Meanwhile, Mars seemed to enjoy chiding their friend on his “someday” upcoming nuptials.
“To interest new members in the Society,” Mars went on to explain, “Ned has arranged for a scientific lecture on matters of interest to men for tomorrow to take advantage of those gentlemen who will be staying over after the dance.”
“A lecture?” Bran asked with some interest.
“Yes, every gentleman, married or not, is invited,” Ned said with enthusiasm. “Mr. Clyde Remy will discuss the late James Hutton’s theory concerning uniformitarianism as an explanation for the formation of rocks and mountains. I think that should draw them in.”
Uniformitarianism?Bran withheld his opinion, although his gaze met Mars’s amused one and he knew they both did not share Thurlowe’s confidence. Bran had a deep interest in geology but he didn’t know if it was a popular topic to others.
“Andy and I decided rook pie can’t hurt our chances of attracting members either,” Mars said. “After all, I had rooks to spare. Blasted nuisances.”
They rode through Maidenshop now. The dawning sun highlighted the thatched roofs of charming whitewashed cottages and rose gardens filling with fragrant blooms. When Bran had first arrived here three years ago from India, he had thought he’d never seen a lovelier village—or a more English one.
Mrs. Warbler, a widow and one of the busiest of the matrons, owned the largest home in the village. It was built of yellow stone and set at such an angle she could sit in her morning room and see everything going on—and everyone going in and out of The Garland.
In the distance was the lichen-covered stone roof of St. Martyr’s, a twelfth-century church the villagers had the good sense to leave alone. Like many churches of that era, it had been built by a nobleman, supposedly a Winderton ancestor, and the property included a long, high-ceilinged stone outbuilding that had once served as a barn. The Cotillion was held there every year.
Down the road a ways was the smithy. Another two miles would take them to New Market Road and the Post House, where a good number of those attending the Cotillion without local relatives or friends would find accommodations for the night. It was a major stop for travelers and could be busy day and night.
The Garland sat at the edge of the village on the banks of a racing stream known as the Three Thieves. There was a story behind that name, but no one knew it to tell it. Upstream, the Three Thieves bordered Marsden land and had good fishing, especially in the spring.
The Garland itself was built like three small cottages hooked together. Mars claimed that inside, it resembled a fox’s den with low-ceilinged rooms and walls darkened by age. Save for the time the matrons had stormed it to demand a husband for Miss Taylor, it was definitely a male sanctuary. The Garland was the hub of the Logical Men’s Society, and everyone in the county knew it.
The scent of roasting beef and fresh bread greeted the group as they walked through the door. Andy must have been up for hours. He liked to cook on a spit out back and the smoke from it rose above the thatched roofs. Bran was surprised at how hungry he was. He’d been too anxious yesterday to eat much.
The sedan chairs were out front, a footman left to guard them as if they were in London and not the safe haven of Maidenshop. Boys carrying their bags were shoving their way inside, big smiles on their faces. The men dismounted and tied up their horses to the post. Orion grumbled his thoughts. Bran ignored him and went inside. He had to duck to go under the door.
“Come in, come in,” Andy called in his soft burr. The old Scotsman stood in the doorway of what he called his taproom where he kept his keg. He was about as wide as he was tall with white whiskers and a shaved pate. “Why, look at all of these birds. I’ll make you a pie that will sing itself with these,” he promised Ned. “Sit yourselves wherever you like. I’ll bring the food out.”
A huge table had been set out in the middle of the room. Metal plates were stacked on one end along with knives and forks. Bran made himself useful handing them out. The air rang with the sounds of booted heels and chairs scraping the wood floor as they were pulled out.
Andy had left to bring in the meat on the spit. In the taproom, Ned started pouring tankards of ale and had the lads distributing them. Mars had tucked into the tray of at least seven loaves of cooling bread. One didn’t stand on ceremony in The Garland. Once Evans and the Belvoir servants arrived, they began to eat and the room went quiet save for the sounds of hungry men enjoying themselves.
Food helped restore Bran’s spirits. And, yes, he realized, being here with his friends was better than moping in London.
Soon, everyone in London connected with engineering and architecture would learn that he hadn’t been awarded the commission. At least, not yet. They would wonder why and he and his small firm would be like the rook fledglings this morning—a target for gossip and speculation. His reputation was too new and he didn’t know what the damage would be.
Mars began entertaining a group of lads with a story out of his youth when he’d been swimming and Ned had stolen his clothes as a jest. “Just as Mrs. Warbler and her daughters were out for an afternoon stroll.”
“Did they see you, my lord?” the youngest boy asked.
“Allof me,” Mars said dramatically and the boys fell off the benches laughing. Even the servants had a giggle.
Bran caught himself smiling, until he noticed the blue-and-white of Winderton livery at the door. Damn, it wasn’t even half past eight.
He stood and walked over to greet Randall, Lucy’s butler and most trusted servant. “My sister has found me? Or were you just lucky?” Randall had once served with their colonel father in the Guard and was around Lucy’s age, which was twelve years older than Bran.
“Just lucky, sir. Will you come with me, sir?”
Bran ran a hand over the rough whiskers of his jaw. “I need to shave.”
“She is frantic, sir.” A not uncommon situation where his sister was concerned and yet there was a hint of desperation in Randall’s tone.
“Very well.” Bran waved to his friends. He noted that Fullerton and Sir Lionel were now back at their favorite table in the corner. The potted knight appeared to be sleeping, his head on his chest. Fullerton did not seem to mind since he was animatedly talking to himself.
Outside, Orion stamped his displeasure as Bran mounted. “A few minutes more, my friend.” Randall had his own horse and the two rode off. Bran did not ask questions. Randall was extremely discreet when it came to Winderton affairs. Bran had learned how close-lipped back when he’d first arrived from India.
The Winderton ancestral seat, Smythson, was a forty-five-minute ride from The Garland. It could have been faster except Bran refused to push his horse more.
