by Eva Leigh
It was Noel, however, who attracted the most attention. Regardless of the fact that they were in a tiny village deep in Wiltshire—or perhaps because of it—he drew everyone’s notice. No wonder. He radiated wealth and power, and in his expertly tailored clothing, with his absurdly handsome face, he’d draw anyone’s regard.
“No need to wait.” Noel tipped his head toward the mercer shop. “I’ll ask in here for the direction of the McGale business. It won’t take but a moment. Join me, Lady Whitfield? The shop looks charming.”
“I cannot resist anything charming.” Despite Jess’s outward calm, her stomach briefly clenched. The fewer interactions she had with the villagers, the better her chance of avoiding a potentially dangerous situation.
He opened the door for her, and the bell chimed in that same double ring Jess had heard for most of her life. Ring-ring! She’d always loved that bell because it meant they were getting cloth to make new dresses—a rare treat.
Fortunately, there were no customers in the shop. But Lucy Devin stood behind the counter, and gazed at Jess with recognition. Thank God Noel had turned to examine a bolt of wine-colored fabric, because he didn’t see Lucy open her mouth to greet Jess, nor Jess giving her head a small shake at Lucy.
The shopkeeper frowned. Thankfully, however, she said, “Fine afternoon, sir. Got lots of fine merchandise for you today.”
“Afternoon,” Noel said, turning back with a polite nod. “We’re looking for the McGale farm.”
Lucy looked at Jess, and Noel followed Lucy’s glance, so Jess made herself peer into the glass-topped counter and pretend to admire a bowl full of sparkling beads.
“’Tis but a short ride from here,” Lucy said. “Follow the high street north out of the village. It follows the river, which flows past the McGale farm. You’ll see the gate plainly on the right side, just a mile after the church.”
“My thanks,” Noel said.
“Of course, sir. Madam.”
Jess exhaled.
The bell chimed its double ring, and a man entered the shop in the clean but coarse garments of a farmer. Jess recognized him immediately as “Oaty” Williams, a man of her parents’ generation. Oaty paused just on the threshold.
“Aye, Lucy, there’s some carriages outside that look right costly,” he said, then tilted his head. “Jess? What’re you about in them fancy togs?”
She wanted the floor to open up and consume not just Oaty and Lucy’s mercer shop, but the village green and an additional half mile, as well. Sadly, that option did not seem imminent.
She felt Noel’s confused look on her.
“Tess?” She frowned as if in confusion. “My name’s not Tess.”
Oaty took a step toward her. “But—”
The door swung open, and praise everything, Cynthia dashed inside. She panted, her hand pressed to her side.
“Your Grace,” Cynthia gasped. “My lady. So glad. You made. The journey.”
“My lady?” Oaty scratched his head. “It’s—”
“I’m Lady Whitfield,” Jess said, iron in her voice. “Not this Tess person you’re speaking of.”
“She doesn’t resemble Tess in the slightest,” Cynthia said. “For one thing, she’s far prettier than Tess. Wouldn’t you say, Lucy?”
“I . . . uh . . . yes. Yes, Tess is completely different from this woman. Um, Lady Whitfield.”
“Wouldn’t you like to show Mr. Williams some new fabric, Lucy?” Cynthia said. “Perhaps take him into the back room?”
Lucy blinked. She strode forward and grasped Oaty’s arm, then tugged him behind her. “This way, Oaty. We’ve some lovely calico that would look stunning on Ellie.”
Oaty let himself be pulled along, yet he objected, “But it’s—”
Lucy dragged him through the door that led to the storeroom, and shut it firmly behind them, quieting Oaty’s protestations.
Cynthia fixed a smile on her face that was so manic as to be almost vicious. “In any event, I’m Cynthia McGale. My brother, Fred, awaits us at the farm.”
“Peculiar bloke,” Noel murmured, glancing back and forth between the closed storeroom door and Jess. “Mistaking you for someone else.”
“Poor Oaty hasn’t been quite right since we had to fish him out of the well,” Cynthia said. “Confuses his goat with his horse and tries to ride his goat into town. It’s sad, honestly.” She shook her head mournfully.
“We don’t want to keep anyone at your farm waiting,” Jess said, her words pointed. “I imagine there’s quite a lot to see, and we ought to move things along if we plan to return to His Grace’s estate before nightfall.”
“I came over in my gig,” Cynthia said cheerily, “so I can lead your carriages to the farm.”
“By all means, let’s put a bit of distance between us and . . . Oaty,” Noel said. “Before he mistakes me for the butcher and tries to order a haunch of beef.”
Noel placed his hand on the small of Jess’s back as he guided her out. Under different circumstances, she would have accepted his touch gladly. It might have even enflamed her, small and mundane as it was. Yet these circumstances, however, made Jess stiffen. Hopefully, Cynthia wouldn’t notice.
Cynthia noticed. Of course. She shot Jess a questioning look. Jess gave her a silent threat of bodily harm if her younger sister was to press the matter. Cynthia responded with a sly little smirk.
Apparently, there was no age barrier to a younger sibling’s irritating behavior.
Everyone clambered back into the vehicles to prepare for the short journey to the farm. Cynthia brought her gig around, pulled by the family’s gray mare, and then they were off.
Riding in an expensive ducal carriage toward her family’s farm was far removed from her usual experience of being in the gig or driving the farm’s wagon or even being on foot. It was unsettling to see Noel’s profile silhouetted against the fields that she’d known her whole life, as if she sat down to the battered wooden family kitchen table and was served a meal of delicacies on golden plates.
They finally reached the farm, and everyone gathered in the yard outside the main house, where the family lived. Cynthia appeared, with Fred at her side.
Her brother glanced from the carriages to the refined company—lingering in awe on Noel—before his look skipped to Jess and her borrowed regalia. Yet, like Cynthia, her brother said nothing that gave her away.
“Your Grace, my lords and ladies,” Cynthia said with a friendly smile, “what an honor to have you here at McGale & McGale. As some of you know, I’m Cynthia McGale and this is my brother, Fred.”
Fred bowed. “Refreshments before we begin our tour?” He bent down and scooped up the farm’s orange tabby, then gave the cat a scratch between its ears. The mouser purred its approval. “We’ve excellent mead made from our very own honey.”
After setting the cat back down, Fred motioned to a trio of the farm’s laborers who, Jess knew, helped in the soap production process. Today, Katie, Sam, and Dot had exchanged their sturdy garments for their Sunday best, and they brought trays with mugs of mead forward to the visitors. Inwardly, she cheered whomever had thought of this excellent strategy of plying the guests with the delicious, mood-lightening drink.
Noel stepped forward to take two mugs. He passed one to Jess, then took a sip. “Extraordinary.”
“An old family recipe,” Fred said proudly. “Proprietary, too. Though,” he added with a wink, “with the right inducement, I’m sure someone will be willing to give up their secrets.”
Jess coughed loudly, and glared from behind the fist she’d brought up to her mouth.
“Everyone finished their mead?” Cynthia asked. When the company nodded, she said, “If you’ll follow Katie, she’ll begin the tour of our operation. Lady Whitfield, a word? I have a question about today’s planned agenda.”
“Of course.” Jess smiled and waved the group forward, including Noel. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“This way, everyone,” Katie said, holding up her ha
nds as she walked backward. “There’s much to see and I’m sure you’ll have questions, so let’s begin.”
Once the visitors had moved on—Noel casting a glance at her over his shoulder before joining them—Jess turned to her siblings. Her mind spun out into a hundred different scenarios: their half-dozen workers had failed to show up today, or they’d neglected purchasing enough tallow, or the bees hadn’t produced enough honey. Whatever the situation, Jess would handle it.
But before she could speak, Cynthia demanded, “A duke, Jess?” Her eyes gleamed excitedly. “You never said anything about a duke fancying you.”
“Handsome as Hades, too,” Fred added, waggling his eyebrows.
Jess scowled at her brother. “Shut it. And whether or not Noel, I mean, the duke fancies me doesn’t matter. We’re here to keep McGale & McGale going.” She glanced toward the open-walled structure where they made lye. Katie gestured to the barrels as she likely explained the way in which wood ash was boiled with river water to create the lye for their soap.
Noel stood with the rest of the group, listening to Katie. Having him on her family’s humble farm ought to feel strange or odd, his elegant figure a stark contrast to the workaday buildings and equipment. And yet it was as though she had been waiting forever for him to come here, and at last, he was in his rightful place.
“Did you . . . ahem.” Fred looked at her meaningfully. “With him? For the business?”
Her gaze flew back to her brother. “God, no!” The thought was appalling, churning her stomach. “I’d never.”
“That’s not what we believed at all.” But Cynthia spoke too quickly.
Jess closed her eyes and counted slowly to five. When she felt sufficiently calm, she opened her eyes and said, “I’m getting back to the others to, you know, legitimately save our family business.” She walked away, her pace sedate and even in case anyone from the Bazaar looked in her direction. When she rejoined the others, she made certain her expression was calm and interested.
As Katie continued to explain how liquid lye was created, Noel leaned close to whisper, “Making mischief behind the scenes?”
“I don’t hide my mischief—I do it in plain sight.” She explained in a low voice, “Just a few logistical questions about the post-tour luncheon.” She continued to smile at him, hoping he believed her, willing everything to work out. Because it had to. There simply was no other choice.
Chapter 21
Throughout the tour, Noel couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Jess. The information the McGale siblings presented them was fascinating—Noel used soap daily, but had virtually no idea what the process of making it entailed—yet he found himself looking for her whenever they moved from one step of the procedure to the next.
She watched it all with a careful expression, taking note of everything, listening carefully. She also sent discreet glances toward the Bazaar guests, as if assessing their reaction to the business.
It was only natural—in a way, Jess had been the one to bring McGale & McGale to everyone’s attention. Surely she’d be invested in whether or not they agreed with her assessment.
Mostly, though, Noel gazed at Jess because he simply liked to see her. He watched the play of thoughts across her face, and savored the sunlight caught in her hair, and noted a thousand details that he tucked away to revisit and cherish later.
There was a poem he dimly recalled from school. Typical male, the poet had gone on and on, employing every verbal trick in the book so he might get under the lady’s skirts. Two lines, though, kept sticking in Noel’s head: But at my back I always hear / Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near.
Jess was not his forever. Hell, he didn’t know if she was his now.
“You’re aware of what happened four months back,” Cynthia McGale said in her broad Wiltshire accent. There was something familiar about the way she spoke, the rhythm of her words, but he could not quite identify what that was.
Cynthia nodded to a heap of charred timber, the grass around it scorched.
“The fire,” Noel said.
Fred McGale said grimly, “That building was where lye and rendered fat were combined in the saponification process. Dangerous work.”
“That’s what caused the fire?” Lady Farris asked.
“There’s the rub,” Cynthia said. “’Twas a lightning strike that started the blaze. We all heard it and ran out, me and Fred and—” She stopped abruptly. “And my other sister.”
“But you couldn’t save the structure or anything in it,” Jess said, her words firm. “Correct, Miss McGale?”
“We lost the building and equipment, my lady,” Cynthia said, “and that’s why we need you. Because we know that if we got everything back up and running, made a few improvements and had our production volume increased, we’d be a roaring success.”
“Which would also be dependent on our investors spreading the word,” Fred McGale added. “If people knew about us, they’d want our soap.”
“How do you know that for certain?” Lady Haighe asked.
“Because everyone who tries McGale & McGale soap becomes a repeat customer,” Cynthia said. “We know this for a fact—and have the record of sales to prove it.”
The visitors murmured amongst themselves, and Noel had to admit that what the McGale family offered sounded promising.
“We’d like to see the accounting ledgers,” Jess said. “To see how profitable the business was before the fire.”
“Our sister—the one who isn’t here—kept them,” Fred said. “They show McGale & McGale’s profitability when we did have all of our structures and equipment. We would be happy to provide that for you, Your Grace.”
“Here they are.” Cynthia motioned toward one of the workers, who brought forward two volumes. She handed the books to Noel. “Feel free to look at them during our luncheon, but I’ll need both back before you leave today.”
“My thanks.” He flipped one open to find very thorough auditing of business costs and profits. “Where is your other sister?”
“She’s . . .” Fred cleared his throat. “Working. She has been employed off the farm for several months.”
“Neither one of us has seen her in some time,” Cynthia added.
“Shame,” Noel said, returning his attention to the ledger. She’d done a fine job of recording the expenses and revenue. The handwriting looked oddly familiar. He tried to place where he’d seen it, picturing in his mind a woman’s hand recording something in a notebook with that same penmanship.
Ah, well. It didn’t signify. What was of importance was the careful and detailed accounting in the ledger, revealing the sustained profit of the McGale operation.
When everyone had finished examining the books, they were returned to Cynthia McGale’s care.
“Luncheon next, I believe,” Jess said.
“Right this way, my lords and ladies,” Fred McGale said.
He led the group to a long table that had been set up beneath the branches of an oak. Wildflowers in ceramic jugs were placed at intervals down the middle of the table, and a collection of unmatched plates marked each person’s place. Since they were not in a formal setting and he wasn’t required to seat himself according to rank, Noel offered Jess a place beside him. She smiled and took the proffered chair.
The McGale siblings and two of the farm’s workers brought out platters of simple, homey food, including roast chicken, cucumbers dressed with vinegar, and apples baked in honey-sweetened pastry.
As the sun inched lower in the sky, it cast golden light through the oak leaves, and between having Jess beside him, the mellowness of the mead, and the languid June air in this bucolic place, Noel couldn’t recall a more enjoyable day.
Beneath this sense of calm and peace, anticipation sparked through him. He had another night with Jess beneath his roof. Another night before their time together ran out—but it didn’t have to come to an end. Tonight, he’d show her with all the ways he could how much she meant to him.
&n
bsp; “My lords and ladies,” Cynthia McGale said, holding up her hands, “Your Grace. Thank you all for your visit today. Have you any further questions?”
After a moment, Lady Farris said, “I have none. The moment I return to London, I’ll have my man of business prepare the necessary documents.”
Mr. Walditch, Mr. Parley, and Baron Mentmore added their own plans to invest. By the time they’d voiced their intentions, the McGales looked as though they were on the verge of joining hands and dancing in a victorious circle.
Even Jess grinned, clearly pleased that she’d guided everyone to a worthwhile venture. He felt it from her, the sense of relief so profound it eased through Noel’s own bones.
“Potential is ripe here,” Noel said. “I’m in.”
“I think this calls for a celebration,” Fred said. “More mead, and I baked a honey cake in hopes of this very outcome.”
The glasses were all refilled, and moments later, Cynthia came out bearing a large platter with an impressive golden-brown cake. Strawberries and blackberries adorned the top of the cake and encircled its sides. She cut slices for everyone, adding a dollop of whipped cream with the berries.
As everyone ate and drank, contentment gripped Noel. He resisted the urge to stroke his hand down Jess’s thigh beneath the table, but he felt her beside him just the same.
Conversation went on, slightly drowsy from the long day and the excellent meal.
Jess stood. “Please don’t get up,” she said when Noel and the other men began to rise. “I just need a good stretch of my legs before we return to Carriford.”
“A walk sounds the very thing, Lady Whitfield,” Noel said as he got to his feet. “Machines that get too little use turn rusty.”
Together, they strolled away from the table. They took a path past several fields full of growing crops. The air was filled with green scent and the fragrance of rich soil—though he was ignorant of what precisely they grew—and bees droned beneath the late afternoon sky.
A glance behind him confirmed that everyone at the table continued to chat amongst themselves and with the McGales.