“No.” Augie’s face took on an ugly cast. “He tells quite a tale about his relation to the Dowager Marchioness, but I don’t believe him. Neither does my father. Or yours.” Augie shrugged and his features relaxed. “The Sinclair sisters keep coming by for tea in hopes of seeing our houseguest. Mother is at wits end with their visits.”
Jemma clutched her parasol tighter. Mr. Shepherd does not concern me. He is of no import.“I’m sure you are right, Augie. I feel pity for Agnes and Bertie, to be so taken in.”
Liar.Her own voiced mocked.You dream of his mouth against your breast, of the way his hair felt against your fingertips. You are sorely disappointed he's not sought you out, even to kiss you again.
“Bloody hell.” Jemma said without thinking.
Augie’s lips tightened in disapproval at her outburst. “Jemma, youmustwatch your tongue. I allow you latitude when we are alone, but not in public. You are quite improper.”
The warm feelings towards Augie of a moment ago evaporated at his chastisement of her behavior, especially since he had no idea how incredibly improper she really was.
“My apologies, I must have stepped on a bit of shell," she said, trying to sound duly contrite, though she didn’t feel sorry at all. She simply wished to avoid the inevitable argument that would follow, with Augie listing her eccentric behaviors. She thought briefly of pleading a headache in order to return home, but had no wish to leave the festival. So instead, Jemma took Augie’s arm and smiled brilliantly. “I blame my lack of decorum on the fact I am starving.” Jemma lifted her nose and sniffed the air. “Can’t you smell the conch?”
Mollified by her response, Augie stroked her fingers. "You are forgiven, minx, and I know you cannot resist fried conch.”
He led her into the tent, regaling her with the latest gossip about the Latimers’ daughter who fled to America with a ship’s captain, and Horatio Caldwell, the magistrate who was busy romancing the widow who ran Hamilton’s boarding house.
Holding on to her tightly, he neatly dodged two elderly men wobbling drunkenly about the stalls as they argued over some past grievance with each other. Augie expertly maneuvered her towards the far side of the tent where it opened up to a copse of trees. Rows of tables and benches sat amongst the tall grass where groups of people sat enjoying a cool drink or munching on fried conch. Stalls flanked either side of the opening, offering a variety of delights.
Mr. Brixton, a large, heavy-set man and a close neighbor of Jemma's, stood at one of the stalls between two large barrels. A servant girl, her dark hair woven with flowers and ribbons, filled mugs from one of the two barrels at Mr. Brixton’s direction while the merchant collected the coin.
Next to Mr. Brixton, the Downey family, the best fishermen in Hamilton, sold conch fritters. The six Downey sons formed an assembly line of sorts with their mother at the head, taking each customer’s order, down to their father at the end who handed out the finished product. The delicacy, dipped in cornmeal and fried until crunchy, were Jemma's favorite. Scores of people floated through the tents laughing, their mugs raised in merriment.
Augie collected two mugs from Mr. Brixton, cider for her and ale for himself.
“And where's Mr. Manning today, Miss Jane Emily?” Mr. Brixton, his round face red and shiny with the heat of the day, smiled down at her.
“Busy, I'm afraid Mr. Brixton, but I shall tell him you asked after him.”
“Tell him,” he deftly collected several coins from Augie’s outstretched hand. “That he missed the best cider on the island. Now you.” He pointed a finger at Augie. “Need to quit dilly dallying and marry this lovely girl.” Mr. Brixton took out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow.
Jemma forced a polite smile to her lips and said nothing.
“Soon enough, Mr. Brixton. I’ll expect a large barrel of your ale as a wedding gift!” Augie laughed and held his mug aloft, toasting the older man. "And you to be our honored guest.”
“Yes of course.” Mr. Brixton laughed, pleased at the compliment. “And a dance with the bride.” He nodded towards Jemma.
She kept her lips frozen into a smile, not wishing to hurt Mr. Brixton's feelings, for he meant well. He was only giving voice to what the entire island assumed would come to fruition. The urge to drop her mug of cider at poor Mr. Brixton’s feet and run as fast as she could caused her feet to dance beneath her skirts.
Leading Jemma down the row of stalls, Augie lifted his mug once more in farewell to Mr. Brixton. “Really, Jemma,” he hissed in her ear, “we must set a date. I tire of everyone assuming it is me who delays our betrothal.” He waved at Mr. and Mrs. Reckitt who waved merrily back. “Mother is positively in fits over having the wedding before the next rainy season. She says we may honeymoon in London and visit Dorthea. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Our houseguest,” a derisive note entered his voice, “has told Mother he'll write us a letter of introduction to the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne as a wedding gift."
Jemma stopped cold. “Well that's certainly kind of him.” The thought of Nick Shepherd’s acceptance of her marriage left her feeling betrayed, a silly notion. They’d shared a kiss and nothing more.Well, a bit more than a kiss, she thought, feeling a blaze of warmth on her cheeks. “I think I need to eat something. I've rather a headache.”
“I should say so,” Augie agreed. “You’ve been quite ill tempered today.”
Jemma bit her lip. She hadn’t planned on being soofftoday, but thinking of Nick Shepherd gave her such anunsettledfeeling, as if the earth moved beneath her feet and she couldn’t find her balance. “I just don't believe that someone like Mr. Shepherd has such a connection and your mother's hopes will be dashed. Why, he probably cheats at cards.” She smoothed down her skirts. “Shall we have our fried conch now?”
Augie stopped abruptly, his features carefully blank, but a curious light glowed in his eyes. “Why would you say that?” The muscles of his arm went taut beneath her fingers.
“Well, a man like him, if his connections are false, must need to make a living somehow. Gambling would seem to be the obvious choice. Aren't most gamblers accused of cheating at one time or another?” She took a step towards the Downey family and their fried conch, but Augie didn’t budge. “What of it?” Jemma spun to face Augie. “You played cards with him last night, didn’t you?"
“A hand or two. And it was only a friendly game. You know I don't gamble.” He didn’t meet her eyes and his fingers drummed against his thigh.
Jemma thought Augie a terrible liar. Every time he stole a sweet or punched another boy as a child, and lied about it, he drummed his fingers. All of Hamilton whispered that Augie gambled, though no one had said so to her face. She’d put it down to gossip and nothing more. Her eyes flew to his fingers beating against his thigh.
Apparently, she’d been wrong.
“Why are you so interested in what Mr. Shepherd does?” He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and changed the subject.
