Page 1 of Under the Champagne Moon
CHAPTERONE
SUMMER, 1800
CHESHIRE, ENGLAND
On this glorious summer’s day, Gareth Ardleigh reveled in the riches of Sherington Manor. Fish begging to be caught, small game fattened by summer’s bounty, and trees promising climbers wide vistas. He and his school friends, Thaddeus and Laurence Sherington, skirted the edge of the park, guns and rabbits in hand when they came upon an altercation. Two boys and a girl loomed over a thin little waif with hair so pale it was almost white.
“Say summat in French,” the bullying girl lisped. Limp hair straggled over dirty cheeks to a lank, dingy pinafore, drawing the eye down to bare brown feet.
In fact, only the biggest bully wore footwear—scuffed, holey boots at least one size two big.
“She can’t,” the shorter boy sneered, leaning in on his quarry. “As dumb as that tree over there, she is.”
Inside the circle of dirty, ill-dressed tormentors, the specter bristled, her brows drawn together in a defiant glare that was bigger than her small self.
“That’s Flora,” Thaddeus said. “She lives at Bicton Grange.”
“She doesn’t speak,” Laurence said. “That other lot are the Haskells, up from lower Reabridge to help with the haying.”
“Croak for us, Froggie.” The big Haskell stepped closer and the other two sniggered.
The one thing Gareth couldn’t abide was bullies. He handed Laurence his gun, dropped his game, and winked at Thaddeus.
He and Thad had battled their way through Rugby School together, and neither would back away from a fight.
“Leave off.” Gareth snatched the ringleader’s shirt and yanked him back. Cloth ripped, and three shocked faces turned his way.
Their shock turned to anger, followed by a fist. Gareth ducked, and Thaddeus flew into the fray, taking on the shorter boy.
“Stop it,” their sister squawked, and then shrieked. When Gareth spared a glance, the dirty chit had curled up on the ground, spluttering curses, while her would-be victim kicked at her.
He laughed and tossed the ringleader down. “Get you gone, all three of you. If I see you bullying again, I’ll do more than bloody your noses.”
“She’s a bluidy French?—”
“Watch your mouth.” Thad slapped the younger lad.
“Take the king’s shilling and join up if you want to fight,” Gareth said. It was what he and Thad were doing at summer’s end. “But don’t pick on babies.”
The baby in question glared at him, and while he swallowed a chuckle, all three Haskells tucked tail and ran.
Thaddeus clapped Gareth on the back, laughing. “Bang up to the mark, Gare,” he said. “You planted a solid facer. Looks like he clipped you one though.” He tapped Gareth’s chin and held up a bloody finger.
Gareth touched the wound. “So he did.” Laughing, he dabbed at it with his neck cloth.
“Use a handkerchief, man,” Laurence scoffed.
“Don’t have one.” Gareth’s gaze caught the imp watching him. There was no look of gratitude at their chivalry. She still glared.
He felt a stab of—well, not guilt. Recognition—that was it. His name-calling had wounded her pride.
The best remedy for wounded pride was the schoolboy’s solution—a good fight. Perhaps with enough goading, she’d kick him.
“Are you alone?” he asked. “Where is your nursemaid? Ought we to take you home?”
“Oh, she’s alright,” Laurence said. “Move out of our way, Flora.” He nudged her aside and he and Thaddeus walked on.
Gareth studied the chit while she stared back, her gaze far too steady for one so young. She couldn’t be more than five or six with the palest of hair, the lightest of gray eyes, and skin as white as a ghost’s, all wrapped in a white gown. Aside from a fringe of mud on her hem, a touch of light brown in her eyebrows and lashes, and some pink in her lips, the scrawny young stick had no more color in her than a skinned rabbit. His scrutiny wasn’t even raising a blush.
