Nell spotted her stall near the edge of the green. It was a simple wooden table covered with a clean cloth, already laden with seed cakes and ginger biscuits. Daphne stood behind it, waving her arms frantically.
“There’s Daphne.” Nell quickened her pace, suddenly self-conscious of the green silk and the way it swished against her legs with every step. “Martha, can you,” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the children.
“I will keep them fed and out of trouble.” Martha was already reaching for Lily’s hand, her dark eyes glinting with a knowing look. “You work. And maybe,” she paused, a sly smile touching her lips, “don’t work too hard.”
“Mama!” Lily broke free long enough to throw her arms around Nell’s waist, nearly upsetting her balance. “You look like a princess!”
Nell hugged her back, breathing in the clean soap and sugar smell of her daughter’s hair. “Go on, then. Stay with Martha. Don’t eat so many sweets that you make yourself sick.”
“I make no promises.” Lily was already pulling Martha toward the puppet show, chattering loudly about fire-eaters and the dishonesty of Sarah Martin.
Oliver lingered. He didn’t say anything about the dress, for he rarely spoke of things that mattered, but he squeezed her hand once, his small fingers tight around hers. His eyes met hers, looking far too old for a boy of nine, carrying questions he didn’t know how to ask.
“I am fine.” Nell spoke quietly, stroking his hair away from his forehead. “Go have fun. That’s an order.”
The ghost of a smile crossed his face. Then he was gone, following his sister into the crowd. His dark head bobbed between the bodies of the villagers until she lost sight of him.
Daphne’s eyes went wide when Nell reached the stall, her mouth dropping open. “Nell!” She pressed both hands to her cheeks, her face lighting up. “You look, you look like a painting. A proper painting, the kind that hangs in rich people’s houses.”
Nell busied herself straightening the seed cakes, though they were already perfectly aligned. “It’s just a dress, Daphne.”
“It’s not just a dress.” Daphne’s grin stretched from ear to ear as she began to rearrange a stack of biscuits. “Half the village is going to trip over their own feet when they see you.”
“Then half the village should watch where they are walking.” Nell smoothed the tablecloth, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks.
The evening fell into a familiar rhythm. Customers approached, coins changed hands, and tarts disappeared into eager mouths. Mrs. Pemberton swept by in a cloud of rose perfume, Felicity trailing behind like a silent shadow. She bought half a dozen ginger biscuits without mentioningviscounts or anything more inflammatory than the cool evening air.
As the evening deepened and the torches burned brighter, Nell noticed other things. Eyes lingered a moment too long, and heads turned as she moved. The green silk caught the light, drawing attention she was not used to drawing, for she felt exposed, but beneath the nerves, she felt something else. It was a sensation that felt remarkably like being alive.
“Go.” Daphne nudged her elbow, breaking her reverie as she took a coin from a customer. “Walk around. I can manage the biscuits here.”
“I should stay and help.” Nell reached for the tongs, but Daphne swatted her hand away.
“You didn’t wear that dress to stand behind a table.” Daphne’s grin turned mischievous as she jerked her chin toward the music. “Go. Be seen. You’ve earned one night of not hiding.”
Nell hesitated, her hands finding the familiar, rough wood of the stall. But Daphne was right. She hadn’t worn her mother’s dress to sell seed cakes, though she had worn it because she was tired of being invisible. She wanted to remember what it felt like to be something other than careful.
She stepped away from the stall, out into the crowd and the flickering torchlight. She walked toward a feeling that was dangerously like hope.
The music swelled as she made her way past the food stalls and the ale tent, toward the clearing where couples spun in country reels. She stopped at the edge of the circle, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched. Farmers and their wives moved together with the ease of long practice. Young people laughed and stumbled through steps they hadn’t quite mastered, and children darted between legs, chased by harried parents.
“Mrs. Ashford?” She started slightly, turning to see who had spoken.
Mr. Willoughby stood beside her, his weathered face creased in a gentle smile. He was sixty if he was a day, with kind eyes and hands that still bore the thick calluses of a lifetime working his own land. He’d lost his wife three winters past to consumption, the village whispered, and everyone in Cresswell respected the quiet dignity with which he bore his grief.
“Would you do me the honor?” He gestured toward the dancers, his smile turning almost shy as he dipped his head.
Nell hesitated, her fingers twisting a fold of her silk skirt. “I am not much of a dancer, Mr. Willoughby.”
“Neither am I.” He offered his hand, holding it patiently. “But the music is fine, and my old bones could use the exercise. Will you humor an old man?”
She looked at his outstretched hand. It was a broad palm with gentle fingers, possessing nothing demanding or dangerous. Something loosened in her chest, a tightly wound spring that had been coiled there for years.
She took his hand.
The dance was a simple country reel, far removed from the elaborate figures she’d learned as a girl. Mr. Willoughby was true to his word, while he was not much of a dancer. He stepped on her foot within the first minute and his face crumpled with immediate apology.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Ashford.” He stumbled slightly, regaining his footing with a grimace. “I am afraid these old legs don’t bend the way they used to.”
