Both ladies raised their brows as though strings were attached.
“Er…” Miss Seymour managed. “But shouldn’t you escort the Taits?”
Dair and he exchanged the sharp glance of soldiers bracing for engagement.
“Their barouche is too slow,” drawled his cousin. “Whereas keeping pace with your dashing phaeton is perfect for our restive steeds.”
“But…but…” Miss Seymour’s face was a picture of confusion. “We are travelling in a convoy. We’ll all be slow.”
Miles tapped his lip. “Ah, the message must have been delayed. I spoke with Mrs Tait.”
“You did?”
“Hmm. We are to forge ahead in order to coordinate stabling for all and refreshments at the inn.”
Miss Seymour’s eyes widened like brown figs swelling on their stems. She had been caught off guard, stumbled straight into an ambush and now Miles held the advantage.
“In that case, we would be delighted,” declared Miss Nash. “Wouldn’t we, Verity?” An elbow jabbed.
“Yes!” Miss Seymour squeaked. “We would welcome your escort.”
Miles allowed a smile.
The troops had successfully secured initial objectives. Flags planted atop the conquered phaeton.
11
“THE MICHAELMAS DAISIES, AMONG DEDE WEEDS BLOOM FOR ST MICHAEL’S VALOROUS DEEDS.”
(ANON)
Jugglers, wrestlers, contortionists and rope dancers. Fiddlers, drummers, pipers and singing birds. Puppet shows, ventriloquists, glass blowers and a blindfolded dog who could tell the time. Cutpurses, horse thieves and Ursula the pig-woman, who apparently sold more than pork. All were gathered within the fields surrounding Kingston town, stalls stretching north of the old Thames bridge, around the church and south unto the minor river of Hogsmill.
Such an atmosphere of vibrancy and Verity breathed deep of it: the sweet fragrance of comfits, trampled grass, meat pies and an exotic eastern scent that she was unfamiliar with drifting from the fortune teller’s tent.
It seemed as though people from every stratum of society had travelled to be here today. Nobles brushed shoulders with pie men, country folk gawked at the town dandies, ladies purchasedballads from grubby tinkers and the masses caroused, children in silks or rags darting amongst their legs.
As a child, Verity and her father had always attended the travelling fair that had come to town in August. The brightly striped tents, feats of horsemanship and stalls with every gee-gaw imaginable were cherished memories of fun and frivolity.
Yet she had always sensed that beneath all the frivolity, there pulsed an intoxicating, almost ominous energy.
And today was no different. A week ago, this meadow had been a quiet haven of butterflies and birdsong but now it seethed at frenetic pace: children shrieked and money was misspent, feet danced and music was cacophonous, magicians awed and pockets were picked.
An almost desperate grasp at fleeting time, as before the week was out it would all be gone, vanished within a sunrise.
Back to the quiet haven of butterflies and birdsong.
As though the fair had never been there at all…
Verity and her cousin were waiting outside a tent whose painted board promised aLiving Skeleton to make you Shiver & Shakewhile Miles had offered to forage for sustenance – or rather had waded into the crowd surrounding the roasted goose stall. Mr Firth was conducting small talk but Sephi was utterly silent for once, enthralled by it all.
The journey to Kingston-upon-Thames had passed in a trice, through Kensington and then onto the open fields of Richmond and past the Botanical Gardens of Kew, which she’d not visited for so long.
And all the while, Miles had ridden alongside them, his magnificent deep-chested horse obedient beneath the commanding grip of his thighs. Not that she’d been looking…
Oh, what fibs. Of course she’d been looking.
She recalled he’d not been so adept a rider when young but within the dragoons, he had clearly developed a superior horsemanship.
