“Then why won’t you admit them?” The question just popped out of her mouth.
A more prudent or certainly diplomatic woman would have held her tongue. Gemma felt she’d spent a lifetime holding her tongue—first with her father, then her uncaring husband.
It wasn’t that she was just done swallowing her thoughts and opinions. It was that she strongly desired speaking her mind to Mr. Thurlowe. He annoyed her, not in an angry way, and not in a completely platonic one, either.
Oh, yes, she was attracted to him.
And here lay madness. He was promised to another woman. He was not for Gemma. She knew that, and still needed to—what? Tweak his nose? Challenge him? Let him know that she was nobody’s fool? Least of all his?
“I’m not giving up The Garland,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m pinning everything I have on it. So let us reach a truce.”
His brows came together. “Why should I surrender to you when you have no real claim on the building?”
Any conciliatory thought she’d had toward him vanished. She didn’t even like the way he looked right now. “Andrew was my uncle and I have my proof.”
“Show it to me or be gone.”
“You would see me turned out? That is not very handsome of you, Mr. Thurlowe.”
“I’m not a gentleman all the time, Mrs. Estep.”
He had snapped the words out and suddenly the air around them had filled with tension. His words had interjected a different emotion. A surprisingly more raw one.
The faintest tinge of color appeared on his high cheekbones. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“How did it sound?” she dared to ask, almost afraid of the answer.
“Threatening.”
Gemma was taken aback because she hadn’t been thinking in that direction. She turned away from him, shifting her focus to the barn in the field in front of her, and considered her reaction. She hadn’t realized the menace in his words. Instead, she found herself wondering in what ways he was ungentlemanly and the thoughts sparked feelings in her she did not trust.
And would not.
She found her footing. Truth. Truth was always the right answer. Bravely, she said, “You don’t want me to make the salve because you fear for your patients. You just don’t want me here. It has nothing to do with healing. Correct?” She faced him, ready for his defiance, and realized he was already walking away. She had been speaking to the air.
Gemma was uncertain of whether to be offended that he had just charged off, or relieved she was free of his disturbing presence.
Then she heard a woman’s voice calling her name from the other side of the church. “I’m here.”
A beat later Clarissa Taylor came around the corner.
Gemma braced herself, certain that Miss Taylor knew she’d been alone with Mr. Thurlowe. There was no telling how she would react. Gemma knew what response she would have if she suspected another woman, especially one newly arrived to the area, was having a private conversation with a man like Mr. Thurlowe—except Miss Taylor had a smile on her face.
“I told the others I was certain you had come over here to pay your respects to your uncle,” she said as she approached and then stopped beside Gemma and looked back at Andrew’s grave. “It is always sad to lose someone in the village, but his death touched every one of us. He was a very kind man.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your acknowledging him. Maidenshop had become his home. I wish I could have been here for him.”
“I’m certain you do. Still, we took good care of him. Mr. Thurlowe paid for his funeral. It was a fine one.”
“Mr. Thurlowe did? Because he wanted The Garland?” The tart words were out of Gemma’s mouth before she considered them.
“Oh, no.” Miss Taylor appeared shocked at the suggestion. “Mr. Thurlowe, he does that for people. If he knows there is a need, he will do what he can to help. I sense he doesn’t like having anyone in the parish forgotten. I think it is one of the reasons he works so hard. As you know, he is already off making rounds and it is the Lord’s day. He’s generous. Kind. That is one of the reasons I admire him.”
She was either very secure in Mr. Thurlowe’s affections for her, or she might not know that he’d sought Gemma out.
“But let me not forget why I’m here,” Miss Taylor said. “Mrs. Nelson wishes me to ask you to join us for Sunday dinner. You can ride with us now, if you wish, and then I will drive you home in the pony cart.”
Since she didn’t have food at The Garland, this was a generous offer. “I’d be honored. I walked with Mrs. Warbler. Let me tell her where I’m going.”
“She has been invited, as well, and I am glad you will join us. I believe we will be great friends.”
The pronouncement was like a weight on Gemma’s shoulders, and there was no cause for it. She was done with men. She was carving out a life of her own. She didn’t need someone stern and heavy-handed in her life, especially toward her healing gifts.
“Yes,” she echoed. “Great friends.”
She meant those words and, with that, tucked all interest in Mr. Thurlowe safely away.
Chapter Eight
He was a bloody fool.
Ned shouldn’t have sought out Mrs. Estep for a private discussion, especially right after the service and in the churchyard where anyone could have seen them. There had been too much risk to it. Wagging tongues told their own stories, and they were rarely the truth . . . and yet he could not have stopped himself from speaking to her.
Nor should he have been surprised the conversation had not gone well.
The woman was impossible.
His long legs ate up the ground between the church and his house as he berated himself for taking the risk. To be certain, Mrs. Estep had not appreciated his criticism or been sympathetic to his reasons for cautioning her—a sign, in his opinion, that she truly didn’t know what she was doing.
No one in the village had ever questioned his professional opinion, not like the dowager did today. It pricked his pride that anyone would believe for one second in time that he wasn’t doing everything he could for them, and yet, there was the dowager making an issue that she believed more should be done for knees.
In fact, the only true solution would be for him to cut off the dowager’s kneecap and replace it with a new one. Unfortunately, there was no way to do such a thing without crippling her for life. However, if she did not start paying attention to her knee’s limitations, well, that is exactly where she might end up—crippled.
As for Mrs. Warbler’s joints, it was not true that he wasn’t doing all he could for her. He’d advised her to wrap her hands in warm compresses. She told him she was. This morning was the first time he’d heard her complain in ages.
Relief was important, and, yes, he knew there were certain oils that had healing properties. He could have recommended them.
He hadn’t, though . . . He hadn’t really even thought about them—and that pricked his conscience.
He was also honest enough with himself to admit that his argument with Mrs. Estep’s methods had nothing to do with why he was practically racing away from her.
Once her clear eyes turned their full attention on him, he found it hard to think, even when she was challenging him. And the words that came out of his mouth were not what he intended to say.