“My face has never convinced anyone to do anything.”
“Only because you are afraid of using it. You could have a harem of women with your looks. And then you wouldn’t have to settle for Clarissa Taylor. I swear, the biggest mystery is why God gives gifts to people like you who won’t use them.”
“You don’t have trouble with women.”
“Because I use the gifts I’m given.” Mars walked Bruno out of the stable. “Truly, Ned, I know what the lecture means to you. Wait a bit. Ask again. Everything will work out as it should.”
“Another difference between us—I’m not an optimist.”
Mars laughed on that one. “Let her cool off,” he advised. “If it comes to the worst, we hold the lecture at the Posting Inn.”
“We won’t be able to.”
“Why not?”
“First, it is too busy a place for concentration and serious discussion. Second, Winderton, Dawson, and the lot of them are heading there to drink. They will ruin any goodwill we have with Peavine.” Peavine was the proprietor of the Posting Inn.
“Fools.”
Ned nodded his agreement. He watched his friend mount before saying, “She’s changed us. This woman is changing the village.”
“Perhaps it is time to change.” Mars picked up the reins. “For all of us. And thank you for fetching me. I lost myself a bit this time in London. I needed someone to make me return.” On those words he rode off.
That night Gemma slept better than she had for ages.
The Garland was hers.
After sherry at Mrs. Warbler’s, she and Mr. Fitzsimmons had returned to work. He was actually a rather nice young man who was easily influenced. He was also sincere in his regrets and was willing to do what she asked as atonement. Most of her garden beds had now been turned and were ready for planting, her favorite task. Her new friends had seen that she had all the seeds and plantings she would wish.
She’d not had Mr. Thurlowe’s predicted headache so she hadn’t finished the brandy in the flask. She did so before she went to bed because she was certain after all the hard labor of gardening, she would wake with a few muscle aches.
Of course, and perhaps since she was not accustomed to spirits, the drink seemed to have given her strange dreams.
She dreamed of chickens. Thousands of chickens. She could hear them clucking. They were off in the distance and she wasn’t quite certain what she was doing or what was happening . . . until a rooster crowed, and she realized, she wasn’t dreaming. But waking at her customary early hour.
Gemma sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes—and then she did hear chickens.
Jumping from the bed, she opened the door and found in the kitchen she had cleaned the night before . . . chickens. Red hens, black ones, brown ones roosted on the table and chairs. There weren’t thousands but there were enough to make a mess of the place. They clucked and ruffled feathers and one pooped right there in front of her. The bird just put her chicken tail over the edge of the table and did her business. It landed with a plop on the brick floor.
At the sight of her, their clucking paused and then they took up again.
A very beleaguered Athena, the gray mouser Mrs. Smethers had given her in gratitude for the foot soak, had been hiding under the cupboard. She now raced to the open bedroom door for shelter even as one of the hens tried to peck at her.
A rooster called from the main room.
Still in a state of disbelief, Gemma gingerly walked to avoid droppings through the taproom and almost collapsed in shock. There had to be a dozen, maybe more, hens on tables or chairs, while the rooster stood proudly on the back of a chair and crowed his “good morning” to her.
Dear Lord, the floor was a mess with feathers and droppings. All her cleaning had been for naught.
And she knew who to blame.
Never before had she experienced such white-hot fury. How dare they do this to her. She’d presented her case in front of the magistrate, a requirement they had put on her, and now, because they didn’t like the verdict, this is the way they behaved? Children had better manners.
Gemma marched back to her room and dressed quickly. Her hands were shaking as she laced the back of her dress. Her braid was a mess after a night of sleep. She didn’t care. She put on her shoes without bothering with stockings.
Out in the kitchen, she opened the back door, grabbed a broom, and started shooing hens into the garden. There were three eggs in the new bowl Mrs. Warbler had given her. Another two on the table. One on the chair rolled off and broke. She would have to scrub the floor later or else it would smell.
However, right now she had something more important to do.
In the main room, Gemma shooed the chickens, including the arrogant rooster, out the front door—and then she began picking up eggs. She made a basket out of her skirt. There were nine eggs in total.
Holding her skirt so she couldn’t lose one of them, she set off for Mr. Thurlowe’s house, scattering chickens picking at the earth as she left.
The hour was early. There were few people up and about. Mrs. Burnham was sweeping her step while her husband was walking to the smithy. Jane, Mrs. Warbler’s maid, waved as she carried a bucket into the house.
A rider came down the road toward her—Mr. Thurlowe. How fortuitous.
He was obviously beginning to make his rounds. His wide-brimmed hat was set at a cocky angle. His boots were polished and he looked the very image of a country gentleman.
That was about to change.
With a grim smile, Gemma took up a station in the middle of the road and when she felt she had a good shot, she picked up one of the eggs from her skirt and threw it at him with all her might.
Chapter Thirteen
It was a beautiful March morning as Ned rode out on the day’s rounds. The air held an actual hint of spring.
Ned didn’t know what he was going to do with the Logical Men’s Society, but he was tired of worrying about it. Instead, Royce had found a bottle of decent port and, after two small glasses, Ned had gone to bed and had the best sleep he’d had since Gemma Estep had entered his life.
He’d even managed to not think of her once, which was a feat considering what had happened the day before. No, he had more pressing concerns, such as deciding if he would hold the Frost lecture. He didn’t want to give it up and he didn’t want to change what he had envisioned, which had included The Garland.
Last night he decided he would ask Mars if it could be held at Belvoir. In fact, the more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea. Then he could establish the protocols for participation exactly as he wished.
No wonder he’d had such a good night’s sleep.
Not even the sight of Gemma Estep in her familiar black leaving The Garland could upset him. He might have to tip his hat out of courtesy, but he was not going to engage with her . . . although she appeared rather disheveled. She wasn’t wearing a hat and her wickedly red braid looked as if she’d just rolled out of her bed. She held her skirt as if she was carrying something. Probably herbs for more of her “potions.”
He sniffed his dismissal. His intent was to ride past her.
And then she took something from her skirt, pulled back her arm, and threw it at him with all her might.
A white object shaped like a round, smooth stone came flying through the air. Before Ned could move, it hit Hippocrates in the chest.