has presented any proof.”
She’d presented her own form of proof, true. And if he were the sort of tale bearer who delighted in ruining reputations, he could have destroyed hers by simply recounting the facts of their encounter. He wasn’t.
“But, Sir Mark—”
“Don’t ‘Sir Mark’ me. I consider it just as shabby to ruin a woman with talk as with action.” Mark leaned on the counter and glared at her.
“Sir Mark—I didn’t intend— I truly thought—”
“You thought? You thought I would want to see a woman ostracized and left without friends, simply because she had the misfortune to be prettier than usual?” His words slowed. He could almost feel the music of the Somerset accent, forgotten since childhood, pulling at his tongue. “Or did you think I would enjoy making sport of someone who wasn’t here to defend herself? Don’t ruin a reputation on the basis of simple gossip. Not in my presence.”
Mrs. Tatlock took a step back. Her eyes were wide; her hands clutched the gray of her skirt. “Oh, my.” She spoke slowly, her voice rising half an octave. “I hadn’t thought— I had assumed— No. Perhaps I’d let myself forget entirely. You are Elizabeth Turner’s son, after all.”
Elizabeth Turner’s son. Mark shook his head, but he couldn’t deny it, not really. He was her son—heir to both her best and her worst qualities. Her goodness. Her zeal. Her excess.
His brother, and the rise of dark waters.
He took a step back from Mrs. Tatlock. He took a step back from himself, seeing suddenly his own image superimposed on hers: cruel and unthinking and kind, all at the same time. Even though his hands clenched in denial, he let out a breath.
“Well,” he told her, “gossip about that, then. At least what you say about me happens to be true.”
MRS. T ATLOCK, apparently, had not chosen to spread rumors about Mark’s defense of Mrs. Farleigh—at least she hadn’t by the time the ladies of the church arranged the picnic in his honor. Upon his arrival, he was hailed with good cheer and humor. The commons where they held the event had been emptied of all livestock except a flock of chickens, who squawked in complaint in the corner. But the sheep were not the only undesirables they’d kept hidden; they had succeeded in keeping away the less fortunate members of the community by hosting the event on a Wednesday morning. The common folk were all laboring: in the mills, in the fields, or simply doing the spinning in their own homes. The only laborers present were the servants who danced attendance.
When Mrs. Farleigh arrived, a wave of shock ran through the gathering throng. It started in gasps; it traveled in whispers. By the time she’d come halfway across the field toward them, a horde of concerned women had descended upon her. They buzzed about her, gesticulating and consulting one another in tones.
Even though he could not make out a word they said, he could imagine their scandalized conversation.
“Help,” Mark supposed Mrs. Lewis might be saying. “A pretty woman has appeared—and she has lovely breasts.”
At least that’s what he hoped she was saying. Mark couldn’t imagine why else she’d be pointing to Mrs. Farleigh’s bosom.
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Finney could have been replying, as she put her hand on Mrs. Farleigh’s elbow. “I haven’t had chance enough to embarrass my thirteen-year-old daughter by introducing her to Sir Mark. We can’t have an actual woman close to him—he might want her instead. Come over here, Mrs. Farleigh.”
The group moved together, slowly displacing the hens, who squawked in avian protest. One of Mrs. Farleigh’s hands had crept to her hip.
Mrs. Lewis gave her a bright, cheery smile, so false that Mark could discount it even from this distance. The women all nodded at her firmly, shook their heads and walked away, leaving her a full twenty yards from the gathering, with no company nearby but the chickens.
Mrs. Farleigh watched them
She’d presented her own form of proof, true. And if he were the sort of tale bearer who delighted in ruining reputations, he could have destroyed hers by simply recounting the facts of their encounter. He wasn’t.
“But, Sir Mark—”
“Don’t ‘Sir Mark’ me. I consider it just as shabby to ruin a woman with talk as with action.” Mark leaned on the counter and glared at her.
“Sir Mark—I didn’t intend— I truly thought—”
“You thought? You thought I would want to see a woman ostracized and left without friends, simply because she had the misfortune to be prettier than usual?” His words slowed. He could almost feel the music of the Somerset accent, forgotten since childhood, pulling at his tongue. “Or did you think I would enjoy making sport of someone who wasn’t here to defend herself? Don’t ruin a reputation on the basis of simple gossip. Not in my presence.”
Mrs. Tatlock took a step back. Her eyes were wide; her hands clutched the gray of her skirt. “Oh, my.” She spoke slowly, her voice rising half an octave. “I hadn’t thought— I had assumed— No. Perhaps I’d let myself forget entirely. You are Elizabeth Turner’s son, after all.”
Elizabeth Turner’s son. Mark shook his head, but he couldn’t deny it, not really. He was her son—heir to both her best and her worst qualities. Her goodness. Her zeal. Her excess.
His brother, and the rise of dark waters.
He took a step back from Mrs. Tatlock. He took a step back from himself, seeing suddenly his own image superimposed on hers: cruel and unthinking and kind, all at the same time. Even though his hands clenched in denial, he let out a breath.
“Well,” he told her, “gossip about that, then. At least what you say about me happens to be true.”
MRS. T ATLOCK, apparently, had not chosen to spread rumors about Mark’s defense of Mrs. Farleigh—at least she hadn’t by the time the ladies of the church arranged the picnic in his honor. Upon his arrival, he was hailed with good cheer and humor. The commons where they held the event had been emptied of all livestock except a flock of chickens, who squawked in complaint in the corner. But the sheep were not the only undesirables they’d kept hidden; they had succeeded in keeping away the less fortunate members of the community by hosting the event on a Wednesday morning. The common folk were all laboring: in the mills, in the fields, or simply doing the spinning in their own homes. The only laborers present were the servants who danced attendance.
When Mrs. Farleigh arrived, a wave of shock ran through the gathering throng. It started in gasps; it traveled in whispers. By the time she’d come halfway across the field toward them, a horde of concerned women had descended upon her. They buzzed about her, gesticulating and consulting one another in tones.
Even though he could not make out a word they said, he could imagine their scandalized conversation.
“Help,” Mark supposed Mrs. Lewis might be saying. “A pretty woman has appeared—and she has lovely breasts.”
At least that’s what he hoped she was saying. Mark couldn’t imagine why else she’d be pointing to Mrs. Farleigh’s bosom.
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Finney could have been replying, as she put her hand on Mrs. Farleigh’s elbow. “I haven’t had chance enough to embarrass my thirteen-year-old daughter by introducing her to Sir Mark. We can’t have an actual woman close to him—he might want her instead. Come over here, Mrs. Farleigh.”
The group moved together, slowly displacing the hens, who squawked in avian protest. One of Mrs. Farleigh’s hands had crept to her hip.
Mrs. Lewis gave her a bright, cheery smile, so false that Mark could discount it even from this distance. The women all nodded at her firmly, shook their heads and walked away, leaving her a full twenty yards from the gathering, with no company nearby but the chickens.
Mrs. Farleigh watched them
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