To his surprise, Gladys looked intrigued. “I do like a good ale. Hmm. All right, two o’clock. We can meet in front of the Blushing Maid Inn.”
“We’ll have another hour together?”
“Up to an hour.” She wiggled the hourglass. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“I suppose we will.” He smiled.
This time, he would make sure she had no interest in walking away.
Chapter 14
The following, slightly overcast afternoon, Gladys curled her hand around Reuben’s elbow. Like yesterday, she would not be able to begin the countdown until they were settled at their final destination and there was somewhere stable to set her hourglass.
She wondered if he, too, realized he’d be allowed slightly more than his allotted hour, and if so, what he made of the development. Did he think he was winning? What game did he believe afoot?
When they’d first been reunited in the statue garden, she’d clearly meant no more to him than she had during their first disastrous encounter: a nameless, forgettable wench with which to exchange a torrid kiss—or more—and never think of again.
But the brewer’s field they were quickly drawing closer to was not a place for seduction. It was crowded, hectic, and highly public. Much like the wide pedestrian area at the center of the hedgerow labyrinth.
If anyone was winning this game, it was Gladys. The rake was firmly on her hook, dangling helplessly in response to her every whim. That her deepest desire was revenge, not conjugal bliss, was a little secret he would discover soon enough.
Reuben grinned at her. “The brewer’s field is just ahead.”
“I had no idea,” Gladys replied with a straight face.
The brewer’s field could be heard long before it could be seen. When their steps drew them within a hundred yards, the dull roar of drunken conversations punctuated by the occasional clink of ale mugs drifted with the wind, despite the six-foot-tall boundary of thick, flowering elderberry bushes enclosing the eponymous field.
They entered through an open brass gate and were immediately greeted with a sea of scarred circular, gray stone tables, around which hundreds of happy men perched on old curved stone benches, drinking and speaking animatedly with their compatriots.
Gladys wasn’t the only woman present… but it was close. This must be where the menfolk came whilst their wives and daughters were off shopping or promenading or taking tea in proper parlors like civilized ladies.
Gladys much preferred being uncivilized. She hadn’t been proper in years. But she wasn’t quite certain how to take Reuben’s easy acceptance of her complicit behavior. Had he sussed her out as no sort of lady from the moment he’d grabbed her in the statue garden? Or was he so used to being around a fast crowd in London, that the idea of propriety was the farthest consideration from his mind?
“Any specific ale you’d like to try first?” he asked.
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Then let’s start here.” He paused before the first vendor’s booth and exchanged a coin for a pair of foaming ales.
Gladys accepted her half-pint with both hands.
“If the mugs are smaller than you’re used to,” he explained, “it’s because these are meant to be samples. Brewers come from all over England to put up booths here during the festival, in the hopes of attracting new customers year round.”
“It looks like it’s working.”
“Does it?” Reuben made a doubtful face. “Many of these men are so sotted, they wouldn’t know a brewer from a badger if one bit them on the nose. The vendors hand out calling cards to anyone who asks, but after the fourth or fifth ale, I’d be surprised if anyone could remember the nuances differentiating their first mug from the second.”
“At least the vendors are making money?”
“Good money, I imagine. Several of them have told me they raise more here in one week than they usually earn in an entire month.”
“A frequent customer then, are you?”
“The frequentest.” He grinned at her, and held out his mug. “To not remembering what this tastes like an hour from now.”
She laughed and clinked her mug against his. They took their first sips at the same time, and ended up with matching froth mustaches, which they wiped away with the backs of their free hands.
“Shall we take a seat?” he asked.
