Oh, Ned didn’t go at all and neither did Mars very often. However, as the spring days grew longer, the lads, the same ones who had plotted an attack on Gemma and filled her rooms with chickens, became her strongest supporters. They now spent hours in the evenings bowling. Ned even heard they were good-natured when Gemma informed them that they’d had a wee too much to drink and needed to go home.
Their mothers were very happy.
Occasionally, Ned would come face-to-face with Gemma where he had to speak to her. He’d turn a corner in the village and she would be there—so many chance meetings. And while each and every time he wanted to gather her into his arms, they acted cordial, distantly polite... and no one, Clarissa or the matrons, seemed the wiser to his true emotions swirling beneath the veneer. One thing Ned had learned in his growing up was how to pretend all was fine.
Of course, in truth, most in the village weremore interested in the plans for the upcoming Cotillion, the annual dance that was the social event of Maidenshop. The matrons organized it and they were a flurry of activity with plans and meetings.
No one gave a care about star-crossed lovers.
Or that Ned’s newly discovered heart was broken, and might never be repaired.
Chapter Nineteen
It was late afternoon, the day of the Cotillion Dance.
The whole village was wrapped in excitement for the event and while there had been bustling earlier in the day, the street had become deserted as women and men took to their homes to prepare for the evening.
Gemma was not going. She couldn’t. It was hard enough seeing Ned when it came to patients or passing him on the street. She didn’t know if her fragile heart could weather watching him at an event where he would be expected to dance with his intended or where she’d hear congratulations and all the good wishes a couple received up until the wedding.
Her decision was not a popular one. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been stopped on the street and asked if she was going. One of the Dawson lads—shestillcouldn’t tell them apart—had been hinting broadly he hoped to seeher at the dance. That he wouldn’t mind “escorting her out onto the floor.” He said this as if he was bestowing a great favor.
Jonathon Fitzsimmons had also shyly said that he looked forward to seeing her at the dance. She knew he was sweet on her, something his mother wanted to encourage.
The one who was the most persistent was Mrs. Warbler. “You are an attractive woman. You should remarry,” had become her persistent refrain. “There will be men from far and wide at the Cotillion. You won’t believe what an important event it is.”
“I’m certain I won’t,” Gemma always murmured and tried to change the subject; no small task with her neighbor.
It had taken a good amount of time and all Gemma’s effort to tamp down her disappointment at losing Ned. Work was a salve. She threw herself into her tasks because they helped keep thoughts of Ned at bay.
The worst moments were when she’d wake in the middle of the night, discontent, lost, adrift. That was when she’d truly lose herself in self-pity. Her gran had warned her that she had a dramatic mind. Gemma now understood what she meant. In those wee hours of the night, she’d start imagining scenarios of a long, empty life saved only by Ned’s arrival when she was on her deathbed.
And it was all so silly.
And, yet, it hurt so bad that sometimes her soul couldn’t breathe.
Nor did it help that Clarissa was such a lovely person.
At the same time she was also more than a bit naïve, more than a bit sheltered, more than a bit unaware of what marriage entailed. It seemed to Gemma that her friend looked at marriage as just a step in life. It was what women did. Off she goes!
And Gemma knew because that was the way she’d once been.
So she’d made it clear to one and all who asked that she didn’t enjoy dances. She said she was too busy preparing for the lecture. She had responsibilities, a business, a life that had no room for frivolity.
Eventually, Mrs. Warbler and the others became too involved in their own plans to worry much about her, which is how Gemma told herself she wanted it.
The Cotillion morning had been very busy, although no one complained of headaches and pains and illness—not when there was a big dance to attend.
No, what had kept her blessedly busy was the number of visitors from the area who had come for the dance. Many mentioned they planned on attending the next day’s lecture. They called on The Garland because they’d heard about her soaps and creams, her salves and teas. They complimented her on the changes to the building and the grounds.
However, by afternoon, trade had slowed toa stop. Gemma was certain everyone had gone home to press their finery, style their hair, and pinch their cheeks to add color. She used to spend hours readying herself for dances in Manchester.
Now she had hours to not think about what was happening down the road in the old barn owned by St. Martyr’s where the dance was held. She set to work wrapping more soaps for sale and dividing the salts into packets. It was messy but a welcome task because it kept her mind busy. She didn’t worry about tomorrow’s lecture because all was ready. She’d even plotted how she would avoid spending more time than necessary around Ned.
Oh, no, she did not need to see him this evening, although she was very aware that evening had fallen—
The bell tinkled in the main room. Who would be calling at this time? She thought everyone knew she was closed. She started to rise and then heard Clarissa’s voice. “Gemma?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
