The tower trembled.
Swayed…
Crumpled and fell, grooms, boy, mutton and all tumbling to the straw mattresses, the burliest men cushioning the fall of the less burly until they all lay groaning and grinning alike.
Isaac staggered to his feet waving the mutton aloft in triumph and the crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. The men rose to their feet to take a bow before the arena was besieged, girls cooing over the stable hands, wives bearing tankards for their thirsty husbands, Isaac’s mother hugging him hard – a more perilous undertaking than the climb as he was nigh suffocated in petticoats.
Ernest doffed his hat and bowed in reverence as Redmond returned with a grin.
“Have ya my jacket, Bea?”
Empty-handed and with eyes wide, Aunt patted at her bodice and skirts. “I appear to have lost it, Redmond. You’ll just have to…remain as you are. Now, shall we find some gorse wine? It was thirsty work watching all that exertion.” And with a wink to Hebe, she linked arms and dragged him forth.
“Well,” breathed Hebe. “Never did I think to view such a spectacle. It’s all so wonderful.” And she sighed, noted the grooms and girls now heading off to a fortune teller’s tent, giggles drifting.
“Tell that to the vicar of Dumbleford,” said Ernest. “He believes it pagan and wicked and wrote to the bishop last year to have it banned. Although our Wychmere vicar put in a good word. He’ll be here somewhere as he’s refereeing the Shin Bashing Contest, I believe.”
“I’m not sure anything could top that Greasy Pole but why don’t we view this Shin Bashing then?” Hebe waggled a gloved finger. “Perchance, I might even enter. For that day in the forest, I bashed your shins most successfully and took you to the ground.”
With a sinful grin twisting those sculptured lips, he leaned down to her ear. “I would let you take me to the ground at any moment, Hebe, in order to feel your body thrash over mine.”
She blinked and attempted to divert the conversation to safer ground, that small ruckus within now surging to quite a rumpus beneath his ardent gaze.
“Well,” she said brightly, “I do not see how anyone could consider this Feast Day pagan or wicked.”
Ernest’s breath scorched her ear. “You should wait till dusk.”
26
SUMMER MADNESS
THEWYCHMEREFEAST.
BY NIGHT…
“Oh no, Lettie, I couldn’t. I’m a widow.”
“’Tis good luck, so it be,” the maid insisted as Ernest watched her unlace the bonnet ribbons beneath Hebe’s chin. “No need to shade thine face now, for the sun’ll be resting soon.” With that, the straw bonnet was summarily removed and tossed to a branch.
A cornflower-hued glance of appeal was hurled in his direction, but there would be no support from his quarter as he assisted the maid in plucking lobed leaves from an overhanging oak tree and twining ivy amongst the hazel twigs for Hebe’s crown of flowers – frothy heads of creamy white cascading.
His jacket had been mislaid somewhere but he cared not, for the eventide warmth showed no sign of lessening.
St Roch’s Day had been glorious.
After a picnic of roasted venison and gorse wine with Mrs Cassell and Redmond, they’d reposed with others at the shaded edge of this forest on spread blankets.
Hebe had chatted of her art, her enthrallment infectious, her creativity beguiling, and he could have sat and listened till the stars glinted overhead. Equally, Ernest had shared his expansion plans for the stables and Hebe had been keen and inquisitive, ideas tumbling from her.
Yet sundown now approached.
Hebe’s hair pins were discarded, her slippery curls cascading into a silken flood.
With the crown of flowers dangling from one hand, Ernest pushed his spectacles up and watched on in admiration, imagined that glorious hair loose over his crimson sheets, his fist twisted within it while he–
“Perfect,” declared Lettie with a grin, before curtseying to him and dashing off to join her friends on a nearby blanket.
Ernest took two steps and arranged the crown snugly upon her head, the sweet scent of almond and leaves wafting. He faffed with it a little, pretending to tuck in curls.
