Page 46 of Madcap with a Marquess
She let out an inelegant snort, followed by a chuckle. He may have grown a few feet, but he was still the same goofy boy.
“Billy, you need to head over to Jack Lancaster’s and fix that fence of his in exchange for some fodder for the pigs, don’t forget.”
Billy winced. “Ah, yes, I should get to that today.” He shot Franny an apologetic glance.
“If you don’t mind the company, I could accompany you. I was going to see what more I could learn from Genny about the upcoming festival.”
His face brightened. “You’re coming to the festival?” He bounded on his feet slightly, little Billy Doherty peeking through the man he now was. “It’s a real treat; you’re going to love it. You are welcome to join me if you don’t mind doubling up and riding out to Lancaster’s field. I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know.”
Well, wasn’t that a shock? A man who didn’t mind her company. Her invitation from earlier and Rupert’s refusal came spinning back in a sickening, dizzying rush. And there went her heart, flung in the pile of muck behind her. No matter. If her husband didn’t want to spend time with her, at least she had friends who did.
In the next thirty minutes Franny found herself up on a large burly dray, Billy at her back, trekking out to a far-out field. The dray’s gait was choppy and clunky, her hands clutching the gelding’s mane to keep from toppling off, even with Billy’s arm wrapped around her middle. It was an odd feeling, a man not her husband at her back, a hollow feeling. She had ridden double with Billy before. But that was years ago. Every lurch of the horse’s gait brushed her into Billy and served at a distinct reminder that he was not Rupert.
“I’m happy to hear you’ll be at the Midsummer’s Eve festival. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you around the farms,” Billy said
Three years. It had been three years since she’d visited. For the longest time Franny had thought the only one she put at risk in visiting the Rutledge tenants was herself. She had given up visiting her own tenants early on. But her father couldn’t do anything to harm those who weren’t his own people. And she could handle the Earl’s wrath. She always had.
“I’m very excited to experience the revelry. Everyone speaks of the thrills and amusements of the festivities.” Franny forced a brightness into her voice. A brightness those old memories were doing their darndest to steal away.
Billy Doherty had escorted her back to the property line three years past when a summer storm blew in unexpectedly. Her father had met her halfway to the Abbey, having spotted them as he’d rode in from his daily ride. His rage had been overflowing, worsened by his annoyance at having his ride cut short by the storm. He’d threatened the entire Doherty family, threatened to ruin Billy for dallying with his ‘whore of a daughter’. ‘Rutledge would never accept a sullied bride,’ he’d said.
Billy hadn’t once touched her. Goodness, at the time he had been a head shorter than her. If he’d tried to touch her, she would have clobbered him. But her father always knew how to enforce obedience on his daughter. Threaten someone or something she cared about, and she couldn’t possibly risk putting them in harm’s way. That had been her last visit to the Rutledge tenants.
Until her marriage. And oh, what a joy it was to be back. And considering the way her marriage was going, it was a balm to have some friendly faces where she felt she was accepted, her presence enjoyed.
“You al’right, imp? You’ve gone quiet. Not usual for you.”
Her heart clenched at the old nickname. “Yes, just glad to be back to seeing the Doherty clan. I’ve been working with Genny on making sure we have the perfect provisions in order for the feast. And I’ll be helping make garland and crowns. Though I suppose the men don’t don those. The folklore of the night is fascinating.”
Billy huffed out a laugh. “You don’t know the half of it, my lady. For it being celebrated in the name of St. John, it is rife with magic and pagan customs. Sometimes I think each year the lore gets wilder and wilder.”
“I know of the flowers and their magical properties. Genny was sure to fill me in,” she said with a soft laugh. “What other lore surrounds the festival?”
Billy drew their mount to a halt and slid off the horse before assisting her down. He caught her eye and winked. “Fire.” He grabbed his spade and strode over to a three-rail fence where a section looked as if it had been barreled through, a post completely torn from the ground and rails strewn across the field.
“Fire is the main magic of St. John’s Eve,” Billy called back to her. “It symbolizes the sun’s power, and that’s right important, being this night marks when each day will get shorter and shorter until harvest time.” He set to work with his spade, digging a hole to reset the post. “The fires have many powers, but one of the most crucial is whether it will grant us a successful growing season and a bountiful harvest.”
Franny dragged over a rail caked in dried mud and dropped it near where Billy was digging. She dusted off her hands. “How will you know if it will grant you a bountiful harvest?”
Billy looked up, wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and grinned. “We pack a cartwheel with rushes and hay, set it aflame, and roll it down the hill to the river. If it reaches the river still lit, it’s a sign an excellent harvest is on the horizon. If it doesn’t, then we can expect a poor harvest.”
Her eyes widened. “Fascinating.” And seemingly dangerous. How thrilling! “Has it held true for past Midsummer’s Eves?”
Her friend leaned on the handle of his spade, swaying around in a circle, waggling his brows at her. “It has not once been wrong.”
Franny’s mouth popped open, and Billy tipped his head back and laughed, his rich, red locks flopping.
“Trust the magic, imp. Do not doubt. Now, we also have large bonfires, some people will bring torches of it home to light their own hearths. Any way fire can be incorporated, the better our chances the fates will bestow prosperity upon our people.”
“Hmmm,” Franny hummed thoughtfully. “What about fireworks? Do you have fireworks at the festival? Would those bring good luck as well?”
Billy snapped as straight as the post he’d set. His gaze flew to hers. “Fireworks?” His eyebrows lifted like an eager boy about to be given a second helping of dessert. “Fireworks would definitely increase the fire’s power of the night. It is common in many villages’ celebrations. However, we’ve never had them here. They are quite costly.”
She grinned. Here was another way she could help her tenants. “Well, consider it done this year. The Rutledge’s will provide fireworks for this year’s festival.”
Billy whooped and beamed at her. The rhythmic beat of hooves pulled their attention back toward the village. Franny lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. A green-and-gold liveried rider approached. Her shoulders slumped, her stomach sinking, and she suddenly wished she had Billy’s spade to lean on. There was no way this was a good sign.
A young dark-haired footman pulled up his horse and hopped off. He hesitantly approached Franny and bowed low. “My lady, a letter from His Lordship for you.” He held out a letter.
