Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(9)

The walk to Summerfield did loosen some of the knots in her stomach. And they all enjoyed their brief visit with Sir Lewis Finch, who told them the latest news of his granddaughter. By the time they began their walk home, the sky had lightened noticeably. Diana could almost forget the embarrassment of last night.

Almost.

“How did it go last night?” Charlotte asked.

Diana stumbled over a rock. “What do you mean?”

“Your thimble. Did you find it at the Bull and Blossom?”

The thimble. Diana shook her head. “It wasn’t there.”

“That’s so odd.”

“Not really. It’s just a thimble. Thimbles go missing.”

“But just this morning, Mrs. Nichols was missing her ink bottle, too. It’s a mystery.”

Diana smiled. Charlotte’s imagination always led her to see more excitement than was truly there. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Mama exclaimed, stopping in the lane. “Oh, this cannot be borne.”

“The disappearance of my thimble, a tragedy? I think I can survive it.”

“No, look.” Mama gestured toward the sky, where the thick blanket of clouds had parted to reveal a patch of blue—and within it, the bright, cheery face of the sun. “The sun is out. Oh, this is dreadful.”

“Dreadful?” Charlotte laughed. “It’s our first sunshine in a fortnight. It’s marvelous.”

“It is dreadful. Because your sister left the rooming house with only her cloak and no proper bonnet.” She hurried to Diana’s side. “Ten minutes of this, and she will freckle. Oh, and less than a week before our invitation to Ambervale. What will Lord Drewe think?”

“If he notices—which I doubt he will—he will think I’ve been in the sun.”

“Exactly!” She tugged at the hood of Diana’s cloak, drawing it up as far as it would go. “Keep your head down, Diana. Just look at your feet.”

Diana lifted her head, letting her hood fall back. “But then how will I see where I’m going? I might fall on my face. I should think Lord Drewe would take more notice of bruises than he would freckles.”

“Head down, I say.” Mama yanked the hood up again.

“No.” Diana thrust it back. “Mama, you’re being ridiculous. This is a beautiful morning. I mean to enjoy it.”

She braced herself for another round of Tug-o’-Hood, but Mama didn’t care to play. She was distracted by the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels and turned to peer down the lane.

“There is Mr. Keane with his curricle. He will save you.”

“Save me? I survived years of asthma. I don’t believe freckles are a terminal condition.”

“Head down,” she snapped. As the curricle drew near, she lifted one arm and waved to him with her handkerchief, like a drowning sailor in need of a rope. “Mr. Keane! Oh, Mr. Keane, do help!”

“Please don’t trouble him.”

“He is the vicar. He ought to do a good deed.”

The curricle rolled to a halt in the lane. What with the strong sun and the harsh shadows, it was hard to peer into the covered bench seat—but the driver didn’t seem to be the vicar. This man was rather . . . larger.

“Is there some problem?” he asked in a dark, all-too-familiar baritone.

Oh no. No. It couldn’t be.

What wretched luck. Diana took her mother’s advice. She drew her hood up and stared at her boots.

“Why, Mr. Dawes,” her mother said, her tone wary. “What are you doing with Mr. Keane’s curricle?”

“Mama,” Diana hissed. Good Lord, she made it sound as if he’d stolen the thing.

“And good morning to you, Mrs. Highwood,” Mr. Dawes answered patiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw him tip his cap. “Miss Charlotte. Miss Highwood.”

She felt his gaze on her. Now it didn’t matter if she stayed out of the sun. A blush this furious would surely stain her cheeks for a month.

“Mr. Keane asked me to mend the axle,” he explained. “I’m out for a short drive to test the repair before I return it. Is something wrong?”

As she listened to her mother carry on about the tragedy of sunshine and the need to keep her daughter’s complexion unmarred for Lord Drewe, Diana squirmed with shame.

“Surely you can drive her back to the rooming house,” Mama said. “I know it’s a liberty, as you are a hired man. But I daresay I can grant permission in Mr. Keane’s stead. It’s what he would do, as a gentleman.”

Mother!

In how many ways could she insult him? Mr. Dawes was not a “hired man.” He was a skilled craftsman and artisan, and everyone in the village—Mr. Keane included—respected him.

Diana had to look up now. “Please don’t let us trouble you, Mr. Dawes. I’m perfectly fine walking.”

“Perfectly fine!” her mother squawked. “You’ll be perfectly crisped.”

She caught his gaze and tried to send an apologetic look. Forgive her. And me.

His expression was impossible to read. “I’d be glad to give Miss Highwood a ride into the village. I’m going there anyway.”

“That is very good of you,” her mother said. “When I see him, I will be sure to speak highly of your service to Mr. Keane. Perhaps there will be a shilling in it for you.”