Page 17 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

Eleven

A cock crowed. The desire to hide under his covers flickered through Johnathan's mind.

The days spent working to help bring in the harvest had taken a toll on his body.

He had become soft on the journey to England and the time not laboring while at The Willows.

Some of his aches could be attributed to the pulper from yesterday.

They were worth it—every ache was worth it—especially for the acceptance he had found among the earl's tenants.

He sat up and placed his feet on the cool floor.

The fire had not yet been lit, so perhaps he had not slept in as late as he thought.

As he stood, a throb in his toe reminded him of his hasty escape in the corridor last night and the side table leg that nearly led to his discovery.

However the Lightwood sisters had not heard him—or at least not seen him. He was sure George had looked his way.

His mother always said that eavesdroppers would come to no good. The throbbing toe served as a painful reminder of that. It was not a lesson he would soon forget.

Nor was he likely to forget the pain of realizing that a near neighbor had lost a brother in the same war that he had avoided. It was understandable that whoever this Susanna was, she was not in favor of him being here.

Would the members of Parliament who needed to approve him side with those like Susanna? Had they lost their own children and brothers in the wars?

How could he overcome that obstacle?

A tap on the door paused his musings. The young house boy, who had started his fire the last few days came in.

“Sorry, Mr. Whittaker. I meant to be here before you woke.”

“Not your fault. I have always been an early riser.” He almost added that at home no one ever started a fire for him as there was no fireplace in his attic room.

“I’ll bring some water up in a moment. Should I fetch the valet?”

“I only need water. Thank you.”

The boy nodded and left.

Johnathan looked at the clothing the earl’s valet had laid out for the harvest fair.

A new white linen shirt and pressed cravat?

There were supposed to be contests, archery, apple bobbing, and others.

How could he participate in any of the festivities dressed in fine clothing?

Maybe he was not meant to participate. Georgiana said something about competing in an archery contest, so contests were not closed to him.

He searched for one of his older shirts.

He could wear it for the day and change for the dance.

Hadn’t Jane or Alexandra mentioned taking a second dress?

Squeals of children mingled with those of the small bovine as the race began. George watched, remembering her own recent pig chase. Never again.

“It looks like they're getting practice in while they're young.” Johnathan followed the sisters, carrying a crate of pies. George tried not to notice how his arms flexed with the weight, or how his colonial accent had grown rather pleasing to her ear.

“Perhaps that was my problem the other day—I did not start young enough.” George carried a basket of baked goods in her arms. “I must get these over before the judging commences, or Cook will burn my food for the next month.”

“She would not really do that, would she?” Johnathan’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Likely not, but I do not want to find out for myself.” George looked away when she caught Isabel watching their exchange with interest. She did not need her neighbor making assumptions, especially when she expressed an interest in Johnathan.

From the balcony of Leadon Hill, Lord Godderidge and his wife observed the race.

Susanna stood next to David Godderidge, doing the same.

Susanna glanced the direction of the newcomers but did not acknowledge them.

Isabel made up for her sister-in-law’s snub, waving at George and her sisters.

Alex, being less encumbered than Jane or George, raised her walking stick in response.

After the sisters dropped off the baked goods at the various tables, they went their own ways. Alex joined Lady Godderidge, where she would be safe from being toppled by running children. The vicar’s wife whisked away Jane to help with some item or other. Leaving George to escort Johnathan.

Isabel hurried across the lawn to join them. Her smile reflected the surrounding excitement. “So glad you are here! Welcome, Mr. Whittaker. George, the archery competition is in half an hour. Are you going to participate this year?”

“I believe I have a title to defend, do I not?” For the last three years—to her father’s annoyance—she had won no less than third place from shooting an apple off a post in homage to William Tell. Last year she took the first place prize.

“You only won because Edward was not here last year.” Isabel worked her way between George and Johnathan.

“I only win because the huntsmen have a contest of their own. I could best Edward if he were not at sea.”

“When my brother returns, we shall have to host a competition to see if you have really gotten better than him.” Isabel turned her attention to Johnathan, laying a hand on his arm. “What about you, Mr. Whittaker? Do you think you could best George?”

George's stomach tightened at Isabel's familiar gesture, though George could not quite explain why. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was quite sure Isabel and Johnathan had never been formally introduced. Something George was not going to remedy.

“I do not have a bow.”

“Oh, we have several. You must try! I’ll show you.” Isabel took him by the arm and marched across to the archery field, leaving George to retrieve her own bow from the Godderidge’s footman.

The familiar curve of the bow brought back memories of her mother, who had arranged for Lady Godderidge to store the finely crafted bow after Father had snapped her first bow in half when she was eleven.

What would mother think of her now? Would she shame her for competing against men?

Likely not. If only Mother were here to help sort out George’s feelings around Johnathan.

Mother would see the wisdom in arranging things between him and Jane.

Perhaps that is why seeing him with Isabel pained her, because it would hurt Jane.

George shook the thought away. If she pondered too long upon mother, she would be unable to concentrate on her target.

The archery competition began with the children aiming at large paper targets.

When they finished, the adults aimed for a single apple on the top of a post. It took some time to give each person a turn, even with five targets.

Johnathan’s form was excellent. His arrow pierced the center of his apple.

“Yes!” Isabel cheered the loudest as Johnathan returned to the line of archers.

When George's turn came, she felt unusually nervous.

“You will not win it from us again this year, Miss Lightwood,” said a farmer George recognized from church.

“I can only try.” She nocked her arrow and aimed, acutely aware of Johnathan's presence.

Her hands trembled slightly as she steadied her bow.

Ridiculous. She had shot hundreds of arrows.

But never with those intense blue eyes watching.

She was not trying to impress him. Still, her heart leapt when she heard his quiet “well done” after her shot.

The fourth round narrowed the final competitors down to five; Johnathan, the farmer who had spoken to her earlier, Mr. Dalrymple, Lucas, and her. They let their arrows fly. Mr. Dalrymple missed, leaving four. It took two more rounds before Lucas missed his shot, leaving three.

“Miss Lightwood, ye will not be winning today.” The farmer’s jovial teasing brought a smile to her face.

David Godderidge shouted for the three remaining archers to take their places. The farmer went first, his apple exploding upon impact.

“Way to show him.” Father’s booming voice shattered the moment. When had he arrived? And obviously in his cups. “Cannot let that troublesome American win, can we?”

Next to her, Johnathan stiffened, his perfect form faltering. His shot went wide, and something in George's chest ached at his defeated expression as he stepped away.

George took her place. The fun was gone.

If she missed, the farmer would win and his family could likely use the prize more than her.

A win by the farmer would help others forget about the American comment.

Her mind made up, George nocked her arrow and aimed.

The crowd quieted. She hit her target. The arrow stuck in the post an inch below the apple.

The farmer was the first to shout his joy.

George could not help but smile at him. The footman collected her bow, and she turned to accept Jane’s condolences. Instead, her father rushed between the twins and grabbed George by the shoulders.

“Where did you get that bow? I shall break it in two!”

“I am enjoying the fair. As for the bow, the Godderidges’s footman has already collected it along with most of the others.” The half-truth tasted bitter.

Father dragged her toward the targets, away from prying ears—including Mr. Whittaker's concerned gaze. “Do you realize the scandal if you had won again? No man wants a wife who can best him at a man's sport.”

Her thoughts flew to Johnathan’s appreciative “well done.” There was one man who would not care. Reasoning with Father that there were many ladies of the ton that excelled in archery would not help. George bit her tongue.

“I have half a mind to send you home for the rest of the festivities. However, you are the only one who can catch Mr. Dalrymple’s eye.

I just learned he has over eight thousand a year.

If you can catch him, I can save on not sending you and Jane to Town for a Season.

Sending Jane is a waste, anyway. Our Lady of Perpetual mourning will never catch a husband.

Just as well. I need someone to care for me when I grow old.

” The stench of drink wafted off of him.

George's stomach churned at her father's casual cruelty toward Jane. It was father’s fault she wore only colors suitable for half mourning. If George found a husband—one of her own choosing, her mind whispered traitorously—she would make sure Jane was welcome as often as she wished. That might be her best reason for marrying. Or she could find Jane a suitable husband. Johnathan would be just that for her twin. The irony of Jane becoming a lady above father’s station would be all the better.

“This is not a total loss.” Father spoke more to himself than to her. “Mr. Dalrymple has taken notice of you. You will spend the rest of the day ingratiating yourself to him.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you could spare your sister a Season. One you know, she would rather not take. Although there is another option in Yorkshire.” Father’s tone hinted at something neither she nor her sisters would like. Father’s description of the home of his youth was as cold as he was.

Send her sister away? Jane would cower at that idea.

They had never spent a full day apart. How would Jane fare such a separation?

Father was not supposed to arrange marriages, but he may find a way around the Duke of Aylton’s threat made the night Phil escaped from the inn.

The thought that their father was tricking his cousin into marriage outraged the duke.

Phil’s integrity and bravery so impressed the duke that he had become her champion.

“I will do my best.” For Jane. There were worse ways to spend the day, she supposed. Mr. Dalrymple’s interest could not last that long if she managed to capture it. But would it last long enough to keep her sister from being sent away?