Chapter 4 #2
The evening fell into a familiar rhythm.
Customers approached, coins changed hands, and tarts disappeared into eager mouths.
Mrs. Pemberton swept by in a cloud of rose perfume, Felicity trailing behind like a silent shadow.
She bought half a dozen ginger biscuits without mentioning viscounts or anything more inflammatory than the cool evening air.
As the evening deepened and the torches burned brighter, Nell noticed other things.
Eyes lingered a moment too long, and heads turned as she moved.
The green silk caught the light, drawing attention she was not used to drawing, for she felt exposed, but beneath the nerves, she felt something else.
It was a sensation that felt remarkably like being alive.
“Go.” Daphne nudged her elbow, breaking her reverie as she took a coin from a customer. “Walk around. I can manage the biscuits here.”
“I should stay and help.” Nell reached for the tongs, but Daphne swatted her hand away.
“You didn’t wear that dress to stand behind a table.” Daphne’s grin turned mischievous as she jerked her chin toward the music. “Go. Be seen. You’ve earned one night of not hiding.”
Nell hesitated, her hands finding the familiar, rough wood of the stall. But Daphne was right. She hadn’t worn her mother’s dress to sell seed cakes, though she had worn it because she was tired of being invisible. She wanted to remember what it felt like to be something other than careful.
She stepped away from the stall, out into the crowd and the flickering torchlight. She walked toward a feeling that was dangerously like hope.
The music swelled as she made her way past the food stalls and the ale tent, toward the clearing where couples spun in country reels.
She stopped at the edge of the circle, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched.
Farmers and their wives moved together with the ease of long practice.
Young people laughed and stumbled through steps they hadn’t quite mastered, and children darted between legs, chased by harried parents.
“Mrs. Ashford?” She started slightly, turning to see who had spoken.
Mr. Willoughby stood beside her, his weathered face creased in a gentle smile.
He was sixty if he was a day, with kind eyes and hands that still bore the thick calluses of a lifetime working his own land.
He’d lost his wife three winters past to consumption, the village whispered, and everyone in Cresswell respected the quiet dignity with which he bore his grief.
“Would you do me the honor?” He gestured toward the dancers, his smile turning almost shy as he dipped his head.
Nell hesitated, her fingers twisting a fold of her silk skirt. “I am not much of a dancer, Mr. Willoughby.”
“Neither am I.” He offered his hand, holding it patiently. “But the music is fine, and my old bones could use the exercise. Will you humor an old man?”
She looked at his outstretched hand. It was a broad palm with gentle fingers, possessing nothing demanding or dangerous. Something loosened in her chest, a tightly wound spring that had been coiled there for years.
She took his hand.
The dance was a simple country reel, far removed from the elaborate figures she’d learned as a girl. Mr. Willoughby was true to his word, while he was not much of a dancer. He stepped on her foot within the first minute and his face crumpled with immediate apology.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Ashford.” He stumbled slightly, regaining his footing with a grimace. “I am afraid these old legs don’t bend the way they used to.”
Nell laughed. It was a clear, genuine sound that surprised her as it escaped. “No harm done, Mr. Willoughby. I have survived worse than a stepped-on toe.”
They fumbled through the rest of the dance together, neither of them graceful, yet both of them smiling.
The music was bright, the torchlight felt warm on her face, and for one perfect, fleeting moment, she forgot to be afraid.
She forgot to be careful. She forgot that she was a woman with secrets and a past that could swallow her whole if anyone looked too closely.
She smiled a real smile, the kind she used to give freely before Gabriel taught her that smiling invited attention, and attention invited pain.
The music ended with a final flourish of the fiddle. Mr. Willoughby bowed, his old knees creaking audibly, and Nell found herself curtsying in return. It was a muscle memory from another life, performed with an elegance she’d thought long dead.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ashford.” He straightened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve made an old man’s evening.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand briefly, meaning the words more than he could know. “For asking.”
He melted back into the crowd. Nell stood there for a moment, flushed and breathless, the green silk swirling against her legs. Her throat was dry from laughing and her cheeks were warm from the exertion, yet she felt lighter than she’d felt in years.
She made her way to the cider stall, suddenly parched. She accepted a cup from the ruddy-faced woman manning the barrel, offering a small nod of thanks. She stood at the edge of the crowd to catch her breath, allowing herself to believe she might deserve this simple happiness.