“Your Grace! What a kindly and pleasant deed to grace us with your graceful presence, Your Grace.”
Rising to his boots, Marcus shook the baker’s hand with fervour. “No need for that, Luke. I filched enough of your pies as a cub to rid us of formality.”
“Aye, that you did. I remembered game was your favourite, so made sure Nessy brought the largest one over.”
It was so kind and Marcus felt an absolute curmudgeon that he’d not visited townspeople and tenants for some time, leaving it all to his steward.
He picked up his glass of ale and raised it forth. “I toast your son and his beautiful wife. To many, many years of happiness.”
The baker’s eyes dropped, skittered to Charlotte. “Aye, well, Your Grace. We can only hope. There but for the grace of God, eh…Your Grace?”
Blinking at all those graces and feeling as though he was missing something important, Marcus nodded. “Just so.”
As the rotund baker turned to the next table, Marcus sat and gripped Charlotte’s wrist before it could fork another roast potato into her mouth.
“What are you not telling me?”
“I thought you knew…” She sighed. “You used to be so perceptive, Marcus. Look around. What do you see?”
He perused the inn.
Lads fought over bowls of pork crackling; men propped up the bar and discussed the harvest – it’d been abysmal; womenof the town crowded the fireplace, cradling babes; and a hound chomped crusts that a tot was feeding it under a chair.
His eyes shifted to the newly-weds’ table where various children squabbled, an uncle was two sheets to the wind and the bridesmaid was flashing her ankles at the best man.
All in all, a normal wedding.
Then he looked anew.
His gaze fixed on the bride who refused to release her husband’s hand. Then Luke the baker whose mournful eyes flitted back and forth to the couple. The mother of the bride’s lips smiled yet held a tremble…
“It ought to be a scene of elation,” he said quietly. “The groom’s cheeks are glowing more than the bonnie bride’s but…there’s something not quite right. A hint of melancholy.”
“Indeed, Marcus. But that’s not a glow,” she murmured. “Fred has a lung illness. The doctor says he must leave this damp Lakes climate or he won’t live to see next Christmas. The townsfolk are giving money to pay for their travel and board further south. Even then, it might not be enough to help his lungs.”
Marcus felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.
Now he could sense it. See it. The guests laughed and gambolled but with the knowledge that happiness could be too fleet.
“Why didn’t you tell me? This did seem an odd month for a wedding.”
“I thought you knew up until you grumped of the money. Fred is a tenant of yours. As is Luke.”
“I don’t interfere in their private matters,” he bit out. “And how can they be so damn cheerful? Why is Kitty marrying him? She could be a widow in six months, left with child.”
Charlotte stared at him, and he could not look away from the hurt in her green eyes.
“She loves him, Marcus. If Kitty has but a few months with him, then I believe she considers it worth the possible heartbreak.Heis worth it. And besides, did not the bard say, ‘What is love? ’Tis not hereafter: Present mirth hath present laughter.’”
With mind awhirl, Marcus stared to his plate, the table stuffed with food, a cost that could contribute towards their travel, and he couldn’t consume a damn morsel.
“I need… I need some air.” He rose and with a curt bow, blundered through the throng and escaped out the side door.
There, he leaned back against an outer stable yard wall, shoving hands through his hair.
What the hell was Charlotte doing to him?
This was why he couldn’t involve himself in the lives of the townsfolk. It affected him overmuch and a detachment was necessary in order to run a profitable estate for everyone’s benefit.
