Stephanie Laurens - Beyond Seduction

It wasn’t until, all such questions answered and with all theoretically ready for the morrow when the physical arrangements would be set in place, the company drifted into the front hall, making ready to depart, and the vicar turned to them, Gervase with Madeline beside him, and took his leave of them with a jovial, “I have to say that this year seems specially blessed and the festival looks set to exceed all our previous efforts,” all the while smiling at her and shaking her hand before, with smile undimmed, shaking Gervase’s, that Madeline realized just how far into the background Sybil had faded.

Looking around, she located Sybil by the drawing room door with Mrs. Caterham.

“Good-bye, Madeline dear.”

Recalled to her place-by Gervase’s side-by Mrs. Entwhistle, Madeline squeezed her fingers lightly. “Until tomorrow, Claudia. And don’t fret. All will go swimmingly.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will.” With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Entwhistle turned to shake Gervase’s hand. “Now we have you and his lordship both overseeing the whole, I’m sure nothing will dare go wrong.”

Madeline’s smile felt a trifle distracted. She glanced again at Sybil, but she seemed to feel no burning need to take her rightful place beside Gervase. More, like the vicar, all the others seemed to take it for granted that Madeline should be the one standing beside him.

She felt a little odd-an unwitting usurper-but as Sybil merely smiled sweetly, uncomprehendingly, when she succeeded in catching her eye, and did nothing about coming to replace her, she inwardly shrugged. It was doubtless just habit formed over the previous years when the festival had been held at the Park and she had, in fact, been the hostess. Everyone was used to her in that role, including Sybil, and with Sybil hanging back, without any real thought everyone recast her in the position. Perfectly understandable.

There was no reason whatever to make anything more of it, to read anything more into it.

She hoped they understood that.

His hand at her elbow, Gervase steered her onto the porch at the top of the front steps; she’d earlier agreed to stay behind and go over the castle forecourt and ramparts with him, with chalk marking out the booths and various spaces for tents and other activities.

So she stood beside him before the castle front doors and waved while the others rode or drove away-and tried not to think of what image they were projecting, and what incorrect ideas might consequently stir.

“Ah-good morning, Jones.” Madeline smiled at the innkeeper from Coverack as he stood beside his cart, eyes wide and startled as he scanned the frenetic activity already overflowing the castle forecourt. She pointed. “If you’ll take those barrels over there, to that spot beyond the steps, and then speak with Sitwell-he’s at the top of the steps-about filling them.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Jones tipped his cap. “Right circus, this is.”

Madeline only smiled in reply, then moved smartly to dodge a donkey hauling in a cart. “Hello, Masters.” She nodded to the old wandering merchant; he’d been a goldsmith in his prime, and now traveled the country visiting festivals and fairs. “Back with us this year?”

“Always, Miss Gascoigne.” Masters bowed and doffed his hat. “One of my favorites, the Peninsula Summer Festival.”

“Well, we’re always glad to have you. We’ve kept one of the prime spots for your booth.” She pointed out Gervase, a tall figure standing by the edge of the lawn directing the peddlers and merchants to their allotted places, and dealing with the inevitable grumbling. “Just speak with his lordship, Lord Crowhurst, and he’ll show you where to set up.”

“Thank you kindly, miss.” Masters led his donkey on.

Madeline glanced around; with every minute that passed-with every additional person who came in through the gates to deliver this or that, or to lend a hand with assembling the various stalls, booths, tents and trestles-the bustle in the forecourt increasingly resembled a swelling melee.

She’d lived through the event many times, but the area they’d used at the Park had been more open. Although under the open sky, the forecourt was bounded by the castle’s tall inner bailey walls on the east, north and northwest, the castle itself on the south, and beyond the lawns, the ramparts to the southwest, overlooking the sea. The area was more protected from the wind and the weather, all to the good. However, the prevalence of stone walls hemming most of it in meant the noise level was significantly greater. She could barely hear herself think.

“Tomorrow will be better,” she assured Mrs. Entwhistle when she came upon that harassed lady in the shifting throng and she commented on the cacophony. “Today everyone is shouting instructions, not talking.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Entwhistle shouted back. “One has to positively scream to be heard.”

They parted. Madeline moved through the crowd, keeping her eyes peeled for potential problems; she’d always had this role, even before the festival had moved to the Park. She knew the locals better than anyone else, and they listened to her, even the men. And it was mostly the men and youths who were there that day, the sound of hammers and saws and oaths filling the air as they labored, all good-naturedly giving their time so their families could enjoy the festival tomorrow.

A few women had come bearing cloths and bunting to decorate some of the stalls; reaching the ramparts, Madeline looked out over the sea, then up and around at the sky, and decided the women’s efforts would be safe enough. The weather looked set to remain fine.

Turning, she surveyed the seething mass of people, each and every one absorbed and intent on some task, and inwardly smiled. She was about to plunge into the crowd again when she glimpsed Harry, then located Edmond and the shorter Ben in the same knot of youths all helping with one stall.

The boys had ridden over with her that morning; there was no way they’d miss the day. Curious as to who they’d elected to spend it with, she circled closer.

Her half brothers were helping erect one of the larger tents used by the tavern owners from Helston to sell their ale. Lips thinning, Madeline saw which tavern it was, and immediately understood the attraction for her brothers. “Noah Griggs.” She inwardly sighed, remembering Gervase saying that the man’s older brother, Abel, was the leader of the Helston smuggling gang. “I suppose I might have known.”

She’d spoken under her breath, so was surprised to hear, “Indeed you might,” whispered in her ear.

She managed not to jump; it was harder not to shiver. Turning her head, she met Gervase’s eyes. “I suppose it was naïve of me to think they might have forgotten their interest in the smugglers.”

“In such a situation?” He met her eyes and smiled. “Undoubtedly naïve.”

Drawing her arm though his, he stood close, his large frame protecting her from the buffeting of the crowd. “Just think-today they can with impunity, indeed, in complete, albeit feigned, innocence, spend time under Abel’s eye, listening to the stories he’s no doubt entertaining the lads with, and perhaps do enough to have Abel and his brother-he’s the tavern owner, did I mention?-look upon them kindly.”

She humphed. “Abel might look upon them kindly, but I won’t.”

“Ah, but you can’t really say anything, can you?”

She sighed. “I suppose not.” Turning, drawing her arm from his, she looked around.

“I’m on my way to check the booths along the east wall.” He caught her eye. “Why don’t you come with me?”

She was tempted, but…remembering yesterday and the circumstances that had placed them in misleading propinquity, she shook her head. “I should check on the spinners and weavers, and see if the cloth merchants have arrived. They’re over by the northwest gate.”

He looked into her eyes, then smiled, lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed. “Join me when you break for lunch. By then I’ll need my sanity restored.”

She laughed, nodded and they parted.

Tacking through the crowd, she found the spinners and weavers setting up their wheels and looms, and facing them, cloth merchants, milliners and haberdashers from Helston and even as far as Falmouth. A lacemaker from Truro had made the trip; she found her being helped to set up her traveling booth by Gervase’s sisters.

Smiling, she stopped by the trio and welcomed the lacemaker. She’d bought lace from the woman before and knew she produced excellent work. “I’ll be sure to drop by tomorrow to see what you have.”

The lacemaker blushed and bobbed a curtsy. “Of course, Miss Gascoigne, but”-she glanced at the three girls-“I’m thinking you might need to be early.”

“Ah!” Laughing, Madeline met Belinda’s eyes. “Buying trim for your come-out gowns?”

“Well,” Belinda said, “she gave us a glimpse and it seemed very fine.”

“Oh, it is.” With a smiling nod to the lacemaker, Madeline turned to move on.

With quick nods to the woman, the three girls went with her.

“Is it nearly lunchtime?” Jane stretched up on her toes, bobbing to look past the milling heads to the clock set in the wall above the stable arch.

Madeline checked. “No, not just yet, but if we head that way, by the time we reach the steps it should be time to go in.”

The girls happily ranged around her, Belinda on one side, Jane on the other, with Annabel beyond.

Belinda drew breath, rather portentously. As Madeline glanced her way, she said, “About our come-outs…”

When she went no further, Madeline prompted, “What about them?”

“Well, you see”-Belinda frowned, twisting her fingers-“given what happened to Melissa and Katherine, we wondered…well”-she glanced at Madeline-“is it usual for a just-married lady to send her husband’s sisters off that way? Just not want to have them around?” Belinda’s hazel eyes searched Madeline’s face. “We thought you might know.”