The Slightest Provocation

Chapter Ten

If the village of Grefford were any different from a hundred others along the coach route, it wouldn’t be apparent to a stranger upon first arrival. There were the usual shops-butcher, baker, post office, apothecary, and well-stocked dry goods establishment among them. The church was at the end of High Street, the coaching inn just off the market square. The neighborhood’s less prosperous residents lived farther out from the village center and so were less visible than they might be-except for a few men who spent their spare hours arguing the issues of the day with Mr. Williams, the shoemaker.

Village life being of a comforting daily sameness, a coach’s arrival could be depended upon to precipitate some interest-or even excitement, if the approaching vehicle weren’t part of the regular service between London and Chesterfield.

Peggy was the first to hear it from inside Mrs. Roberts’s shop, where she’d been making orders according to the list Lady Christopher had made her go around home to fetch. For they needed heaps of things quite suddenly, some Grandin family members having taken it into their heads to arrive sooner than expected-as though there weren’t enough work already, in preparation for the house party.

Not to speak of all the disputation about Miss Grandin’s new gowns, which had thrown the young lady into a fit of the sullens and her mother and aunt even worse. Not that any of it should have given Lady Christopher the right to be so sharp with Peggy this morning-blaming her for the shopping list her ladyship had forgotten herself, and then making her go back to fetch it in the tiring midday heat.

All because of a length of lace trimming along the neckline of a gown. As though an inch of skin at a young lady’s bosom could mean…

But Peggy knew full well what it could mean. So when she’d heard the coach (for Tom had explained to her the particular kind of jingling a superior set of springs would make, and now she knew how to listen for it), she’d become very still and alert, though the vehicle was still a bit off in the distance.

It would be the dowager marchioness, and Tom with her.

She ran out the door, standing entranced in front of the casks and kegs and rushes for brooms, to wait for the coach to come into view. Enjoying her anticipation of what he’d look like up there on the box next to Mr. Frayne, sun lighting his face and shoulders-it was like she could already see him leaping off in his graceful way, legs flashing in their breeches and white stockings, when he’d arrive at the Dower House at Rowen, to help the marchioness out the door.

She’d call out, catch his eye, wave to him and Mr. Frayne as they drove by…

Except that it wasn’t Mr. Frayne driving the coach. Nor was the big noodle of a footman sitting up there anything like Tom.

Oh, it was one of the Rowen coaches-for hadn’t Tom told her there was more than one? It had the crest on its door. But it wasn’t the one the marchioness had lent them in France, nor was it the marchioness riding inside. The passenger’s handsome boots preceded the rest of him out of the coach. Peggy wasn’t the only person on the street who watched the whole of him stroll over to the shoemaker’s shop while the coach continued on its way. Toward Rowen, she supposed.

But she found that she didn’t care where he or the coach was going. Nor was it her job to go inform anyone of this new arrival. In fact, it was no concern whatsoever of Peggy Weightman’s if Lady Christopher found out quite for herself, in full view of everyone in the square, the surprising news of who’d arrived in Grefford just now. For her employer would be finishing her call upon Cathy Williams (Peggy smiled, just a bit wickedly), and very soon indeed.

“It’ll be better, Lady Christopher,” Cathy Williams said, “for Miss Grandin to have her brother and cousin to occupy her these days than you and her mother.”

Mary suspected that the schoolmistress was right. After all, she did know young people. Too bad she couldn’t have taken on Elizabeth’s education.

And yes, it would be worth anything to get the girl off their hands-even four unexpected early guests due to arrive while the water closets were undergoing renovation.

No matter, Mary thought, we’ll put them in the older wing of the house, where there are no improvements to worry about. At any rate, it would be a felicitous combination of guests: Jessie’s son was bringing a friend, and Fannie Grandin was traveling with a chaperone. The chaperone was a distinct advantage; she could shepherd the four young people through picnics and tours of the countryside, leaving Mary and Jessie free to plan two weeks of menus, to see to the linen and silver… And to begin considering the project Cathy had proposed to Mary this morning.

“Because it’s such a splendid project, Cathy, that we shall want to begin as soon as possible.” Mary shook the schoolmistress’s hand and picked up her basket, emptied now of the apple tarts she’d brought when she’d walked out to the village this morning.

Trust Cathy to think of building a cistern in the village, so the local women could get their water close to home and not have to trudge all the way downhill to the spring. The school was prospering too, the girls actually learning their French and history rather than parroting it back as rote nonsense. Her call here this morning had entirely raised her spirits.

There’d have to be a committee, to raise funds. Jessica would probably preside if Mary promised to take charge of the accounts, at least temporarily, before she left with Matthew. Perhaps they could hold an assembly, sell tickets as the people of Cauthorn did for their medical clinic.

The tiny girl who’d escorted her through the garden held the gate open and curtsied. As Mary bent to kiss the child’s cheek, she found herself thinking about the forgotten shopping list-which, if truth be told, hadn’t been Peggy’s fault in the slightest.

She’d apologize directly after she posted her letter. And Matthew would also be a great help, both with money and expertise; no doubt he understood how things like wells and cisterns actually worked. Together he and she could do a lot of good in the world. A few months, a year perhaps, of unpleasantness during the divorce proceedings, and her life would finally take a reasonable shape.

She smiled and bowed to the vicar’s wife as they passed one another in the street. The village remained a comfort in its imperviousness to fashion, soothing monotony of conversation, the friendly, respectful faces she’d known all her life, stately pace of calls made and compliments exchanged.

While at Beechwood Knolls… absurd, the tumult over Elizabeth’s gowns. Impressive in its way, the girl’s instinct for what would most infuriate her mother.

“We shall be going to call at Rowen in two hours,” Jessica had told her, as the maid folded the fabric. “And don’t be late.”

“Of course I won’t. I like the Marchioness Susanna, even if you don’t.”

Mildly funny now, the mirror expressions of exasperation on their fair faces. Less funny this morning. All Mary had wanted was to escape to the village. And so she’d rushed away, forgetting all about the shopping list and then insisting that it had been Peggy’s responsibility to bring it.

Still, Peggy looked less aggrieved than Mary would have expected, idly examining the assortment of goods displayed in Mrs. Roberts’s front window, and now raising her head to gaze down across the square to the street that led you to the shoemaker and the post office (yes, and Mary must not forget to post the letter). Ah, a gentleman was coming from that direction. Well, that would explain it.

Hmmm, and he was looking rather well turned out in a neat blue coat too, and-damn and double damn, as she recognized him-he was quite evidently the cause for Peggy’s wicked good cheer.

The shoemaker had promised to fix the boot heel in a week. It seemed to Kit an excessive wait, but Williams had gestured at the unimpressive assemblage of footwear on his shelves. I’ve got all these to attend to first, you see, my lord-spoken to emphasize that Kit wasn’t his lord, not really. While the hardened, blackened hand indicated that every shabby boot and patten was equally deserving of his attention as a Stansell’s unevenly worn-down heel.

Hardly surprising, Kit thought-even if one hadn’t read Wat’s letters. The Grefford people (and their children too) had always prided themselves on their independence, one might say their superiority, to their counterparts who lived and worked on the Rowen estate.

“As you will.” He’d send the boot with his man tomorrow.

Williams had returned a summary nod, and Kit stepped outside and around the corner to the sunny village square, where a very long time ago, Joshua Penley’s daughter had stared up at him from amid a ragged gang of children-and he’d done his best not to appear to notice her.

He remembered mounting his horse and turning away as though deaf to the faint jeers at his back. Directing their horses back toward Rowen, he and Will had ridden past a lovely-looking woman he thought must be Mrs. Penley. Her walk had a sort of floating quality, even as she made her brisk way toward the square, carrying a large basket on her arm. She’d appeared to be gazing sympathetically at him, her concern as irksome to him as her grubby little daughter’s hostility.

Or perhaps he’d simply been envious of the daughter and her place in the game of hare and hounds. As a boy he’d done a lot of things to make the old marquess angry, but playing with the village children would have been unthinkable. Even supposing they’d wanted to play with him.

For a confused moment, he thought he saw Mrs. Penley again, in a white dress with tiny black dots printed over it, black shawl, and a deep straw bonnet. Floating toward him with a basket on her arm.

But Mrs. Penley had died a number of years ago.

Odd, the tricks the mind played; Mary didn’t resemble her mother very much at all. Jessica, he recalled, was the tall, blond sister, while Julia was shorter, dark like Mr. Penley (he’d rather admired how Mary’s mother had never slouched in a misguided effort to make her barrel-shaped husband appear taller). Pink-cheeked, brown-eyed Mary was somewhere in the middle, a bit like each parent but generally like neither-a changeling, he’d once called her, stolen from her cradle by fairies; she’d giggled, they’d kissed and then they’d kissed again (kissing, at the time, being something they were confident of, while other kinds of touching were still new, strange, and a bit frightening).

She a changeling, and he (as he’d once overheard a nursery maid call him) a little dark secret. Neither of them belonging to anyone but the other. Or so they’d vowed and so they’d believed-before life and other people and their own frailties and foolishness had gotten between them and shown them what all of that was worth.

Surprising, then, to observe how she’d grown into her mother’s grace, her impatient stride and gestures moderated, at least in this familiar setting, by an air of being at ease and at home.

Dammit, it was his home too.

After which observation he had to wonder how long he’d been standing with his mouth agape while people passed by him on either side. He couldn’t swear to it, but she appeared to have paused in her steps as well.

The church clock struck a quarter past noon.

She started forward and so did he. The dusty haze of midday sunshine glared off the shop windows. He squinted to get his bearings.

The footpath to Rowen Park was over to the left. He could remember it quite clearly. It was the direct way to go; the more picturesque path took you on a meandering stroll through the forest and connected you to some more obscure little byways.

But he’d already lingered too long. At Rowen, the coachman would have informed them of his arrival by now; Susanna would have had time to get Wat ready to see him. Which was why he’d stopped in the village in the first place-to give them a little time to prepare. Well, wasn’t that why he’d stopped in the village?

He and she were only a few feet apart. He paused long enough to bow. More of a nod, he expected. She nodded back and swept impatiently around the corner to the post office. He shrugged and turned away toward Rowen.

How many people had there been in the square? Quite a few, Mary thought, by the number of curious gazes she could feel prickling her skin.

No matter. He and she hadn’t spoken. Their legal separation was still in evidence. Everything was coldly proper.

Nor was there a need to apologize to Peggy-at least not in so many words. Sufficient for Mary to nod (as a concession of defeat) and then to shrug her shoulders to signal that she wouldn’t be making unfair accusations anytime soon.

And yes, as her sister and niece were good enough to report at dinner, they had seen him at Rowen. He’d arrived just as they’d been taking their leave.

Which was too bad, for Mary had hoped to discuss the cistern project. Or Fred’s and Fannie’s impending visits. Or anything else in the world. Algebra, perhaps.

Mercifully, Elizabeth kept herself relatively quiet, as though occupied with thoughts too interesting to share with her mother and aunt. While Jessica, on the other hand, seemed to feel it incumbent to observe that she, for one, had “found him much improved when we encountered him today at Rowen, Mary. Even if you might not agree.

“Oh, and by the way,” she added, “he’ll be reading the lesson at church tomorrow, in his brother’s place.”

It seemed that his sister-in-law had insisted upon it. She’d be speaking to the vicar about it. And his brother had looked very pleased at the notion.

Which meant that if she wanted to avoid stares and unpleasantness, Mary would have to remain at home.

She responded with a snort of disbelief at the thought of Kit peering sternly down over the lectern as the old marquess had done. Absurd, sanctimonious.

And was she to be shut up at Beechwood Knolls while he had the run of the neighborhood?

“It’s as though he believes himself some personification of order and rectitude these days. He’ll enjoy walking about Grefford, people gazing respectfully at him, when in his heart he’s really the same unruly…”

“Odd,” Jessica said, “I’ve heard you say quite similar things about yourself on your visits home. And after all, he is a war hero now.”

Perhaps. If a bit ungenerous of Jessie to point it out.

“As well,” Elizabeth added, “as seeming quite the orderly, polite, respectable gentleman.” Shrugging her slender shoulders. “At least to me.”

But that surely was a bit much to swallow. Mary narrowed her eyes at her niece. “Yes,” she said, “and you like the young marchioness as well.”

Traitors. The wretched girl and her mother both.

Jessica burst into peals of sudden laughter. The three women looked curiously at each other, none of them quite sure for the moment just where her own loyalty lay.