Page 18 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“Oh, no. Don’t spoil it,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve come through this meeting unscathed by some miracle. Let’s not push our luck with apologies.”

Hetty huffed, pretending to be cross with him when she was nothing of the sort.

“Is that all, then?” she asked, rather crestfallen, as she saw he was gathering up the plans and putting them away. The time had gone by too fast, and surely there was far more to look at.

“For today, certainly. I have been up since dawn and I’m weary. I ought not to have presented myself to you at all in such a state of disorder, but you would have your way,” he added dryly.

Hetty pulled a face. “Oh, please. As if I care whether you are a little dusty or your cravat is neatly tied,” she said in disgust, though she had not considered how tired he must be. “But I am sorry I did not stop to reflect upon what a long day you’ve had. I should be glad to help you with the other rooms, but you must arrange a time that suits you. I will make myself available whenever you wish.” Feeling suddenly gauche and silly, she wondered if he would think her forward for her enthusiasm.

“No apologies,” he reminded her sternly. “And I do not know when would be best, for I am always busy. Are you an early riser, my lady?”

“I can be,” she said at once, adding. “And please call me Hetty.”

He hesitated, his dark brows drawing down. “I don’t believe that would be appropriate.”

“Oh, stuff propriety. You may return to my lady if anyone is about, but it’s such a bother and I hate formality.”

“So I have remarked,” he replied, lips twitching.

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded, bristling a little at what sounded like a criticism.

He paused in the act of fastening the buckles on the leather folder he carried. “Oh, settle your feathers. I only mean that you do not care for your reputation quite as carefully as you probably should. What if I were a fortune hunter set on ruining you?”

“But you are not, and would never do such a vile thing, so that is a pointless argument,” she said hotly.

Something like surprise lit his eyes. “Do you know me so well?”

His voice was suddenly soft and rather intimate, and Hetty realised she did not know him at all.

“N-no, but I am an excellent judge of character,” she replied stubbornly.

He snorted at that. “Then I believe this might be a good time to remind you of our first meeting. You loathed me.”

“No more than you did me,” she countered, putting up her chin. “But I shall admit I was wrong, if you can do likewise, for surely you despised me more than I did you.”

He looked at her then, his expression unreadable once more. “I never despised you, Hetty,” he said before giving a quick bow and leaving her standing alone.

Hetty watched him go, riveted—not by his words—but how he had said them. It had almost sounded as if despising her had been the last thing on his mind, but… but she was building castles in the air as usual, she told herself repressively. There was nothing between her and Mr Bramwell, who was, in any case, quite ineligible. So, there was no point in allowing herself to even consider—and yet it was too late, for she sat down at the window seat where she could watch his tall, lean figure walking back down the drive, and did just that.

Chapter 6

A Taste of Trouble

Village Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 21st July 1816

Mrs Adie chuckled, patting Miss Caroline Honeywell’s hand as the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney employed the gavel with rather more enthusiasm than was necessary.

“The old lady likes to ensure everyone is paying attention,” she murmured, making Caro smile. She liked Mrs Adie, Mrs Mabs, and everyone at the vicarage, especially their Uncle Bertie. He had been so very kind, and yet guilt twisted in her heart, for she knew she had placed him in a terrible position. He had agreed to keep their secret, but if their father found out they had come to him—Caro shivered, pushing the horrifying thought away.

One day he would discover what they had done, but she did not regret running away. She had never been happier than she was at the vicarage, and she knew her little sister, Abbie, felt the same. It was as though a great, heavy blanket had been lifted from them and they could breathe, could see the way ahead, for the first time. Caro fiddled with the buttons on her gloves nervously, but took a breath, steeling herself. She would risk anything to keep that freedom.

“Now then,” the dowager said. “The Harvest festival. Yes, yes, I know it’s only July, but it will be upon us before we can say knife, mark my words. Suggestions, please. Obviously, we shall all enjoy the Reverend Honeywell’s wonderful church service, but what other suggestions are there?”

Mrs Adie put up her hand. “What about a competition for the largest onion or potato? We could get the children to vote.”

“Write that down,” the dowager instructed Mrs Fairway, who dutifully noted it down in the book before her. “Mind, I remember the last such competition and the finalists came to blows over who had grown the largest pumpkin. It was most amusing,” she remarked, chuckling.

Looking anxiously around her at the rows of neatly arranged chairs and the variety of ladies who occupied them, Caro dared to lift her hand.