Page 7 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

F orcing his thoughts back to the present, Gregory questioned whether it would do any good to deny Mrs. Chatterbox.

The lady couldn’t seem to help herself. For all that she claimed that his knowledge and skill dwarfed hers, she was quick to offer her opinions.

But in truth, that inevitability had nothing to do with the nod he gave her: Gregory truly wished to hear what she had to say.

Over the past few hours, the lady had proven herself to have a fine head for business, and though he knew nothing about bazaars (beyond being a customer), Mrs. Chatterbox clearly did.

“I fear you are losing sight of your clientele,” she said. “It is imperative to keep them firmly in your mind when you are making decisions concerning your business.”

With raised brows, Gregory said, “I am an apothecary. Everyone is my clientele.”

“True,” she conceded with a nod. “However, how one sells to a woman is far different than how one sells to a man. And what appeals to a young lady may not catch a matron’s attention. If you fix your intention on far too broad a range of customers, you will end up appealing to no one.”

Glancing at him, Mrs. Chatterbox smiled in that free and easy manner of hers.

“In the beginning, I hoped all and sundry would patronize my bazaar, and while I still do, I discovered it was far more useful to keep the needs of my ideal clientele in my mind. From the types and quality of goods sold to the stall aesthetics and the sellers themselves, I aim for those that will lure in my ideal customers. It is a slower process than relying on advertisements, but I find it makes for much more loyal customers.”

Silence fell between them as Gregory considered that pearl of wisdom.

It wasn’t as though Vaughn it wasn’t as though their conversation would be interrupted with only the two of them inside.

Yet for once, Gregory found himself wishing the journey might take a bit longer.

But there were so many who needed him in Thornsby.

“Have you considered settling the base of your operations in Leeds?” asked Mrs. Chatterbox, stumbling upon the very subject that was haunting the shadowy recesses of his mind. “It seems as though that would be far more conducive to your growth than remaining in the country.”

She took his proffered hand when they arrived at the carriage and accepted his assistance, and when Gregory took the seat opposite, he found her watching him expectantly. Clearly, still awaiting an answer to her question.

By even the broadest of definitions, Gregory would never be considered a chatty person.

It wasn’t like the Vaughns to air their thoughts.

Except Edward, of course, but where his younger brother had garnered that trait was a mystery to the rest of his family.

Likely, it was Mother’s family influence.

Yet sitting with a stranger in a carriage as it carried him toward all those responsibilities and concerns, Gregory found his tongue loosening.

Perhaps it was Mrs. Chatterbox’s bright nature that pulled it from him, or simply the desperate part of him that required perspective, but regardless, Gregory answered.

“I would like to work from Leeds. Though I adore my home, there are more opportunities in a city.”

Even before Stuart’s passing, leaving Thornsby had been an impossibility.

As the eldest, he had far too many responsibilities to abandon his family for the sake of ambition, and now, with those six dear children awaiting him at home, Gregory was needed more than ever.

He couldn’t uproot them from the home they loved so dear.

“But you cannot?” she prodded with a sympathetic twist of her brows.

“I have responsibilities. People who depend on me.” Though he did not begrudge either the responsibilities or the people attached to them, the words settled like a lead weight on his shoulders. A burden he would have to bear on his own.

Gregory forced his thoughts away from that.

Not only did it do no good to dwell on that which he could not change, but it was unfair of him to think of the people he loved as “burdens.” The children and his parents were the people who mattered most to him in this world, and thus, they weren’t a punishment to endure or a hardship to bear.

And no aspirations could ever be more important than them.

“That is good of you to place them first and foremost in your thoughts. Not everyone is so conscientious.” Mrs. Chatterbox’s tone drew Gregory’s attention, but her expression was placid as she studied the passing landscape.

There was such a heaviness to it. The same sorrow that he heard in his family’s voices when speaking of the darkness that had stolen away their father’s vision.

A finality. The hollow echo of a lost hope.

The lady stiffened, her eyes swinging to him as if surprised that she had spoken, and curiosity twitched in his heart, prodding him to delve deeper into the subject.

“We cannot have our cake and eat it, too, as they say,” she said, easing back into her smile. “Every choice in life requires us to sacrifice other things we desire—goals that are diametrically opposed—and which path we choose to chase says much about a person.”

That struck him. More than it ought to have.

The words were too polished to be accidental, too practiced to be theory alone.

The lady spoke like someone who had lived it.

Whatever it was. And though she tried to hide it behind the curve of a smile, Gregory heard the wear in her voice, the weight of it slipping through the cracks.

This conversation, though far weightier than the others, slipped out just as readily as their discussion of business and finances.

There was a rhythm to their words. A cadence.

Something comfortable and familiar as the lady spoke without calculation, listened with intent, and met his silences without flinching.

Somehow, impossibly, she understood how to fill the space without crowding it.

And all while wheedling him into saying far more than he intended.

There was something familiar about this. About her. It unnerved him more than he liked to admit. Yet it stirred something inside him. A gentle warmth that settled into his chest.

The carriage rocked, swaying with each bump of the road and jerk of the horse.

The clatter of hooves and the jingle of tack punctuated the laughter that echoed from the passengers above.

While those outside seemed to be enjoying the raucous environment of a public house, inside, the air felt closed off.

Not stifling but secluded. Like the hush of a library, where thoughts were meant to be heard and studied.

Words flowed, not for the sake of filling the air but because they each had ideas that needed to be shared.

And every turn of phrase seemed to open a door neither of them had known was there, leading down new paths.

It was easy. Natural. The connection of two souls who fit snugly together like two puzzle pieces.

And Gregory hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed that.

Studying the lady opposite, he had to amend that thought.

Rodney had felt like a long-lost brother the moment they’d met six years prior, and there was nothing fraternal about Mrs. Chatterbox.

Gregory’s eyes traced the sweep of her neck, and his fingers longed to reach out and caress the dark brown locks that peeked out from beneath her bonnet. Were they as silky as they appeared?

At that thought, he swore he felt Rodney at his elbow, ready with a quip about Gregory’s history with women, but he batted it away: Mrs. Chatterbox seemed at ease in his presence.

However, one could hardly take her bright expression to mean anything particular, as it was clearly her natural state of being. However, there was comfort in her mannerisms and conversation that indicated she wasn’t liable to clutch her skirts and flee.

Glancing at her hand yet again, Gregory wondered if he could trust the ringless finger he’d spied when she had removed her gloves. From her conversation, he guessed that Mrs. Chatterbox was a widow, though she never touched upon the subject of her husband and family.

A flash of a church spire drew Gregory’s attention to the window.

“Thornsby,” he murmured.

“Pardon?”

He nodded toward the village and fought to keep his shoulders from sagging as his heart fell to his toes.

“Is that Thornsby?” she asked, perching on the edge of her seat as she stared at the approaching buildings. “The time passed so quickly.”

Was there a thread of disappointment in her tone?

Gregory perked at that, his pulse quickening as he considered the implications.

Doubly so when he realized that this must be her destination as well.

In quick succession, his mind cobbled together possibilities.

If she were merely awaiting a connecting carriage, then he could keep her company until then.

If this was her final stop, then something more was surely possible.

“Are you stopping in Thornsby?” he asked.

Mrs. Chatterbox perked at the question, turning her gaze to him with what he liked to think was an extra dose of brightness in her eyes. “I am. And from your tone, I gather you are as well?”

Gregory nodded. “It is my home.”

The light in her expression flickered like a candle caught in a draft.

She adjusted her gloves, then her skirts, then her gloves again, her movements just a touch too brisk to be idle.

Her gaze darted back to the window, then to the floor, then briefly to him before slipping away.

But before Gregory could question why his being nearby made her uneasy (for that boded ill), Mrs. Chatterbox straightened again, shaking free of whatever darkness had flitted through her for that briefest of moments.

“Wonderful,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart. “I am here for a visit, and it will be such a pleasure to have a friend nearby.”

“Friend” wasn’t such a terrible start. Not bad at all.

“Most certainly. I would be quite happy to introduce you around, Mrs…” Drat his wretched tongue! At least he stopped it from calling her that nickname, though that was of little consolation as it put his ignorance on full display.

Mrs. Chatterbox arched a brow at him. “You haven’t the slightest notion what my name is, do you?”

“You do not know mine,” he retorted.

“Only because you ignored the rest of us when the introductions were being handed around, Sir Stoneface.” Then, with more than a hint of a challenge in her eyes (which was tempered by a heaping dose of teasing), she added, “That is what I have been calling you in my thoughts.”

Gregory huffed. “Sir Stoneface? That is far worse than Mrs. Chatterbox.”

Gaping with all the melodrama of a stage actress, the lady gave a feigned scoff of indignation that melted away almost the same moment she gave it. With a laugh, Mrs. Chatterbox shook her head before extending a hand.

“Mrs. Theresa Stuart,” she said.

The surname sent a jolt down Gregory’s spine as he shook the proffered hand. “Mr. Gregory Vaughn.”

Stuart was common enough. Perhaps not in the same league as Smith, Jones, or Thompson, but it was an everyday sort of surname. An entire royal dynasty bore it, after all. Nothing of note.

Still, the name rang louder in his ears than it ought to have.

It was a coincidence. Of course it was. He told himself so twice in the space of a breath, even as a faint tension began to creep across his shoulders.

There were likely dozens of Stuarts scattered throughout Yorkshire.

Dozens more in the surrounding counties.

He was borrowing trouble. Inventing ghosts in the shadows.

Gregory scoured his memory for Rodney’s wife’s given name.

Surely it had been Jane. Or Louisa. Something like that.

The fellow had so rarely spoken it, but surely, he should be able to recall it.

After six years of friendship, this was a piece of information he ought to know. And it would easily erase any question.

Not that he needed to worry, for this Mrs. Stuart was far too pleasant. Too warm. Too conscientious. This engaging creature couldn’t be the harpy that had plagued his friend and abandoned her children.

Gregory drew a slow breath and offered the faintest of nods, his fingers releasing her hand with care. No need to leap to conclusions. Stuart was just a name. Nothing more.

And yet, as the village came into full view and the coach began to slow, that tight coil of apprehension refused to unravel.

“What brings you to Thornsby, Mrs. Stuart?” asked Gregory. No doubt there was a simple—and satisfying—answer.

“I am visiting family.”

Though it was a simple answer, there was a heaviness to her tone that settled in his stomach like a stone dropped into the darkest depths of a lake. And Gregory couldn’t stop the question that slipped past his tongue.

“Your children?”