needed rescuing in the park that day, he was wrong. Mercy had been in a state of great panic, on a horse out of control and, as usual, her brother was inattentive. When James rode to the rescue, she was in his debt far more than he knew. At the first opportunity she would repay the favor with a dozen years’ interest, she decided.
***
As it turned out, she did not visit Rafe the very next day after all. Awakening to a rainy, gray morning, she delayed her journey to Sydney Dovedale. Better wait until the sun shone again, she told herself, for nobody could be cheered up when it rained. It was nothing to do with losing her gumption or needing more time to plan her speeches. Nothing at all to do with that.
She wrote letters that day instead—one to her brother, admonishing him severely for his role in all this, and another to Molly, advising her to spend her time away thinking very carefully about her choice. Then, having run out of people to lecture by pen for the time being, she spent the afternoon reading a very melodramatic romance to Lady Ursula and the young Miss Hartleys, with occasional pauses to explain exactly where the heroine went wrong and where her lover’s behavior might have been improved.
The following day it rained again, giving her another reason to delay the visit to Rafe. She had expected to see him arrive at his father’s door, looking for sympathy, tea, and crumpets. But he did not come. At last, on the third day after the abandoned wedding, a weak sun reappeared. Mercy took Mr. Hartley’s curricle to Rafe’s farm, carrying with her a hamper of food prepared by his stepmother and, of course, many carefully rehearsed lines about stiff upper lips, patience, and love withstanding trials.
For the outing, she selected one of her best muslins with a tiny pattern of flowers so small they seemed no more than dots until one examined them closer. The haberdasher, when she purchased the cloth, had assured her the shade was called “Mystery of the Orient,” but Molly Robbins had somewhat annoyingly referred to it as “orangey.” One of Mercy’s reasons for purchasing the material in the first place was to rescue much of it from the tacky clutches of her old nemesis, Cecilia Montague, who had also been eyeing the bolt of cloth from across the shop and would have made something atrociously gaudy, given half the chance. Mercy could not stand to see such a stunning color wasted on that painted, coarse-mouthed hussy, and thus it was purchased for what Molly Robbins scornfully declared to be an “outrageous” amount of money. As far as Mercy was concerned, it was worth every penny. Dressed in this bold color, she felt equal to whatever the day held. It gave her Danforthe courage that extra boost that a softer, pastel shade could not have achieved. She buttoned over it a matching spencer and topped the entire effect with a velvet-trimmed bonnet and a partial veil in ruby lace. There! No one—not even Rafe Hartley—would dare argue with her today.
As she came down the stairs, Mrs. Hartley met her in the hall and stopped to admire the outfit. “Goodness, that is very…bright, Lady Mercy. We certainly shan’t lose you in that color.”
Mercy chose to take that as a compliment. She’d been told before that her taste in fashion was very bold, but she saw it as another of her duties in life—to lead others in the matter of style. Few people had her eye for taste, and even fewer, as Molly Robbins once said, had her gumption.
Alas, although she could control everything about her appearance that day, she could do nothing about the changeable temper of Mother Nature. The country lanes were in an atrocious state after the previous two days of rainfall, and it was not conducive to the picturesque jaunt she’d imagined. Instead, the ride was rough, the curricle wheels lurching in and out of deep ruts filled with muddy rainwater. By the time she finally pulled up before the farmhouse gate, sprinkles of rain
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