Page 82 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Charlotte broke into a delighted laugh. “You’re judging turnips?” Her eyes flashed a lovely shade of mingled brown and green.

“And potatoes, pumpkins, onions, peas, and carrots. It is an essential part of the Harvest Home.” He kept his voice light, although his heart stuttered at the gorgeous sound of her laughter.

“Then by all means, let us not keep you from such a vital task. We will meet you later, Jane.” Charlotte grasped Nash’s arm and began to walk briskly toward a nearby tent.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, my dear, but you’re going the wrong way.” Nash chuckled. He readjusted her arm in the crook of his elbow and changed their course, stepping between a stall selling fried pies and one offering plaid woolen scarves. He threaded them through the rows of booths until they came to a large tent on the outskirts of the market.

“Lord Wrotham!” Alfred Smith called from beside a bushel basket of potatoes on the far side of the produce booth.

“This way.” Nash started toward the smith, making his way through the heaps of baskets and sacks of vegetables. Despite the cold weather this summer, it looked like there was a bumper crop to judge.

“My lord, my lady.” Smith bobbed his head, his florid face already shiny with perspiration. “Lovely day we’ve got for the ingathering, don’t you think? Warming up nicely.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Smith. Lady Cavendish, have you met Mr. Smith?”

Charlotte shook her head but smiled and nodded to him. “A pleasure I’m sure, Mr. Smith.”

“And mine, m’lady.” The smith acknowledged her with another nod of his head, then turned his attention to Nash, his face now sober. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, but there’s been some strange men poking around here this morning. I couldn’t get a word with them, and I should have come earlier to the manor house to tell you, but I was afraid to leave the women here. I figured I could take care of ’em if the priggers started making a ruckus.” Smith flexed his arm, a huge fist at the end of his beefy forearm.

He probably could have put at least two or three intruders out if hard pressed.

“Not to worry, Mr. Smith,” Nash hastened to reassure the man. “I should have warned you. I’ve got men stationed here and at the tenants’ homes to guard against the gang. Just a precaution, but one I’m not willing to forgo on such a day. Now . . .” He gazed at the enormous amounts of produce—the farmers proudly standing watch over it—and found them a bit daunting. “Where should I begin? Last year I started with the potatoes. Is that the usual way of it? Or do I start at one end of the tent and work my way down?”

“Potatoes first, then carrots.” Smith ticked the vegetables off on his fingers, a litany he supposed the man had learned over forty years of Harvest Homes. “Then peas, pumpkins, turnips, and onions be the last. That be the order of it.”

“Right you are.” Hell. Onions at the end would be the worst part. As judge, he needed to evaluate each vegetable on shape, color, texture, size, and taste. Eight or nine bites of raw onion, with nothing to follow, would present quite a challenge for his taste buds. What had he done last year? Oh, yes, he’d gone out of order, taking the pumpkin last. Smith had been lenient with him because he had been a novice. This year he’d not escape so easily. The sweet taste of pumpkin had cut the sharp onion admirably, though. Perhaps he’d purchase a pumpkin in order to get that final slice in. No rule against that.

Plastering a smile on his face, Nash nodded and took a deep breath. “Then it’s time to start the judging.” He turned to Charlotte and discovered sparkling eyes and a strained mouth. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping a tally of the points in each category?”

Smith produced a sheet of foolscap and a thick pencil. “If you’d be so kind, m’lady. I’m not the best hand for figuring.”

Charlotte nodded and took the pencil and paper. “I would be happy to make my small contribution to the festival.” Her merry eyes met his and his hopes soared.

If he disregarded her odd behavior last night, she had been more amiable toward him today than for quite some time. Perhaps the whole affair with Kersey could be put to rest. God, he hoped so. Every time he saw her he wanted nothing but to take her in his arms and . . .

Nash swallowed hard and brought his thoughts firmly back to the task at hand. “So the potatoes first?” He wound his way through the baskets heaped with brown and red root vegetables. “First entry belongs to Adam Thomkins.” He glanced at Charlotte, writing the name carefully, using a stray piece of board as a makeshift desk.

He lifted a potato from the basket. It spanned his hand a goodly length and weight, the coating smooth and evenly brown. The earthy smell of it tickled his nose. The perfect aroma for harvest. Nash brushed a little dirt from one end and signaled for a knife. He cut a sliver and bit into it carefully. The fresh taste exploded in his mouth. He’d never have believed a raw potato could taste so delicious. Of course, the first one had last year as well. By the time he’d tasted nine or ten, however, it would be a different story.

“Entry number 1, Lumper. Score fifteen out of twenty.”

Charlotte dutifully wrote down the information and they moved on to the next basket. Potatoes, carrots, peas. Nash took only the smallest bites, but raw vegetables were not his favorite food. Tasting became harder and harder. The pumpkins were a blessed relief, but all too short-lived. If he could only get through the onions.

“How are you doing?” Nash asked Charlotte, more to squeeze in a break than anything else.

“I am doing just fine.” Her eyes still twinkled at him. “Although I hope luncheon will be served soon. I’m decidedly peckish.”

“Witch.” He spoke under his breath, but she laughed. “Yes, we’ll be able to get something besides raw vegetables, thank God.” Her laughter intensified and he continued to the turnips and finally the dreaded onions. Remembering the problems he’d encountered last year, Nash avoided bringing the whole onion close to his face. The paper-thin sliver made it to his mouth without causing tears to flow. That would have been most humiliating. Only two more . . . one . . . done!

Heaving a sigh of relief, Nash called out the final numbers to Charlotte.

She recorded it in her elegant looping script and set down the pencil. “To whom do I give this, Nash? Mr. Smith? He seems to have disappeared.”

“Then you need to hold on to it until we can get it to him. Perhaps he’s retired to the refreshment tent as well.” Nash walked to the washbasin set up for his use. The water had been changed three times due to the grubby nature of the vegetables. After cleaning up, he offered Charlotte his arm and hurried off, glad to shake the dust of this particular tent from his boots.

“Do you have any appetite at all after such an amount of raw produce?” Charlotte’s voice held a touch of wry sympathy.

“Well,” he began, tucking her arm firmly in his, “if you noticed, I managed to take very tiny bites of everything.” He shook his head. “The worst part is, everything begins to taste exactly the same, which makes the judging more difficult. But to answer your question, yes, I do have a bit of an appetite. I’m especially looking forward to Mrs. Campbell’s pork pies. They are a treat.”