Chapter Ten

Blythe

Much of the weekend was spent packing for my mother, Amy, and Julian to return to Awendown. Then a good evening dedicated to moping around my bedroom, wishing I could go with them. But once morning came, I had resigned myself to my fate, found a good book, and curled up in the ample sunshine offered from the window of my bedchamber. I would have been content to stay there if it hadn’t been for Charlotte bursting through the door and reminding me that we had church in less than half an hour.

Everything’s been a blur since then.

The quiet hum of a church after the sermon is over and people are slowly greeting the vicar as they siphon out the door sets my teeth on edge. Like there are places to be, and we’re not there yet, and this is, perhaps, the most uncomfortable feeling I can imagine. I had so many plans after church to take a leisurely walk, see if there are any other pieces of property in the area that might wish to benefit from my bees. The slow-as-molasses vicar is cutting into my surveying time now.

“By all means, just continue to plod on like no one else is trying to leave,” I hear a deep voice mumble from behind me.

I twist around in curiosity, only to find Briggs standing there. He quirks a brow in my direction, and I roll my eyes, turning back to face front. I can’t give Briggs the satisfaction of my finding his observation entertaining.

“And a sunny good morning to you, Miss Rowley.”

He’s being purposefully irksome, and I refuse to allow him to rile me when I haven’t even had lunch yet. I continue to observe those in front of me, and am thrilled by the sight of Mr. Dormer ushering Miss Knox toward the door, her arm linked to his, their heads together in some gleeful conversation. A strange pang echoes in my chest.

Was it that burned toast I had for breakfast? Too much coffee? I know that the coffee—and my close proximity to Briggs Goswick—has caused the twitch in my eye, at the very least.

And then I realize. It’s jealousy. Not of Miss Knox, quite clearly. But there’s something unabashedly pleasant about seeing two people find comfort and happiness in the presence of one another. I turn to study Briggs behind me again.

“What?” he asks, that irksome lock of hair just begging me to reach out and tuck it aside.

“How did you know?”

He rolls his eyes and leans even closer toward me. “It’s too early for riddles.”

“How did you know that Mr. Dormer and Miss Knox would be a good fit? That feels a bit out of your area of expertise.”

Briggs shrugs, his hands clasped in front of him. “I went to see Reverend Knox at the vicarage the other day, and he had all these samplers hanging on the walls of his drawing room. All Bible verses. So I asked who made them, just to make conversation, of course, and he said his sister. I figured that a man like Mr. Dormer, who loves to quote the Bible, would admire a lady who is prone to sewing verses.”

“And yet you need my help with Miss Dixon?”

“Oh, I’m an entirely different species, Miss Rowley.” He grins widely, and the way it lights up his face should be illegal. “I need all the help I can get at this point.”

“Hmm,” I say with an agitated sniff. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

When the exit has finally cleared and I am blissfully outside, I turn to address my cousin and uncle. “I think I’ll take a walk before returning to Wrexford for luncheon,” I say, feeling as if my skin is too tight as I peer over Charlotte’s shoulder at Briggs and his family, followed by Westley and his stepsister, exiting the church.

“Are you sure?” Uncle Henry asks. “It’s rather blustery out, Blythe. You could catch a chill.”

“A little brisk exercise will keep any chills at bay,” I assure him, needing to move, to leave.

“That’s just when you’re most susceptible!” he calls after me, but I wave and keep walking. The key to escaping Uncle Henry is constant motion. He won’t chase me. I open the gate to the cemetery, hoping to take a shortcut to the fields just behind Wrexford Park.

“Miss Rowley?”

At the sound of Briggs’s voice, my mouth goes a bit dry. I haven’t even made it off church grounds, and yet I cannot escape him.

I turn to find him lingering awkwardly, like he’s searching for something to strike up a conversation. “What brings you out here?”

I don’t have a justifiable reason, and telling him that I was going for a walk to try to shake the feelings of jealousy Mr. Dormer created in me feels too shameful to bear. “Just taking a moment to visit with the dead. I find it very peaceful out here.”

“Ah,” he says, his hat clutched in both hands before him. “And who is this gentleman?” He points at the grave we stand before.

He’s trying to make conversation with me, and I can’t find a good reason to be rude to him, even if he does deserve it. “I don’t know him, actually. But I find it sad to have left this mortal earth without so much as anyone to stop at your grave. Perhaps no one even mourned him. Perhaps he spent his entire life alone, and now he’ll spend eternity in miserable solitude as well.”

“Indeed,” says Briggs, squatting down for a better look. “Bartholomew Atwell,” he says, and he pauses and considers this. “I remember the name. Isn’t he the man who murdered his wife, his mother-in-law, and all three of his sisters-in-law in a fit of rage and then went to bed and declared he could finally get a peaceful night’s sleep?”

Well. This changes everything.

“Oh.” I clear my throat and turn away, hoping he doesn’t see my cheeks flush. “Th-Then I suppose he must appreciate the quiet.”

“It was a kind gesture,” he assures me, but he’s smirking.

“Although a little mortifying, considering these revelations. Good day, Mr. Goswick.” I head for the gate. I’ve been polite enough; I don’t need to stand here and make endless conversation with him. I wandered out here to be alone, not pretend to enjoy his company.

“I’m sorry to keep you,” he calls after me, “but Lord Drummond is holding his annual week-long summer garden party. You and the Barlows are invited, of course, and while I know your first inclination isn’t to associate with people you view as snobs—”

“It is a rule of mine.”

“—I would strongly suggest that you make an exception.”

I pause, turning around to regard him. He stands at the gravestones, the juxtaposition of decay and his youthful exuberance astonishing. His sun-kissed skin makes his mossy eyes even more striking than usual, and his shoulders slant down to one side. He clasps his hat between his hands, the beguiling bow of his mouth working to convince me.

“Lord Drummond’s garden party is the perfect opportunity to set our plan in motion,” he tells me, lessening the distance I’ve purposefully placed between us. “Miss Dixon will be in attendance, as well as several wealthy landowners who might be interested in investing in a unique business venture. Wealthy landowners I know I can persuade.”

I have no retort for this, of course, so I twiddle my thumbs before me, trying to maintain my affect of disinterest but knowing I cannot. “I suppose I have no choice, then.”

“Good,” says Briggs. “It begins in less than two weeks’ time, and in the interim, I’ll be in London on some business with my uncle.”

“By ‘business,’ I assume you mean gambling and carousing as usual,” I mumble.

His face pinches at this, and suddenly I’m sorry I said it. “I don’t make the same mistake twice,” he says quietly. Placing his hat back on his perfectly shaped head, he continues. “You will need to have dresses made. Ask your cousin if perhaps a new wardrobe is in order. You can’t attend wearing…” He gestures in the direction of the pale tan-and-brown dress I wear today. “Well, that.”

Admittedly, I’ve needed a few new dresses for some time now, but even with this knowledge, resentment flares deep in my chest. I can’t ask for new dresses when the ones I have might not be elaborate or fashionable. Not when Awendown needs a new roof. Not when our tenants are struggling to put food on the table for their families.

“I see. Not elevated enough to associate with you?” I ask.

“It’s not that,” he says, and he’s close to me now, staring down at his feet. His voice is soft yet gravelly. “But if you want to catch the attention of wealthy gentlemen, then you need to dress as though you belong among them. I don’t make the rules, and I don’t agree that they’re fair. I’m just making you aware of them, Miss Rowley.”

“Trust me,” I assure him. “I’m aware.”

“Good.” He lifts his gaze to my face, and I’m made painfully aware once again how striking his eyes are, how even for the most fleeting moment, I wonder what he’s thinking when he looks at me like that. “Then I’ll see you in two weeks, Miss Rowley.”

“Two weeks,” I reply.

As he walks away, I contemplate how I’m supposed to spend that time if I don’t have him to bicker with.