Chapter Twelve
By Spindle Cove custom, the midsummer fair was a children’s festival. But readying the crumbling Norman castle for its annual day of merriment required all the foresight and strategy of a military campaign.
There were so many preparations to complete. Music, dancing, food, displays, general amusement. Kate was responsible for the first two items on that list, and she’d worked hard toward the success of the latter three as well.
By mid-morning, however, she seemed doomed to fail at them all.
First Miss Lorrish brought distressing news about the decorations. “Miss Taylor, we’ve tried three times now. The swags simply won’t stay put on the southeastern turret.”
Kate shaded her brow with one hand and gazed up at the limp purple bunting dangling sadly from the crenellated parapet. “I’ll ask the militiamen to climb up and secure it.”
Next, it was Miss Apperton’s turn for a crisis. “Oh, Miss Taylor. I’ve broken the last good string for my lute.”
“You may borrow mine,” she offered.
Another hour smoothed most of the wrinkles, as children and families began to stream in from the countryside and village.
But then there was Miss Elliott. Poor, petrified Miss Elliott. The hapless young lady came skittering to Kate’s side moments before the ladies were to sing the madrigal.
“I can’t.” Beneath her bonnet’s wide brim, her cheeks blazed scarlet. “I just can’t do it.”
“You won’t be alone,” Kate assured her. “We’re all singing together.”
“But there are so many people. I didn’t realize—” Her voice broke. “Please don’t force me.”
“Don’t weep.” Kate drew her into a tight hug. “Of course I won’t force you. Just as long as you understand, I’m not giving up on you, either. We’ll hear you sing another day.” She pulled back and tilted her head to view under Miss Elliott’s bonnet. “Now, then. Chin high, keep smiling. Right?”
Miss Elliott sniffed and tried to smile. “Yes, of course.”
Poor girl.
When Kate considered that she might have been reunited with exacting relations like Miss Elliott’s, she felt the magnitude of her good fortune.
Her gaze slid to the Gramercys, seated under the canopy reserved for guests of honor. In the center were two flower-bedecked thrones. Kate had asked Evan to sit as ceremonial king of the fair, with Diana Highwood playing the part of his regal, placid queen.
After the dancing, Kate had a short break while the children’s hoop race went off. She made her way toward the canopy, meaning to check on Aunt Marmoset’s comfort.
Mrs. Highwood intercepted her, however, and drew her quickly aside. “Don’t they make a handsome couple?” she said. “I always knew Diana would do better than Minerva. Minerva might have caught herself a viscount, but now Diana will be a marchioness.”
“Mrs. Highwood,” Kate whispered through her teeth. “Please. They’re sitting just a few feet away.”
But the matron went on, undeterred. “Lord Drewe must fancy her. Why else would he have stayed in the village so long?”
“I’ve been giving Lady Lark music lessons.”
Mrs. Highwood erupted in laughter. “Oh, Miss Taylor. Do you expect me to believe a man of Lord Drewe’s fine looks, intelligence, manners, and stature would remain in this tiny village just for you?”
Kate sighed. No, she didn’t expect Mrs. Highwood to believe it.
She didn’t expect anyone to believe it.
Two days had passed since the night she came upon Evan playing the pianoforte in the Bull and Blossom, but those days were wholly consumed with preparations for today’s festivities. There hadn’t been any quiet opportunity to talk.
She kept thinking back to his cryptic comments that night. “That isn’t the only way I can give you the family name.”
Never in her life would she have dreamed that a marquess would hint at marrying her. And Mrs. Highwood was right—no one else would believe it, either.
It didn’t matter, anyhow. Kate was otherwise engaged. Her public intentions, private attention, and, increasingly, tender emotions were all engaged by the man now taking the green.
The hoop race finished, and the militiamen claimed the center of attention for a short rifle drill. As they marched forward in formation, Kate delighted in the opportunity to stare. Pride swelled in her heart.
Thorne was a sight to behold. He wore his best officer’s coat, of course. The uniform was designed to make any man look tall and fit, and when the man in question was already tall and fit, it made him look positively godlike.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Highwood, “you should not feel bad, Miss Taylor. You have snagged yourself a corporal, and that is nothing to sniff at. For a young woman in your circumstances, a corporal is a fine catch indeed. Though I do think you could have managed a lieutenant. That would have been better.”