Lifting his hand, Thorpe briefly pressed his finger to her lips. “Don’t say I told you.”
As she struggled to recover sense enough to say anything, he drifted away to the other end of the counter. Taking up a newspaper, he went to the doorway, parting the fabric with his shoulder so that the daylight might fall across the page. The light picked out the richness in his dark hair beneath the brim of his hat, and his shadow filled half the floor.
Lillian was glad of the darkness in the rest of the shop, though she feared the brilliance of her cheeks must light the gloom like a candle. Unconsciously, she licked her lips as though she could still taste his touch. Shocked by her own reactions, she marched up to Lady Genevieve and said, “I saw many fine clothes when I was governess to the Garnets. May I tell you about them?”
“The clothes young girls wear would hardly be suitable for me, Miss Cole. I have my own way of dressing which I prefer.”
Snubbed again, Lillian thought, yet persevered. “And an excellent sense it is. Lady Genevieve. Yet, it is always pleasant to discover what the
dernier cri
may be
even if we have no intention of wearing it ourselves.”
Without further preliminary, Lillian began to describe a gown she had purchased only three weeks ago and had not as yet had the chance to wear. At first, Lady Genevieve feigned no interest in anything as frivolous as a pomona green morning dress, but then she said, touching the slightly wattled underside of her chin, “Fluted ruffs?”
“Yes, very small and tight to the throat. Only for day wear, of course, but many ladies refuse to have a single costume made without one. Mrs. Garnet, for example.”
“Mr. Fenniman, come and hear what Miss Cole has to say.”
Nothing would content Lady Genevieve but that Lillian give the minutest account of every gown she’d seen within the last month. At least twice, Lillian made a slip of the tongue and said “my” or “I.” No one, however, seemed to notice, not even the dimly glimpsed figure of Mrs. Fenniman, listening behind the storeroom door and stealing peeks at Thorpe. He’d moved from the doorway, putting aside the newspaper, and now wandered about the store, handling the merchandise.
Soon after Lillian’s brain had been wrung dry, the important choosing of material began. Addy looked up from her dolls as Mr. Fenniman pulled down the free ends of bolts of cloth, bringing them across the counter from on high in great falling sweeps, like candy-colored cataracts. Not a single bolt escaped the nearest examination that eye or touch could devise.
‘That merino crepe might do for you, Miss Cole,” Lady Genevieve said, after almost two hours. “It is not terribly dear, only four shillings the yard.”
“Yes,” Mr. Fenniman said. “Most suitable. Mrs. Fitz-Joy’s governess purchased some only last autumn.”
Lillian smiled to herself. None of the proprietors who enjoyed Miss Canfield’s custom ever showed her a bolt more than a week in the shop, knowing a lady of the
ton
could never appear the remotest bit passé. “It’s very fine,” she said, “but a trifle warm, perhaps. The weather is so temperate in June.”
“It rains frequently,” Lady Genevieve said. “And there are draughts.”
“Nevertheless...”
Unhappy, Mr. Fenniman looked between his regular, well-paying customer and the young lady. “It’s a fine, light fabric, miss. Hardly warm at all.”
“Then Mrs. Fitz-Joy’s governess must have been most uncomfortable this winter. Something else, I think, if you would be so good.”
From somewhere in the depths of the shop came a double knock. Though Lady Genevieve positively jumped, and Lillian was startled, the proprietor did not turn his head. Thorpe looked up from the floor, where he was listening to Addy tell some involved tale about the elaborately costumed dolls. When the knock repeated, Thorpe asked, “Is your shop haunted?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Everard. My lady.” The proprietor scuttled away. Returning after a whispered consultation with his wife, he said grandly, “I am reminded that my staff has recently received an inventory of ready-made dresses direct from London. If Miss Cole would consider them ...” His worried glance darted between Lady Genevieve and Lillian.
“The very thing,” Lillian said. “If you can alter them before we leave Danbury this afternoon?”
The double knock came as though in answer. “Very good, Miss Cole,” Mr. Fenniman said, breathing heavily and wiping beads of perspiration from his broad brow.
The quality of the ready-made clothing was not as high as Lillian would have liked. After careful thought, she chose three in the medium price range, thinking that Paulina’s groom’s wife would appreciate the gift. Lillian wished she’d brought more of her money as there was one sarcenet gown, rather finer than the others, of midnight blue woven through with faint silver stripes, that would have shown off her hair and complexion to a nicety. However, she foresaw no need for such a dress during her stay at the castle, though she did make a mental memorandum to have her modiste look for a similar fabric upon her return to London.
Lillian emerged from the rear of the shop to pay for her purchases. The proprietor, after further whispered conversation with his wife, handed Thorpe a narrow screed. Laying it on the counter, Thorpe relaxed one knee, bringing his height down to a comfortable level. With the pen and ink Mr. Fenniman provided, he signed his name.
“Come along, my lovelies. I’m famished after all this desperately hard work.”
“I’m famished,” Addy echoed.
“My accounting, if you please, Mr. Fenniman,” Lillian said.
“Er,” the shopkeeper answered, darting a glance at Thorpe.
“All taken care of, Miss Cole,” that gentleman said airily, tenderly wrapping his grandmother up in her large shawl. He began to usher Lady Genevieve and Addy toward the door.
“I cannot allow you to pay for my clothing, Mr. Everard,” Lillian announced, standing quite still.
“My goodness,” Lady Genevieve said, looking over her shoulder. “Can you afford such pride, Miss Cole? My grandson has done a generous thing; you should thank him, not stand there pokering up.”
Lillian’s grasp on her temper began to slip. Shaking her reticule so that the sovereigns within resounded against one another, she said, “I have entirely sufficient funds to pay for my wants, Lady Genevieve. It is not for Thor—Mr. Everard to pay my personal expenses.” Her tongue’s fault warned her. She silenced herself and repeated in her mind the psalm that had saved her from making a fool of herself on so many occasions. “It’s not that I am ungrateful,” she began.
“You sound it to me,” Lady Genevieve answered.
“Consider these things as an advance on your salary,” Thorpe said, forestalling any further answer from his grandmother. “It’s not worth fussing over, is it?”
“Thank you, Mr. Everard,” Lillian said, glad at last to be addressing him and not Lady Genevieve. “But I prefer to spend my salary in my own way. I have enough money; Mrs. Garnet gave me a present when I parted from her.” She brought out this tale easily enough, her chin rising as she finished by saying, “I wish to spend it now, here, if Mr. Fenniman will tell me what I owe.”
“Come now,” Thorpe said, leaving his family to approach her. “Your little items are lost in this interminable catalog. I daresay half the things in the shop are written there. I’m too hungry to go through it now.”
“Then I shall do it for you,” Lillian answered, looking him full in the eyes. That was an error of judgment. She could feel her resolve disappearing in their sea depths. “I am your employee, not your dependent,” she said, struggling to maintain her indignation and self-respect.
“Papa,” Addy whined, “I’m so hungry. Can’t we eat now?”
Thorpe’s smile brightened his eyes, as though the sun had emerged to bring out the golden sparkle of the ocean. “You see how my daughter makes demands of me,” he said. “Won’t you take a lesson from her and allow me the pleasure of purchasing these few things for you?”
“I can only repeat what I have already said.” Lillian’s voice softened against her will.
“You’ll accept nothing from my hands?” Thorpe asked, his voice no louder now than her own. “You want nothing of me but a salary? How cold you are, Miss Cole.”
“I pay for myself,” she said, trying to remember whose daughter she was, holding on to this one idea, amid the rising flood of emotions that threatened to swamp her. If she gave way to him, how could she hope to continue to resist the powerful lure of his charm and sympathy? Making a great effort, Lillian turned her eyes from his gaze.
“Mr. Fenniman, pray give me the total of what I have purchased. I shall pay Mr. Everard and all will be even.”
Thorpe’s broad shoulders lifted. “Very well. Miss Cole, I’m beaten. May I at the least offer you luncheon?”
“I should be pleased, Mr. Everard.” She smiled at him, wondering if many women could claim to have won a point over him.
When they arrived at the Grapes and Sheaves, the landlord came bustling out, stepping around a maid who curtsied again and again in the middle of the floor. Thorpe had greeted her by name, reducing her thus to blushing and bobbing.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Everard. My lady.” The landlord bowed. “And where’s that likely girl of yours, sir?”
“Here I am, Mr. Stavely.”
“Where?” the landlord asked. “Oh, heavens, I scarcely knew you, you’ve got so big. Now, I tell you. There’s a fine lemon curd tart in the kitchen that’s gone begging for a little girl to eat it, and my missus would be that pleased to show you the geese when you’ve finished it.”
“I hardly think—” Lady Genevieve began, but her grandson spoke up before she could finish.
“The very thing! I know you’ve been hungry for the last three hours past, Addy.” The girl nodded, her gray eyes big at this further evidence of the superiority of her father.
“And a cup o’ tea would please the ladies?” Stavely asked.
“It would,” Lady Genevieve said and then turned to go outside herself, perhaps to pluck a rose.
Lillian was about to follow Addy, when she felt Thorpe’s hand on her arm. She responded to his touch at once and scolded herself for the involuntary leap her pulses gave. All I need do is turn my head to see the maid, she thought, still gape-faced and staring at Thorpe, to be reminded of how commonplace any such reaction must be to him. Without looking up at him, she freed her arm. “I must see to Addy ...” she began.
“They’ll be spoiling her in the kitchens, and one more pair of eyes won’t be needed. Have some tea. You’ll need sustenance for the continuance of the battle that still lies ahead.”
“What battle?”
“You can ask that after shopping with my grandmother?”
In a few minutes, the landlord himself brought in the tray with a brown-glazed teapot and a tiered plate of cakes. Lillian wondered if the landlord dare not trust his maids to return from a room while Everard of Mottisbury Castle remained in it. No doubt she herself would soon get over staring at him in this witless way. Perhaps a week of constant nearness would free her from the spell he cast.
As the landlord laid out the cups and saucers, he said, “ ‘Tis easy enough to see whose daughter she is, sir.”
“What do you mean?” Thorpe’s voice, or so Lillian thought, sharpened. Though his face was indistinct with the light behind him, Lillian felt certain the set of his shoulders was a trifle less easy than a moment before.
“Groom leads a horse past and bless me if the little miss didn’t leave the geese and the women to press him with questions. How old, how many hands, did he throw shoes? Ah, she’s yours, right enough, Mr. Everard. There’s no mistaking a real love of horseflesh. Bred in the bone, as they say.”
“Yes, quite.” For a moment, Thorpe turned his head away to look out the windows. Lillian did not think he saw the bright yard, mellowed by old brick walls. She poured out and handed him a cup of tea.
“Sugar? Milk?” she asked, hoping to bring his thoughts back from wherever they strayed. With a pang, she felt it was not a happy place he dwelt in at that moment.
But when he took the saucer from her hand, his grin was as wide and heart-stealing as ever. “Thank you. Now, Stavely . ..”
“Sir?”
“We shall be visiting many another shop before we’re done, I’ll be bound. I wonder if you’ll be good enough to accept all the parcels that will be sent and have them put into the carriage?”
“That’ll be no worry to me, sir. I’ll see to the matter myself.”
“I’d not have you do that. There’s liable to be a day’s work just in carrying them out. Miss Cole, will you be good enough to give instructions at the shops?”
“Of course, Mr. Everard, but won’t you ... ?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and did not meet her eyes. ‘Truthfully, I’ve had my fill of draperies and fripperies. I’ll go play a quiet game of chess with Mr. Reynolds, the good vicar here in Danbury. He bested me the last time with what I’m sure was divine aid.” Lillian smiled. Thorpe seemed affronted. “I assure you I’m not inventing anything, Miss Cole. Fairly caught between bishop and rook, his king walked out of it as though wearing goodness for a shield. I was put out about it for quite fifteen minutes.”
It did not seem that he lost his return match, for his spirits were high in the carriage on the journey back to the castle. He sang to Addy on his knee until the girl fell asleep. Lady Genevieve nodded in her own corner. Lillian looked out the window at the western sky, streaked now with the first faint shades of sunset, finding it hard to hide her smiles at his nonsense.
Easing his limp daughter onto the opposite cushion, Thorpe said quietly, “I dine out this evening, Miss Cole. Will it insult you to eat with the servants?”
“I expected to eat with no one else.”
“Oh, no,” he answered. “When I dine at home, you and Addy will join me. I do not think a child should be kept secluded from her family as though she—or I, for that matter— ate like an ogre. Needless to say, my grandmother does not agree with me.”
“Some children’s table manners are not polished.”
“Do you think that would trouble me? Ah, have I asked a forbidden question?”
Lillian continued to look out at the sky, unsure of how to speak to him. Strongly though she felt she should give him a crushing set-down, say something to demonstrate clearly the gulf between the master of the house and a governess, Lillian also knew that she could not deliberately wound him. Finally, she took refuge in, “I don’t know what you mean.”