Chapter Nine
‘You will then begin your speech,’ Ditty said enthusiastically, running her finger slowly down the colour-labelled schedule she had outlined before meeting Charles in his law office. ‘I shall provide you with a template—’
‘Oh, good,’ said Charles, visibly relieved.
The weather had changed. It was still certainly winter, and Ditty would be wearing her pelisse for many weeks to come, but snow had ceased to fall on Brexley.
In a way, she would miss it. Everywhere looked beautiful with snow, she had always thought. It was why so many proposals occurred at Christmas and the New Year. The world looked fresh, clean, wonderfully ready for a new beginning.
But she had learned a long time ago she could not depend on snow to always improve the surroundings, although in Brexley that was not a problem. She hadn’t found a part that wasn’t beautiful.
‘I shall supply you with the template tomorrow, giving you a week to compose your speech,’ said Ditty, forcing herself to concentrate on the meeting at hand.
It was vital, after all. Thankfully, Charles—unlike his brother—was proving biddable.
‘And you’ll review it, won’t you?’
Ditty nodded, gratified at Charles’s trust in her. ‘Of course. We shall run through it twice together, once on our own, and once at the rehearsal.’
Charles’s face fell. ‘Rehearsal?’
‘You don’t think the best musicians and actors go on stage without a dress rehearsal, do you?’
The blank look the lawyer gave her made Ditty realise perhaps that wasn’t the best example. Brexley, almost a five-hours-long stagecoach ride from London, likely did not have a theatre.
Ah. Well, she’d just have to think of another one.
‘You wouldn’t go to trial without rehearsing your opening statement, am I correct?’
Charles’s face immediately relaxed. He leaned back in his chair, the confidence she associated with the man returning. ‘Oh, yes, I see. Well, that makes perfect sense. And then I’ll present her with the ring!’
Ditty nodded. It was a rather wonderful proposal, she congratulated herself. The embroidered love hearts to cover Reg’s restaurant were the finishing touch, particularly if she could help Miss Vivienne source roses close to an exact colour match.
What woman would say no?
‘You have a ring, did you say?’ A little fashionable, to propose with a ring, but not a problem.
Charles nodded, opening out a drawer. ‘I do indeed.’
In his hands was a box, small yet perfectly formed.
Excitement rushed through her. No matter how many matches she made, no matter how many proposals she organised, no matter how many times she heard the word ‘Yes!’ she would never grow tired of it. ‘May I see?’
Ditty’s hand was steady as she reached out for the box. When she opened the lid, she smiled to ensure Charles could see her approval.
Now that was a ring. Yellow gold band, and not one, not two, but three huge sapphires. So huge, she wondered the box lid had been able to close over them.
‘You like it?’
‘I think she’ll love it,’ said Ditty, sidestepping the question with the skill she had learned over the years.
Never give an opinion. She had learned that the hard way on her very first job, and would never make it again. Whatever you said, it was wrong. Better just to point to the person who was actually going to receive it…
‘I am glad it’s prepared,’ Ditty said aloud, closing the box with a snap and passing it back to Charles. ‘It’s always a worry if it looks as though something won’t be ready in time.’
‘Oh, I would never let that happen,’ said Charles proudly, as though he personally guarded it with his life. ‘So, is that it?’
Ditty recognised the polite—well, almost polite—dismissal. ‘If it is acceptable to you, Mr Paisley—’
‘I told you, call me Charles!’
‘If you are amenable, then, Charles,’ said Ditty, wincing slightly. It felt wrong to be on such easy name terms with a gentleman. ‘I do not wish to be rude but I must carry on, another appointment—’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Charles smoothly, rising swiftly. ‘In fact I have a client due any minute…’
With polite goodbyes and agreements on when she would deliver the speech template—Ditty would have to ask Mrs Fletcher if she had any more ink—she left the law firm and inhaled deeply. Everything was falling into place.
The fresh wintery air had none of the bite of snow, but it was still fresh. Ditty smiled at Miss Vivienne and two men she recognised as they passed.
‘Miss Ditty, good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon Miss Vivienne, Mr Jacks, Mr Martin.’
It was strange, Ditty mused as she meandered down the street. She’d only been in Brexley a week or so, and yet already it felt…well, not like home. Her books weren’t here, for a start.
But certainly more like home than she could have predicted. There was something altogether more welcoming than she had anticipated. Everyone here was genuinely interested in her, not just because there was nothing else to do but gossip, but because they cared.
It was a rather disconcerting feeling.
The pangs for Almsbury, always so present, had somehow faded.
The busyness of London had appealed to her after her father’s death, the anonymity of the large city a welcome relief, a chance to escape the grief…
and yet here, in Brexley, there was no need to rush.
No need to plan. Just the opportunity to… breathe.
It was Henry’s fault, of course. His spontaneity was in some way catching.
She wanted to be caught by it.
Still, she really did have things to do. She’d go up to the Lodge first and pick up that sample Mavis had promised her. If she was going to design the perfect arrangement for Reg’s restaurant, she’d need to know—
‘There you are!’
Ditty whirled around, heart racing. It was Henry.
Mr Paisley. Dr Paisley. The Duke of Glanyrafon.
Why was it so difficult to know how to address this man?
It surely did not explain why her heart was racing so powerfully. It was because she had turned around so quickly, she tried to tell herself as Henry jogged across the street toward her, grinning.
Not anything to do with the handsome man rushing toward her. The handsome man whose displeasure she had attempted, unsuccessfully, to avoid. The handsome man who made her feel things that Thomas certainly never had. The handsome man who apparently had proposed before…
If I was ever to propose matrimony again, it would be here.
Ditty swallowed. She hadn’t asked any more questions. It had been painfully obvious Henry had spoken without thought. He wouldn’t ever forgive her if she tried to pry.
Still. It was tempting, she could not deny it, to visit the Lodge not only to see Mavis’s sample, but to ask the women a few leading questions.
Like, what happened to Henry Paisley’s wife…?
Henry grinned as he stopped before her. ‘Here you go.’
He thrust something into her hands, and Ditty took it without a second thought. It was an envelope.
‘What’s this?’ she said, opening it up. ‘Oh.’
Working hard to ensure her face didn’t fall, Ditty pulled out an embroidered heart. It was evidently Mavis’s work; the stitching was entirely different to that of Avril’s, though both were exceedingly pleasing.
But why was it here? She had planned to go up to the Lodge herself that very day…
Henry, however, looked very pleased with himself. ‘Thought I’d save you a trip, as I was coming down here anyway.’
Ditty tried to smile. ‘Thank you. That was kind.’
It was kind, she told herself firmly. So why did she feel so disappointed she wasn’t going to spend a lazy afternoon with Mavis and Avril, hearing all about what had happened to break Henry’s heart?
Besides, she had so many questions, questions she did not appear able to ask him directly. How was a gentleman like himself—sufficiently dressed but not fashionably attired, working for a living and driving that old dog cart—a duke?
‘What are you doing?’
‘Wh-what?’ Ditty said, blinking.
She really must pay attention! Henry’s smile had an all-too-knowing look after her splutter, and she was determined not to make a fool of herself. Even if her treacherous heart was, for some unknown reason, still fluttering.
‘What are you doing?’ repeated Henry. ‘I thought you’d be harassing the shops of Brexley, ensuring you had everything to put your genius plan together. Most of them will be sold out of all that romantic tat, of course. The Valentine’s—’
‘Day Festival, yes, I heard,’ said Ditty wryly. ‘Why does everyone in this town keep talking about it?’
He shrugged, drawing attention to his broad shoulders. ‘It’s just about the only thing that happens in this place—I mean, Brexley is a wonderful place to live. It’s just, this is the one time in the year we get so many visitors. A chance for business owners, I suppose.’
Ditty nodded. It made sense. Whoever had come up with it in the first place was a genius. A purpose-built festival which demanded people come to your town and spend money? Clever.
‘But I’m guessing you’ve got everything tied up in a bow?’
Ditty smiled, despite herself. ‘I am happy to declare my ingenious plan is made!’
She tapped her notebook, still tucked under her arm.
Henry raised an eyebrow, then glanced over at the law firm, just down the street. ‘Ah. Off to show my brother, right?’
‘Already done so, and received what I would consider the royal seal of approval,’ teased Ditty, falling into the tone easily.
Far too easily. Since when had Henry been a friend?
‘Here, take a look—just don’t read my notes too closely, or you’ll give the game away!’ Ditty said eagerly, opening up the notebook.
Her breath hitched in her throat as Henry did not take the notebook in his hands, but instead stepped to her side, peering over her shoulder into the carefully colour-coded notebook.
Why was having him so close so…so disconcerting?
It was because the weather was cold today that she was conscious of his warm breath on her neck. That could be the only reason.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ Henry said with a laugh. ‘Are you sure you’re not invading another country?’