Chapter Twenty-Two

Blythe

Charlotte insisted on helping me pick out my dress, determined to prove to me that Briggs’s affections lay with me rather than Miss Dixon, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. That even if they did, it doesn’t matter. Briggs has no money, and I have no money, and together, there is the distinct possibility that we would have even less money.

Besides, I saw the way he looked at Sabrina at Lord Drummond’s ball when they were dancing. I could be wrong, as Briggs Goswick has always been a bit of a rake, but I think he genuinely cared about her feelings when she was jilted by the other dancers.

Perhaps what started out as a match of convenience might actually be turning to love.

I take a deep breath and shake the wistful feeling that has suddenly lodged itself in my chest. All the better. Briggs Goswick has never been for me, I remind myself.

But still, I wear the dress Charlotte picked out. It’s a seafoam green color with a pretty bow under my fichu and a creamy white belt with matching layers of skirts. I’m starting to wonder what it will be like to go back to Awendown House, to wear my plain, comfortable gowns, the ones I’m used to. To not have to worry about who will see me and what I’ll be wearing when they do, because the bees don’t ever mind.

When I arrive at Mistlethrush, Mr. Goswick is already at the front gate, riding his fine gray horse. He hears my approach and whirls his animal around to face me. “There you are,” he says.

“How is my favorite boy faring?” I ask, running my hand down Apollo’s neck. His injury from the garden party seems fully healed.

“Better than ever.” Briggs dismounts in one fluid movement.

Apollo snuffs gently into my palm, and I press my forehead to his. “You look well, handsome boy.”

“Thank you,” says Briggs.

I shove him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re so pompous.”

“Charmingly so.” He motions for me to lead the way down the path toward the kitchens as his groom brings Apollo back to the stables.

Inside, the kitchens are bathed in cool light, and the women doing the cooking make this place feel like home. When they see me, they stop what they’re doing, wiping their hands on their aprons, and they curtsy.

I do the same and wish them a good morning.

“This is Miss Blythe Rowley,” says Briggs behind me. “She’ll be helping me this morning bring the baskets to the Hughes household.”

“Aye, sir,” says one woman. She brings a wooden platter piled with loaves of bread over to the table where Briggs has arranged two baskets.

“What do you think?” he asks, surveying several items to include.

“Well, the bread, certainly,” I say, taking off my hat and placing it on a chair behind us. “And cold ham might be a good idea.”

“Some salads, too,” adds Briggs.

I nod in agreement and begin sorting through several jars before me, some of them jam and some honey. “So,” I finally say, “where is Miss Dixon?”

He’s concentrating on slicing the ham hock before him, but he manages a knowing smirk. “Truth be told, I think her presence might have made me more nervous than yours, Miss Rowley.”

Exactly. I wish Charlotte were here right this very moment to hear the words come from Briggs’s mouth. His wanting me here had everything to do with his nervousness around Miss Dixon and nothing to do with any burgeoning feelings for me.

“I feel like I’m always on stage, performing for Miss Dixon. With you…” He trails off, his eyes finding mine. Oh, damn. I bite my lower lip, trying to find something useful to do with my sweaty hands.

Briggs straightens his shoulders and grins. “Besides, I don’t believe she’s awake yet.”

Finally coming to a decision, I slip my hand into the inner pocket of his jacket to retrieve his watch and angle my head to read it more clearly. “It’s almost noon,” I say, offering him a peek.

“So it is.” Our heads are almost touching, and the warm scent from the closeness of his body combined with his cologne makes me dizzy. “Should we wake her?”

My first instinct is to protest vehemently. I want to help Briggs, I realize. And it wouldn’t hurt Miss Dixon’s feelings if I stepped in, surely. “I couldn’t live with myself if I deprived her of her beauty sleep.”

“Is that a no, then?”

“I think it would be inconsiderate. Absolutely not. No. We’ll be fine on our own. No.”

“You’ve said no a great deal, so I suppose I must go with your intuition,” he says with a chuckle.

“You have to, of course,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Careful when you elbow someone with a knife!” Briggs cries in mock concern.

“I have great faith in your knife-wielding abilities, Mr. Goswick.”

“Then you’re not quite as clever as you appear,” he says. “After all, who could trust me with a knife when I’m still showcasing this appealing bruise?” He gestures to what’s left of his bruise from a few weeks ago. I can hardly see it.

“A fist is less predictable than a knife,” I argue.

“Depends on who’s wielding what.”

“Should I doubt your deft hand?”

“Never, Miss Rowley.”

I nudge him in the ribs again, and I realize how ridiculous it is. I literally just did that. And yet he finds it infinitely amusing, and our laughter continues until someone clears their throat from the threshold of the kitchen.

“Miss Rowley,” says Sabrina Dixon, her eyes narrowed in my general direction. “What a pleasant surprise, finding you here in the kitchen with Mr. Goswick. What are you doing?”

“Oh, Miss Dixon,” says Briggs, laying down his knife and wiping his hands on a clean cloth beside him. “Miss Rowley came by to help me prepare a basket for the Hughes family. You were still asleep, so I gave her your responsibilities.”

“Oh,” says Sabrina, stepping into the kitchen. I can tell that this is an action she’s never taken before, and she glances around the room, taking in her new surroundings and making sure that she isn’t angering the staff with her presence. “You needn’t have bothered Miss Rowley. I didn’t realize you meant to set out so early.”

Briggs squints. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Still,” says Sabrina, standing beside the table and sliding one of the baskets toward her. “I’ve helped organize many of the charities at my church at home. It would only be natural for me to help you, too.” She shifts her glance to me. “Have you had any experience with organizing charitable events, Miss Rowley?”

I stare at her, unflinching. There have been several attempts this summer by multiple ladies to make me feel inferior, and though this one feels no different, I feel a stab of disappointment that my earlier rapport with Miss Dixon suddenly seems nowhere to be found. “Indeed,” I reply. “I am lacking in that regard, Miss Dixon. You are clearly my superior.”

Sabrina seems satisfied by this. “I can still help you bring the baskets to the Hughes family.” She looks up at him, smiling demurely and batting her eyelashes.

I don’t know what’s changed for Sabrina. At the start of the summer, she spoke not one word to Briggs, and now she goes out of her way to assist him. Whatever the case, I can be certain that I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain.

Briggs’s mouth works, but he’s having trouble producing anything noteworthy to say. “But Miss Rowley has come all this way.”

Sabrina’s eyes never stray from his. “Then she can join us, I suppose. It’s a beautiful day for a stroll in the countryside.”

“True,” I say, tugging the basket gently from her grip and filling it with the jars of honey and jam.

When we’re finally ready to depart, our baskets heavy with delicious food, we set out on the main road. Sabrina insisted that she carry something and took one of the baskets from my hands. After we travel perhaps a tenth of a mile, the walls of Mistlethrush still well within view, Sabrina sighs pitifully.

“This basket is too heavy,” she says, pausing in the road and looking over at me. “Here, Miss Rowley. You carry it for a while.”

I stand there, stupefied.

“I’ll take it,” says Briggs, but he’s already burdened with the larger of the two baskets and several rolled blankets that he’s tucked under his arm. Before replying, I take a moment to admire how smart he looks in his blue jacket and yellow diamond-patterned waistcoat. Briggs Goswick has always been appealing, of course, but I’ve made it a priority of mine to ignore his particular charms. This morning, however, I can’t seem to avoid marveling at him. Those shoulders and how perfectly snug his coat fits across them, his brown hair trimmed neatly, and that damn single lock that’s always charmingly out of place. The sunlight makes his deep green eyes look like glass, and when he glances up at me from the basket, offering me a quick, crooked grin, something begins uncoiling in my stomach, and I wish to God I could wind myself back up.

“No, Miss Dixon is right,” I say, touching his arm as he lifts my basket in the middle of the road. “I’m much more useful than she is, and I’d be happy to carry this the rest of the way.”

We travel along this way, Briggs and I discussing his ideas for my apiaries at Mistlethrush, and Sabrina making attempts to add to the conversation.

After a few minutes, she interrupts us, pointing. “Is that it?”

On the edge of the village, a white farmhouse stands among fields of golden wheat. It’s stark but beautiful, and as we approach the gate, I feel a little self-conscious. Who am I, anyway, to be joining Briggs on this outing? But when he touches the small of my back gently, supportively, I let out a long, relieved breath and follow him forward.

“Here, let me,” says Sabrina, retrieving the basket from my hands and heading for the front door.

Briggs sighs and looks down at me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I wave it away, as though I’m not bothered. But the longer I stand at the gate, watching Sabrina Dixon hoist the basket with both hands, the angrier I become. Who is she to take my credit, to look as though she’s Mr. Goswick’s partner in generosity?

Sensing my frustration, Briggs places his basket on the ground before him and withdraws one of the rolled blankets from under his arm. “Would you mind bringing this in for me?” he asks, his eyes searching my face for approval.

I smile down at my feet. “Thank you, Mr. Goswick.”

He touches my elbow, then lifts his basket and joins Sabrina at the door of the house. She’s already knocking insistently.

When the door opens, Mrs. Hughes stands before us, a baby surely under the age of two on her hip, screaming at the top of his lungs, several children behind her chasing one another through a chaotic living area strewn with toys and unfolded clothes. Something bubbles and overflows in the hearth, and another child shouts, “Mama, Mama!” fists clenched, eyes screwed shut, foot stomping.

Sabrina’s eyes grow wide, and she takes a step back.

“Mr. Goswick?” says Mrs. Hughes upon seeing him. “What brings you to our door this morning?” She’s much younger than I thought she would be, and tall. She has strong arms and a very determined forehead.

“I heard about your husband being indisposed and thought you could use some help,” says Briggs, stepping inside. “And I’ve brought plenty of friends who wish to be of service.”

Hesitantly, Sabrina steps over the threshold of the door, glancing about the room with a small smile.

“This is Miss Sabrina Dixon and Miss Blythe Rowley, Mr. Barlow’s niece.”

“Good to meet you, Miss Rowley, Miss Dixon,” says Mrs. Hughes.

Sabrina maintains her cheerful expression but clutches the basket with white knuckles. Briggs gestures for her to take a step farther inside, and she does as she’s asked.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers as Mrs. Hughes tries to quell her screaming baby.

“I don’t want to catch whatever Mr. Hughes has.” She struggles with the basket, observing the children carousing around the room.

“You can’t catch what Mr. Hughes has,” says Briggs with a small laugh. “It’s a broken leg.”

I take her basket and follow Briggs deeper into the house. We place them on a sturdy wooden table and begin unpacking everything we organized so meticulously earlier this morning.

One of the Hugheses’ children storms up to greet Sabrina. “Are you a princess?” she asks.

Sabrina beams. “Oh, aren’t you a dear, sweet girl? How kind of you to think so!”

The girl stares up at her and blinks.

“I’ll get my husband for you,” says Mrs. Hughes. “He still keeps to his room, but he’s limping along nicely now!”

“No, no,” says Briggs, stepping forward. “I’ll go to him once I’m done helping here.”

“It’s awfully kind of you to bring all of this for us,” says Mrs. Hughes as she watches our generous feast populate her table. “It’s difficult caring for David these days, let alone all the children.”

“Do you want to play princess with me?” the little girl asks Sabrina. “Because your dress looks like a princess dress.”

“What if we played a different game?” says Sabrina, bending down to be at the girl’s level. “A delightful game that I used to enjoy as a child.”

“What’s it called?”

“The silent game. The winner is whoever can be silent for the longest.”

I grin a bit inwardly; of course Miss Dixon would enjoy “the silent game.” But the girl grimaces and darts away.

“What do you think the hay will look like this year?” Briggs asks Mrs. Hughes as he puts away the jars of jam and honey in cabinets.

Mrs. Hughes shrugs and shakes her head with a sigh. “I don’t rightly know yet, Mr. Goswick. Usually, David helps my eldest boy and me bring it in, but it’s already been cut, and if it rains, the hay is no use to anyone.”

My eyes rove across the table and then up to meet Briggs’s gaze. I raise my eyebrows.

He raises his in response and then places his hand over his chest and mouths, “Me?”

I nod once, decidedly.

Briggs sighs with resignation. “Perhaps,” he begins, then closes his eyes as if to gather his own strength, “maybe I could be of help. My brother and I are both in fine health. We could lend a hand if you’re willing to show us what you need.”

Mrs. Hughes’s jaw hangs slack, and she gawps at Briggs. “You, sir?”

“Me, ma’am.”

“We couldn’t ask that of you, Mr. Goswick.”

“You didn’t ask,” he insists. “I offered.” He glances at me for my reaction.

There’s a warmth that spreads through me knowing that it’s my encouragement he’s searching for. I nod again.

Reassured, he continues, “I would be more than willing to help. Your success is our success.”

“Mama!” cries one of the Hugheses’ daughters, pulling us all out of our conversation. “Mama, Emily took my doll, and I know she will break her. Tell her to give me my doll back!”

“Emily, did you take your sister’s doll?”

“She wasn’t even playing with it!” cries the smaller of the two girls.

“I have an idea,” I say. “What if we all go outside and leave your mother and Mr. Goswick to talk of boring things in here?” Both girls look at me with eyes as wide as their grins. “It’s such a beautiful day. We should take advantage of this summer weather.” I reach for Emily’s hand, and both girls follow me out the door skipping.

“Thank you, Miss Rowley,” says Mrs. Hughes with relief.

“I’m only too happy to help.”

“Thank you, Miss Rowley,” Briggs says, as well, but when I glance over my shoulder to reply, his eyes are soft and grateful.

“Come, Miss Dixon. It will be pleasant to be out in the sunshine, don’t you think?”

She stares at me for a moment but ultimately does follow me outside.

We play for a good while, mostly hide-and-seek, which I thought Miss Dixon would be partial to. I tried to give her an excuse to disappear, but apparently that’s not what she was after.

“Don’t you think we should be going?” Sabrina asks me once the better part of an hour passes. “I have so much to prepare for before leaving for London. And then dinner at Wrexford, and my dress is unacceptably dusty.”

“We mustn’t rush Mr. Goswick if he’s discussing business with his tenants.”

“How are tenant farmers the business of a lady such as yourself?” she asks, sitting on a log near the fence. Behind her, several sheep crop the overgrown grass. “Your knowledge of so many things that don’t concern a lady always astonishes me.”

“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” I say quietly. “And I know that whatever is best for my family is best for me. So I take an interest in the running of our land, in the health of our animals, and in the welfare of our tenants.” I stare up at the soaring blue sky above us. “I suppose I think that if I understand and know what’s going on, then I can’t be surprised by anything. I won’t be quite as disappointed then if something goes awry.”

Sabrina lets out a slow breath. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Sometimes we make things more complicated than they actually are,” I reply as the littlest child toddles over to me and drops several beheaded daisies in my lap. “Don’t we, sweet boy?”

But Sabrina looks far off.

Quietly, I ask her, “Have you been disappointed, Miss Dixon?”

She shrugs. “We’re women, Miss Rowley. It’s our lot in life to do as we’re told. My disappointments don’t matter. Neither will yours.”

Her words unsettle me, but I’m diverted by the front door of the house opening, and Briggs and Mrs. Hughes step out into the afternoon. Behind them, Mr. Hughes hobbles forward on crutches, and they pause to speak of something. Briggs even claps him on the shoulder, as if they’re old friends. He looks like a landlord who knows what he’s doing. He looks like a gentleman who holds the respect of his tenants. I feel a little proud, actually.

Briggs shakes Mr. Hughes’s hand. “And let me know if there’s anything else you need. Otherwise, you can expect my brother and me in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Hughes smiles at Briggs and shakes his head in wonder. “You know, you remind me so much of your good father, God rest his soul,” he finally says.

Briggs smiles and then hastily looks at his feet. “Thank you. That means a great deal to me.”

“We must be on our way!” Sabrina cries. “We have evening plans. Come, Mr. Goswick. We must make haste.” She gathers her skirts and begins trotting back down the lane toward Brumbury, and we follow.

“You see!” I cry in an excited whisper. Before I can even think my actions through, I loop my arm through his. “That’s all it takes to show your tenants that you value them. A quick visit and some provisions.”

“It was much easier than I thought it would be,” says Briggs, touching my hand in the nook of his elbow. “And much more rewarding than I could have anticipated.”

I beam up at him, resisting the urge to lean my head against his shoulder. “You did so well.”

“Thanks to you, of course,” he replies, and he looks at me meaningfully. “I like myself so much better when you’re around.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I turn away from his gaze.

“May I ask you one more question, Miss Rowley?”

I nod because words aren’t quite an option as of now.

Briggs takes a moment, considering what he’s about to say. “Just what exactly does one wear when they set out to bring in the hay?”

Bending over, I can’t contain my laughter. Even Briggs begins to snicker at his own question. “Not that,” I reply, motioning to his fine clothes. “Certainly not that.”