Here is Your preview of Book 3 in the Lower Nettlefold Dunsmore House Series
Reuniting Lady Marguerite
Lydia Pembroke
Chapter One
Miss Margaret Loxley basked in the balmy summer afternoon, sitting up against the leathery fabric of the colourful tent. She sipped from a cup of elderflower cordial which had been gratefully given to the troupe by one of the day’s earlier spectators.
She smiled as the sweet and earthy flavour tingled her taste-buds, reminding her of childhood days spent in Hexham. It refreshed her parched mouth and dry throat as she let the sun’s warmth drift across her face, drawing her deeper into a soporific haze.
“Sleeping on the job, are we?” A voice distracted her from her serene daydream.
She blinked her hazelnut eyes open and smiled.
“I was merely enjoying the brief respite, Mr. Edgbaston.”
“And supping all of our gifts, I see?” He chuckled, the sound light and carefree. “And how many times must I ask you to call me Drake. There are no airs and graces within the Halcyon Players.”
Mr. Drake Edgbaston was a curious man, with dark curls and piercing blue eyes. Many thought him handsome and somewhat roguish, and whilst Margaret agreed with the latter part, she was not so certain of the former. There was an air of menace about Drake that she had never been able to dispel within herself, and she had seen him get into his fair share of drunken brawls, to prove her theory. However, he had always been kind and courteous to her, ensuring that she had her own private quarters whenever they took to the road, perpetually venturing towards the next town, and the next, and the next.
“It is remarkably pleasant to sup elderflower cordial in the height of summer, Mr. Edgbaston. I could not help myself.” She cradled the cup in her hands, lest he take it from her. Although her childhood had not been a happy one, she held onto a handful of pleasant memoires. Hiding behind the convent with a stolen bottle of cordial and drinking it in the warmth with a group of the girls, in the same position as her. Singing hymns in midwinter, with snow falling outside the church windows. Oh, how she adored the snow. The smell of it, the feel of it, the crispness of it underfoot, when it had freshly fallen.
But it was summer now, and thoughts of snow were far away. She clearly remembered her final week at the convent, in which she had been sent to town on an errand, only to discover that a travelling troupe of players and singers had arrived in the square. She had quite forgotten her task and had joined the gathering crowd to watch them. It was in that moment that her life had changed, at the age of nineteen. She had joined the players prior to their departure from Hexham, at the agreement of Drake, who had been charmed by her innocence and her sweet, clear voice. And she had never thought to look back.
She was certain, even now, that the nuns would have been furious at her stealthy escape, but they had not raised a finger to bring her back into the fold. She had caused them enough trouble, and they had likely been glad to see her gone from their care, after the initial surprise.
“We take the stage in ten minutes, just to warn you. I hope that pretty voice of yours is suitably prepared?”
Drake smiled, a strange glint in his blue eyes.
She nodded.
“Always, Mr. Edgbaston.”
“Miss Loxley, please. It is Drake.”
“I would prefer to call you Mr. Edgbaston, for you are intent on calling me Miss Loxley. It is the proper thing to do,” she insisted.
“Then, I see our battle must continue.”
He laughed and turned away, disappearing behind the tent.
Setting down her cup and getting to her feet, Margaret smoothed down the olive green of her gown and plucked away the motes of dandelion and rapeseed flowers that had drifted from the fields beyond. The town was named Waterford and was nestled deep in the English countryside. She had spied signs for two other towns nearby, named Upper and Lower Nettlefold, and she imagined they would soon travel there, too, to perform to the charming country folk. Checking her reflection in the crooked mirror that hung from the back of the tent, she fixed a few of her unruly fair curls and tucked them back into the olive-green ribbon that she’d tied about her hair.
She readjusted the lace choker around her neck, setting the green glass jewel in the direct centre, before lifting the tent flap and ducking inside.
The usual chaos was afoot within. Grown men in dresses hurrying to apply circles of rouge to their grizzled cheeks, whilst the rest recited lines over and over, in a vain attempt to get them to stick within memory. Margaret revelled in the pre-performance hubbub.
She would find as seat on one of the low, milking stools as she watched them. These eight souls had become her brothers and her family over the last six years, and she adored every single one of them. Although, she did miss the company of women from time to time.
“Are we ready?” Drake entered the tent and looked at his players.
“Ready,” one of the men, a youthful fellow named Charlie, replied. He tended to play the part of the young damsel in all of the Players’ performances, as Margaret was only ever called upon to sing. Drake was of the mind that the stage was no place for a young lady, but he viewed the art of song in a different manner.
Drake found Margaret in the gloom.
“Miss Loxley, might you sing for us?”
“I should be delighted.” She chuckled as she rose from her stool and followed him through another curtain, which separated the backstage area from the stage itself. Everything could be folded up and packed away into four caravans, but it always left Margaret in awe.
Drake took her hand and helped her up the narrow stairs to the stage itself, where the audience awaited. They had set up the tent on the outskirts of the town. However, that had not dissuaded the people from congregating. New arrivals were always exciting, especially when they had some entertainment to offer. A Frenchman by the name of Emanuel sat to one side, with his harp set between his legs. They nodded to one another as he began to play, each gentle brush of the strings eliciting ethereal, otherworldly music that made her heart soar. This was the moment she loved above all others, when it was simply her, and the stage, and the harp, and her voice.
She began to sing, and the audience fell silent. The notes came with an easy fluidity, matching the subtlety of the harp in the most exquisite way. Her voice rose high and clear, swelling across the crowd in a stirring symphony. As she gazed out upon them, wanting them to feel the sad emotion within her words, she saw their eyes widen in regard. Every single person stood enraptured. She saw mothers clutching children, and men watching in silent awe, whilst even the infants who had formerly been running about paused to listen to her.
She reached her favourite part of the song, where she spoke of a young woman searching the forest for her lost love, when her eyes fell upon a young man, standing off to the side of the crowd. He was staring at her with such intensity that she could not bring herself to look away. He stood tall and striking, with broad shoulders and an elegant poise. His face appeared handsome and kind, with smiling brown eyes and a curling mane of golden hair. He reminded her somewhat of a lion, though not nearly so frightening. In fact, there was nothing frightening about him at all.
He smiled and her note almost faltered. It seemed to light him up from within, making those brown eyes sparkle in the summer sunshine. Still, she pressed on, refusing to allow such a man to unnerve her. Holding her note and letting it soar from her lungs, she smiled back with bold brightness, for the song had turned more hopeful and so had she.
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