Ogling.He’s made me into one of those nitwits in London.
It had been several days since she’d left him at the mill, and until Beatrice saw him strolling through Chiddon, ale in hand as if he hadn’t a care in the world, she’d been afraid she might never see Blythe again.
“We’re going for cider.” Blythe picked up his coat laying across one of the tables. “Would you like a mug, Your Grace?”
You. I think it is you I want.
It seemed pointless, at least to herself, for Beatrice to admit otherwise. Blythe had always gleamed, even when they were saying the worst about each other. A poor way to flirt.
“No, thank you, my lord.”
“Come, Mister Tidwell.” Blythe slapped young Robert on the back. “Let us avail ourselves of refreshments at The Pickled Duck.”
Blythe sauntered off, nodding and greeting people as he passed.
Good lord, the entire village knew him already.
She turned, looking for Peg, unsurprised to find her maid missing. Peg was enamored of the eldest Tidwell boy, Martin, who, along with his brothers, had been helping with the tables earlier. Martin was a strapping young man in his early twenties and handsome to boot. In addition to the land his father meant to give him, Martin was the one who would be planting sugar beets and sharing in the profits. He’d been carefully courting Peg for some time, first asking for Beatrice’s blessing. Which Beatrice had given immediately. Peg deserved happiness.
She tried not to be envious. It was only that Beatrice wanted a sliver of joy for herself. Her life here was peaceful. Content. Chiddon and its villagers formed a solid phalanx of support around Beatrice, protection that gave her solace, especially when she wallowed in self-pity. But the loneliness inside her refused to abate. It wasn’t satisfied by brewing ale or atoning for her past sins.
Looking up, Beatrice caught sight of Blythe outside The Pickled Duck, shining like the brightest star in the sky. At a distance, Blythe might be mistaken for a wealthy merchant or a country squire; the air of privilege so many lords clung to wasn’t noticeable on him. But converse with him, and there was no doubt he was titled—no farmer had ever commanded attention as he did. Still, Blythe was obviously as comfortable in Chiddon as he was speaking to an entitled bunch of snobs over cards at White’s. He treated lords and tavern owners with the same degree of respect no matter their station.
Reaching up, Beatrice touched the rope of her hair, ensuring none of her cheek showed before walking back to the vicarage to find Melinda. She turned once to glance at Blythe again, that perverse urge to bury her nose in his chest nearly forcing her in the other direction.
He was laughing at something Mr. Gates said, a cup of ale held aloft in one hand, then he turned, catching sight of Beatrice. Pressing a hand over his chest, he gave a slight bow in her direction.
17
“Finally.” Melinda set down her cup as the fiddle player started up at the far side of the green. The sun slanted over the village and would soon dip below the horizon. “I thought he merely meant to drink our ale and eat our food.”
Beatrice gave her friend a wry smile. She’d paid for the fiddle player, the food, the ale, and nearly everything else. But not the peddler and his dancing monkey. He’d come purely for the roasted chicken and one of Mrs. Lovington’s pies. “You’re impatient.”
Melinda’s feet danced back and forth beneath the table. “I want to dance. Do you think Mr. Milhenny will be convinced to stay?”
Milhenny was the baker. A gregarious man from Overton who wished to get from under his uncle’s thumb. “I believe he will. The building is more than suitable for his needs, especially the living quarters. I mentioned the renovations to the mill—”
“Did you mention that the owner of the mill is the Earl of Blythe?” Melinda asked innocently.
“I did.” Thathadmade a big difference to Milhenny, knowing there would be a working mill close by. “He sold all his breads and pastries in less than an hour. I think that is what convinced him more than anything else.” Beatrice could return home tonight and cross Miss Rosalind Richardson, Andromeda Barrington’s baking cousin, from her ledger.
“Good.” Melinda drained the rest of her mug. “I am as terrible at bread as I am at biscuits. Can’t make a proper stew. If it weren’t for the kindness of Mrs. Lovington and Mrs. Gates, the good vicar would starve.” There was a generous amount of dislike for Vicar Farthing in his wife’s eyes, something Melinda rarely allowed to show, not even to Beatrice.
“You may have had too much ale.”
“Or not enough.” Melinda winked at her. Sadness hovered at her friend’s shoulders, a sort of blighted frustration at marriage to Farthing. Beatrice was determined not to push her, but one day, she still hoped she’d hear Melinda’s story.
Beatrice took in the flushed faces of her neighbors and the couples spinning about in the village green to the music of the fiddler, most feeling the effects of Mr. Gates’s ale. It pleased her to know she’d brought this liveliness to Chiddon. Worth every pound Castlemare had been forced to leave her. Beatrice hoped Castlemare could see what she’d done, and she hoped it displeased him greatly. Consorting with farmers and bakers. Swilling ale from a mug. Allowing the two younger Tidwell boys to grab at her skirts with their sticky fingers. Nevermind Castlemare, Beatrice would give her best ribbons to see the faces of Lord and Lady Foxwood at seeing what had become of their daughter.
Beatrice snorted.
“Something amusing, Your Grace?” Melinda peered into her mug. “Empty.”
“I was thinking of Lord and Lady Foxwood. How horrified they would be by this evening’s festivities. My mother would die of thirst rather than drink from a mug. Or sample ale at all.
Melinda made a sound. “Your parents rival mine in who views their daughter with more disappointment, Your Grace. I often wonder if the Foxwoods will appear one day.”
“Doubtful. Lady Foxwood is far too busy with her crowded social calendar and Lord Foxwood has his club, his mistress, and his ambitions.”
