A gleam of interest had come to the earl’s eye. Ned was glad. He liked his friend vital, engaged, and away from his vices. “We shall solve the issue in the morning.”
“That is what I was hoping you would say.” Ned raised a hand as if to toast the air. “Here is to our success.”
“Well, here is to hoping the law is on your side.”
“I beg pardon.”
“I must be impartial, no?”
Ned didn’t like this response. “Well. Yes. In all fairness. Except, she doesn’t have a claim, Mars. She couldn’t. Old Andy would never have left The Garland to a woman.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t,” Mars replied, yawning. He came to his feet. “I assume I can climb into my usual bed?”
“Of course.” Ned considered the room at the top of the stairs as the one for his friend.
“Then I shall seek it out.” He picked up his boots and started out of the room but then Ned stopped him.
“I want The Garland.”
“I understand.” There was a beat of silence and then Mars said, “You know Andy was like a surrogate father to me.”
“He was a good friend to all of us.”
“True, and yet, there were times I would have gone completely over the edge if he hadn’t been there for me. Opium is a poor substitute.”
“It is no substitute at all.”
Mars gave him a bland smile and changed the subject. “Well, good night, Thurlowe. I am glad we had this conversation. As much as I complain, I do enjoy your efforts to keep me on the redemption road. Just remember, heal yourself, physician.” He left the room and took the stairs.
Ned wasn’t certain what he meant, but was too tired to ask. He found his own bed, expecting to fall immediately asleep. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, thinking about the confrontation with Gemma Estep and wondering why he was so bloody aware of her. He could too easily picture himself standing beside her, as if they were a couple, something he would never do in his right mind . . . and yet, there was the image, worming its way into his brain.
Consequently, the next morning he overslept and didn’t wake until he heard shouting.
He rose up from his mattress, groggy. There were more shouts in the hall. Feminine voices. It took him a moment to grasp that he wasn’t dreaming.
A beat later Royce pounded on the door. “Wake up, sir, wake up. The matrons have stolen the Earl of Marsden. I tried to stop them but they pushed me aside. Some of those women are very strong. I felt overpowered.”
Ned scrambled to dress.
Gemma had not enjoyed a good night.
After Mr. Thurlowe had left, she’d had trouble falling asleep, and she wasn’t certain of exactly why.
She should have been disturbed over the idea of being attacked. That was enough to keep anyone wide awake in their bed . . . except that wasn’t what was preying on her mind.
No, what had her tossing and turning was reliving the conversation with the good doctor. He was her enemy. She understood he was determined to reclaim The Garland for flimsy reasons, and she would fight him.
And yet, she sensed a connection with him. A pull. Almost as if she’d been destined to meet him. Her gran had talked about destiny that way. She’d married her second cousin, a healer himself, and she’d claimed she could have married no other. Then again, perhaps what had kept Gemma up was regret. It would be a horrific thing if Paul had been her destiny. Her one and only.
She discovered in the wee hours of the morning that although she’d vowed repeatedly that she was done with men, a part of her still yearned for love. For someone she could trust. For someone with strong arms and a giving spirit . . . like Ned Thurlowe.
Actually, there wasn’t a woman in the village who didn’t find Mr. Thurlowe attractive. Whether he was aware of it or not, they all watched him closely. Several had even made comment to her about the private conversation between her and Mr. Thurlowe after Sunday services. There was no missing the envy in their voices. Of course, if they’d known the level of hostility he held for Gemma—
Well, they might still be jealous.
So she was up and ready to greet Mr. Fitzsimmons at half past seven, even if her brain was a bit muddy from lack of sleep. She set him to work turning over earth for the flower beds. She then brewed a cup of strong black tea. Mrs. Warbler had sent over a loaf of fresh bread and preserves on Monday, and Gemma now made a breakfast with the last of it. Sipping her tea, she determined she wouldn’t give another thought to the doctor. He was not hers to think about.
Instead, she focused on her plans for the day. She wanted to set up the main room. She would have tables for patrons . . . but she’d also decided to put together a special nook for her soaps, creams, and other concoctions that she would sell. Her gran had such a place—
The door opened in the main room with the merry jingle of the small bell Gemma had purchased from the tinker. She’d just tied it on that morning. If she’d had it in place last night, then she would have been warned before sensing someone was in her home in the dark.
Now, at the sound of it, she tensed. Then she heard Clarissa’s voice. “Gemma?”
“Back here.”
Clarissa rushed into the kitchen, her eyes alive with anticipation. She was wearing a fetching dress of blue worsted. It was high necked and quite modest. Gemma was in her black. “I hope you are ready for this.”
“For what?” Gemma asked.
“Heavens, what happened to your head?”
Gemma had taken off the bandage. She believed cuts healed better with air. She was afraid to look at it even in the small glass in the bedroom thinking it was better not to know what she looked like. “I bumped into something.”
“It must have hurt.”
“It did,” Gemma could say honestly. “So what should I be ready for?” she asked, bringing Clarissa’s attention back to her business.
“The earl has returned from London. Mrs. Warbler says they will bring him to you at once.”
“Bring him to me?”
“Yes. He’s the magistrate and you can show him your proof that your uncle left The Garland to you. Once he makes his decision, no one will question your claim ever again.”
For a second Gemma froze, struck dumb. The magistrate was coming to her?
This morning?
Now?
She’d pushed her way into The Garland. She’d claimed it, pronouncing to one and all she had proof that Andrew had left it to her.
She believed he had. She hoped he had.
But would the magistrate agree?
After all, she only had a letter. What is mine is yours. The desperation that had initially driven her deserted her. In its place was fear . . . because if she lost The Garland, she’d lose her dream. Then what would become of her?
“Gemma, aren’t you happy? This will all be settled.”
Before she could answer, she heard the sounds of voices outside and she knew that her reckoning was on her doorstep.
Gemma looked to Clarissa. “What if he refutes it?”
“Why would he do that? If your uncle gave it to you, The Garland is yours.”
“But it will be the men who decide,” Gemma answered, feeling slightly faint. “It is always the men who make the decisions. And they choose against us.”