Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

Not to speak of all the disputation about Miss Grandin’s new gowns, which had thrown the young lady into a fit of the sullens and her mother and aunt even worse. Not that any of it should have given Lady Christopher the right to be so sharp with Peggy this morning-blaming her for the shopping list her ladyship had forgotten herself, and then making her go back to fetch it in the tiring midday heat.

All because of a length of lace trimming along the neckline of a gown. As though an inch of skin at a young lady’s bosom could mean…

But Peggy knew full well what it could mean. So when she’d heard the coach (for Tom had explained to her the particular kind of jingling a superior set of springs would make, and now she knew how to listen for it), she’d become very still and alert, though the vehicle was still a bit off in the distance.

It would be the dowager marchioness, and Tom with her.

She ran out the door, standing entranced in front of the casks and kegs and rushes for brooms, to wait for the coach to come into view. Enjoying her anticipation of what he’d look like up there on the box next to Mr. Frayne, sun lighting his face and shoulders-it was like she could already see him leaping off in his graceful way, legs flashing in their breeches and white stockings, when he’d arrive at the Dower House at Rowen, to help the marchioness out the door.

She’d call out, catch his eye, wave to him and Mr. Frayne as they drove by…

Except that it wasn’t Mr. Frayne driving the coach. Nor was the big noodle of a footman sitting up there anything like Tom.

Oh, it was one of the Rowen coaches-for hadn’t Tom told her there was more than one? It had the crest on its door. But it wasn’t the one the marchioness had lent them in France, nor was it the marchioness riding inside. The passenger’s handsome boots preceded the rest of him out of the coach. Peggy wasn’t the only person on the street who watched the whole of him stroll over to the shoemaker’s shop while the coach continued on its way. Toward Rowen, she supposed.

But she found that she didn’t care where he or the coach was going. Nor was it her job to go inform anyone of this new arrival. In fact, it was no concern whatsoever of Peggy Weightman’s if Lady Christopher found out quite for herself, in full view of everyone in the square, the surprising news of who’d arrived in Grefford just now. For her employer would be finishing her call upon Cathy Williams (Peggy smiled, just a bit wickedly), and very soon indeed.

“It’ll be better, Lady Christopher,” Cathy Williams said, “for Miss Grandin to have her brother and cousin to occupy her these days than you and her mother.”

Mary suspected that the schoolmistress was right. After all, she did know young people. Too bad she couldn’t have taken on Elizabeth’s education.

And yes, it would be worth anything to get the girl off their hands-even four unexpected early guests due to arrive while the water closets were undergoing renovation.

No matter, Mary thought, we’ll put them in the older wing of the house, where there are no improvements to worry about. At any rate, it would be a felicitous combination of guests: Jessie’s son was bringing a friend, and Fannie Grandin was traveling with a chaperone. The chaperone was a distinct advantage; she could shepherd the four young people through picnics and tours of the countryside, leaving Mary and Jessie free to plan two weeks of menus, to see to the linen and silver… And to begin considering the project Cathy had proposed to Mary this morning.

“Because it’s such a splendid project, Cathy, that we shall want to begin as soon as possible.” Mary shook the schoolmistress’s hand and picked up her basket, emptied now of the apple tarts she’d brought when she’d walked out to the village this morning.

Trust Cathy to think of building a cistern in the village, so the local women could get their water close to home and not have to trudge all the way downhill to the spring. The school was prospering too, the girls actually learning their French and history rather than parroting it back as rote nonsense. Her call here this morning had entirely raised her spirits.

There’d have to be a committee, to raise funds. Jessica would probably preside if Mary promised to take charge of the accounts, at least temporarily, before she left with Matthew. Perhaps they could hold an assembly, sell tickets as the people of Cauthorn did for their medical clinic.

The tiny girl who’d escorted her through the garden held the gate open and curtsied. As Mary bent to kiss the child’s cheek, she found herself thinking about the forgotten shopping list-which, if truth be told, hadn’t been Peggy’s fault in the slightest.

She’d apologize directly after she posted her letter. And Matthew would also be a great help, both with money and expertise; no doubt he understood how things like wells and cisterns actually worked. Together he and she could do a lot of good in the world. A few months, a year perhaps, of unpleasantness during the divorce proceedings, and her life would finally take a reasonable shape.

She smiled and bowed to the vicar’s wife as they passed one another in the street. The village remained a comfort in its imperviousness to fashion, soothing monotony of conversation, the friendly, respectful faces she’d known all her life, stately pace of calls made and compliments exchanged.

While at Beechwood Knolls… absurd, the tumult over Elizabeth’s gowns. Impressive in its way, the girl’s instinct for what would most infuriate her mother.

“We shall be going to call at Rowen in two hours,” Jessica had told her, as the maid folded the fabric. “And don’t be late.”

“Of course I won’t. I like the Marchioness Susanna, even if you don’t.”

Mildly funny now, the mirror expressions of exasperation on their fair faces. Less funny this morning. All Mary had wanted was to escape to the village. And so she’d rushed away, forgetting all about the shopping list and then insisting that it had been Peggy’s responsibility to bring it.

Still, Peggy looked less aggrieved than Mary would have expected, idly examining the assortment of goods displayed in Mrs. Roberts’s front window, and now raising her head to gaze down across the square to the street that led you to the shoemaker and the post office (yes, and Mary must not forget to post the letter). Ah, a gentleman was coming from that direction. Well, that would explain it.

Hmmm, and he was looking rather well turned out in a neat blue coat too, and-damn and double damn, as she recognized him-he was quite evidently the cause for Peggy’s wicked good cheer.

The shoemaker had promised to fix the boot heel in a week. It seemed to Kit an excessive wait, but Williams had gestured at the unimpressive assemblage of footwear on his shelves. I’ve got all these to attend to first, you see, my lord -spoken to emphasize that Kit wasn’t his lord, not really. While the hardened, blackened hand indicated that every shabby boot and patten was equally deserving of his attention as a Stansell’s unevenly worn-down heel.

Hardly surprising, Kit thought-even if one hadn’t read Wat’s letters. The Grefford people (and their children too) had always prided themselves on their independence, one might say their superiority, to their counterparts who lived and worked on the Rowen estate.

“As you will.” He’d send the boot with his man tomorrow.

Williams had returned a summary nod, and Kit stepped outside and around the corner to the sunny village square, where a very long time ago, Joshua Penley’s daughter had stared up at him from amid a ragged gang of children-and he’d done his best not to appear to notice her.