Chapter 3 #2
“Father,” Miss Tully said, reaching her hand up to his shoulder, “I have a few thoughts as to who would be best to ask. Why don’t I take this burden from you?
You already do so much. And I enjoy a good bit of natter with the neighbors so much more than you do.
Besides, it would be easier for Mr. Ash if I introduced him to whomever he wishes to interview.
They’re unlikely to want to be questioned by a stranger.
” She turned her friendly, open face to the vicar.
“As for the reverend, he is no doubt far too busy. And, of course, he is little more than a stranger himself at the moment.”
“Oh, er, well,” Rev. Taylor sputtered, “I had thought I might tag along, so to speak. Get to know people as we go.”
“You are very dedicated, I am sure, vicar,” she countered, “but we don’t want folk talking to you about their spiritual needs while poor Mr. Ash is trying to solve his mystery, do we?” She lifted her twinkling eyes to Barnaby, and winked!
The effect upon Barnaby’s person was most disconcerting.
A tremor ran through him, as if a light quake had shifted the ground.
Women did not tend to move him in this way.
His mother, his sisters: they were a part of him, as much as his hand or elbow.
Yet he did not think of them any more than one ponders one’s heartbeat, even though he valued them as much as his own life.
As for ladies of society… These were generally a frilly sort of enigma best avoided.
Beyond these, everyone else of the female persuasion moved like shadows in his periphery.
To be quite honest, Barnaby seldom partook of gentlemen’s company either, unless they loved to talk about books, or history farther back in time than a mere century ago.
Under the circumstances, it was rare for him to engage with spinsters—and Miss Tully was clearly old enough to qualify as one.
He guessed her to be at least thirty years of age, although her blonde hair hid very well any clues as to how far past thirty she might be.
Spinsters tended not to move in the same circles as he.
Or, if they did, they were sweet, grey-haired ladies who lived with their brothers and organized a pot of tea for him while he worked at whatever task for which their siblings had employed him.
Miss Joy Tully, however, did not slot into a predictable category.
She was alert, curious, even a little playful.
He could not picture her sitting and sewing all day.
The way she had leaned in to gaze upon the manuscript…
It had suited her. He could imagine her tilting her head quizzically and asking to know more.
And Barnaby… Well, he rather liked the idea of spending hours with her, telling her everything she wanted to know.
He became aware that he was staring. The room had gone silent, all eyes upon him as if he were expected to say something.
“Er,” he said, feeling more than a little foolish. “I do not wish to be a bother…”
“Tch! Don’t be silly,” Miss Tully scolded him. “You are nothing of the sort. I’ll just get my bonnet, and we’ll be off. And while we walk,” she called over her shoulder as she left the room, “you can tell me all about this unfinished tale.”
“I would like that,” Barnaby murmured, his skin goosing at the thought of her nearness.
He might have to offer his hand for them to leap together over a patch of mud along the way.
Her nimble fingers would wrap around his, the feminine pressure of her hand pushing down onto his skin, the thrill of her touch burying itself in his very core.
The thought sent a delicious shiver up his spine.
Jeremiah Tully gave him what could only be described as a look. Barnaby was not familiar with a father’s disapproval, never having sought the opposite before. He did not understand why he should displease the man and therefore had assumed he wouldn’t. And yet, Mr. Tully did not drop his gaze.
“Is something wrong?” Barnaby asked, genuinely confused.
“Not yet,” came the ominous reply. “Just you take care not to overstep yerself with my daughter’s generosity.”
Barnaby’ mouth fell open. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir! If you’d prefer, I shall find assistance elsewhere. For that matter, Rev. Taylor and I would fare just as well on our own.”
“What nonsense!” cried Miss Tully, entering the parlor once more, bonnet in hand.
“You need a Fenwickian to set folk at their ease so they may open up to you. And fie on you, Father, for trying to rob me of my little adventure. I am sure Mr. Ash is the perfect gentleman. Besides, we will be among friends.”
She had been tying the sash of her bonnet as she spoke, an indication that she was quite determined to follow her own mind. Now that both bow and speech were tied up neatly, she marched forward and slipped her hand around Barnaby’s arm at the elbow.
“Come, Mr. Ash, we are wasting precious time.”
Stunned to find her thus attached to him, Barnaby did not resist at all, but allowed himself to be escorted from the cottage. He tossed a “Thank you” to the vicar before heading past the honeysuckle-fence and back toward the center of the village.
“I apologize for my father,” Miss Tully said as she steered Barnaby firmly onward.
“He thinks I should be married and ensconced in a cottage of my own with some farmer or the like. I am certain he now regrets teaching me to read or giving me my head like the stubborn mare I am. He rather spoiled me after Mother died. And now it is too late for me to mend my ways. Every so often, however, he reverts to treating me like a helpless lass. Do not take his words to heart, Mr. Ash. He has no one else to fuss over. He does not mean to insult your character.”
Barnaby hardly knew how to answer any of that. Mostly because his elbow burned with the presence of Miss Tully’s hand. He could think of nothing else.
Well, that was a lie. He could think of putting his own hand over hers, as if to cocoon it, but he did not believe her independent nature would like such a gesture.
He could think of the way her perfume wafted up under his nose—a subtle blend of lilac and roses, perhaps something she had made herself from her garden.
He could think of—oh, who was he fooling? He could think of almost nothing but Miss Tully’s intimate presence.
It was only when she commandeered him to the entrance of the Queen’s Barque that the spell was broken. It was too late to escape. His enchantress had brought him to the noise and smells of the crowded inn, and he must brave it all.
For the sake of Fenwick’s legend. And the warm hand that did not release him as they stepped inside.