Was friendship…No. Was romance something she could no longer welcome into her life? Because she was about to turn fiftyand it would be unseemly? Because she was the Dowager Countess of Stratton and was expected to behave like a dowager? By whom? Her family? Her neighbors? Society at large? Was she going to allow her behavior and her very feelings to be dictated by others? For the rest of her life?
Oh, this introspection, which she had never really done before, was giving her a headache.
—
Matthew had gone to Colonel Wexford’s house on Sunday morning, when he knew the family would be at church. He had brought home with him several of the table legs and broken his usual rule about Sundays by working all day on them. He worked the following morning, afternoon, and evening in the colonel’s barn, knowing he would not be interrupted since Miss Wexford had gone shopping with her niece in a town several miles away. He started work very early again on Tuesday. He intended to continue through the luncheon hour so he could justify finishing in time to go to the lake for a picnic with Clarissa.
It was something about which he had been feeling uneasy since Saturday, it was true, for there was to be no attempt this time to keep their outing a secret. The servants’ quarters at Ravenswood were bound to be abuzz with the news that yet again their dowager countess and the village carpenter were going to spend time together.
However, he had said he would go, and go he would. And as luck would have it, they were not even to be saved by rain, which could often be relied upon to ruin the best-laid plans for an outing. The weather was not only fine; it was sunny and hot, more like summer than spring. It was hotter than Saturday had been. It was the perfect day, in fact, to sit by the lake and enjoy a picnic tea.
He did not work uninterrupted today, alas. The door of the barn opened at nine o’clock, three hours after he had started work, though it seemed less.
“Oh, Mr. Taylor, there you are,” Miss Wexford said, stepping inside. “One of the grooms told the cook, who told my maid, that you have been here for hours already. That must mean you came here without having your breakfast first. That will not do, you know. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially for a workingman. I have brought you a little something to eat with your tea.”
He stepped forward to take the cloth-covered tray from her hands and guessed from the weight of it that she must have brought him a banquet. He really did not want to have his work interrupted, but it was a kind gesture on her part. He set down the tray and removed the cloth.
“Thank you, Miss Wexford,” he said. “This is very generous of you.”
“I will not keep you,” she said, “as I am sure you want to eat quickly and get back to work. May I have a little look while you eat?”
Without waiting for an answer, she almost skipped over to the tabletop upon which he was working, and was soon exclaiming with admiration and delight though it was not even half finished.
She had brought him a large china mug of tea. Milk had already been added to it, and probably sugar too. He took neither in his tea. There were two biscuits propped on the saucer. On a separate plate were two thick slices of lavishly buttered toast together with a heap of thinly carved cold beef. There was a pot of what looked like raspberry jam and another of mustard beside the plate. A large jug of steaming custard stood next to a bowl containing a great wedge of apple tart.
I have brought you a little something…
He shook his head and nearly laughed out loud.
“It is going to be even more magnificent than it appears in my fondest dreams,” Miss Wexford said, her tone rapturous, her hands clasped tightly to her bosom. “You are indeed a genius, Mr. Taylor, and I shall tell everyone so who asks. Not that everyone does not know it already.”
Matthew tried to make a dent in the food while she talked and was surprised to find that really it was not difficult. He had not realized he was hungry, and the food was delicious, strange as it seemed to be eating apple tart and thick custard for breakfast.
He took one sip of the tea, grimaced, and set down the cup. He would wait until she left and find somewhere to pour it so she would not see and be hurt.
“I will not disturb you any longer,” she said, turning from his worktable and glancing at the tray. “I hope I brought you enough, Mr. Taylor. I know you are a workingman and must therefore have a larger appetite than Andrew and I have or even Ariel. The beef and the tart and custard are from dinner last evening, but they were kept in a cool pantry overnight and are still quite fresh. Heating the custard again has thickened it considerably, but I actually like it that way.”
“So do I,” he said.
“I see you have left your tea and biscuits until last,” she said. “I will not take the tray with me, then.”
“I will return it to the kitchen before I leave,” he said.
She turned to go, hesitated, and turned back. “Mr. Taylor,” she said. “May I offer you a word of friendly advice?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“In a neighborhood like ours,” she said, “there are certain…expectations. People can get upset, rightly or wrongly, when they are not strictly observed, and gossiping tongues can begin to wag. It is not always wise to take the risk of that happening.”
It looked for a moment as though she was going to say more, but instead she turned away, hurried out of the barn, and closed the door quietly behind her.
It would be easy to pretend not to understand. She had not been at all specific, after all. But Matthew had understood clearly enough and felt a bit of a sinking feeling in his stomach. Quite predictably, then, there was already gossip. Because he had been walking in the Ravenswood park on a Saturday afternoon with the Dowager Countess of Stratton. Not just walking, but also holding hands with her.
The talk could only grow after this afternoon.
He did not care for his own sake. Well, yes, he did. He was a quiet and private man, who hated drawing attention to himself. The closest he ever came to doing so voluntarily was on the day of the summer fete, which had now become a biennial event instead of a yearly one. He could never resist entering the archery contest, and except for last year he had not resisted also putting an entry into the wood-carving contest, even knowing that he would probably win both contests and have to face the excruciating embarrassment of receiving his prize ribbons from Stratton while the other fete-goers applauded and slapped him on the back and shook his hand.
He did not relish the prospect of being the subject of local gossip.
