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Fenella hadn’t meant to attend the rehearsal for the Lindisfarne pageant. She’d determined to send her regrets to Harold Benson, pleading a press of duties and the exigencies of her father’s illness. However, a note from the man in charge of the performance had put paid to that idea. If she’d known Colonel Patterson was supervising, she would have made her refusal clear to Mr. Benson at the first mention, Fenella thought. Now it was too late. The colonel, a hero of Waterloo and scion of an ancient noble family, was expecting her, and one did not go back on a promise to him. The idea of seeing disappointment in the upright old man’s eyes when they next met made Fenella shudder.
She’d told herself that Chatton wouldn’t appear, and so this whole scheme would come to nothing. But there he was, walking toward her across the wooden floor of the village hall—rangy, frowning, with his red hair agleam in a ray of sunshine, automatically the center of attention even in this crowded room. She’d seen him more often in the last week than in months before that, and his renewed presence was reviving memories at an increasing pace.
The heir to Chatton Castle had been a wild boy, careening over the countryside with his cronies, brandishing wooden swords and makeshift shields, racing their ponies along the beach. Fenella, burdened by her father’s criticisms and hemmed in by her mother’s rules, had envied them their loud heedless freedom. She’d watched them from out-of-the-way corners at children’s parties, not knowing what to say. She’d fumbled for conversation when they were older and thrown together at neighborhood assemblies. Not that she’d often been asked to dance. And then came their fathers’ disastrous attempt to marry them off, which broke her life in two. Fortunately, Fenella thought. She was grateful for her time in Scotland and her grandmother’s insistence that she “grow a spine,” as the old lady had put it. She was glad she’d risen to that challenge, happy with the woman she’d become.
“I wasn’t going to do this,” Chatton said when he reached her, echoing her thoughts. “But then I heard from Patterson.”
Fenella nodded.
“And as my mother immediately pointed out, one does not say no to the colonel.”
“I feel as if I’ve enlisted.”
Chatton laughed. “Or been taken up by Harold Benson’s one-man press gang.”
“If he’d said it was Colonel Patterson.”
“I imagine he’s careful not to.” He smiled at Fenella, as he hadn’t in a long time. “I was surprised Patterson took on this job. At least we know the thing will run efficiently.”
This statement was amply confirmed as they watched a bit of rehearsal. The colonel had lined up a group of local men and informed them that they were a procession of monks moving to the sound of a harp and chanting. They were to walk meditatively, with their hands in the sleeves of their monks’ robes and their heads bent in the hoods. Since there were as yet no robes, and no harp or chanting, this proved problematic. Also, the colonel once or twice strayed into a parade ground roar that caused two of the men to snap to attention and salute.
“I always think of Colonel Patterson as a large man,” Fenella murmured. “But he isn’t.” Indeed, he was shorter than most of his amateur actors, but so upright and energetic that he seemed bigger. A lined face and white hair didn’t matter in such a dominating personality, she thought. His plain blue coat, riding breeches, and boots gave the impression of a uniform.
“You feel as if he’s carrying a swagger stick,” said Chatton. “Even though he isn’t.”
“I wonder what happens if someone doesn’t follow his orders?” Fenella replied.
“I don’t think we want to find out.”
They exchanged a look that held more sympathy than they’d shared before. She was surprised at how gratifying this felt.
The time came for their scene. The colonel allowed a moment for greetings, shaking Chatton’s hand and offering Fenella a nod and a glance from twinkling gray eyes. Then Fenella was given a much-used broom from the back of the hall and told to imagine that she was standing under a stone archway in the ruins of the old abbey on Lindisfarne. “Rush up to her like a marauding Viking,” the colonel said to Chatton.
He trotted over.
“A Viking,” repeated the colonel. “Bent on looting. Bristling with weapons. More than likely spattered with the blood of murdered monks.”
Chatton blinked. He tried it again.
“You aren’t at a tea party!” growled Colonel Patterson. “Have you heard the phrase ravening horde? You’re part of one.”
The marquess bit his lower lip, whether in chagrin or to keep from laughing Fenella couldn’t tell. He backed up, gathered himself, and essayed another rush, baring his teeth and shouting, “Charge!”
“Charge?” echoed the colonel.
“Slipped out.” Chatton looked sheepish.
“Well, see that it doesn’t do so again. But that was good enough for now. Rather effective snarl. See that you practice.” Colonel Patterson turned to Fenella, who had very nearly laughed. “Miss Fairclough, you are furious and determined to defend your home.”
Fenella swung the broom and caught Chatton on the shoulder, rocking him back a step.
“Hold on!” cried the colonel. “You mustn’t actually hit him.”
And then they spent a good deal of time working out how she was to repel the supposed invader with a swipe that looked like a leveler but stopped short of striking him. Chatton had to flinch and fall at just the right moment, so that it appeared he’d been felled by her stroke, when it hadn’t actually touched him.
It was quite difficult, Fenella found. To make a wide swing with the broom and stop short was more tiring than simply flailing about. She was relieved when Colonel Patterson finally said, “Yes, all right. That will do for now.” She started to lower the broom, thinking they were finished, but he continued. “Now Chatton, you leap up and return to the fray. Miss Fairclough, you try the same trick. But Chatton, you knock the broom from her hands this time. Thus and thus.” He guided them through the movements. “And then you grasp her arms to keep her from hitting you.”
Roger did as he was told. Fenella’s arms felt slender and supple under the cloth of her gown. Her face was inches away. He hadn’t been so close to her in… Had he ever been so close? She wore a heady flowery scent.
