“And the forest? It’s alive. I can see men in smocks?” She stood on tiptoes. “And what is that delicious smell?”
“Venison roasting on the fires lit at dawn, and those men will be the Morris dancers. We’ll watch them at sunset. Villagers decorate the forest with ribbons and bells to ward off evil spirits and ensure a plentiful harvest.”
Exhilaration surged within Hebe, the mood captivating and infectious. She furtively sneaked a glance at her handsome escort togged in an indigo-blue jacket which matched her dress and shawl – ’twas as if they’d discussed their attire the night before. Pale breeches, top-boots and a wide-brimmed beaver hat complemented, whilst a gold-finialled walking stick swung at his side.
“Well, how about commencing with those Exotic Beasts?” she suggested, eyes skittering from the tight fit of his jacket.
“A fine idea, but don’t get too excited.” He winked. “The most exotic beast is Peg.”
AHAND-PAINTED SIGNproclaimed the ‘Exotic Beasts’ – one hairy goat with curved horns, a donkey being patted by a child, a squawking hen and that pig which Hebe had seen being led on a leash now lolling in a pen full of straw. Up close it was enormous, with black spots to its pink skin and huge lop ears draped like curtains across its eyes and snout.
“That’s Peg. Claimed to be the largest pig in the Cotswolds – hence exotic.”
“And the others?”
“No idea. The hen probably laid the most eggs in a sennight.” His lips curved, sapphire gaze twinkling behind those gold-rimmed spectacles and a…curious ruckus roiled within her.
Hebe longed to straighten that crooked cravat and fasten his loose waistcoat button.
Or undo the rest…
“Good day, Mrs Locke, thine lordship.” Mr Grampy Tom shuffled towards them in a neat black ensemble, a jaunty red kerchief dangling from his breast pocket.
Hebe clasped his hand and kissed his leathery cheek. “Happy Saint Roch’s Day, Mr Grampy Tom.”
“And to thee.” He cast a roguish smile. “If I’d been fifty, no make that sixty years younger, I would’ve given his lordship here some competition to escort thee on this fine day, wouldn’t I just?”
Hebe failed to halt the blush to her cheeks but leaned forward to whisper, “I’m quite sure you would have won, Mr Grampy Tom.”
“Pah. Away with thee.” But a gleam lit his eyes. “Well, p’haps if thee still be with us, I could escort thee to the Michaelmas Fair?”
“Oh, you could indeed, but I-I…” Hebe nibbled her lip. “I’m afraid I’ll be home by then. My sketches are…more or less finished, you see, and I’m just…” She trailed off, not wishing to cast a pall over this day with such talk.
Ernest’s smile also levelled out a touch. “Stay as long as you wish, Hebe,” he rasped softly before seizing her hand and placing it once more upon his arm. She stared down, her fingers clenching – it seemed as though it belonged.
“Well…” Mr Grampy Tom cleared his throat. “Don’t thee miss the Greasy Pole. Thos and Daniel are gonna make dizzards of themselves in front of Mary and Beth.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mr Grampy Tom. Won’t you come with us?”
“Thas kind of thee but I be here with my daughter and her youngsters, see.” He nodded towards a group of boys who dunked their heads in water barrels in order to catch apples betwixt their teeth, the onlookers squealing as they shook their triumphant heads, droplets flicking.
So Hebe bestowed another kiss to his cheek before she retook Ernest’s arm and they bid their adieu.
As they strolled together, men tipped their hats in greeting – squires, shopkeepers, and shepherds. Women smiled – wives, maids and seamstresses – and all manner of folk clapped Ernest on the back or shook his hand – not just gentry but farmers, harriers and blacksmiths, and a wrinkled woman with spotted hands and no teeth demanded a kiss.
Which he bequeathed to the sound of a wicked cackle.
Such a different world to London.
There, Lord Ernest was a duke’s brother with both its privileges and its obligations, but here he formed part of the Wychmere heritage, respected for his care and, perhaps because of his country upbringing, accepted despite his lofty status.
“That’s Lydia,” Ernest said, pointing to a dray horse that pulled a cartload of waving children. “No limp now.”
Yet Hebe watched Ernest, not the horse. Saw his pride and his pleasure.
“You adore it here, don’t you?” And they sauntered on.
“I’m beginning to think,” he said with a gusty inhale, “that I don’t truly belong in London.”
