Jo Leigh - Confessions Bundle

She nodded in the general direction of The Three Crowns, one of the small brick establishments that lined the village square, where a group of ragged, ill-fed men lingered. Simultaneously all three women pulled their cloaks tighter, as if to ward off the men’s unblinking stares.

“And just the other day, my dear, I heard that some travelers were robbed on the road to Grantham by a band of brigands. Even our countryside is not safe anymore!”

“Not safe,” repeated Miss Ethel firmly and with an affable smile.

If the proposed rent increase would go to improvements in the county, Grace would have been less upset about it, even though the means to pay would still be a problem.

Unfortunately, she doubted Sir Donald had any intention of spending the extra income on anyone but himself. After his recent knighthood-which had come as a surprise to everyone in Barton-he had declared the house that had belonged to his family for three generations was not grand enough for a knight. Work on improving, or at least expanding, the stone structure had begun immediately.

“I should be going--” Grace began, hoping to get away from the Hurleys before they could impart any more bad news.

“They do say he’s thinking of marrying,” Miss Myrtle noted.

“A rich heiress,” Miss Ethel announced.

“If he did marry well, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to raise the rent,” Grace observed hopefully, and not all that hope had to do with the proposed rent increase. “If you ladies will excuse me, I had better get home to Mercy.”

“Oh, and how is dear little Mercy?” asked Miss Myrtle solicitously, as if Mercy were a child of six instead of a young woman of eighteen.

“Very well, thank you,” Grace lied.

She lied because if the Hurley girls discovered Mercy was ill, they would arrive at the house at the most inconvenient times with soup, or medicines they bought from peddlers and Gypsies, or simply to “see how she is, poor dear.” Afterward Grace would hear from those who thought she ought to know that the Hurleys considered their housekeeping faulty, their garden untidy, and their food undercooked.

At times such as these, Grace was relieved they had no servants to reveal that Mercy had been sick this morning.

“I hope she isn’t too distraught over Adam’s absence,” Miss Myrtle said, coy as a fifteen-year-old as she spoke of her nephew.

“She has not mentioned him this past month,” Grace replied evenly. “They were merely acquaintances, after all.”

Or so Grace fervently hoped. Mercy had made no secret of her infatuation with the dashing young naval officer visiting his aunts on leave. He had been at his aunts’ home in Barton for only a month, but in that time, he seemed to have quite captured Mercy’s fancy.

“Mere acquaintances,” Miss Ethel confirmed firmly.

No doubt the idea of their precious relative marrying a poor girl, no matter what her family background, gave them the vapors.

“Miss Mercy was simply being her charming self, nothing more, I’m sure,” Miss Myrtle said. “And Adam is such a fine young man, anyone of any discernment would wish to enjoy his company.”

Grace knew she intended that remark to be a rebuke, for Grace had not paid much attention to the young man. He had struck her as handsome, but little more, and rather too proud of himself. However, she calmly smiled her agreement.

“He has arrived in Gibraltar safely, and is already quite a favorite of the wardroom,” Miss Myrtle continued.

“Quite a favorite,” Miss Ethel repeated.

“I’m sure he is. Now, I really must beg to be excused. This wind is so very cold!” Grace was shivering when she dipped them both a curtsy and turned to leave.

“Good afternoon, Miss Barton,” Miss Myrtle called out cheerfully as Grace hurried on her way. “Try not to worry about the rent!”

With that parting shot rankling in her bosom, Grace barely caught Miss Ethel’s “Afternoon!” as she crossed the square, for indeed, the breeze had picked up and was decidedly frigid.

They would shout about the rent, just in case the whole village didn’t know of the Bartons’ circumstances, Grace reflected sourly. Well, she shouldn’t get annoyed about that. After all, everybody already knew they were not well off. There were few secrets in such a small place.

Few changes in the daily routine. Few new faces to make life interesting…

Not for the first time Grace tried to imagine leaving Barton-by-the-Fens, to begin again in a larger place, where no one knew who you were, or what difficulties you faced.

Where no one cared about you, or gave you respect because your ancestors had been lords and masters there time out of mind.

Grace sighed heavily. As always, her ruminations about leaving came to that point, and served to make her dread abandoning her home.

Besides, she had Mercy to think of, and Mercy would sooner lose a limb than leave Barton. She had said so often enough.

She said many things often enough, and emphatically enough that her feelings were an open book not only to her sister, but to the whole village, including, unfortunately, the Hurley twins.

Why wasn’t Mercy more circumspect? Grace thought with an old, familiar frustration. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her own counsel? Why did she have to be so blatant in her admiration of Lieutenant Brown?

Well, it would have been worse if she had expressed any admiration for the Hurleys’ darling nephew. They would have told her every time they met why it would be an unsuitable match, although the simple fact of the matter was that the Hurley girls didn’t like Grace.

They never had, not since she was a small child. It had taken her some time to realize why: the Hurleys lived for reactions, and Grace didn’t give them any. She had always been quiet and rather shy and not given to showing how she felt.

The Hurleys much preferred the type of response Grace’s sister gave them. Mercy was always emotional and sentimental, and their tales could move her to the heights of happiness or plunge her to the depths of despondency, seemingly within minutes.

As Grace reached the far side of the village green, she noticed the usual gathering inside the blacksmith’s forge. No doubt they were discussing the future raise in the rents.

At least she would not be alone in her dismay over the increase. While the villagers had supposed Sir Donald had every right to be proud of his mysterious knighthood, there had been much speculation as to how the money for the planned renovations was to be obtained. Now they had their answer.

They were probably also discussing, again and with dissatisfaction, the labor Sir Donald had hired. He had imported carpenters and masons from London, and it was said the furniture was coming from there, too. Taken all in all, the villagers were in as disgruntled a frame of mind as Grace, she was sure.

A black barouche turned down the main road and, recognizing its occupant, Grace quickly stepped back into the shadow of the butcher’s doorway, her basket clutched defensively to her chest. She had no wish to be seen by Sir Donald, any more than she wished to speak with him.

Fortunately, he seemed far too immersed in looking every inch the country gentleman to be peering into doorways, his large, heavy-lidded dark eyes staring straight ahead, his carriage erect--although his posture couldn’t disguise his overly large stomach--his tall hat perched fashionably to one side on his round head, and an expression of haughty condescension on his fat features.

Grace subdued a shudder, remembering again the precise moment during the Christmas service when she had realized Donald Franklin was watching her with an interest she did not appreciate in the slightest. At first, she had wondered what was wrong with her attire to warrant his scrutiny. Later, when he had waylaid her at the church door with some inane observation about the holidays and how things had changed since her grandfather’s time, it had slowly dawned upon her that he thought he was being charming.