Understanding her dilemma, he grinned. “This time, the organization isn’t your responsibility—indeed, the only responsibility you can lay claim to is to guide me through the local social shoals, and otherwise to enjoy yourself.”
She humphed. Muttered, “Enjoying myself can hardly be classed a responsibility.”
Yet as they circled the forecourt again, she found herself noticing and taking in—enjoying—a great deal more of the festival’s delights and its atmosphere than she ever had. The wares displayed in the booths and on the long trestles were fascinating and tempting, the produce arrayed on the various stalls impressive. She bought lace, two pairs of gloves and a long roll of ribbon. The lace and ribbon she tucked into the pockets of her apple-green walking dress; Gervase helpfully volunteered his coat pocket for her gloves.
The hours flew. Every so often they were summoned by one or other of the committee members so Gervase could announce the winners and award prizes for the various competitions. The one for the best local ale was clearly his favorite; having weathered the knitt
ing and embroidery competitions, none of the other crafts presented any real challenge.
Everyone lunched on traditional local fare—pies, pasties and sandwiches—provided by the local bakers and pie-makers in conjunction with the taverns who had set up tents and benches to serve the hungry festivalgoers. Madeline sat on a bench in the sunshine beside Gervase, and neatly consumed a pastie while he devoured three pies. When he asked, she had to admit that she was indeed enjoying herself; she’d never felt so relaxed, not during a festival.
Whether it was the effect of the warm sunshine, or the relief that everything was running so smoothly, or the inevitable effect of being surrounded by so many people all enjoying such simple pleasures, as the afternoon wore on she started to feel she was viewing the world—a familiar yet different world—through rose-tinted spectacles.
Nothing seemed able or likely to dim her mood.
Not even sighting the Helston Grange party amid the crowd. They’d arrived in the early afternoon; one group of fashionable ladies gowned more appropriately for a stroll in Hyde Park were progressing down one aisle, eyeing the country wares with a disdainful air.
Noting the sniffs and dark looks aimed at their backs, Madeline hid a smile; if the ladies had glimpsed those reactions, they wouldn’t be feeling quite so superior.
“And that, I assume,” Gervase murmured from beside her, “is Robert Hardesty.”
Madeline followed his nod to where Lady Hardesty was strolling down another aisle on the arm of a handsome dark-haired gentleman Madeline hadn’t set eyes on before. The pair was closely attended by Mr. Courtland and two others she’d seen at the vicarage—with Robert Hardesty trailing in their wake.
“Yes, that’s Robert.” Madeline watched for a moment; it was almost as if a small cloud had appeared to mar the otherwise glorious day, and was hanging over Robert Hardesty’s head. His expression was not blank but undecided, as if he were unsure what feelings to express, yet…“He doesn’t look happy.” He looked like a dejected, rejected puppy.
“Certainly not an advertisement for the joys of matrimony,” Gervase dryly remarked.
Madeline grimaced. “No, indeed.”
Although neat and well dressed by country standards, set against his wife’s sophistication and the transparently polished appearance and address of her court, Robert looked like the youthful country-bred baronet he was; he couldn’t, and likely never would, hold a candle to his wife’s admirers.
More importantly, Lady Hardesty was making not the smallest effort to suggest she had even the most perfunctory interest in him.
Lips thinning, Madeline eyed the spectacle for a moment longer, then looked around, noting numerous others—Mr. Maple and his sister, the Juliards, the Caterhams—who were likewise viewing the small scene. A vignette among many, yet it spoke so clearly—and, did she but know it, would assure Lady Hardesty of no fond welcome in local social circles.
“From which performance I deduce”—Gervase turned her away, steering her toward the east wall—“that her ladyship harbors no ambition to be accepted into local drawing rooms other than on sufferance.”
Madeline raised her brows. “So it would appear.”
They didn’t speak again of Robert Hardesty, but that vision of him, of the demonstrated unequalness of his marriage and the unhappiness that flowed from that, hovered at the back of her mind—the small dark cloud in her otherwise glorious firmament.
“Your brothers seem uncommonly interested in what my father would have termed ‘female geegaws.’” Gervase nodded to where Harry and Edmond, with Ben darting ahead or pushing between, seemed absorbed in ribbons and lace doilies.
Madeline grinned; tugging on Gervase’s arm, she drew him away.
He would have led her to them; arching a brow, he fell in with her wishes.
Smiling, she looked ahead. “It’s my birthday in a few days. I invariably receive trinkets and furbelows chosen from the festival stalls.”
“Ah.” After a moment, he said, “I suppose, down here, there aren’t all that many alternative sources of inspiration.”
“Actually”—leaning close, she confessed—“I always find myself examining the items displayed and cataloguing any that I might find myself unwrapping in a few days. It’s become something of a game to see if I can identify what will catch their eye when they think of me.”
He glanced at her. “And do you guess correctly?’
“Occasionally. Strangely it’s Ben who seems to most accurately guess what I’ll like best.”
“Perception untainted by rational thought,” Gervase declared. “Unfortunately, as soon as a male grows old enough to grasp the essential difference between male and female, the ability is lost.”