* * *
‘Is this the one you want? Now that we are finally here.’ Hattie held up a red-coated jumping-jack.
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘Yours, I believe.’ She gave a light laugh, basking in the warmth of his smile. ‘You kept seeing another stall you wanted to investigate.’
‘It has been an age since I’ve been to a fair. I wanted to make certain things were here.’
‘Including having a go at the ha’penny man?’
‘I did win.’
The toy stall had proved more difficult to find than she thought it would be, not the least of which Kit seemed intent on taking the most circuitous route. Not that she had strenuously objected. She had enjoyed talking with him and laughing. They seemed to share the same sense of humour. They were friends, nothing more. It could never be anything more.
She refused to go back to the girl she had once been, and in any case, Kit had been clear about his views on marriage. She wished that she could be like someone in Mrs Reynaud’s stories, but there were considerations. She shivered slightly, remembering how Charles’s mistress had said that they were more alike than she thought.
To banish the unwelcome memory she blindly reached for another toy.
‘Do you like this jumping-jack? Personally I think he has a roguish smile, just the sort of thing for a man like you.’
‘It will do.’ His hand closed over it. A sudden fierce longing crossed over his face. ‘The one I had as a boy had a dark-green coat with white trim.’
‘You must have loved it.’
‘It meant a lot to me once. It was about my only toy.’
Hattie’s heart bled for the lonely boy that he must have been. ‘Your only toy?’
‘My father didn’t hold with such things, but as it was a present from my uncle, he allowed me to keep it.’
‘Then it was good that you loved it so much.’
He tilted his head to one side. ‘I suspect you find it strange. But my father had his own views on life.’
‘Not at all. Just tell me that he died a lonely and bitter old man.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘It saves me from having to kill him. Children should have toys. There is time enough to be grown up.’
‘My father would not have agreed. Boys need to learn to be men. My father was a hard man.’
‘But you are not your father.’
‘I’m grateful you realise that. I try not to take after either of my parents.’
Hattie relaxed in the sunshine of his smile. A sharp longing sliced through her. If only... Hattie pushed it away. It was far too late for regrets. She was not the type to indulge in casual affairs of the heart. She had her responsibilities and duties to think about. This had to be the last time she indulged in a flirtation with Kit.
‘The jumping-jack will be a present from me,’ she said, taking control of the conversation.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are jumping-jacks different than gloves?’
‘Jumping-jacks are better given as gifts. Every child since time began knows that. It adds to the magic.’
‘I agree.’ There was a catch in his voice and he turned his face from hers.
‘Is something wrong?’ She laid her hand on his arm. ‘Kit, explain. We are friends. I want to know.’
He turned back towards her. His eyes held a distinctly sultry look which caused a warm curl to wind its way around her insides. ‘I normally never let my lady buy me anything.’
A warm shiver went down her back. She envied the unknown lady who would be his. A longing to feel his lips against hers and the touch of his hand against her skin filled her.
‘But I’m not yours, am I?’ she returned more tartly than she had intended. ‘It is a gift from a friend, nothing more.’
His eyes bore into her, searching down to her soul. Hattie returned his gaze as steadily as she could, hoping he didn’t see the white lie.
‘I stand corrected,’ he said finally. ‘In that case I shall be delighted to accept the gift. Child that I am.’
‘Play with it wisely. It is what I always tell my nieces and nephews when I give them a toy,’ she joked after she had paid the wizened toymaker.
Keep it light. She needed to keep it light. She gripped her reticule tighter. Their time was coming to an end and she didn’t want it to.
She could easily imagine what one of his London mistresses would be like—the highly sophisticated way she’d laugh and how her gestures would be perfectly poised. Everything she wasn’t and could never be.
‘I intend to treasure it.’ Kit tucked it into his breast pocket. ‘It should be safe there. Thank you, Hattie. It is a first being given something like this from a woman, but then you are unique.’
Hattie dipped her head. There was a wealth of meaning in those words. If she wasn’t careful, she would start wanting to be kissed again. And that would be a very bad idea. ‘I should get back to the family. Livvy and Portia will be wondering what has happened to me.’
‘Surely they can spare you for a while longer yet? There must be some part of the fair you haven’t explored. Perhaps you’d like your fortune told. There are always gypsies at fairs like these.’
‘I’m not overfond of fortune tellers. My husband used to enjoy such pastimes.’
‘And you gave them up as frivolous on his death.’ He held up his hand. ‘Say no more, Hattie. Your past defines you.’
‘That is not it at all.’
‘Why can’t you linger with me a while? We won’t have our fortune told. We can enjoy the fair in other ways.’
‘They count on me. I don’t know where I’d be without them.’ A sudden chill passed through Hattie. She’d been so close to agreeing. She needed to keep this friendship light and easy, but not lose sense of what was truly important in her life, permanent and lasting—her family. ‘It helped so much to have them near after Charles’s death. They restored my faith in humanity.’
‘You should try living for yourself more.’
‘It’s funny...that is precisely what Mrs Reynaud said.’ She straightened her back. ‘You mustn’t worry. Once they are grown, I intend to travel the world, really travel. There are so many places I long to see. I make a list every year. I only stay in Northumberland because Stephanie and her girls can’t cope without me.’
‘Mrs Reynaud?’ A puzzled look came on his face and he seemed to go rigid. ‘Do you know someone called Reynaud?’
‘An elderly lady. One of your tenants. At Pearl Cottage.’
‘None of my tenants is called Reynaud. I would know.’
‘Perhaps she used a different name.’ Hattie gave a little shrug. ‘Her agreement was with your uncle. I think she knew your family when she was younger.’ Hattie lowered her voice. ‘She has led an exciting life and doles out tales of her wickedness. Stephanie doesn’t entirely approve of her, but I enjoy her company.’
Kit’s face became carved out of stone. All humour and goodwill had vanished. ‘I can’t remember ever meeting a Mrs Reynaud. What does she look like?’
‘She says she is much altered. A few years ago before she came to the Tyne Valley, she suffered from smallpox and totally lost her looks. Recently she has become more of a recluse than ever. Mrs Belter told me that she had refused to come to the fair because the children might point their fingers and call her a witch.’
Kit tapped his fingers together. He looked her up and down in an assessing sort of way. Hattie was aware of the simplicity of her dress and the fact that it was several seasons old. He must consider it hopelessly naïve and unattractive. He took a step closer to her and his eyes became almost feline.
‘I agree with her assessment, whoever this Mrs Reynaud is. You should have a life, Hattie, and let your nieces lead their own.’ His hand slid down her back and his breath tickled her ear. ‘It is your life to live. You only have one. Seize it.’
‘I don’t understand what you are saying.’ She hated the way her voice caught. Her lips ache
d as if he had kissed them again.
‘I think you do.’ His voice rolled over her, silently urging her to move closer. Seductive in the extreme. ‘I think you understand me very well. We could be good together.’
Hattie pulled her hand away. She pressed her fingers to her temples and willed the siren call to be gone. She knew what he was asking and she also knew she wasn’t ready. Not today and probably not ever. She had to leave now and not look back.
‘Hattie?’
‘When I require your advice, I’ll ask,’ she said stiffly. She had nearly done it and she couldn’t. She’d hate herself later if she embarked on an affair. She wasn’t going to be like...like her late husband’s mistress. She shuddered, remembering the time she’d visited and how awkward it had all been. She had to stay with where she was safe. She started to walk away from Kit.
‘Where are you going now?’ He reached her in two strides and put his hand on her elbow, bringing her against his body. ‘I didn’t think you were given to false modesty, Hattie.’
‘Stephanie will have created a small camp for us near the black-faced sheep. She worries about my brother-in-law becoming lost and so they go back to the same place every year.’ Hattie jerked her arm away. To think how close she had come! Poor deluded Hattie had nearly done it again. Been swept away on the romance and forgetting the cost. ‘They will be wondering where I am. It was bad of me to go off like this.’
The dimple shone in his cheek, highlighting his lips. ‘Your brother-in-law gets confused?’
‘It is the one day of the year that he spends time in the ale tent. Stephanie refuses to go in, but always waits to take him home.’ Hattie gave a careful shrug, but she was aware of how near he stood and where his hands were. Her sister and brother-in-law were very different but they did seem to have a happy marriage, something that was for ever going to elude her. All she wanted to do was to find a quiet place and regain control of herself. She’d been so close to giving in to temptation. It had been seeing the longing in his face when he held the jumping-jack in his hand which had nearly undone her and made her think that he might want something else. ‘It is an arrangement which has served them well.’
‘Shall I walk you there? Fairs can be notorious for drunks and others making a nuisance. Allow me to keep you safe.’
‘I can find my own way.’ Hattie used her reticule as a shield. ‘The fair has so much to offer. You must try the ale tent yourself. If you find my brother-in-law, remind him that we are expecting to go home at a reasonable hour rather than at eight when the fair finishes. Please let me go, Kit.’
‘Independent to a fault.’ He held up his hand and his eyes became steely grey. ‘I understand.’
Hattie didn’t flinch even though she was dying inside. ‘It is the way I like it. Independent but respectable. I can’t have it any other way.’
‘Because of your husband’s memory?’
‘Do not bring my late husband into this.’ A cold chill went down her spine. She couldn’t lie about Charles. Not to Kit. The thought stunned her.
‘Let me know if you ever feel lonely.’
‘I bid you adieu, Kit. I’ll understand if you have to go back to London suddenly.’ She made an expansive gesture as her insides wept. ‘I hope this is everything you wanted.’
His hand curled about hers and then let go. ‘Thank you, Hattie...for my jumping-jack.’
Hattie forced herself to walk away without looking back. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done, but she knew it was the right thing. Kit suddenly appeared to be taking liberties, to misunderstand why she’d purchased that stupid jumping-jack. She was safer on her own.
Chapter Seven
Walking away from Kit was the right thing to do, Hattie thought as she strode away from where he stood. To stay would mean giving in to temptation and starting to believe that there was something between them. She had nearly cried when he told her the story about the jumping-jack and then he became so cold, practically accusing her of trying to interfere. And then he’d made the suggestion and it changed everything. She was not going to tumble into bed with him. Ever.
Hattie pushed past the gawkers around the find-a-penny man and the farmers and their wives outside the exotic curiosity stall. She resisted the temptation to turn around and see where Kit was.
A gypsy cart had become stuck in the middle of a boggy bit. Hattie attempted to squeeze around the back, ignoring the gypsy woman who offered to read the pretty lady’s fortune. When she was a little girl, Mrs Hampstead used to tell stories about how gypsies spirited people away, over and over again because Stephanie loved being scared. Even now, Hattie was not entirely comfortable around them. They were harmless for the most part and a simple ‘no’ generally sufficed.
A gypsy man with a scarlet bandana and a gold earring loomed up in front of her, asking if she wanted a bit of lucky heather.
Hattie shook her head ‘no’, picked up and hurried off in the opposite direction.
By the time she’d recovered her composure, she realised that she was in completely the wrong place, close to the rough end of the fair where the cockfighting and bear-baiting happened, with no easy or straightforward way to get to where Stephanie had set up camp.
She wished she had taken Kit’s offer to escort her back but that would have only prolonged the agony. It was over and done. She could go back to her dull, unexciting life.
‘Hey, watch where you are going.’ a man shouted at her and she managed to duck before she was hit by a large metal trap.
‘That was far from my fault,’ Hattie muttered and turned down another row of stalls. These were devoted to all manner of farm equipment. She turned another way and heard the cries of a cockfight. She could never understand why anyone would think such a thing was entertainment.
She rubbed her hand over her face. Several painted women sauntered passed, with swinging hips and fixed expressions. The distinct odour of stale alcohol choked the air.
Hattie picked up her skirts and began to hurry towards the ale tent. It was early enough so there should not be too great of a problem. But once there, she’d get her bearings. Stephanie was going to be annoyed. She could handle Stephanie, but she knew if anything had happened to Livvy or Portia, she’d never forgive herself.
What could she have been thinking about, going off with Kit like that? She’d abandoned Livvy for nothing but her own pleasure. Hattie quickened her steps. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Her boots seemed to pound out the words. Hattie reached for a handkerchief and covered her nostrils.
‘What’s your hurry, my dear?’ A rough hand grabbed her elbow. Her captor sported a purple scar stretching from the corner of his right eye to his nose. Two more men stood behind him, egging him on. ‘We can have some sport with this one.’
‘I am not your dear.’ Hattie drew herself up to her full height and gave her most imperious stare. The last thing she wanted to show was fear, particularly not to a man who looked the worst for drink. It was all a misunderstanding. ‘Unhand me and allow me to go about my business unhampered.’
‘Pardon me for breathing.’ His hand loosened. He said something in an undertone to his loathsome companions.
A nervous trembling filled Hattie’s limbs. It was that easy. Mrs Reynaud was right. A positive attitude could work miracles. Her virtue was her shield.
She started to move on, slowly and sedately, but purposefully. The men were drunk. They’d leave her alone. Once she’d returned to Stephanie, she was never going to hanker after travelling or adventures again.
‘Give us a kiss. Proud lady.’ Another hand caught her upper arm. The stench of sour ale and tobacco filled her nostrils. This time she was pulled back against his fat chest.
‘Let me go.’
* * *
Kit let Hattie walk away into the crowd. It had all gone wrong when she’d mentioned the name Reynaud. Stupid, really. There were hundreds of people with that name. It wasn’t Hattie’s fault that his mother had abandoned him for a Frenchman nam
ed Jacques Reynaud. The woman in question was probably another innocent caught up in the mess his mother had left behind.
He’d taken the crude and insulting way out, using his seductive voice to make suggestions, making her unsure. He’d known that she’d leave. Coward that he was. And all because of a name from the past that should no longer have any power. He was a man, not a youth who had been teased endlessly about his mother and her morals. Disgust filled him. He knew the proper way to act in society. But it was better this way. Their friendship had to end before...before he started to care.
He curled his hand about the jumping-jack and regarded the various faces of the farm labourers and other men. The noise from the ale tent had increased. Hattie might think that she didn’t need his help, but he was not about to abandon her. Not when it was his fault to begin with.
He watched her take a wrong turning and then followed a few paces behind. Once she was back with her family, he’d relax and she’d cease to be his problem.
He lost sight of her when she rounded the gypsy caravan. Kit went down one aisle and then another, but nowhere did he see Hattie’s back. He started to circle around towards the ale tent, ignoring the shorter route by the cock and bear pits. Hattie with her strict sensibilities would never go there.
Let me go.
Her voice floated on the air.
Kit broke into a run. Near the cockpit, he saw her, surrounded by a group of farmhands who were the worse for wear with drink. Several of them gave coarse laughs and called out obscene suggestions.
Hattie’s hand beat against the largest one’s chest. Her straw bonnet had slipped off her head and lay abandoned in the mud. Kit cursed. Her predicament was all his fault.
He knew the dangers that a fair could bring and he’d been the one to allow her to wander about on her own. His mistake and he always owned up.
He glanced around. Four against one. The odds were not good, but he refused to stand by. Going and fetching the parish constable was not an option. But if he started something, others would join in and lend a hand.
Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match Page 10
