“Well, Master Weaver, show these fine people your Guy.”
The man was barely finished speaking before the boy ran back and forth across the stage. Laughter rang from the audience.
And so it went from one lad to the next, until the last one advanced to the front. The effigy he carried was nearly as large as he was, and Eva recognized her friend’s handiwork. She rose to her toes, whispering in Bram’s ear, “That is Lottie’s brother.”
“Well then”—he arched a brow at her—“we shall see that he wins, eh?”
Bram started clapping before Freddie finished his parade across the stage. Eva joined in. Bram hooted and hollered. So did she. And when he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle, she did the same. Judging by his wide-eyed glance, she’d caught him off guard.
“And the winner is,” the announcer shouted, “Master Frederick Channing! Step smart, lad.”
As Freddie dashed over to the man, Eva tugged Bram’s sleeve. “Let’s go congratulate him.”
Arm in arm, they wound around the stage toward the back side, where Lottie was already patting her brother on the back. “Good job, Freddie.”
“Indeed,” Eva chimed in. “Congratulations! And to you, too, Lottie. Your hard work paid off.”
“More like Mother’s nettling did. Off with you now, Freddie, but mind you don’t get into any trouble.” She made a grab for the effigy she’d worked so hard on. Too late. The boy dove into the throng with his effigy’s head bobbing up and down.
Lottie puffed a sigh, then shifted her gaze to Eva and Bram. The longer she stared at them, the more a knowing gleam lit in her eyes. “Ah, the professor escorted you after all, did he? How lovely! I am so happy for you, Eva.”
Instantly, Eva pulled her arm from Bram’s, heat spreading like a rash up her neck. They were most certainly not a couple. She opened her mouth.
But before she could refute her friend’s assumption, Lottie continued. “Congratulations, Professor Webb. I hear talk you’re to be the new curator of the soon-to-be Royston Museum.”
Eva arched a brow. Why had he not said anything?
“I do not know about that”—Bram grinned—“but I do think a museum will do this town good.”
“A curator?” Eva stepped aside, allowing two giggling women access to the stage stairs. “I did not realize I was in such esteemed company.”
“Really? I thought that was clear to everyone.”
She bopped him on the arm.
He laughed. “But, yes, it is true the historical society is considering me, though I am in no position to take it on at the moment. That is all there is to it.”
From the front of the stage, the announcer bellowed for one and all to hear. “Next contest is the Queen of the Bonfire. Whoshall it be this year? Our reigning champion, Miss Charlotte Channing, will hand off the crown to some lucky lady, so gather in, folks! It’s sure to be a tight competition.”
“Ooh!” Lottie clapped her hands together, then looped her arm through Eva’s. “Come on, my friend. We daren’t be late.”
“For what?”
“The queen contest, silly duck.” She tugged Eva toward the stairs, pulling her away from Bram.
Eva dug in her heels. “I believe the professor and I can see just as well from the front of the stage.”
“But you’re not watching, darling.” Lottie gave a great jerk, yanking her back into motion. “Besides, your new beau will wish to see you win.”
Clutching the railing with a death grip, Eva jerked them both to a stop. “He is not my beau, and I cannot enter such a thing. You know I cannot!” She’d be laughed off the stage.
“What I know,” Lottie drawled, “is you’re sure to win. Besides, I’ve already signed you up, so off we go.”
Bram watched Miss Channing tug Eva up the stairs to the stage, unsure if he ought to rescue her or dash around to the front for the best possible view. Either way she’d be mortified. He settled for a simple mouthing ofGood luckand a reassuring smile as she cast a terrified glance his way. Poor girl. She’d have all her nails bitten off by the end of the contest.
He wound his way through the onlookers as the announcer bellowed, “I am pleased to proclaim, ladies and gents, that this afternoon’s winner of the queen contest and her kingly counterpart—the winner of the men’s archery competition—will be the lucky pair to ascend in the hot air balloon and begin tonight’s bonfire at sunset.”
Absently, Bram rubbed the scar on his cheek. Blast. As much as Eva would hate being up on that stage, she’d abhor it evenmore if she won. With her fear of heights, a balloon ride would kill her. Yet if he didn’t cheer for her, what would that do to her already flagging self-esteem? And it would be easy enough to root for her, for she deserved to be the queen of the bonfire.
