Flexing his shoulders, he tried to push the resulting vision aside. It hadn’t happened, and all was still well.
That, he tried to tell himself, was all that mattered.
Striding up to the side door, he hauled it open and went inside.
Chapter 15
The days leading to their Harvest Festival were filled with activity. Gyles spent much of the time within sight of Francesca, more to appease the brooding barbarian than from any conviction she was in danger. But while in his sight, she was safe-and keeping her in sight was no hardship.
His house came alive, filled with frenzied footmen; he was entertained to see Irving succumb to the pleasant panic. Even Wallace was seen hurrying, an unprecedented sight. Yet most of his mind remained on Francesca, his senses attuned to every nuance of her voice, to the tilt of her head as she considered some point, to the swish of her skirts as she hurried past. She was everywhere-in the kitchens one minute, in the forecourt the next.
And every night she came to his arms, happy and content and very willing to share all she was with him.
He tried, once, to settle with a news sheet. After reading the same paragraph five times and not taking in one word, he surrendered and went to see what Francesca was up to in the conservatory.
His mother, Henni, and Horace had arrived; he heard their voices as he strolled into the glass and stone edifice built out from the house beyond the library. With Francesca, they were sitting about a wrought-iron table positioned to make the most of the morning light.
His mother saw him.
“There you are, dear.” She held up her face; he bent and kissed her cheek. “Francesca has been telling us of all that’s planned.”
“I’ve volunteered to oversee the archery contests.” Horace squared his shoulders. “Did that years ago for your father. Quite enjoyed it.”
Gyles nodded and looked at Henni.
“Your mother and I will be roaming the crowd, making sure all is as it should be.”
“There’ll be so many here”-Francesca glanced up at him-“you and I won’t be able to be everywhere.”
“True.” He stood by Francesca’s chair, his hand on its back, and listened to her plans. He’d heard then before and approved them all; he listened not to her words but the eagerness in her voice as she recited the day’s schedule.
“By tomorrow evening, all should be in readiness.”
Henni set down her cup. “A pity you’ll have to wait until the morning to put out the trestles and boards, but it was ever the same. A Festival at this time of year can’t expect to be other than damp.”
“With luck, the day’ll be fine.” Horace stood. “Usually was, as I recall.”
“Indeed. The whole estate will be praying for a fine day-I haven’t seen such excitement for years.” Lady Elizabeth rose and kissed Francesca’s cheek. “We’ll leave you to your preparations.”
Francesca and Henni rose, too.
“Don’t forget-if you need any help, you have only to send a footman across the park.” Henni squeezed Francesca’s hand, then turned to the door leading outside just as a large shadow filled the doorway.
“Ahem!” Edwards shuffled, then raised a hand to the frame and lightly knocked.
Francesca recovered first. “Yes, Edwards?”
He gripped his cap between his hands. “I was wondering if I might have a word, ma’am.”
“Yes?”
He drew breath, glanced at Gyles, then looked at Francesca. “It’s the plums, ma’am. They need to be harvested tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But tomorrow’s the last day before the Festival.”
“Aye, well, trees and fruit and weather don’t allow for festivals, like. The season’s been late, and the fruit’s just ripe-we need to get it in as soon as we have a dry patch long enough so it won’t be damp.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s been clear for the last few days. By tomorrow, the fruit’ll be right to pick-we daren’t risk the crop by waiting till after the Festival.”
Francesca had learned that the plum crop and the jam it produced was almost as old a Castle tradition as the Festival.
“So you’ll need all the gardeners and stablelads?”
“Aye, and the footmen, too. Even then, it’ll take the whole day.”
Francesca frowned. They would never manage the preparations for the festival without all those hands.
Lady Elizabeth turned to her. “You can have the staff from the Dower House, if that would help.”
Francesca nodded, then refocused on Edwards. “What if all of us pick? How long would it take then?”
“All?”
“The entire staff-everyone in the house. And the staff from the Dower House. Every pair of hands. That’s more than double the number you need to do it in a day. If you have that many, how many hours will it take?”
Edwards cogitated. “A few…” He nodded. “Aye-three hours would do it if we had that many. We’ve plenty of ladders and such.”
Francesca almost sighed with relief. “Tomorrow afternoon. We’ll complete all the preparations for the Festival, then have a late luncheon-then we’ll all gather in the orchard and bring in the crop.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Henni nodded approvingly.
“I’ll spread the word and speak to my lads.” Edwards bowed and strode off.
“I must come over,” Horace said as they moved to the now vacant doorway. “Sounds quite an event in itself.”
“Do come,” Francesca said. “We can have tea and scones as a celebratory picnic at the end.”
“What a delightful idea!” Lady Elizabeth declared.
Gyles noted the look in Francesca’s eyes-the look she got when she was busily scheming.
She flashed them all a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Wallace immediately.”
“Of course! We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” They waved as she disappeared back into the house, then Henni took Horace’s arm and they stepped out onto the path.
Gyles gave his mother his arm. He helped her out onto the flags, conscious of her gaze on his face. She didn’t move to join Henni and Horace, strolling slowly toward the park. Resigned, he met her gaze, then arched a brow.
She smiled. “You’ve been unbelievably lucky, you know.”
He held her gaze. “I know.”
Her smile deepened. She patted his arm, then set out in Henni and Horace’s wake.
He knew very well how lucky he was.
The next afternoon, Gyles walked beneath the plum trees, surrounded by every last member of the Castle staff as well as those from the Dower House, and drank in the music of their chatter. His mother, Horace, and Henni had arrived-Francesca had presented them with baskets and directed them to a section of low-hanging branches. Henni had plum stains on her old dimity gown; both she and his mother were giggling as they picked.
Ladders were set up around six trees; there were two pickers on every ladder and four gatherers beneath waiting to place the fruit in the big wicker baskets. The orchard was a hive of activity, powered by a celebratory air.
The preparations for the Festival were complete. Everything was ready; the staff had thrown themselves into Francesca’s revised plans with single-minded determination-the present exercise was their reward.
A time to play after all their work. Francesca had turned what was usually viewed as a chore into an entertainment. As he searched for her, Gyles felt sure he was witnessing a tradition in the making.
“We’ll just take this basket to the dray, ma’am.”
“Be careful.”
Gyles looked up. His exquisite wife, dressed in a simple apple green day gown, was perched high on a ladder. She reached for two plums, deftly plucked them, then cradled them to her bosom and waited for her helpers to return.
Gyles moved into her line of vision.
She smiled gloriously. “I wondered where you were.”