The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal by Jayne Fresina Page B
Authors: Jayne Fresina
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the farm.”
Mercy’s heart had a very erratic beat that day and now it almost lost the rhythm completely. This was very bad. They needed time for Molly to return, more time to settle this in a calm, organized manner. If Rafe’s uncle stuck his oar in, that fool boy just might grab the nearest willing female to save his wounded pride. That, naturally, would infuriate his father, who still had hopes of Rafe following Molly to London, where he could make use of his education in some profession. Everyone had plans for Rafe, and they all thought they knew what was best.
Rafe’s aunt got to her feet again, having sat still for no more than a few minutes. “Would you stay and take tea, Lady Mercy? Goodness! Where are my manners that I didn’t ask you earlier?”
“Oh no, that is quite all right. I called in only to—”
The lady suddenly tipped forward, her face drained of color. She caught hold of the table edge to right herself, and Mercy rushed to her aid. “You look very ill, madam. You should sit.”
Her husband dropped his reading and hurried over. “Sophie, the doctor told you to rest more.”
“I am perfectly well,” she stubbornly declared, when it was quite evident that the opposite was true. Rafe’s uncle, whose skin was of a naturally swarthy tone, turned almost as pale as his wife. His strong, work-roughened hands trembled as he eased her down in her chair.
Mercy fetched a woolen shawl from the rack of clothes drying before the fire, and he wrapped his wife in it, muttering, “Now rest. Put your feet up.”
“Put my feet up, indeed. I’ve been through this seven times before. I think I know what I’m doing by now, don’t you?”
Rafe’s uncle shook his head, his lips set firm in silent disagreement, his forehead lined with anxiety. Mercy had not realized the lady’s condition until that moment, for no one had mentioned it to her, of course. She was surprised, knowing the lady to be in her early forties and therefore beyond the average age of childbearing. No wonder her husband was so concerned. Ah, but was it not also his fault that she was in this state?
Now there was even more for her to worry about. Women in this state were so fragile. It made Mercy extremely nervous just to be around them.
Men , thought Mercy with a hearty sigh. They were always unmindful of the trouble they caused until it was too late.
Chapter 7
When she drove Mr. Hartley’s curricle back through the village, softened sunlight had just begun its descent, lowering shyly behind the white blossom sprigs of the proud horse chestnut trees along the common. It was a mellow, pleasant evening, the sort that made her wonder why Molly Robbins should be in such haste to leave the country behind forever.
During her visits to Sydney Dovedale with Molly—visits that stretched over a dozen years of her life—Mercy had come to know the place very well. Most things never changed, but there were a few new developments of note, one being that the village shop was no longer managed by the very solemn Mr. Hodson. It was now run by his much livelier son, a tailor of questionable skill, known to the village inhabitants as “Jammy Jim,” not only because of his predilection for the sweet comestible, but also because he was well known for the talent of talking himself out of sticky situations. From his father he inherited the ability to sell milk to a cow, but while old Mr. Hodson had used this convincing chatter to run a successful business, Jammy Jim used it mostly to argue with his wife—a very pretty and hot-tempered young woman he’d talked into marrying him a few years ago. Much to Mercy’s amusement, when the couple were not fighting, they were wildly in love, and there was not often a great deal of time elapsed from one kind of passion to the other.
This evening, as she rode by in the curricle, Jammy Jim was cleaning his upper windows while his wife held the ladder.
Mercy slowed the horses to view the display in the
Mercy’s heart had a very erratic beat that day and now it almost lost the rhythm completely. This was very bad. They needed time for Molly to return, more time to settle this in a calm, organized manner. If Rafe’s uncle stuck his oar in, that fool boy just might grab the nearest willing female to save his wounded pride. That, naturally, would infuriate his father, who still had hopes of Rafe following Molly to London, where he could make use of his education in some profession. Everyone had plans for Rafe, and they all thought they knew what was best.
Rafe’s aunt got to her feet again, having sat still for no more than a few minutes. “Would you stay and take tea, Lady Mercy? Goodness! Where are my manners that I didn’t ask you earlier?”
“Oh no, that is quite all right. I called in only to—”
The lady suddenly tipped forward, her face drained of color. She caught hold of the table edge to right herself, and Mercy rushed to her aid. “You look very ill, madam. You should sit.”
Her husband dropped his reading and hurried over. “Sophie, the doctor told you to rest more.”
“I am perfectly well,” she stubbornly declared, when it was quite evident that the opposite was true. Rafe’s uncle, whose skin was of a naturally swarthy tone, turned almost as pale as his wife. His strong, work-roughened hands trembled as he eased her down in her chair.
Mercy fetched a woolen shawl from the rack of clothes drying before the fire, and he wrapped his wife in it, muttering, “Now rest. Put your feet up.”
“Put my feet up, indeed. I’ve been through this seven times before. I think I know what I’m doing by now, don’t you?”
Rafe’s uncle shook his head, his lips set firm in silent disagreement, his forehead lined with anxiety. Mercy had not realized the lady’s condition until that moment, for no one had mentioned it to her, of course. She was surprised, knowing the lady to be in her early forties and therefore beyond the average age of childbearing. No wonder her husband was so concerned. Ah, but was it not also his fault that she was in this state?
Now there was even more for her to worry about. Women in this state were so fragile. It made Mercy extremely nervous just to be around them.
Men , thought Mercy with a hearty sigh. They were always unmindful of the trouble they caused until it was too late.
Chapter 7
When she drove Mr. Hartley’s curricle back through the village, softened sunlight had just begun its descent, lowering shyly behind the white blossom sprigs of the proud horse chestnut trees along the common. It was a mellow, pleasant evening, the sort that made her wonder why Molly Robbins should be in such haste to leave the country behind forever.
During her visits to Sydney Dovedale with Molly—visits that stretched over a dozen years of her life—Mercy had come to know the place very well. Most things never changed, but there were a few new developments of note, one being that the village shop was no longer managed by the very solemn Mr. Hodson. It was now run by his much livelier son, a tailor of questionable skill, known to the village inhabitants as “Jammy Jim,” not only because of his predilection for the sweet comestible, but also because he was well known for the talent of talking himself out of sticky situations. From his father he inherited the ability to sell milk to a cow, but while old Mr. Hodson had used this convincing chatter to run a successful business, Jammy Jim used it mostly to argue with his wife—a very pretty and hot-tempered young woman he’d talked into marrying him a few years ago. Much to Mercy’s amusement, when the couple were not fighting, they were wildly in love, and there was not often a great deal of time elapsed from one kind of passion to the other.
This evening, as she rode by in the curricle, Jammy Jim was cleaning his upper windows while his wife held the ladder.
Mercy slowed the horses to view the display in the
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