Clarissa put her gloved hands on Gemma’s arms above the elbow and gave her a little shake. “Not this time,” she said as if she understood Gemma’s fears. “This time you have us with you. The matrons are strong. Look at what they have done for me. Think of your dreams, Gemma, and don’t be afraid.”
“I’ve never met a man I can trust.” She looked at Clarissa. “Do you trust the earl to be fair?”
“I can’t abide him. A more self-centered person you will never meet.”
“That is not reassuring. And, isn’t the earl a member of the Logical Men’s Society?” She hated the hollow feeling in her stomach.
“Yes, it was started by his great-grandfather. But don’t expect the worst. We are all on your side, Gemma. The matrons found Lord Marsden at Mr. Thurlowe’s house and they are bringing him to you. We believe in you. I believe in you. You have made me see that a woman doesn’t just have to do what people tell her. She can have a dream. She can, if she is fearless enough, take care of herself.”
Gemma was barely attending. The fear had left her. In its place was fury. “The earl was at Mr. Thurlowe’s house?”
“Yes, apparently, he returned from London and spent the night there as a guest,” Clarissa confirmed helpfully.
“And the good doctor knew that all along?”
Clarissa looked momentarily confused. “He should have. The earl was under his roof.”
And here he had been all that was solicitous last night. Gemma could have growled her anger. She’d almost trusted him.
The bell on the main room door tinkled as it opened. Gemma went through the taproom to see the matrons come pouring in, chattering happily. They brought with them a tall, unshaven nobleman who definitely appeared the worse for wear.
Chapter Twelve
The dowager and Mrs. Warbler took immediate control, herding everyone into the main room. There had to be at least thirty ladies present, perhaps even more. They fanned out, lining the walls and standing by the tables as if awaiting orders.
There were some gentlemen in the crowd, as well—the Reverend Summerall, Squire Nelson, several husbands, who stood beside their wives.
Gemma was a bit taken aback to realize she knew most of them, at least by name. She’d made their acquaintance in the short period of time she’d been in Maidenshop and now here they were to support her. She blinked back the sting of tears, not wanting to be too sentimental, and yet, deeply humbled. It was as if they were saying they wanted her to be a part of them.
They wanted her.
The last place where she’d truly felt wanted was at her gran’s. Her father had loved her, of course, and yet he’d judged her with a critical eye. In Maidenshop, she’d rediscovered that lovely sense of belonging.
The Earl of Marsden stood amongst the organizing, swaying slightly and not offering any help. Instead, he yawned and watched with sleepy interest. Gemma was surprised at how young he was, and how tall. She had pictured him as gray and stodgy. Instead, he was actually handsome albeit a bit rough-looking. He had the loose air of a highwayman, or someone accustomed to doing whatever he pleased.
“This is the man you can’t abide?” she said to Clarissa.
“Look at him. He is slovenly. He’s not even wearing a hat. How can anyone respect or trust him?”
“I pray we can do both.” Gemma’s words were heartfelt.
When things were arranged to the dowager’s satisfaction, she said, “Lord Marsden, be so kind as to sit here.” She indicated the chair behind a table in the middle of the room. A fitting location for a hearing.
“I could not sit in the presence of so many lovely ladies, Your Grace.” He sent a waggish smile around the room.
His charm did not deter the dowager. “Sit.”
He sat, flopping down in the chair and pushing his long legs out in front of him.
“Very well, everyone. Pay attention.” The dowager faced Gemma. “We are here to see this done right. My lord, this is Mrs. Gemma Estep, the niece of Andrew MacMhuirich. Gemma, this is Lord Marsden, usually a pillar member of our small community when he apparently hasn’t been obviously hugging a bottle all night—”
“Is it that obvious?” he said, unchastised and unconcerned.
“He also serves as the local magistrate,” the dowager finished, undeterred in her mission. “My lord, you are here to settle the matter of ownership of The Garland. Gemma says her uncle left it to her. As you undoubtedly know from conversation with your recent host, the Logical Men’s Society intends to challenge her claim. Presumably, they wish The Garland for themselves. We expect you to hear Gemma out and make a fair decision.”
“Presumably in her favor, I take it,” he drawled, looking around the room at the women. Their expressions were serious. His brows came together as he realized that they were not in the mood for his humor, such as it was. He turned his gaze to Gemma. “Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Estep.”
“Please call me Gemma.”
“A bit too familiar, isn’t it?”
“I don’t like my married name any more than I liked the man I married. I’m sorry it was ever visited upon me.”
The earl looked around the room, puzzled. “Am I in the same village?” he asked. “When I last left Maidenshop, there was nothing but biddable women living here. Things seem to have changed.”
“You are exactly right, my lord,” Mrs. Warbler said without missing a beat. “And we are here to be certain that Gemma receives all that she should.”
“And we don’t want you stalling or patronizing any of us,” Clarissa declared. Everyone in the room looked at her with startled expressions as if puzzled by her forthrightness. As if answering their silent surprise, she said, “Well, we don’t,” to the others.
Heads nodded in agreement.
The earl gave her a cynical look. “Coming into your own finally, eh, Miss Taylor?”
Her answer was a tight smile, even as she leaned close to Gemma and whispered, “I can’t stand even looking at him.”
Lord Marsden took charge. “Let’s be on with it. First order of business—is there anything to drink?”
“I think you’ve had enough,” someone muttered from the crowd.
“Au contraire, I have not had a drop for almost twenty-four hours. It is one of the reasons I look this way.”
He was so cocksure, so completely himself, that Gemma did fear for her claim. “I have tea brewed,” she offered.
The earl looked at her as if she spoke gibberish. Clarissa helped him understand. “Tea. It is served in a pot. One may drink gallons of it and stay sensible.”
The corner of his lip curled up. “I don’t know how sensible it would be to drink gallons of anything. I would prefer—”
“Tea would be excellent,” the duchess finished for him, a stern warning on her face.
Gemma could see him wonder if it would be worth doing battle with a duchess, and then he murmured, “Tea would be nice.”
And Gemma had the chance to escape and gather her wits. She practically ran to the kitchen, Clarissa on her heels. “It’s happening,” she said. “It’s my opportunity.”