How could she have been so disloyal to Ayersley? They hadn’t even been married a full month, yet for the sake of her own selfish vanity she’d let George Wyatt call her beautiful and darling and even tell her he wanted to kiss her.
And to make it worse, she had the terrible suspicion the next time she crossed paths with George, she would be just as weak and every bit as foolish as she’d been that afternoon.
Chapter Sixteen
Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in holiday humor and like enough to consent.
—William Shakespeare
The end of September arrived, bringing with it three occasions Alex had marked in red ink on his calendar. The first was Michaelmas, a day he and Roxana celebrated with the traditional goose dinner. The second was the one-month anniversary of his marriage. But it was the third occasion, the feast of Harvest Home, that brought the greatest change in his routine. On the last day of September everyone at Broadslieve, from the lowliest scullery maid on up, woke bright and early to the promise of a celebration.
Alex went down to breakfast, humming to himself—only to discover Roxana already seated at the table, sipping her chocolate. He stopped in the doorway in surprise. “Good morning. Am I later than usual, or are you earlier?”
“A little of both.” She smiled. “You’re in a good mood this morning.”
He went to the sideboard and began filling a plate. “I suppose I am. It’s one of those rare occasions on which duty and inclination meet.”
Roxana laughed. “Now I know the key to making you happy, Ayersley—just mix a healthy measure of responsibility in with your enjoyments.”
Her teasing tone removed any possible sting from the remark. “You’ll have your own share of responsibilities today. You do know that as mistress here you’ll be asked to judge the jams and baked goods?”
“Shall I? Well, I’d better ready a few suitable compliments, then. How does ‘I do hope you’ll share the secret of these delicious tarts with our Cook’ sound?”
He sat across from her. She’d swept her glorious hair back, and a faint blush tinged her cheeks, lending a becoming color to the perfect oval of her face. His heart lifted at her blonde beauty. “As if you were born to judge tarts.”
She must have sensed his gaze on her, for she smiled uncertainly. “Don’t worry, I’ll do you credit.”
Alex could have laughed aloud at the utter needlessness of the assurance. “Oh, I have no doubt of that.”
* * *
After a quick breakfast, Ayersley headed outdoors, while Roxana had first to make sure preparations were proceeding smoothly in the kitchens. By the time she left the house it was nearing eleven o’clock, and the celebration was already underway.
A large crowd had assembled on the park. Villagers were laughing and calling to one another, milling about with mugs of ale in their hands, waiting for the hock cart to appear. Ayersley’s steward was easy to pick out in his country buckskins and brown coat. Nearby, Mr. Dean was a more citified specimen of the breed, discernibly more polished in his neat tailoring and spectacles.
Then there was Ayersley—tall and straight, smiling agreeably if rather nervously. The villagers hung back in respect, so that even in the midst of the crowd, a small circle of open space remained around him. Though dressed in his usual understated way, he presented a striking figure, something in the cut of his coat and the gloss on his boots lending him more consequence than the other men around him. If she hadn’t already known him to be the master of Broadslieve, Roxana could have guessed as much just by looking at him.
She started in his direction. How exciting to be married to him.
Exciting? Roxana nearly stopped in her tracks. As a husband, Ayersley was hardly exciting. Good-looking, yes, and certainly good-natured, with a fortune and title to recommend him—but not exciting. What could possibly be exciting about an excruciatingly starchy young man who lived for duty and spent his days writing long letters on complex policy matters?
“Here it comes!” cried a voice from the crowd, and several villagers pointed up the avenue toward the main gate. There, shimmering in the haze, the hock cart rattled into view. Having begun its journey in the early morning hours, the garlanded and beribboned wagon had by now called at every alehouse and inn on its route to Broadslieve. Beside the driver rode the foreman who had overseen the mowing, the honorary Lord of the Harvest, and behind him sat the symbolic spirit of the crop, the straw effigy known as the corn dolly. As the cart passed the gatehouse, an enthusiastic cheer went up from the crowd. The guests of honor had arrived.
Ayersley turned then and spied her. To Roxana’s surprise, he wore a grin as enthusiastic as a little boy’s. Impetuously, she gathered up her skirts and half ran to join him, the villagers bobbing respectfully as she passed.
The cart drew closer, and as she reached Ayersley’s side, the driver and the Lord of the Harvest began singing.
Your hay is mowed, and your corn is reaped,
Your barns will be full, and your hovels heaped.
Come, boys, come; come, boys, come;
And merrily roar out Harvest Home!
The crowd quickly picked up the chorus.
Harvest Home, Harvest Home,
And merrily roar out Harvest Home!
Roxana joined in the chorus. Ayersley glanced across at her in surprise, but she went on singing at the top of her voice, joyfulness washing over her. Why shouldn’t she sing? The harvest was in. There was no need now to worry about rain, or cold, or blight. The work was done, the granary was full, and it was time to give thanks.
The song died away and a hush fell over the crowd as the cart rolled to a halt before the two of them. “M’lord, m’lady,” the driver said in the broad accents of the village, removing his hat.
“Welcome.” Ayersley looked to the Harvest Lord, who had likewise removed his hat, the wide-brimmed straw trimmed in poppies and bindweed that served as the traditional regalia of his office. He bowed. “Especially to you, my lord.”
The greeting—from hereditary peer to rough-hewn foreman of the reapers—drew appreciative chuckles from the crowd.
Someone in the crowd passed Ayersley two mugs of ale. He handed one up to the Harvest Lord and lifted the other high. “To your health,” he called out. He turned to the assembled villagers. “May we all share today in the fruits of your hard work.”
The crowd gave a cheer. Ayersley colored but downed the ale in a single draught.
Roxana smiled as she took in his flushed cheeks. How different he was from George. George lived to be the center of attention, and Ayersley all but squirmed under anyone’s regard. Yet Ayersley’s welcome held a sincerity George’s more expansive style sometimes lacked.
Soon the festivities were in full swing, with games of every sort—footraces, a tug-of-war, arm-wrestling contests and a madly contested sedan-chair race. As Ayersley had warned, Roxana was asked to judge the jams, cheeses and baked goods made by the harvesters’ wives. She was able to say with all honesty they were the best she’d ever tasted. There was much drinking and laughter, and for the children, juggling and a Punch and Judy show.
Meanwhile, Ayersley circulated among the crowd, speaking to the villagers in his grave way, his hands clasped behind his back. Despite his rather stiff manners, he won smiles wherever he went. While Roxana judged the baked goods, Ayersley awarded prizes to the winners of the athletic contests. She caught his eye occasionally, and when she did they smiled at one another, but they both had responsibilities to discharge.
At Ayersley’s invitation, Fanny and her brother had come to Broadslieve for the day. While Captain Sherbourne was preparing to take part in the tug-of-war with the young men of the village, Roxana stood by talking to Fanny. They were giggling together when Roxana spotted Mr. Dean.
“Oh, Mr. Dean, come and help us cheer for Miss Sherbourne’s brother!” she called out to him. “Unless you were planning to join in the tug-of-war?”
He came closer, smiling at both ladies. �
�No, Lady Ayersley, I wasn’t planning to join in.”
“Are you sure? They’re choosing up sides now.” She turned to Fanny. “What do you think, Fanny? He looks able enough to me. Should he take part in the battle?”
It was the perfect opportunity for Fanny to flirt with Ayersley’s secretary. Roxana had given her any number of openings. Fanny could agree Mr. Dean looked able indeed—or disagree, if she wanted to engage with him in a bit of friendly raillery. She could promise to cheer for him if he competed. She could beg him to join her brother’s side, and even encourage him to strip off his coat. Roxana smiled expectantly at her friend.
But Fanny merely lowered her eyes and said, “Only if he wishes.”
Ugh. Roxana tried again. “Is there some reason you’re not taking part, Mr. Dean? Perhaps you need some ladies to encourage you. We would cheer for him, would we not, Fanny?”
Still looking at the grass, Fanny gave a timid nod.
At least Mr. Dean had more address. “I thought you said you were going to cheer for Captain Sherbourne, Lady Ayersley. Surely you can’t be turncoats?”
“Not turncoats at all. There’s an actual method to our madness. I always cheer for my friends, while Fanny here has a much softer heart, and cheers for the unlikeliest champion.”
Mr. Dean smiled, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Ah, then you really would cheer for me, Miss Sherbourne.”
Fanny looked up, but her only reply was a blush. As much as she loved her friend, Roxana wanted to shake her. How was Mr. Dean to know Fanny liked him if she gave him no encouragement at all?
She had to do something, and Fanny was too shy for subtle stratagems. With a theatrical squint, Roxana peered across the lawn at nothing in particular. “Oh, dear. Look at the way they’re setting up those tables, just where we were planning to hold another footrace. I really must go and have a word with the staff. You’ll look after Miss Sherbourne while her brother is engaged in the tug-of-war, won’t you, Mr. Dean?”
And, without waiting for his reply, she threw Fanny an admonishing look and marched off at a smart clip. There. Now Fanny would have to talk to him.
Fortunately, Roxana was compelled to leave her friend largely in Mr. Dean’s charge, for she had a great deal to manage. She kept the women’s events running on schedule and made sure all the children present had sufficient entertainment. She talked with tenants and their wives. And she spent part of the afternoon making her mother and Harry and the dowager countess feel welcome, though they retired to the more peaceful atmosphere of the dower house as the ale flowed and the crowd grew more spirited.
Eventually the hour arrived for everyone to sit down together for the harvest supper. Long tables had been set up on the grass, and the boards fairly groaned with food. It was plain country fare, but rarely had Roxana seen so much gathered in one place—roast beef and mutton, rabbit pie, oversized cobs and loaves of bread, peas, beans, potatoes of every sort, cider and ale, cakes and tarts and custards.
As she took her place beside Ayersley at the main table, his face wore a strained expression. “Is anything wrong?” she asked in a whisper.
“No, not at all.” After a moment he nodded to one side in reluctant acknowledgment. “Well, perhaps a little. It’s time for my speech. I’ve been dreading it all day.”
“Why? Do you have bad news to deliver?”
“No.” He gave her a blank look. “I just don’t like giving speeches.”
Roxana hid a smile, more in sympathy than amusement.
At a signal from the Harvest Lord, a hush fell over the crowd. Ayersley rose to his feet, coloring up in much the same way he had at their wedding breakfast. He cleared his throat. “Welcome, everyone.”
There was a murmur of welcome from the crowd. Ayersley looked up and down the long row of tables, smiling a nervous but engaging smile. “I wish to thank all of you for joining me today, and for the excellent job you’ve done with this year’s harvest,” he said in a surprisingly firm voice, “as well as for the many kind thoughts and wishes I’ve received from so many of you on the occasion of my marriage. You should all be proud of what you have accomplished this year.” He paused and looked over at Roxana. “As I am proud of what I have accomplished.”
The crowd laughed, and there were scattered cheers.
“It’s good to be back with you today, after several years of absence, and to see so many faces I remember from my boyhood. We owe the bounty before you to your own hard work, as well as to the blessings of Providence. I thank you for the first, and hope you will join me in thanking God for the second. Please, enjoy yourselves. Eat, drink and be merry. And until next year’s harvest, may the good Lord guide, protect and bless you all.” He raised his mug of cider. “And now, let us drink a toast to the Harvest Lord.”
“To the Harvest Lord!” came the chorus, and everyone drank.
Ayersley sat down and, gradually, as the villagers realized that was the extent of his speech, a murmur of approval built to rousing applause. The Harvest Lord then stood and proposed a toast to Ayersley’s health and long life, a sentiment the crowd endorsed enthusiastically. “And t’ her new ladyship,” the Harvest Lord added, so that Roxana’s health was drunk as well.
When everyone had settled down to the feast, Roxana leaned across to Ayersley. “That was a fine speech. Simple and to the point.”
“Thank you,” he said, his color beginning to return to normal. “I have no idea what I just said.”
After dinner—it was a wonder anyone could move, so much food was eaten—they opened the dancing. As tradition required, Roxana danced the first dance with the Harvest Lord, while Ayersley danced with Kate Mason, the very pretty village girl who had been crowned the Harvest Queen. If Ayersley had been nervous about his speech, he was clearly more at home with the dancing. Roxana traded grins with him as they turned about with their respective partners to the accompaniment of pipes and fiddles.
“Such a fine-looking couple you and his lordship make, m’lady,” the Harvest Lord said to her as they danced.
“Why, thank you. I can hardly believe my good fortune tonight, enjoying the company of not one gallant lord, but two.”
He chuckled. “All of us here wish you happy, m’lady. We know how lucky we are, havin’ such a landlord in his lordship. And now we have the prettiest countess in all England too.”
Roxana laughed. Just how much ale had their Harvest Lord downed?
The crowd joined in the dancing. Roxana spotted Fanny with Mr. Dean, and Captain Sherbourne led out the steward’s daughter. Mary, her abigail, danced with the first footman, a tall, strapping young fellow with a roguish smile. Laughter and good cheer bubbled up all around her.
By now the sun was setting, and bonfires had been lit in a wide circle. After a few dances, Fanny and her brother sought Roxana out to say with evident regret it was time for them to go.
She hugged Fanny goodbye. “Do come to see me soon.”
“I will.” In a whisper, Fanny added, “Ayersley looks so happy with you.”
As Roxana stood on the edge of the circle of bonfires waving goodbye to them, Ayersley himself appeared at her side. “Perhaps it’s time for us to call it a day as well, and leave the revelry to the revelers.”
“Let’s have the serpentine!” called a voice in the crowd behind them. With a chorus of shouts, the villagers began to link hands.
Roxana turned to Ayersley and impulsively stretched out a hand. “Let’s just dance this one dance more.”
“The chain dance?” he said in surprise.
She nodded eagerly.
And so they joined the chain, following the leader in a line of dancers that snaked in and out, between the bonfires and around the tables. Spirits were high as the chain wove to and fro. They wound quickly and ever more erratically through the twilight, until everyone was stumbling and laughing and several young women were squealing giddily.
And Ayersley, holding her hand firmly in his, was laughing as freely as any of the villagers, looking
utterly carefree and years younger than his usual self.
Finally the chain broke, the tune ended, and grinning, winded dancers scattered to catch their breath. Without a word, Ayersley fetched Roxana a mug of cider, then stood waiting as she drank it down gratefully.
He looked back at the dancing with a regretful expression. “I suppose we really ought to leave the party to the harvesters now.”
“I suppose so.” She set down her mug. No worker could completely relax under a landowner’s appraising eye.
They started toward the house. Roxana glanced at Ayersley, who strode protectively at her elbow. Perhaps he wasn’t such a model of rectitude after all. He’d wanted to go inside before the chain dance, but rather than call her to order, he had willingly lurched about with her in the semi-dark.
“I like it when you unbend a little,” she said.
His face brightened. “Do you?”
“Very much.” She stopped and turned to him with a happy smile. “You should do it more often.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
And there, standing in the dark, regarding her with the light of the bonfires shining in his eyes, he became the second Ayersley. He was no longer the sober, conscientious gentleman who toiled assiduously all day, administering his estates. He was the relaxed and unguarded husband of her bedroom.
“This was a wonderful day,” she breathed, suddenly unable to think of anything more sensible to say.
He gazed down into her eyes. “It still is.”
He’s going to kiss me. Such a surge of nervous excitement overtook her, she might as well have been a green girl about to receive her first kiss. Right now, out here under the harvest moon, he’s going to kiss me.
Ruined by Rumor Page 20