“Indeed, madam. From the chime of ten. Though I find it all a touch crowded but…” With a shy shrug, he turned and crept out.
Aunt poured two steaming cups with a deft hand before they snuggled back beneath the blanket, savouring the first tea of the morning.
“What will you wear today, Hebe?” asked Aunt, nibbling a biscuit. “That Mr Grampy Tom predicted it would be a summer’s day to remember – warm and glorious.”
Pondering, Hebe sipped her tea. “I believe I’ll wear my blue.”
“The colour of Lord Ernest’s eyes?”
Hebe silently stared to the escaped tea leaves floating in her cup.
“You need not tell me anything, dearest.” A hand stroked her hair. “But promise me that you’ll not shy from life’s adventures. From love or desire.”
“I promise…” She stifled another yawn and rested her head upon Aunt’s shoulder once more. “But the memory of Tobias is always there…”
“Replace the memories, dear.” Aunt softly kissed her hair. “Replace them.”
Hebe nodded, eyes sliding shut.
Aunt Beatrice yawned, letting her head rest on Hebe’s own.
And together they fell asleep.
25
TRIAL BY FIRE, WATER AND GREASY POLE
THEWYCHMEREFEAST.
BY DAY…
“What do you wish to see first? The Shin Bashing Contest, Woolsack Races, Nettle Thrashing, the Goose Chase, Exotic Beasts, Scoffing the Scarf or the Greasy Pole?”
“Scoffing the…” Hebe’s lips parted, eyes wide with befuddlement.
“Hmm, Scape the goat usually wins that one.” Ernest grinned. “But I did make up the Goose Chase.”
With breath stalled, Hebe shook her head as together they strolled over the moat bridge and then followed a track that arced towards a fantastical scene.
For the meadow that gently sloped down to the river and forest edge had been scythed and filled with makeshift stalls, wooden carts and roped-off arenas, crimson tents peeking out from between. Laughter and chatter drifted whilst summer bonnets bobbed in a weave of colour. Plumes of fire smoke rose into the pure cobalt-blue sky, the lavish morn sun causing pelisses to be cast to the shade.
Upon the perimeter of this wondrous meadow was a table formed from wooden crates with a metal box on top, and seated behind was Mr Garvey, togged not in his butler attire but a smart burgundy jacket, buckskins and boots.
“My Lord, Mrs Locke. Good day to you both,” he declared, hastily rising. “Two adults. That will be fourpence.”
Ernest dutifully slipped some coins into the metal box while Garvey turned to attend the next in the queue.
“But there’s no fence,” Hebe whispered. “Can’t anyone just sneak in?”
Ernest leaned close, his clean-shaven chin brushing her bonnet. “Wychmere’s a small place and Garvey keeps a beady eye. He knows who’s here. So should there be any interlopers, they’ll face his wrath during the Nettle Thrashing.”
They were handed their tickets of admission, and with a wink, Ernest linked his arm within hers and ushered her forth into the melee.
Stalls with wicker baskets, honeyed mead, wooden hoops and tansy cake were scattered hither and thither across the meadow. Dusky-eyed women with bright dresses and crinkled smiles sat outside those crimson tents, mystics who curled ring-clad fingers at the passers-by and promised to foretell all…
“I’ve never seen the like,” Hebe murmured. For it was joyous – farmers strolled in their Sunday best, arm in arm with their wives; a small boy led a lolloping pig by a leash; young girls dashed to and fro, ribbons trailing; and pretty white-clad maidens with crowns of flowers danced in circles to a fiddler’s tune.
“To be truthful, ’tis not a fair,” Ernest revealed, “as that requires a royal charter, but on Saint Roch’s Day we celebrate the founding of the village and rejoice for the coming autumn bounty. Everyone from Wychmere is here and most of those from the surrounding villages too. Will Skelton typically wins the Shin Bashing and Sir Henry typically drinks all the mead.”
