Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Arriving at Finn’s doorstep, Owen felt strangely nervous.
He’d returned from Thymehill that morning and spent the day preparing for what amounted to his first public outing with Finn.
He’d realized with wry amusement that this was his first attempt at courtship.
He’d left for war at eighteen, when he’d been too young to take matters of the heart seriously; after his return, he’d lost the capacity to play games of love.
Mostly, he’d focused on keeping afloat and not drowning in the memories of violence and fear.
Now he was calling upon his lady love and felt as awkward as a greenling.
Might as well get on with it.
He rang the bell.
Finn opened the door almost immediately.
His heart thudded at her beauty: the emerald sparkle in her hazel eyes, the lush curve of her smile.
The top section of her hair was braided and pinned back, the rest cascading to her waist in glossy chestnut waves.
She wore her usual black dress, but a jaunty scarf with a pink floral pattern added a splash of color.
She looked young and fresh and even more captivating than he remembered.
“Welcome back,” she said.
“It’s, er, good to be back.” He cursed himself for sounding like a fool.
“You look different. Did you get a haircut?”
He was embarrassed that his attempt at vanity was so obvious.
“It was getting in my eyes,” he muttered.
When she reached a hand toward him, his heart stuttered. Gently, she brushed the unruly wave, which was already falling over his forehead.
“I like it,” she said. “But I also like you with your hair in your eyes.”
Her smile tempted him to take her into his arms. Then he remembered.
“These are for you.”
He thrust the bouquet he held toward her.
He’d picked it himself, choosing three pristine roses from the garden: a blushing damask, a pink old Bourbon, and a moss rose the shade of rich wine.
He’d added foxglove and harebells, along with a spray of lavender.
To fill out the posy, he’d gone to the woods to gather wild roses, thyme, and lemon balm.
The result was colorful and lively, both cultivated and untamed, which he thought suited Finn well.
“How pretty!” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll put them in water before we go.”
“Wait. Keep this one.”
Taking out his penknife, he removed a sweet briar rose, paring the stem.
“If I may?” he asked.
At her shy nod, he placed the flower in her hair, tucking it into the pins by her braids. The pink petals fluttered against her shining tresses and were a perfect match for her scarf.
“How does it look?” she asked.
He smiled. “You’re perfect, Finn.”
Before he could steal a kiss, Tansy popped between them. Like Finn, she wore a somber dress, but her hair was plaited and tied with sky-blue ribbons that matched her eyes.
“Finally, you’re here,” Tansy said.
Owen hid a smile at her impatience. “What fine plaits, Miss Tansy.”
“Finn did them. We have been waiting forever. We’ve had so many sittings today that I missed luncheon, and I hope there will be food left at the fair or I shall perish from starvation.”
Finn rolled her eyes. “You had a snack.”
“A snack is not the same as a meal. Because I worked so very hard today, I am famished.”
Tansy’s pout had the look of practice. Crouching, Owen looked into her rounded eyes.
“Why don’t we put Finn’s flowers in a vase, and then I shall buy you supper at the fair?” he suggested.
Tansy considered his offer. “May I have anything I want?”
“Anything you’d like,” he promised.
“Hooray!” She threw her arms up in the air. “We shall be having a feast tonight! I’ll put these away, and we can be off!”
Snatching the bouquet from Finn, she dashed back into the house.
“Sorry—” Finn began.
Nell and Simon emerged behind her. The former gave Owen a shy curtsy while the latter stared somewhere beyond him.
Owen bowed. “Good evening to you both. What a fetching shawl, Nell.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a blush.
“And Simon. If I didn’t know better, I would say those boots were made for you.”
Simon’s mouth curled into a grin just as Tansy bounced out and grabbed Owen’s hand.
“Let’s go eat,” she said.
“I am not Tansy, you know.”
Finn laughed as Owen returned from a stall with a paper twist.
“You need not stuff me to the gills,” she said.
“It would be my pleasure to stuff you—”
Owen cut himself off, his face heating as he registered the inadvertently ribald nature of his reply. Hopefully, Finn would not notice.
“Why, sir.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “I am out of practice.”
“You are doing splendidly,” she said.
“In that case, I’ll continue as I mean to go on.”
He handed her the paper cone, and her delight was infectious.
He liked seeing her this way—happy and with her hair down, metaphorically as well as literally.
He didn’t know whether it was the merriment of the fair or the time apart, but she seemed less guarded and more carefree.
It was as if she’d shed the persona of Madame Seraphina and was allowing herself to be Finn.
“A fairing,” she exclaimed. “I adore these. This one is cut into such a pretty shape.”
“I chose it particularly for you,” he said.
He hoped the heart-shaped gingerbread conveyed his feelings.
She gave him a coy look. “Aren’t you worried that I might do this, my lord?”
With a snap, she broke off a piece of the biscuit.
“Ouch,” he said.
Giggling, she handed him a piece of the fairing.
He bit into it, enjoying the crisp texture and gingery, treacly sweetness as he strolled through the square with his sweetheart.
It was, he thought, a perfect setting for romance.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of purple and pink.
Excitement crackled in the air as folks explored the fair’s offerings.
The village green and surrounding streets were crammed with stalls selling food, beverages, and a plethora of goods.
Mr. Khan, the owner of the local bookshop, was selling stationery and his famous barfi, cardamom-flavored sweets soaked in honey.
The greengrocer and his wife offered ripe fruits and vegetables.
The draper’s stall was the busiest, with females of all ages vying for the attention of the dashing Mr. Duffield.
In addition to the local vendors, hawkers had come from neighboring counties to sell their wares, and the fairgoers were likewise a mix of locals and strangers.
As with any large public event, there were some unsavory types.
When Finn stopped to chat with Mrs. Thornton, a pair of ruffians standing by Mr. Thornton’s beer stand leered at her.
Although she didn’t seem to notice, Owen moved closer, putting a hand at her waist.
They continued their way, keeping an eye on Tansy and Simon, who were inspecting every stall as if it was the first they’d seen. Nell met up with her beau and left with him to inspect the pens of livestock. Taking advantage of their privacy, Finn caught Owen up on the progress with the riddle.
“After Wally identified Felix Pearce as the writer of the clue, it occurred to me that the lies we’re supposed to uncover might have to do with him,” she said.
“Felix was made invisible by his family—erased from history just because he was different. Maybe he wanted a chance to have his story told.”
“Gigi told me you looked for his gravesite.”
“Yes, we searched the family plot at the churchyard. All the Pearces are accounted for—except Felix,” she said glumly. “Wally didn’t recall a funeral, so Lord only knows what happened to the poor fellow’s remains.”
“Perhaps he was buried on one of the Pearces’ properties. Whilst finding a decades-old, unmarked grave won’t be the easiest task,” he acknowledged, “at least it gives us something to search for.”
“But we are not supposed to search, remember? The clue says Felix’s gift is not for finding but for knowing.”
“Bloody riddle and its circular reasoning.”
“We’ll keep at it.” Finn sighed. “How was Thymehill?”
He shared the progress that was being made, along with challenges—such as drainage systems and weed management—that were likely tedious to anyone but him.
Yet she listened and asked questions and even came up with a helpful suggestion.
He was grateful that his lover was also an astute and clever companion.
“Baron Sangerton seemed pleased with the results,” he concluded. “He said that he’d written his esteemed guest about the new gardens and the latter expressed interest in seeing the damask roses I planted.”
Finn cocked her head. “Still no hint about the identity of this personage?”
“I shall find out when he arrives,” Owen said ruefully.
They caught up with Tansy and Simon at the pudding contest table, where the pair were gleefully inhaling samples.
The table was set up next to a cleared area, which served double duty as a stage and dance floor.
Several rounds of judging had taken place, and now the three final bakers were distributing their wares to the eager crowd.
Amongst them was Mrs. Pettigrew with her Bloody Poor Knights of Windsor pudding, and Xenia, Evie, and Gigi were there, cheering her on.
“How is the contest going?” Finn asked.
“Mrs. Pettigrew’s pudding was a hit with the judges,” Xenia said.
“They asked for a second helping,” Evie added.
Gigi grinned. “The dashing blond judge even licked his spoon clean.”
“Considering the judges are your husbands,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, “I hope you are right. But I fear Mrs. Ames may have the upper hand with her cabinet pudding. Her decoration was the most refined, and candied citron was an inspired addition.”
Looking at the stage, Owen saw his brothers and Grantley standing in a huddle as they made their final deliberations. Nearby, a quartet was poised to perform. At Ethan’s nod, they played a few dramatic bars to gain the crowd’s attention.