Page 31 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

T he green at the heart of Thornsby had been transformed from the tranquil stretch of lawn into a blur of color and motion.

Stalls lined the edges of the grass, their awnings casting patchy shade over tables piled with goods and wares, with a rainbow of bunting that wound from vendor to vendor, drawing the customers deeper into the merriment.

The scent of warm pies, buttery toffee, and roasted meat drifted on the air in a heady mix.

And beneath the shade of a sycamore, an old fiddler sawed out a lively tune while a line of Morris dancers hopped and stamped in time, the bright ribbons tied to their legs and hats fluttering with each movement.

A small crowd had gathered to clap along, their faces alight with mirth, as children darted around the edges in their own chaotic imitation.

It was enchanting. As though the world was suspended in a blur of brightness and motion and filled with joy and laughter. Or as much as it could be whilst accompanied by a fifteen-year-old boy who was doing his utmost to try everyone’s patience.

More than a month had passed since reintroducing the children to their mother, and though Clark was as determined as ever to growl and hiss whenever she was about, Eva and Faith followed the lady as she wandered over to a stall that was particularly packed with knick-knacks.

Even Joanna looked eager to see Mrs. Stuart at work, accompanying them with Timothy in her arms and Shirley on her heels.

“Oh, this is a lovely piece,” said Mrs. Stuart, holding up an old cup fashioned from brass for her audience to inspect.

“It needs a bit of polishing, but people are always in need of more dishes. And though a utilitarian piece like this shan’t fetch a handsome price at market, a stall that sells lower-priced but sturdy quality can earn just as much as those who offer the finest china. ”

“Ah,” said the woman manning the booth, “I see I have a customer of discerning tastes.”

Straightening, Mrs. Stuart gave her opponent a narrowed-eyed assessment. “I know something of market stalls.”

“Is that so?” came the reply with a knowing smile.

And with that, the seller rattled off the price of the piece, and the two began haggling with all the talent of those who knew their business well.

The audience’s eyes darted between the two, and though Mrs. Stuart drove a hard bargain, she settled on a reasonable price, and the two shook on it.

Clark scoffed and crossed his arms, kicking at the ground as he turned his gaze away from the sight. “I do not want to be here.”

“As you’ve made abundantly clear,” murmured Gregory in a low tone. “As I said before, you do not have to speak to her if you do not wish to, but you will join your family for the festival and you will be civil—as you should be to all people.”

Gregory glanced over to where Daphne stood; the young lady managed an air of disinterest as though her mother did not exist, which bothered him no less, but at least it did not have the unfortunate tendency to annoy everyone around.

Though that changed when Faith grabbed her mother’s hand and tugged her toward another stall.

Daphne’s posture tightened at the sight, and redoubled when Eva hurried after the pair, jabbering furiously at their mother.

With a sharp huff, Daphne turned and stomped away.

“If she’s leaving, so am I,” said Clark.

“You are free to explore as you wish,” said Gregory, projecting his voice for both of them to hear. “But do not leave the festival, and meet back here in an hour.”

The two refused to acknowledge him, and Gregory’s feet yearned to follow after them, though he didn’t know if this was a battle worth waging or if that bit of insolence ought to be ignored.

Mrs. Stuart glanced over her shoulder at him and pulled a mocking scowl. “Oh, is Sir Stoneface attending the festival today?”

“Sir Stoneface?” asked Shirley, her expression scrunching. “That’s Uncle Gregory.”

“I hate to disagree, my dear lady,” she said, crouching before the girl. “But I assure you that is a gentleman I met on the road to Thornsby. He looked so stern that I couldn’t help but dub him Sir Stoneface, for his expression was so very somber.”

That drew a giggle from Gregory’s niece, and Eva’s hands flew to her mouth as she stifled her own.

Traitors. For all that his family claimed to love him, the group began tittering and guffawing as Mrs. Stuart did an impression of Sir Stoneface—their mirth doubling when they glanced at him.

Apparently, her imitation wasn’t far from the mark.

“Come now, Sir Stoneface. You cannot be dour at a festival.” Stepping closer, Mrs. Stuart added in a low voice, “Do not take their behavior to heart, Mr. Vaughn. Clark and Daphne are at difficult ages and are struggling with so much of late. They are going to be ill-tempered. It is only natural. It feels like a victory that they attended at all.”

The warmth in her voice settled into Gregory’s chest, coating the frustration like a balm. No matter that the pair’s ire had been directed more at her than him, Mrs. Stuart accepted their behavior and sought to comfort him.

Stepping back, she raised her voice again. “What say you, Sir Stoneface?”

The children all watched him closely, and when Gregory looked down at them, he twisted his features into a maniacal grin and crossed his eyes. They burst into giggles before skittering this way and that as the festival seized their attention once more.

Which was when he noticed Edward and Joanna watching him, their brows raised with equal expressions of surprise and amusement.

And though he hadn’t done anything wrong, Gregory felt his face heat, and he hoped that it didn’t show (though judging by the gleeful glint in his brother’s eye, he suspected it had).

Clearing his throat, Gregory nodded toward a stand that was selling fruit buns. “I think it is time for sweets.”

That earned him a bellowing chorus of support, and the children charged the stall en masse as the parents followed after.

“Is Sir Stoneface joining us?” asked Edward with a sing-song lilt to his tone, but he was silenced when Joanna elbowed him in the ribs and deposited their babe into his arms so she could herd the children into a semblance of a queue.

Coming to her father’s side, Caro took his hand and said with utter reverence, “No one should be dour at Queen Bess’s Festival.”

“Ah, yes, the festival commemorating Queen Elizabeth’s red hair,” said Mrs. Stuart in a serious tone.

Eva made a face as she took her mother’s hand. “No, it isn’t.”

“Or is it her birthday?” asked Mrs. Stuart, tapping her chin with a finger.

“It is the day she visited Thornsby,” said Caro with the sort of exasperation usually reserved for parents attempting to dress their wriggling children in layers of winter flannel. “Her carriage stopped at the Silver Lion, and she sat in their chair!”

“Yes, I was ever so blessed to see the article myself,” said Mrs. Stuart, turning her laughing eyes to meet Gregory’s. “Though the proprietor wouldn’t allow me to sit in it.”

“Of course, you cannot!” gasped Caro. “It was Queen Bess’s chair!”

***

The children tugged her this way and that, and though Tessa desperately longed for a seat (even Queen Bess’s), the fact that they were eager for her presence made her wish that this moment would last forever.

Faith and Eva held fast to her hands, though the latter held still for only moments before darting this way and that, and of course, the boys were far too grown-up to hang on their mama, but they did not wander far from her side.

Music filled the air, and Tessa pulled the others to a stop beside a makeshift dance floor.

Poles marked the edges, with bunting strung from top to top, forming a ceiling of sorts, and to one side sat the musicians.

Though each bore a sprig of flowers adorning their person, they looked like they had just emerged from the pub and were enjoying the “fortifying” drinks on hand more than the music ringing from their instruments.

The lively tune wound to a close, and as the dancers took their leave, the leader of the band raised a mug and called out, “To Queen Bess!” The others echoed it, downing enough ale that she doubted they would remain upright for much longer.

Caro hopped up on her toes, clapping as she turned to Tessa. “A Queen Bess dance. All the unmarried ladies must dance with the partner of their choosing. You must. It’s tradition!”

“Do it, Mama,” added Eva, threading her arm through Caro’s. “It’s tradition.”

“That is well and good, but I am not unmarried,” said Tessa with a wince. “I am widowed—”

But the girls waved away the concern.

“And I am newly widowed. It wouldn’t be appropriate,” added Tessa, glancing out at the others as though the crowd might rise up against her for the dishonor to her late husband.

Mourning rituals were a personal matter, and though the family hadn’t adopted the more rigid strictures that some chose to follow, even the loosest of guidelines would find it shocking to see a widow dancing at a festival less than three months after her husband’s passing.

“Yes, do,” said Mrs. Joanna Vaughn, coming up beside Tessa with her babe on her hip.

“It is a festival, and you ought to enjoy it.” Then, with a sly little smile, she added in a conspiratorial tone, “Lest you dishonor that very great and regal Queen Elizabeth by not participating in a dance meant to honor her.”

For all that Mrs. Vaughn spoke quietly, Caro gasped like a heroine on the stage as though it was an affront to her own honor.

Leaning close, Mrs. Vaughn lowered her voice so it only carried to Tessa’s ears. “Caro is mad about Queen Elizabeth at present, so do not let her sway you. But you should dance if you wish. It’s a bit of fun. That is all.”

Tessa glanced about for a possible partner, but Clark was nowhere to be seen (not that he would allow himself to be conscripted into dancing with her, tradition or not).

When Jackson met her gaze, he must’ve realized her intention, for he blanched before blushing red, his eyes scouring the crowd as though fearful that his school chums were lurking there, ready to witness this most mortifying of moments.

And though the dear lad would likely accept, Wesley was both too short to stand up with her and too large for her to heft into her arms.

There was no one to dance with her, so the issue was moot.

But then Mr. Gregory Vaughn and his brother strode into view, with the rest of the children waddling around them like ducklings, rushing to and fro but never straying far from the adults. Mrs. Joanna Vaughn met Tessa’s gaze and nodded toward her brother-in-law.

And Tessa found herself mimicking Jackson, glancing about as though someone might notice just how warm her cheeks were growing.