“Not since my father died.”
“True-but your father died more than twenty years ago.”
He couldn’t now argue that most of his tenants wouldn’t recall the event.
“You’re the earl, and now I’m your countess. It’s a new generation, a new era. The purpose of the Festival was, as I understand it, to thank the estate workers for their efforts throughout the year, through the sowing, husbanding, and reaping.” She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. “You’re a caring landlord-you look after your tenants. Surely, now I’m here, it’s right-appropriate-that we should again host the Festival.”
She was right, yet it took some time to accustom his mind to the idea-of holding the Festival again, of he himself being the host. In all his memories, that was a position his father had filled. After his death, there had never been any question-not that he could recall-of continuing with the Festival, despite the fact it was, indeed, a very old tradition.
Times changed. And sometimes adapting meant resurrecting past ways.
She’d been wise enough to say no more, to push no further. Instead, she sat patiently, her gaze on his face, awaiting his decision. He knew perfectly well if he refused she would argue, although perhaps not immediately. His lips lifted spontaneously as he recalled her earlier comment. Transparent? She was as easy to read as the wind.
Hope kindled in her eyes at his half smile; he let his lips relax into a more definite one. “Very well. If you wish to play the role of my countess to the hilt-”
He broke off. Their eyes met, held; all levity evaporated. Then, deliberately, he inclined his head and continued, his voice even, “I see no reason to dissuade you.” After an instant’s pause, he added, “I won’t stand in your way.”
She understood what he was saying-all he was saying. After a moment, she stood and came around the table. She stopped by his side, turned, and sank gracefully onto his lap. “And will you play your part, too?”
His gaze remained steady. “In the Festival, yes.”
For the rest, he could make no promises.
She studied his eyes, her own unreadable, then she smiled, her usual, warm, gloriously radiant smile. “Thank you.”
Raising her hands, she framed his face, then leaned forward and kissed him, deliberately, sensuously yet without heat.
From beneath lowered lids, he watched her, and felt his hunger stir. Felt the barbarian rise, but for once, his appetite wasn’t lust, not even desire.
Something else. Something more.
He kissed her back, and she returned the pleasure, and it was simply that-a shared moment of physical touching, caressing.
It had no purpose beyond that-the exchange of a gentle touch.
Eventually, she drew back and he let her. She smiled, happy and pleased. “So, how should we spread the news? It’s only a few weeks away. Whom should we tell?”
“Harris.” Gyles urged her to her feet and she rose. He stood, claimed her hand, then led her to the door. “We invite the whole village as well as the tenants, and in Lambourn, there’s no better way of making a general announcement than by telling Harris.”
So they told Harris, and Gyles and she were now committed to the Harvest Festival. The next day, Francesca received a letter from Charles accepting her invitation to visit at the Castle. Franni, he reported, was absolutely delighted at the prospect of visiting there again.
Francesca didn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps, after all, Gyles had been right, and Franni’s reaction at their wedding had simply been due to overexcitement. That suggested that Franni’s gentleman was either someone else, or a figment of her imagination. Francesca could see no way of deciding, not until Franni, and Charles and Ester, arrived.
Putting the matter aside, she threw herself into preparations, both for the Harvest Festival and for her uncle’s visit. She made lists, and lists of lists. One of the items on her list for today was dealing with the rejuvenation of the flower beds before the forecourt.
“It is simply unacceptable.” Together with Edwards, she stood in the drive one hundred yards from the house, facing the forecourt and the empty, leaf-strewn beds along its nearest edge. “That is not an appealing vista and no fit introduction to the house.”
“Mmm.”
Dour and glum, Edwards stood, a great hulk beside her, and scowled at the offending mounds.
Arms folded, Francesca turned to him. “You’re the head gardener. What are your suggestions?”
He glanced sideways at her, then cleared his throat. “Flowers won’t do aught. Not there. Needs trees, it does.”
“Trees.” Francesca glanced at the huge oaks surrounding them. “More trees.”
“Aye. Pencil pines is what I’m thinking.”
“Pencil pines?”
“Aye. See-” Rooting around in the leaves, Edwards found a stick. With one boot, he cleared a space on the ground. “If you see this as the house-just the front, like-as we can see it from here.” He drew a rectangle to represent the house. “Then if we put three pines in each side, like this.” With the stick, he drew in six pines, three on either side of the gap where the drive joined the forecourt, all in a line along the forecourt’s front edge. “And stagger them in size, with the outermost the tallest, and the two flanking the drive the smallest, then-well, you can see.”
He stepped back, gesturing to his sketch. Francesca bent over to study it. Slowly, she straightened, looked at the house, then back down at the sketch. “That’s really quite good, Edwards.”
She stepped back, narrowing her eyes, trying to imagine it. “Yes,” she nodded decisively. “But there’s one thing missing.”
“Eh?”
“Come with me.” She walked back along the drive almost to the empty beds. Stopping, she scuffed back leaves along the drive’s edge, uncovering stone. “This is the base for a carved stone trough-there’s a similar base on the other side of the drive. Lady Elizabeth remembers the troughs filled with flowers on her wedding day, but they were removed at some point.”
“Aye, well-I doubt we’d be able to get such things now. Takes a mite of effort to do such work.”
“Oh, there’s no need for new ones. The troughs are at the far end of the orchard, almost overgrown, but I’m sure they can be dug out.”
“Mmm.” Edwards’s frown returned.
“There’re also two matching troughs, smaller ones, that should sit on the top steps of the porch. They’re presently in the field behind the stable.”
“Used for horse troughs, they be.”
“Indeed, but Jacobs is quite sure his charges do not need anything so fancy.” Francesca met Edwards’s eyes, overhung and half-obscured by his shaggy brows. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I will allow you to put in the six trees, rather than plant the entire beds with flowers, provided you oversee the disinterring of those troughs-all four of them-and their cleaning and replacement in their proper positions. I’ve heard young Johnny likes planting and tending flowers, so, under your instruction, he can fill the troughs and plant the appropriate bulbs-I want tulips and daffodils, followed by other flowers as the seasons progress. I don’t know what grows well at this time of year”-she smiled-“but I’m sure you and Johnny will.”
Turning, she surveyed the presently bare beds. “Now, how soon do you think that can be done?”
“Mmm. I know where we can get the pines… I suppose we’d have it done in a week.” Edwards glanced at her. “Be faster if we didn’t have to do those troughs-”
“The troughs and trees all at once, please.”
“Well, then, a week.”
“Excellent.” Francesca nodded, then smiled confidingly. “My uncle and his family will be arriving in a week’s time, and I would like the house to look well.”
The faintest tinge of color showed under Edwards’s weathered skin. “Aye, well,” he said gruffly. “We’ll have the place all right and special for ye in a week then, p’raps sooner. Now-” Stepping back, he looked around.
“Now you must return to your trees.” Francesca nodded a dismissal.