”
Her pale blonde ringlets quivered as she blinked. “I’d forgotten that. My apologies.”
“Cassian,” Cecilia came to his side, her gaze laden with caution and curiosity as it landed on Charity. “Pardon me for interrupting, but the town crier and the mayor of the town sent a message for everyone to meet at the square.”
“I see,” Cassian replied. Nodding to Charity, he said, “Cecilia, this lovely young woman here is Charity Winslow, daughter of Winston Winslow, Earl Renford, the mayor.”
Cecilia waited for the woman to follow the social convention and curtsy—but it never came. Instead, the girl looked to Cassian in confusion, and then back to Cecilia, a small laugh on her lip.
“Pardon me for my ignorance, but His Grace has never mentioned you…?”
Those calm words had the effect of a stinging slap across the face, but Cecilia did not reel from it. Perhaps the news of Cassian’s marriage had not fully permeated the town yet—as unlikely as that was.
“She is my wife,” Cassian elucidated. “I am surprised you did not know that. Surely, your father must have told you.”
“Oh—” The lady blinked, “Oh, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It is no fault of yours,” Cassian replied, “I suppose word does not spread as fast in a small town as it does in the greased streets of London. Have you ever been to a London ball, my lady?”
“Once,” Lady Charity said. “Sadly, my companion was not as gregarious or as handsome as you are, Your Grace.”
Cecilia’s brows shot to her hairline, but then she forced her face into a stoic slab of politeness. Inside, however, she felt irritated at the girl's brazenness and was honestly galled at her blatant flirting.
“I hate to tell you, my lady, there is no other lord as sociable or handsome as I am,” Cassian replied, his tone almost a purr.
Cecilia wanted to smack the back of his head for playing into her game. When the lady looked to Cecilia—clearly to see if their repartee had struck a nerve—she kept a calm face, never letting her smile slip even in the face of a subtle—and not so subtle—snub.
“I do hope it is permissible that if I do attend another ball, I will be fortunate enough to find a lord as superior as you are,” Lady Charity continued with faux humility. “I may be left forever wanting, but I am so glad I have met you in person, Your Grace.”
Unbidden, an image of Cassian pleasuring the lady the same way he had done to her mere days ago simultaneously sank her stomach and made her blood boil.
Clearing her throat, she turned to Cassian, “We must get to the green, or we might be late.”
As they walked away, Cecilia felt a ripple over the back of her neck and knew—she had no need to guess—that the lady was staring at her.
Oh, wonderful, now I have another enemy in the village while battling another in London.
“Do you really think news has not gotten to the town, or is it that she has another agenda?” Cecilia asked innocently as they backtracked from the meeting hall to the direction of the market and the square.
“What agenda?” Cassian replied.
“It is quite clear that she is infatuated with you.”
“Why would you think that?”
They came to the cobblestone walk that led to the square of the town. “Because it is the same way I used to look at Gabriel.” Cecilia’s face twisted with self-disgust.
Cassian slid a look to her. “If I miss my guess, it sounds to me as if you are a tad jealous.”
They arrived at the green while the townspeople were trickling in as well. In the middle of the common green was a makeshift podium, and a short man was mounting the steps.
“Jealous—” she squawked. “—of her? Bite your tongue.”
As Cassian made to reply, the town crier called out loudly, “Hear ye, hear ye, good people of Stanbury! By grace of providence and the diligent labors of our fair townspeople, the harvest of this year has been glorious.
“We have barrels of wheat in the storehouses and granaries, the orchards have yielded fruit most plenteous, and the fields are resting, ready for producing another yield.
“Let us enjoy this evening, raise our cups, and may we all partake of bread and cheer. Let the young dance and the old recount tales of seasons past, for this, indeed, is a time of thanksgiving.
“To the bounty of our lands, the hard work of our people, and the prosperity of our village! Let us rejoice!”
Hearty cheers went up from the crowd, farmers, their hands and their wives were sharing pleased and relieved smiles when Cassian lifted his glass of cider.
“And to Thomas Carter’s cider,” he shouted. “Which I suspect is the real reason anyone showed up today. I know that is why I am here!”
Mortified, Cecilia’s cheeks pulsed as every pair of eyes turned in her direction. She could not even find the words to chastise him—but when she did, the cidermaker let out a loud guffaw and a shout, “I second that!”
To her amazement, raucous cheers and whistles exploded in the air, and laughter chased the applause. Mollified—barely—she dropped her shoulders and looked around, daring herself to enjoy the bucolic celebration.
Surely, she could get to know some of the townspeople that night and make some friendships that would help her through the next seven weeks.
“Cecilia—”
“Yes?” she turned to Cassian, who held out a glass.
“Drink this, and try to enjoy the evening,” he offered.
Taking the glass, she asked, “Why do you think I am not enjoying the celebration?”
“This…” he murmured before reaching out and using the pads of two fingers to smooth out the knot in her brow. She jerked away as if his touch scorched her. Other than a flickering smirk, Cassian did not react to it, “…is why. Enjoy the evening, sweetheart.”