Chapter 6
A Taste of Trouble
Mrs Adie chuckled, patting Miss Caroline Honeywell’s hand as the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney employed the gavel with rather more enthusiasm than was necessary.
“The old lady likes to ensure everyone is paying attention,” she murmured, making Caro smile.
She liked Mrs Adie, Mrs Mabs, and everyone at the vicarage, especially their Uncle Bertie.
He had been so very kind, and yet guilt twisted in her heart, for she knew she had placed him in a terrible position.
He had agreed to keep their secret, but if their father found out they had come to him—Caro shivered, pushing the horrifying thought away.
One day he would discover what they had done, but she did not regret running away.
She had never been happier than she was at the vicarage, and she knew her little sister, Abbie, felt the same.
It was as though a great, heavy blanket had been lifted from them and they could breathe, could see the way ahead, for the first time.
Caro fiddled with the buttons on her gloves nervously, but took a breath, steeling herself.
She would risk anything to keep that freedom.
“Now then,” the dowager said. “The Harvest festival. Yes, yes, I know it’s only July, but it will be upon us before we can say knife, mark my words. Suggestions, please. Obviously, we shall all enjoy the Reverend Honeywell’s wonderful church service, but what other suggestions are there?”
Mrs Adie put up her hand. “What about a competition for the largest onion or potato? We could get the children to vote.”
“Write that down,” the dowager instructed Mrs Fairway, who dutifully noted it down in the book before her. “Mind, I remember the last such competition and the finalists came to blows over who had grown the largest pumpkin. It was most amusing,” she remarked, chuckling.
Looking anxiously around her at the rows of neatly arranged chairs and the variety of ladies who occupied them, Caro dared to lift her hand.
The dowager turned her steely gaze upon her, pointing with the gavel.
“Yes, you. The pretty chit with the strawberry blonde curls. Who are you?”
“Oh, I am Miss Caroline, your grace. The Reverend Honeywell is my uncle.”
“Ah. I’d heard he had young people staying with him. Well, you are welcome, my dear. You have a suggestion?”
Caro nodded, blushing as all eyes turned her way. “We could get everyone to decorate the church and the village hall, with prizes for the best entries, and then… with it looking so pretty, perhaps we arrange a little harvest ball or a small assembly?”
A murmur of interest rippled through the gathering, and the dowager laughed. “Ah, a young lady who likes to dance, I perceive. Well, a small assembly ain’t a horrible idea. Let’s have a show of hands. All those in favour?”
Caro looked around, smiling with delight as almost every hand shot up.
“Well done,” Mrs Adie said with approval. “That’s a fine idea. Though she’ll invoke the suggestion box now and that’ll drive Mrs Fairway to madness, poor creature. It’s no fun having to decipher everyone’s handwriting and make sense of their very odd ideas, so she says.”
The dowager banged the gavel once more. “Well, that settles it then. A harvest themed assembly. We’ll have to get the details settled so I’ll ask everyone to make notes and put them in the suggestion box.”
Caro watched an expression of resignation settle over Mrs Fairway’s thin face and bit her lip. “Oh, dear.”
“Don’t you fret none, dearie,” Mrs Adie said comfortably. “I’ll give her a hand, and you can tell how much the ladies are looking forward to it.”
Caro could tell. Everyone was chattering with excitement, and she looked around with pleasure as the ladies in front of her turned in their seats.
“A fine suggestion,” said a glamorous woman with riotous dark curls.
“Thank you,” Caro replied as the woman held out her hand.
“So, you are the Reverend’s niece. We are pleased to meet you. I am Miss Eustacia Foxworthy, and this is my friend Miss Halfpenny.”
The woman sitting beside Miss Foxworthy was as plain as the lady was beautiful and seemed rather more reserved, but she had kind, intelligent eyes and nodded a polite greeting.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” Caro said, meaning it. A flicker of excitement dared to stir in her breast as she wondered if she might, for the first time in heretofore prescribed life, make friends.
“Shall we still be here for this assembly, do you think?” Hetty mused as everyone got to their feet once the meeting had broken up.
All around them the ladies gathered their shawls, drifting into smaller groups to converse or hurrying out of the door to carry on with their day.
Though they were not resident in Little Valentine, Gee-Gee, as the dowager had insisted they address her, had invited them to attend.
“That rather depends, I suppose,” Cilly replied, an edge to her voice.
Hetty winced inwardly. It would depend on when their father announced her betrothal.
“She’s a beautiful creature, isn’t she,” Hetty remarked, eager to change the subject and nodding towards the girl whose suggestion it had been.
“Lovely indeed,” Cilly agreed, gazing at her with interest. “Do you think she looks familiar?”
Hetty turned, studying the girl again in more detail. “No. Can’t say she does.”
Cilly nodded, turning back to Hetty. “I heard they sell delicious ices at The Mermaid. Shall we try them?”
“Oh, a marvellous idea,” Hetty agreed at once, for she had a sweet tooth and would never turn down such a treat. Arm in arm, they made their way through the cluster of women and out into the fresh air.
“I wish we lived here. I think the Venturesome Ladies is a wonderful idea,” Cilly said as they crossed the promenade towards the hotel.
Hetty glanced at her sister. It was not the first time Cilly had expressed her longing to remain, and Hetty could hardly blame her. “Can you imagine what our father would say?” she said with a snort.
Cilly’s lips twisted. “Something vile about everyone knowing their place. If he discovered we’d been sitting in that hall, next to the kitchen maid from the vicarage, I truly believe his head would explode.”
“Perhaps we should tell him,” Hetty suggested, startling a bark of shocked laughter from her sister just as they entered the foyer of the elegant hotel.
Hetty snorted, hushing Cilly as the two of them looked guiltily around the quiet space.
“Don’t fret, ladies,” drawled a languid voice from the interior. “There’s no one here but me to chastise you, and I should never dream of doing so.”
They stiffened, wondering who’d had the audacity to speak to them without an introduction.
Hetty heard Cilly’s sharp intake of breath and followed her gaze.
Lounging against the reception desk was a man who embodied the very essence of the elegant and sophisticated gentleman of fashion.
Tall and lean, his sculpted features were handsome, but with a dangerous edge that made Hetty instantly aware this was not the kind of man they ought to encourage.
“Come, Cilly,” she whispered, but to her eternal surprise, Cilly did not budge. She seemed to have taken root and was gazing at the man with undisguised interest.
“Cecilia,” Hetty hissed, tugging at her arm.
“What?” Cilly asked, her voice faint, as if from a long way off.
Appalled, Hetty glanced back at the devilish stranger, and something about the way he looked at them struck her as familiar. His grey gaze was unreadable, but perhaps it was the way his lips quirked into a knowing smile. All at once she realised who they were looking at.
“Cilly. Now,” she said, giving her sister a little pinch.
Cilly let out a little yelp, but moved at once, much to Hetty’s relief.
“Good heavens,” she said crossly, once they were safely out of his proximity. “Were you going to stay there gazing at him with your mouth open?”
Cilly blushed scarlet, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Certainly not, I was only… only…”
“Only what? Mesmerised?”
“Don’t be silly. I just thought I recognised him,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
“I should certainly hope not,” Hetty said with a short laugh. “For that was the Viscount Rivington.”
Cilly’s mouth fell open in a little o of wonder. “Was it?”
Hetty regarded the interest in her usually sensible sister’s eyes with a little alarm. “Yes, and we certainly will not be telling his grace about that meeting. He might have an apoplexy, but he’d murder us first if he discovered we encouraged the man.”
“We did no such thing,” Cilly objected.
“We over here, didn’t,” Hetty muttered, but too low for her sister to hear. It was with some relief she noticed a waitress who greeted them and led them out onto the terrace to enjoy their ices in peace.
The Mermaid, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21st July 1816
Gideon stalked towards the hotel, reminding himself it would do no good to cause a scene. His brother delighted in scandal and the only one it would hurt was himself. So as satisfying as it might be to throw the devil into the road and tell him to sling his hook, he could not do so.
He stalked into the hotel, looking around, but for the moment there was no one at the reception desk.
Considering the merits of ringing the bell for attention, he instead hurried out to the terrace.
He often came to The Mermaid to eat, for the lodgings he had taken in town over a cheese shop, of all things, were small and not very well furnished.
It had been all he could afford, however, for the locals had cottoned on to the fact that their town had become fashionable and hiked up the prices.
At this hour, ladies and some gentlemen clustered on the terrace, partaking of the Mermaid’s summer speciality, flavoured ices.
Sadly, the weather was not as warm and sunny as the scene merited, but this was England and it would take more than a stiff breeze to stop people enjoying themselves and eating their iced treats.
“Mr Bramwell?”