“I don’t believe the Bucks will agree,” was the uncertain answer.
“The Bucks?” Gemma asked.
“Mr. Thurlowe and Lord Marsden,” Miss Taylor explained. “They are the decision-makers when it comes to the Logical Men’s Society. We used to say, ‘The Three Bucks,’ but Mr. Balfour has married. One must be unmarried or a widower to be a member of the Society.”
“So soon, Mr. Thurlowe will not be eligible for membership once he marries you?”
There was a moment of hesitation. A regret. “Yes,” Miss Taylor admitted.
Gemma frowned. “Did I say something wrong?”
The younger woman shook her head. “I believe that it is giving up his role in the Society that makes Mr. Thurlowe reluctant to marry.”
“Reluctant?”
“We have been promised for over two years. He’s . . . not eager,” Miss Taylor said. “He’s very devoted to the Society.”
“Oh, pish posh,” Mrs. Warbler said. “It is past high time that man took a wife. He needs to be settled. Both of you do.”
“Except he didn’t act happy yesterday when I pushed him as you and the others recommended.”
“No man is happy about marrying. All of them need to be coerced one way or the other,” Mrs. Warbler declared. “Indeed, changing The Garland into a tea garden might wake Sir Lionel up to notice that he needs a woman in his life.”
“Sir Lionel?” Gemma said.
“He is a widower who is in the Logical Men’s Society,” Miss Taylor offered helpfully.
“And he needs a wife,” Mrs. Warbler said bluntly. A glint came to her eyes. “Like me.”
When she spoke that firmly, Gemma wasn’t about to argue . . . although she was convinced no woman in her right mind would marry if they understood all the control to their own lives they were surrendering.
Jane had brewed the tea and now offered cups to Gemma and the others.
Gemma shook her head. She had no taste for it. What she wanted was sleep. She looked around the kitchen. Jane had also been quietly stacking the dishes. There was so much to do. “Look at this place. It will take weeks and weeks to put in order. And I don’t even want to think about how long I shall need to create the gardens.”
“Don’t you worry over that now.” Mrs. Warbler took Gemma’s arm and drew her to her feet to guide her toward the bedroom. “In fact, you appear exhausted, child. Why don’t you take a rest and leave all of this to me. Jane changed the sheets. The bed should be comfortable.”
Gemma attempted to turn. “I can’t. I can’t rest when there is so much to do.”
“You can,” Mrs. Warbler’s soothing voice said. “See, the sheets are clean. Doesn’t the bed look inviting? Have a little rest.”
She was right. The bed now appeared an oasis. Gemma didn’t need help to practically fall into it. The sheets smelled of lavender. Mrs. Warbler was a good housekeeper. It would be lovely to take a rest. Her eyes grew heavy. “There is so much to be done.”
“And we’ll help you,” came the comforting answer. “You have friends now.”
Yes, friends. Mrs. Warbler and Miss Taylor had been all that was kind to her. They had done for her what she would have offered if she had been in their places.
Friends. Such a lovely word.
“And our friends will help with The Garland,” Mrs. Warbler cooed as if knowing she had won. “The matrons have been looking for a new project and this is a most excellent one.”
Gemma wasn’t certain what she meant, but she was truly too tired to care, even as she listened to the excited buzz of female plotting.
Mrs. Warbler was giving instructions. She mentioned names and ordered Jane and Miss Taylor to “spread the word. Have them come now with buckets and mops and rags.”
Gemma smiled. She could imagine Mrs. Warbler commanding a force of soldiers, or better yet, fairies to scrub from top to bottom. She was having a dream, she surmised. A vision of her tea garden coming to life . . .
Chapter Six
“Our conscience . . . our consciences . . . our consciences,” the Reverend Summerall repeated, testing the words. He paced the length of a small clearing in a wood not far from St. Martyr’s. He read from a handwritten paper while gesturing grandly with his free hand. His booming voice filled the air.
Ned had assumed he would find the good reverend in the sanctuary practicing his Sunday sermon. He had not. After he caught Mrs. Summerall in the parsonage, she had directed him here. “Just follow the sound of his voice,” she had advised, and so he had.
Summerall was so deep into weighing the different inflections, he didn’t realize Ned was there, even after Ned had politely cleared his voice several times.
Finally, Ned spoke up. “Reverend? Reverend? Summerall.”
The cleric started at the sound, and then chuckled good-naturedly as he recognized Ned. “Mr. Thurlowe, how fortuitous you are here. Which tonal quality did you think sounded best?”
“Best for what?”
“To make you uneasy. To prick that of which I speak.”
“Our consciences?”
“Yes.”
“You want the congregants to feel uneasy?”
“Absolutely. My role in Maidenshop is to make the villagers think long and hard about their choices. Of course, that is what I wish them to do every week. You can see how effective I am.”
“More of us have devils whispering in our ear rather than angels. Or your voice,” Ned observed.
That sparked a bark of laughter from Summerall, and then his manner changed to one of excitement. “Why am I going on this way? You’ve come to discuss the details of your nuptials with Miss Taylor, haven’t you?” He put his papers in his pocket and rubbed his hands with anticipation. “This will be a fine wedding. Everyone is ready for it.” He chuckled before adding, “Past ready.”
Almost churlishly, Ned said, “How has everyone heard the news already? It really isn’t even decided.”
The Reverend Summerall’s manner grew stern. “Not decided? Sir, you have held this woman’s promise to you for two years. It is past deciding. Besides, I understand you set a date. The day following your lecture, correct?”
Ned stood in awkward silence. He didn’t even understand himself why he wanted to deny it. He was going to marry Clarissa. He had made a commitment.
Then he remembered discussing his marriage was not his purpose here. Without preamble, he said, “There is a woman at The Garland who says she is a relative of Old Andy. She claims he left the tavern to her.”
The minister’s reaction was not what Ned had hoped. “Mrs. Estep? She is here?”
“You know of her?”
“Is she a redhead with the brightest blue eyes and an intelligent manner?”
“I don’t know about the intelligence but the rest of your description is correct.”
“Then she is Old Andy’s niece. She visited him last spring, the same night as our last Cotillion. She was on her way to see her husband in London. Good family. She’s related in marriage to Lord Latimer. You say she is at The Garland? I should go welcome her.”
Summerall would have charged away if not for Ned’s catching his arm. “But did Old Andy leave The Garland to her? Do you know this?”