Beauty and the Blacksmith(3)

She gave up on stitching and cast a glance out the window. Through the dark and wet, she saw a familiar black mare grazing on the village green.

He must be at the tavern tonight.

“This dratted rain,” her sister Charlotte moaned. “It’s setting us all on edge. Two weeks now with no country walks, no gardening, no romps through the castle ruins. No amusement at all.”

“I don’t mind rain.” This came from Miss Bertram, a young lady new in Spindle Cove this spring. “I always loved spending rainy days with Mr. Evermoore.”

Charlotte stifled a giggle.

Diana gave her sister a pleading look. Don’t. Don’t make fun.

Spindle Cove was a haven for odd, unconventional, and misunderstood young ladies. But even among misfits, Miss Bertram didn’t quite mix. She was hard to know—mostly because she had nothing to say that didn’t involve her relationship with this mysterious rogue, Mr. Evermoore.

“My parents didn’t approve of Mr. Evermoore,” Miss Bertram went on. Her dark eyebrows stood out like bold punctuation on an otherwise unremarkable face. “They don’t understand our attachment. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

Charlotte giggled again.

Miss Bertram’s dark eyebrows gathered in a wounded line. “No one understands. No one.” She lifted her book before her face and turned a page with a snap.

Charlotte buried her face in her hands and convulsed with silent laughter.

“Stop,” Diana whispered. “You shouldn’t poke fun.”

“Who needs to poke it? She offers it up so readily.” Charlotte mimicked in a high whisper, “Oh, Mr. Evermoore. No one understands our love.”

“She’s hardly the first young woman to lose her head over an unsuitable man.”

“What about an imaginary one? I’d wager anything that Mr. Evermoore is Mr. Never-Was. She just wants to impress us.”

“All the more reason to show her kindness.”

Charlotte said lightly, “That’s the lovely thing about being your sister, Diana. You’re kind enough for us both.”

Diana felt a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t treated Mr. Dawes very kindly today. In her agitation, she jabbed at the fabric and pricked her finger. “Drat.”

She scouted her immediate surroundings for her thimble. It wasn’t in her sewing basket, nor caught in the folds of her skirt. “Have you seen my thimble, Charlotte?”

“No. When did you have it last?”

“This afternoon, I think. When we went to the Bull and Blossom for tea. I’m sure it was in my kit, but I can’t find it now.”

Before they could expand their search, the door creaked open, admitting a sharp blast of icy wind. Their visitor appeared in the entry, throwing back her hood to reveal a shock of white-blond hair.

Sally Bright shook off her damp cloak and hung it on a hook. Her cheeks were pink. “I brought over the post. It was dreadful late today on account of the muddy roads, and I couldn’t wait for you ladies to come collect it tomorrow.”

Diana smiled to herself. Together with her brothers, Sally kept the All Things shop, and she was the biggest gossip in the village. If she’d taken the trouble to bring over the post, that must mean there was something of interest in it.

Something she couldn’t steam open, read, and reseal with no one the wiser.

Sure enough, Sally held out a packet tied with string. “Look. It’s a lovely great package from our dear Mrs. Thorne. And it’s addressed to all of you.”

“Something from Kate?” Charlotte leaped to take the packet and wrestle with the strings. “Oh, how wonderful.”

Kate Taylor had been the village music tutor until last summer, when she’d married Corporal Thorne—now Captain Thorne—and moved away to follow his rising career. Though everyone in Spindle Cove was happy for them, Kate’s lively spirit and melodies were sorely missed.

“There’s a packet of handwritten booklets,” Charlotte said, sorting the contents. “And a letter. I suppose I should read it first.”

“Aloud, if you will,” said Sally.

All the ladies gathered close.

Charlotte’s eyes widened as she scanned the page. “She sends us all greetings from Ambervale.”

This news was met with a general murmur of excitement.

Ambervale was the estate of the eccentric Gramercy family, headed by the Marquess of Drewe. Kate was the Gramercys’ cousin by some tenuous, and rather scandalous, connection. Nevertheless, they’d welcomed her to the fold . . . and now into their house, which was situated just a few hours away.

“I hope this means she’s coming to visit,” Diana said.

“Even better,” said Charlotte. “Lord Drewe is inviting us to visit them. All of us.”

“A ball!” Mama cried. “Oh, I knew it. I knew Lord Drewe would want another chance at you, Diana.”

“Mama, I’m sure this means nothing of the sort.”

“Of course it does! Such a handsome, elegant man. The two of you made a striking couple. Everyone could see it.”

Not again. When the Gramercys had been in Spindle Cove last summer, Mama had made the most embarrassing remarks to poor Lord Drewe, always angling for a match between him and Diana.

Charlotte gave them all a superior look. “Shall I read the letter, or would you prefer to spend the evening guessing at its contents?”

Mama closed her mouth and sat quietly.

“She writes, ‘Captain Thorne and I are guests at Ambervale for the month. Thus far, it has rained every day. I can only imagine that you are enduring the same tiresome weather in Spindle Cove. My dear cousins, Lady Harriet and Lady Lark, have concocted the enclosed scheme.’ ”

“A scheme?” Mama echoed. “What sort of invitation is this?”

“ ‘Since Lord Drewe decided dancing and cards would be poor form during Lent, the ladies devised a theatrical.’ ”

Miss Bertram perked with interest. “Mr. Evermoore is very fond of the theater.”

Charlotte read on, summarizing for the group. “It’s a command performance, and we are the players. On Thursday next, Lord Drewe will send his carriages to convey the Spindle Cove ladies to Ambervale. We must arrive prepared to present the enclosed play, which Lady Harriet believes will have unique devotional meaning for the season.”

Diana reached for one of the booklets, reading the title aloud. “ ’Doomed by Virtue: The life and death of St. Ursula.’ ”

Mama clucked her tongue. “That Lady Harriet is very strange.”

“She’s brilliant,” Charlotte said. “What other play is going to have a dozen female parts? All those handmaidens. And no one can complain that such an amusement is improper. Our cathedral is named for St. Ursula, after all.”

“You’ll need to be busy with costumes and such,” Sally said, happy at the prospect of imminent sales. “I’ll open the shop early tomorrow.”

The mood in the room brightened as copies of the play were passed around and plans for rehearsals, costumes, and props volleyed back and forth.

Diana had to agree with her sister. Lady Harriet was brilliant. This was what they all needed—a source of excitement for the coming week, and an outing to look forward to. A diversion. Perhaps it would take her mind off Mr. Dawes.

“Of course, Diana must be Ursula.”

Diana startled. “Why must I be Ursula?” She had been hoping for the most minor of the handmaiden roles.

Sally lifted one shoulder in an isn’t-it-obvious shrug. “Pure. Beautiful. Saintly. That’s you, Miss Highwood, isn’t it?”

No, Diana wanted to object. No, it isn’t. You’re looking at a woman who ogled a man’s brawny forearms this afternoon. And ran from his kiss out of cowardice, not virtue.

For the first time since the announcement of this theatrical scheme, her mother showed genuine enthusiasm. “Yes, Diana must be Ursula. With Lord Drewe playing the role of her bridegroom. It’s perfect.”

Diana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mama, you do understand how this story ends? How Ursula achieved her sainthood? She is beheaded by Huns and dies a virgin.”

“True.” Charlotte leafed through the play. “But then, so do her handmaidens. They all die virgins.”

“There, see? At least you’ll be the leading virgin,” Mama said. “And you’ll have the best costume. A bridal costume. That will set Drewe’s mind turning.”

“I tell you, it won’t.” In an attempt to end the conversation, Diana renewed her search for her thimble. Where could it have gone?

With a smug harrumph, Mama propped her feet on a low stool and settled her petticoats. “You are meant to be a nobleman’s wife, Diana. I have always known it. My intuition—”

“Forgive me, but your intuition must be flawed,” Diana replied, peering under a chair. “You’ve been predicting my lofty match for years. During that time, no fewer than three unmarried noblemen have resided in this village. None of them expressed the slightest desire to wed me.”