by Martha Keyes
Samuel’s own mouth resisted his attempts to fight off a smile. “She had an eventful arrival. A broken carriage wheel, the blame for which she places squarely on our shoulders and the dismal state of the roads.”
“What? And no blame left for whatever fool of a driver failed to slow down?”
Samuel raised his brows significantly.
“She sounds worse than the Gilmours. I retract my suggestion for a match between the two of you and ask your pardon.”
Samuel chuckled. “Even had you not, I’m afraid the prospect was doomed from the start, as she has an opinion of me no higher than she has of our village.”
Burke clapped him on the back. “Her mistake. Fear not, though. We won’t let these Town folk ruin what we have here.”
Samuel pointed at the garden dirt, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. “I fear that what I have here is being ruined—just as you predicted—by an inordinate number of slugs.” He kicked at one with the toe of his boot, but it stuck in place.
Burke squatted down and squinted at the tender leaves, parting a couple of the larger ones with a finger. “Ah. There’s one—no, two.”
A small black beetle scurried out of the nearest plant, away from the slugs, and Samuel let out a frustrated gush of air, lifting his foot and smashing it.
“Ho!” Burke cried, watching the action with dismay.
Samuel moved his boot and cringed at the remains of the insect. “The garden is overrun with all manner of critters. With every passing year, I become more convinced that I am no gardener and never shall be.”
“Well, you certainly won’t be if you’re forever smashing things!”
Samuel chuckled. “What, you want me to let the slugs and beetles have free rein?”
“Slugs? No! Beetles?” He shrugged. “That depends. If it’s like the one you just stepped on, then yes.”
Samuel reared back. “Beetles don’t belong in my garden, Burke. I remember your lecture on the subject very well from the first year I attempted to grow anything in this miserable plot of land.”
“And I was telling you the truth. Most beetles are enemies to these plants of yours. But not him.” Burke pointed to the remnants of the critter. “The more you see of him, the less you see of the slugs.”
Samuel tilted his head to look up at Burke through narrowed eyes. “How in the world do you come by such obscure facts?”
He gripped Samuel by the shoulder. “They’re not obscure when your livelihood depends on them. And now that you’ve killed your only friend in this garden”—his eyes twinkled—“shall we head to the vestry?”
Chapter 6
Georgiana pulled at her lip thoughtfully as she sat in the parlor at Granchurch House. Jane was already on her way back to London on the stagecoach, and Aunt Sara was resting in her room. Apparently she never came down for breakfast, so Georgiana had paid her a visit in the late morning.
She found Aunt Sara to be both amusing and difficult to understand. She was kindness itself, but it was clear that she had no desire for constant companionship.
Unneeded as Georgiana was, she was left to puzzle out the wisdom of attending the vestry meeting she had assured Mr. Derrick she would attend. When Aunt Sara had made it known that Mr. Derrick was the vicar, Georgiana’s shame at the way she had treated him and spoken of his parish was compounded.
To be sure, she still found herself at a loss to understand why the village would allow the roads to remain in such a deplorable state, but she was usually not so forward with her criticisms, and it was apparent that the vicar had not appreciated her words. Indeed, how could he have?
Part of her wished to stay indoors and hope to heaven that the vicar would forget her behavior. But she had assured him that she would be in attendance, and she hardly wished to add to his ill opinion of her—and as a result, the ill opinion of the village—by disregarding that promise.
She glanced at the ticking clock on the mantel. She had just enough time to slip on a pelisse and make her way to the church. Perhaps she would even have time for a word with the vicar if she moved quickly—a chance to set at rights his opinion of her. Why she found that to be such a pressing matter, she couldn’t say—or preferred not to pursue.
She hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber, chose a crimson pelisse to wear over her pale yellow muslin, and slipped on her bonnet and gloves on her way down the stairs. It would be her first time venturing out of Granchurch House, and she was curious about what she would find in this mysterious village. She had been too agitated on the walk to Granchurch to appreciate her surroundings. Besides, this was an opportunity to revel in precisely the freedom she had been anticipating in coming to Rushbury: a solitary walk.
Granchurch House was set at the top of a narrow lane leading down toward the village, the dirt track up to it flanked on both sides by drystone walls, which were blanketed in most parts by a thick layer of lichen and moss. Georgiana determinedly pushed aside the memory of traipsing up the hill with two heavy portmanteaux in hand—she would give Rushbury a fair chance to charm her.
The gray skies and somber hues of a landscape still struggling to climb out of winter surrounded her. It was a bit dreary, particularly compared to the sunny, blue skies and emerging daisies of London. She chafed her arms and then pulled her pelisse more tightly around her. The cold had much more bite to it here.
It made sense, of course. The descriptions she had heard of Yorkshire were all given by those who had visited during the summertime. March in Yorkshire looked much like January in London and Surrey.
The church came into view, the cemetery covered by a canopy of large, leafless branches from two trees that must have been there for well over a hundred years. A small lane curved around one side of the church. Georgiana squinted to see through the trees and thought she recognized the outline of what must be the parsonage—it was quite a bit larger than Georgiana would have expected in a village as small as Rushbury. Its gray stones perfectly complemented the darker patches of cloud in the skies above.
She followed the lane leading up to the church door, her nerves fluttering in a way they hadn’t since her first Season in London. How ironic that it would be the prospect of meeting a small group of rural, working villagers that would strike fear into her heart, when she could have waltzed into the grandest of London balls with complete calm.
She pulled open the door, wincing as its creaking echoed throughout the nave. The church was cold inside, even colder than the outside air, and she walked as quickly and noiselessly as she could in the direction she expected to find the vestry.
A man stepped out from a doorway nestled between a break in the pews, his eyes finding Georgiana and his brows raising slightly. He wore a well-used brown greatcoat with just one cape and a tricorn hat, which he removed as he stepped out into the stone path.
“Good day, miss,” he said with a bow. “How may I help you?”
She clasped her gloved hands together, successfully stopping their tendency to tremble, and smiled. “I am looking for the vestry—I understood that the meeting was to begin at four o’clock?”
His jaw opened wordlessly for a moment, as though he didn’t know what to make of what she had said.
“Georgiana Paige, sir,” she offered, and his eyes widened slightly. “I am newly arrived here and shall be staying with my Aunt Sara at Granchurch House.” She paused. “Do you know her?”
The man chuckled. “Aye, miss. In a place like this, one cannot help but be known, for better or for worse.” He took a step toward her and bowed. “The name is Michael Burke. I serve as the constable here in Rushbury. I understand you had a bit of an ordeal arriving.”
“Oh dear,” she said, untying the ribbons of her bonnet with a self-deprecating laugh. “It is just as I feared. My reputation precedes me—as a difficult, grumbling faultfinder, no doubt.”
Mr. Burke shook his head. “Losing a wheel would try anyone’s patience, miss.”
She smiled at him. “I think I might have bo
rne that well enough if it hadn’t been for the encounter before it.”
“Encounter?”
“Yes, with a highwayman. But happily, he was no match for my pistol, so it did not end so terribly, after all.”
Mr. Burke looked at her, blinking slowly. “You shot the man?”
She gave a little laugh. “No. I think my courage might have failed me if he had persisted enough to require that. I merely pointed it at him.”
“Well,” Mr. Burke said, looking very much struck, “I think even a saint would be hard put not to grumble after the likes of what you were put through, and I am very sorry for it. Come.” He gestured for her to follow him. “Everyone is in the vestry.”
Her heart quickened again. Who precisely was everyone? She had never attended a vestry meeting before, but she imagined that all of the most important people in the village would be in attendance. And if Mr. Burke’s words were any indication, they were already aware at least of the irregularity of her arrival in their village.
She tried to still the silly nerves that made her feet suddenly feel awkward, and she ran a hand down her dress, glad to be holding her bonnet in the other hand, if only for something to keep her hands occupied.
Her eyes had no trouble at all finding Mr. Derrick in the room, for he was the only person unseated. He leaned against the square wooden credens which contained the vestments and hangings and held an account book in his hand, supporting it with one hand and running a finger along one of the pages.
Something about him held her gaze. What was it? Certainly he was handsome—though with his low-set, thick brows and the shadow of stubble around his angular jaw, his attraction was more rugged than Georgiana was wont to admire. But that was not it.
She felt a prickling at the nape of her neck that let her know that she was the center of attention at that moment. Mr. Derrick looked up, at which point not a pair of eyes was directed anywhere but Georgiana’s face.
“Everyone, I am pleased to introduce you to Miss Georgiana Paige,” said Mr. Burke. “She is the niece of our own Miss Paige and will be staying with her at Granchurch House.”
Mr. Derrick stared at her, only one long blink interrupting his focus until Mr. Burke cleared his throat. Mr. Derrick shut the account book with a loud snap, flinching a bit, and strode toward her.
“Miss Paige,” he said. “How very pleased I am to see you here.”
Georgiana rubbed her lips together, but she couldn’t stop a smile. “I somehow find that hard to believe.” She kept her voice low.
His lip twitched. “Ah, you must learn not to believe the worst of us here.”
“Touchée,” she said, taking a seat in the empty chair he indicated.
Mr. Burke shot a mysterious but significant look at Mr. Derrick, who returned it with the briefest of exasperated expressions before leaning against the sacristy credens again.
“Welcome, friends,” he said, his eyes flitting to Georgiana, who resisted shifting in her chair. She did not fall under that umbrella term, and she had a hard time believing that she ever would as she looked around at the other faces in the room.
For the first time in her life, she felt uncomfortably conscious of her clothing—that her pelisse and the dress beneath had only been worn a few times, that it was obscenely colorful in a place so uniformly gray and muted as were Rushbury and its people, who were all attired in various shades of brown and gray. It was impossible to tell whether some of the brown she saw was simply the color of the fabric or caused by dirt and much wear.
Everyone chuckled at a comment made by Mr. Derrick, and Georgiana glanced at him, her heart skipping a beat at the unexpected sight of his smile.
The rugged soberness was completely displaced as his mouth stretched into a large grin and his eyes wrinkled at the sides. And she suddenly knew what it was about him that had struck her.
He looked at home— so very comfortable and relaxed, so perfectly meant to be exactly where he was, as if the church and the room would have been incomplete without him.
Georgiana blinked. What strange thoughts to have about someone she knew not at all.
But no. There was no doubt at all how very much he belonged exactly where he was.
A pang of jealousy rang in her heart.
“What of the new folk at Amblethorne?” asked one of the villagers, a tall, lanky man with a dirty face and tousled, sandy hair. “What do ye make of ‘em, vicar?”
Mr. Derrick glanced at Mr. Burke, and Georgiana adjusted in her seat. If she had not been there, no doubt the people would have inquired after her as well—if they hadn’t already, of course.
“I visited Sir Clyde and Lady Gilmour the other day, though for only a few minutes. I think,” he said slowly, “that we will all do well to tread carefully around the Gilmours. They seem to have plans and visions for Rushbury, and I would not wish for any of you to make an enemy of them.”
He was obviously choosing his words carefully.
The low rumble of murmuring sounded. They were clearly nervous at Mr. Derrick’s words.
“May they go the way of all the rest who’ve lived at Amblethorne, then!” said a short, plump woman, swiping at the air with her hand. “Only more quickly. For we don’t want ‘em!”
Grumbles of assent were uttered by the others, but Mr. Derrick shook his head.
“We must do our best not to alienate them, but rather help them understand the way things are done in Rushbury.”
“They won’t listen to the likes of us!” said the sandy-haired man. “Gentry morts only care for the opinions of their own kind.”
Mr. Derrick’s eyes found Georgiana, and she fiddled with the edge of her kid glove. It seemed a very unfair characterization of her fellows, but she could hardly say so here.
“Well, I’m afraid we have no choice but to do our very best to win them over—”
The plump woman scoffed.
“—or at least,” Mr. Derrick continued determinedly, “not give them any reason to take us in dislike. Let us move on to other matters, though. I know that Miss Paige had a very particular reason for wishing to attend today’s meeting.”
Georgiana’s head came up, feeling everyone’s eyes once again upon her, both curious and wary.
She looked at Mr. Derrick, her nostrils flaring. It was terribly rude of him to put her back at the center of everyone’s notice when she was a stranger amongst them—and an unwelcome one, by all appearances.
“Not at all,” she said through a smile of clenched teeth, hoping he took the warning in her eyes.
She had the distinct impression that Mr. Derrick was enjoying her discomfiture. Perhaps he felt she deserved it after the way she had treated him yesterday. She had never had as much control over her tongue as she wished, but it had been particularly unruly after the difficult journey. Any remorse she had felt, though, began to dissipate under his treatment of her now.
“Did you not wish to speak to the matter of our roads?” he said with a puzzled brow that looked forced.
She cleared her throat. “I merely thought that the state of the roads might be prioritized as an issue, as it is clear they are in need of repair.” She smiled and looked around the room. “I cannot be the only one to have had such thoughts.”
Murmurs sounded, punctuated by sidelong glances from the whispering villagers, and warmth seeped into her cheeks. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything. Surely the villagers didn’t believe their roads to be above reproach?
“I believe there was another phrase you used to refer to our roads…what was it?” Mr. Derrick squinted and tapped his fist against his lips.
War zone. She had said the roads near Rushbury resembled more of a war zone than anything. She held his eyes, as if the heat flooding her cheeks might somehow transfer to him and scald him. He would deserve it. If he repeated her words, she might bid farewell to any hope of making a good impression amongst the village.
“Ah, well,” he said, brushing the thought away with a careless hand. “I c
annot for the life of me remember. But we are all very anxious, nonetheless, to hear whatever you have to say about the improvement of our roads, are we not?” He looked around at the group expectantly, but only Mr. Burke nodded decisively, while the others shifted their gazes from one to another and then back to Georgiana.
She smiled nervously at the villagers.
“No, we are not,” said Mrs. Green. “She’s been here a day and thinks to tell us how to manage our affairs, does she? Just like the Gilmours, no doubt. Just who are any of them to tell us about how things should be done here?” The squat woman with a hand on her hip let her evaluative gaze travel over Georgiana. “Yet another gentry mort trying to bring London where no one wants it.”
Georgiana’s muscles tensed. She had anticipated that the villagers would need time to thaw to her, but she had not expected outright hostility. Was every village so opposed to newcomers?
Mr. Derrick glanced at Georgiana, and she thought she saw an almost apologetic glint appear in his eyes, as if he had awoken a monster and felt responsible. “Hardly, Mrs. Green. I think that she merely believes the roads could use more tending to.”
Mrs. Green laughed, her bosom shaking along with her belly. “And I suppose she’s ready to shovel and smooth the dirt herself?” She nodded her head at Georgiana’s crimson pelisse.
A few chuckles sounded around the room, and Georgiana glanced down at her clothing. Only for a moment did she consider lashing back. She would not repeat her behavior from the day before. And she could hardly blame the people for laughing. The image of her with a shovel in hand must have been preposterous. “I certainly cannot vouch for my abilities with a shovel” — she smiled sheepishly at the villagers — “but I would like to help in whatever way I can.”
Mr. Derrick was watching her with narrowed eyes, the beginnings of a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. He doubted her sincerity—that much was obvious. “In that case,” he said, “perhaps you would like to assume the role we need filled since Mr. Wood’s departure for Leeds.” He looked down at the paper he held in hand. “It is one of our main items of business today.”
