back so Gervase stood front and center of their little group-with Madeline by his side.
She could do nothing but smile amiably, her attention shifting to Gervase as he smoothly and with transparent sincerity welcomed the crowd to the castle, then briefly outlined the schedule of events, remembering to note the numerous new additions. He named the members of the committee to grateful applause, then concluded with his own wishes that everyone enjoy their day and the efforts of their fellows displayed on the trestles, booths and tents filling the forecourt.
He then declared the festival officially open, to which the crowd responded with a rousing cheer.
The crowd dispersed, fanning out to fill the aisles between the booths and stalls. Turning to her and the other committee members, Gervase smiled, clearly pleased and at ease. He complimented Mrs. Entwhistle, who looked thoroughly relieved now her planning had come to fruition; Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Caterham exchanged quick encouraging words, then hurried off to supervise the judging of the first competitions.
“Don’t forget, my lord,” Mrs. Juliard called from halfway down the steps. “We’ll need you to present the knitting and embroidery prizes in half an hour.”
Gervase acknowledged the appointment with a nod. When, preparing to descend once more to the forecourt, he tucked her hand firmly back in the crook of his arm, Madeline told herself she was being overly sensitive-no one else seemed to see anything remotely noteworthy in him keeping her so blatantly by his side.
Just as well; he seemed determined not to let her go. Whether he viewed her in part as a crutch or a shield, she didn’t know, but he plainly believed her rightful position was beside him. She felt a touch wary; it should have been his countess on his arm-would people imagine she had designs on the title?
She watched the reactions of all, gentry and countrymen alike, yet when they joined Mrs. Juliard beside the displays of local knitting and embroidery, despite the many they’d encountered not one seemed to view her presence by Gervase’s side as in any way remarkable.
Passing along the display, watching Gervase pretend an interest no one imagined he truly had, she leaned closer and murmured, “You don’t have the first notion of the difference between petit point and gros point.”
“Not the first, second or any notion whatever.” He met her eyes. “Does it matter?”
She grinned and patted his arm. “Just take your cue from Mrs. Juliard.” She’d intended delivering him to that worthy and stepping back, but again, the instant she drew her hand from his sleeve, he captured it.
He kept her beside him-trapped between him and Mrs. Juliard-while he smiled, presented the prizes to the beaming ladies and shook their hands.
When they eventually moved on, her hand once more on his sleeve, she looked at him. “I can’t remain forever by your side.”
He raised his brows. “Why not?”
“Because…” Looking into his amber eyes, she realized there wasn’t any good answer-any answer he might accept.
Understanding her dilemma, he grinned. “This time, the organization isn’t your responsibility-indeed, the only responsibility you can lay claim to is to guide me through the local social shoals, and otherwise to enjoy yourself.”
She humphed. Muttered, “Enjoying myself can hardly be classed a responsibility.”
Yet as they circled the forecourt again, she found herself noticing and taking in-enjoying-a great deal more of the festival’s delights and its atmosphere than she ever had. The wares displayed in the booths and on the long trestles were fascinating and tempting, the produce arrayed on the various stalls impressive. She bought lace, two pairs of gloves and a long roll of ribbon. The lace and ribbon she tucked into the pockets of her apple-green walking dress; Gervase helpfully volunteered his coat pocket for her gloves.
The hours flew. Every so often they were summoned by one or other of the committee members so Gervase could announce the winners and award prizes for the various competitions. The one for the best local ale was clearly his favorite; having weathered the knitting and embroidery competitions, none of the other crafts presented any real challenge.
Everyone lunched on traditional local fare-pies, pasties and sandwiches-provided by the local bakers and pie- makers in conjunction with the taverns who had set up tents and benches to serve the hungry festival goers. Madeline sat on a bench in the sunshine beside Gervase, and neatly consumed a pastie while he devoured three pies. When he asked, she had to admit that she was indeed enjoying herself; she’d never felt so relaxed, not during a festival.
Whether it was the effect of the warm sunshine, or the relief that everything was running so smoothly, or the inevitable effect of being surrounded by so many people all enjoying such simple pleasures, as the afternoon wore on she started to feel she was viewing the world-a familiar yet different world-through rose-tinted spectacles.
Nothing seemed able or likely to dim her mood.
Not even sighting the Helston Grange party amid the crowd. They’d arrived in the early afternoon; one group of fashionable ladies gowned more appropriately for a stroll in Hyde Park were progressing down one aisle, eyeing the country wares with a disdainful air.
Noting the sniffs and dark looks aimed at their backs, Madeline hid a smile; if the ladies had glimpsed those reactions, they wouldn’t be feeling quite so superior.
“And that, I assume,” Gervase murmured from beside her, “is Robert Hardesty.”
Madeline followed his nod to where Lady Hardesty was strolling down another aisle on the arm of a handsome dark-haired gentleman Madeline hadn’t set eyes on before. The pair was closely attended by Mr. Courtland and two others she’d seen at the vicarage-with Robert Hardesty trailing in their wake.
“Yes, that’s Robert.” Madeline watched for a moment; it was almost as if a small cloud had appeared to mar the otherwise glorious day, and was hanging over Robert Hardesty’s head. His expression was not blank but undecided, as if he were unsure what feelings to express, yet…“He doesn’t look happy.” He looked like a dejected, rejected puppy.
“Certainly not an advertisement for the joys of matrimony,” Gervase dryly remarked.
Madeline grimaced. “No, indeed.”
Although neat and well dressed by country standards, set against his wife’s sophistication and the transparently polished appearance and address of her court, Robert looked like the youthful country-bred baronet he was; he couldn’t, and likely never would, hold a candle to his wife’s admirers.
More importantly, Lady Hardesty was making not the smallest effort to suggest she had even the most perfunctory interest in him.
Lips thinning, Madeline eyed the spectacle for a moment longer, then looked around, noting numerous others- Mr. Maple and his sister, the Juliards, the Caterhams-who were likewise viewing the small scene. A vignette among many, yet it spoke so clearly-and, did she but know it, would assure Lady Hardesty of no fond welcome in local social circles.
“From which performance I deduce”-Gervase turned her away, steering her toward the east wall-“that her ladyship harbors no ambition to be accepted into local drawing rooms other than on sufferance.”
Madeline raised her brows. “So it would appear.”
They didn’t speak again of Robert Hardesty, but that vision of him, of the demonstrated unequalness of his marriage and the unhappiness that flowed from that, hovered at the back of her mind-the small dark cloud in her otherwise glorious firmament.
“Your brothers seem uncommonly interested in what my father would have termed ‘female geegaws.’” Gervase nodded to where Harry and Edmond, with Ben darting ahead or pushing between, seemed absorbed in ribbons and lace doilies.
Madeline grinned; tugging on Gervase’s arm, she drew him away.
He would have led her to them; arching a brow, he fell in with her wishes.
Smiling, she looked ahead. “It’s my birthday in a few days. I invariably receive trinkets and furbelows chosen from the festival stalls.”
“Ah.” After a moment, he said, “I suppose, down here, there aren’t all that many alternative sources of inspiration.”
“Actually”-leaning close, she confessed-“I always find myself examining the items displayed and cataloguing any that I might find myself unwrapping in a few days. It’s become something of a game to see if I can identify what will catch their eye when they think of me.”
He glanced at her. “And do you guess correctly?’
