Page 18 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

Twelve

A lthough he could tell the status of the harvest fair attendees by their clothing, Johnathan was surprised at how, at least for the moment, the classes mixed.

His understanding was that the peerage had little to do with those of lower social standing.

The earl sat among a group of men near his age who appeared to be mostly farmers and tradesmen.

Perhaps living in England would not be as isolating as he thought.

He had much more in common with the men who worked for their living than he did the likes of Mr. Dalrymple, who was the only single man of elevated status near Johnathan’s age.

The gentleman held himself aloof, not mingling with anyone.

Oddly, Miss Georgiana seemed determined to cross the man’s path at every chance.

Thus Johnathan was left to the attentive Miss Godderidge as Jane and Alexandra were occupied elsewhere. Which, all in all, was not a bad position to be in. She did not rush him as they moved from booth to booth. A table laden with pies caught his attention.

“Mrs. James won this year.” Miss Godderidge drew his attention to the pie in the center.

“She claims her recipe is over two hundred years old. However, I prefer Mrs. Lamb’s pie, she is more liberal with the cinnamon.

Truly, none of them are ever bad. I believe the judges rotate through the winners because they cannot decide. ”

“What are those?” Johnathan nodded to the spread beyond.

“New recipes. Scones, biscuits, cakes. Most of them are more experimental in nature. As a child, I chose one with currants...” Miss Godderidge shuddered. “I became ill from the alcohol-soaked fruit, causing me to miss the ball.”

Johnathan found his attention wandering to where Miss Georgiana stood, laughing at Mr. Dalrymple’s side. The sound carried across the festival grounds, musical and light. What could be so amusing about the dour man's conversation?

“I’ll choose with care. Did you make any of these?” he asked Miss Godderidge, forcing himself to focus on their conversation.

Miss Godderidge hid her shock quickly. “I have never learned to cook or bake.”

Of course not. Of all the ludicrous questions he could have asked. He caught another glimpse of Miss Georgiana, who was now walking with Mr. Dalrymple toward the storytellers' area, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

“I suppose every woman in America cooks?”

“My mother employs a girl who helps with meals and cleaning. We purchase our bread from the baker. But yes, my sisters are all well versed in the basics of baking and cooking, as am I.”

“You know how to cook?” Full of disbelief, her wide eyes mocked him.

“Enough to survive on my own.”

“What a peculiar thought.”

Not to learn how to take care of one’s basic needs, or that one would want those skills? A question he did not dare ask.

The announcement of the storytellers starting their activities saved him from further awkwardness.

Johnathan sat on a blanket with Miss Godderidge, Alexandra, and Jane.

Several children joined them. Miss Georgiana, however, chose to sit in the chairs near the back of the field with Mr. Dalrymple.

Johnathan found himself straining to hear her reactions to the stories over the general murmur of the crowd.

The first tales were brief—a massive pumpkin that became a seaside house, ghosts in potato bins, and talking rabbits.

Then Grandmother Grimes took the seat, holding up a single red apple.

Her tale of a determined little pig seeking apples brought laughter from the crowd, especially when she acted out the pig's failed attempts at flying and his final mad dash through the orchard chased by a lady.

Everyone looked at Georgiana who blushed, her eyes meeting his for just a moment before she looked away, her cheeks coloring slightly as she turned her attention back to Mr. Dalrymple.

Of course, Grandmother Grimes won the prize: a bushel of apples, which she promised not to feed to any pigs.

Johnathan spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the stalls, trying various delights and occasionally catching glimpses of Miss Georgiana through the crowd.

He made the mistake of asking a woman for her tart recipe.

She brandished a fork in the air as she informed him that no American could ever make her dessert.

A little boy tugged at his pants. “Is it true you're from the colonies?”

“Yes.”

“Did you come to invade us?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

In England? Or at the fair, where he was far too distracted by Miss Georgiana giving her attention to Mr. Dalrymple? The boy would not have been interested in the long answer, so Johnathan had kept it simple. “I am here to try your cider. I've heard it is the best in all of England.”

“It is the best. My father helped make it.” The boy ran off.

Johnathan smiled after him. The question, “Why are you here?” was never quite far from his mind.

The last of the afternoon sunlight reflected off the white furniture trimmed with gold in Isabel’s bedroom.

George sat as Jane reworked her hair. What would she do without her sister?

The thought hurt too much to contemplate.

Tonight she would do her best to flirt again with a man she knew by little more than name after her efforts this afternoon failed.

Mr. Dalrymple spoke little and seemed to endure her presence out of good breeding.

How much longer could she keep throwing herself at him?

There must be a better way to fulfill father’s request. How did the ladies of the ton flirt?

Not for the first time that hour, George wished for the guidance of her mother.

Isabel entered wearing her favorite blue dress from last Season, and her abigail followed. “I cannot believe you three are not putting on different gowns.”

Alex looked up from the novel she borrowed. “There is not much of a point for me. It is not as though I collected much dirt, and I will not be dancing, anyway.”

“Jane and George, you brought a change of clothing,” Isabel pointed out.

“Yes, we did,” Jane replied, “but after Father commanded I change and try to ensnare Mr. Dalrymple, I have no desire whatsoever to do his bidding.”

George dropped the hairbrush. “He asked you to engage Mr. Dalrymple too?”

Alex slammed her book shut. “Father's not supposed to be arranging anything. He cannot force Mr. Dalrymple to choose one of us.”

Jane adjusted a pin in her own hair. “It is not as if he would be interested in me when he has you.”

“Just because he's not supposed to arrange anything does not mean he will not. We should know that by now,” George balled her hands into fists. Since Jane seemed so unconcerned, had father issued the same threat she received? Should she tell?

“I do not see your problem. He is taller than either of you and handsome enough, I suppose,” said Isabel, whose height nearly matched the man in discussion. “And you would be living in the county. According to my maid, Mr. Dalrymple intends to stay here for the more part of the year.”

“I have no interest in him.” Jane brushed an invisible bit from her skirt. “It is wrong to capture his attentions when I do not want them.”

“How can you know if you want them if you have never spoken with him? You pass judgment, yet, if we had judged Michael by our first conversation, Phil would not be married now.” Alex crossed the room to her sisters and put a hand on Jane’s shoulder.

“You should change, if nothing else, so Father believes you are trying. I do not know what game he is playing. Mr. Dalrymple is not one of his gaming friends. It will not hurt either of you to at least converse with the man and dance a single dance.”

“I had not planned to dance at all. I only brought a gown to please grandfather since he had it made for me.” Jane lifted the palest of grey dresses from the bed. So pale, most would call it white.

“Did father threaten you?” asked George as she smoothed out her primrose gown.

Jane held up her new gown, hiding the brown one from view. “No. Sir Galahad is safe.”

“One dance will not hurt you. If Mr. Dalrymple is a gentleman, he will ask each of us to dance. Including me.” Isabel lifted her skirt.

“I suppose I should put on my low-heeled boots.

At least we are out of doors or mother would insist on slippers.

Your cousin is taller than me. I must say, he's probably the most handsome man here.”

“Is he?” George feigned ignorance.

“Of course he is. Even you should be able to see that. Do you have any claims on him?” asked Isabel.

“Definitely not.” Jane carried her gown to the changing screen.

“You know I have no claims on anyone,” said Alex.

“And you, George?” asked Isabel, pressing the idea more than she should.

“How could I? He's only been here a few days.” It was good to remind herself of that truth. Johnathan should be Jane’s. Isabel’s abigail helped George switch dresses.

“But you have spent the most time with him.” Jane’s muffled words came from behind the changing screen.

“Of course I have. Grandfather has had me showing him all of our farming methods. Things he absolutely must know if he is—” She trailed off. It was common knowledge that Grandfather intended to see him into the earldom.

“Is to stay in England. That's what your grandfather intends, is it not? For him to stay here and take his title?” asked Isabel.

“You know?” said Alex.

“Of course. Your grandfather was talking to my father. He is a member of the House of Lords.”

“I did not realize that they would be discussing matters so soon. Will your father vote for him?” George held her breath, waiting for the answer.

“He has not said. But I think if Mr. Whittaker proves himself to be a gentleman, Father would prefer him as a neighbor to your own father. No offense meant. Susanna would persuade him otherwise, but Father explained Johnathan was not responsible for the whole of the wars the Crown fights. Father says he will wait to see if the young colonist”—Isabel's voice took on a deeper note—“is worth his salt.”

George could not help but laugh. “Well, if it's of any help, I do believe Johnathan?—”

“On first names already?”

“We are cousins,” George defended herself. “Anyway, as I was saying, Johnathan understands crop rotation, planting, and he has been very good with our tenants. They're not sure what to make of him. Whether that's because he's American or supposed to be a gentleman, I am not sure.”

“You're positive you have no claim on him?” asked Isabel again.

“Why would I?” George answered a question with a question.

“Then I suppose you shall not mind if I dance with him this evening,” said Isabel.

“As Alex has already pointed out, a gentleman would dance with every lady he could this evening.”

“Does he understand the expectations of the evening?" asked Jane.

“I'm not sure.” George assumed he would know.

“Did you not explain when you were teaching him to dance?” asked Alex.

“You taught him to dance?” Isabel sat for her maid to change her shoes.

“He already knew most of the dances.” George did her best to deflect any questions Isabel might have about such an endeavor, for if her friend thought long upon the matter, she would certainly realize that George taught the majority of the steps and danced with one man for an entire evening—something that simply was never done.

The memory of their dance practice flooded back unbidden—his hand at her waist had felt different from when she practiced with her sisters.

Warmer. More... Present. She tried to push away thoughts of how his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled, or how secure his grip felt when he turned her.

Or how she had nearly forgotten the next step, distracted by his proximity.

The first strains of a violin tuning filtered in through the open window.

Isabel stood and shook out her skirt. “They must be gathering. We should go. We do not want to miss dancing with the children.”

“That is my favorite part,” said Jane.

George allowed Alex to re-tie her sash. With each note of music, her heart sped up. Was this what facing a gauntlet felt like?