Page 69 of About a Rogue
She laughed, and he grinned back. When she made a point of resting her head on his shoulder, she felt the tension melt out of him. And as they drove back to the house in Farley Street, she made a silent promise to her husband that she would never be so faithless or disloyal, as his family had been. Tates were made of sterner stuff. Together, they would build a new family, and find happiness there.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Their London trip was over. Bianca had already written to her father that the visit had been a great success. They had taken a number of orders from prominent people, which would please Papa immensely. Both the showroom near Bond Street and the little shop in Cheapside had been let, and builders engaged to refurbish both. Max had even got Bartholomew Markham to settle his bill, and delivered the dinnerware they had borrowed for the party. Despite all that, though, Bianca could not deny that she was glad to be going home.
She wondered more than ever about her husband and his history, but at the same time she knew she had misjudged him in the past, and that now she owed him some patience. After what he had related about his family, she sensed it was not a happy story, and it would be unfair for her to pry into it and make him tell her.
For his part, Max wished intensely that Wimbourne had kept his damned mouth shut. It had made Bianca look at him with pity and concern, which he didn’t deserve. It was still better than the alternative, the look of horror and revulsion he feared she would give him if she knew the truth, so he said nothing, even though it felt like a lie.
Damn it. He hadn’t wanted Bianca to know anything about his aunt, not yet—perhaps not ever. Half of him still argued for winning her heart first and then telling her all. Half of him wanted to take every word to his grave; it was an ugly story, and as things stood now there was no reason Bianca needed to know.
He had heard nothing more of Croach, nor had Leake found any sign of him. If the man was in London, he was lying lower than usual. When their coach rumbled out of London, north toward Staffordshire, Max breathed a silent sigh of relief. The notes he could ignore, and there was every chance the man outside the shop in Cheapside had been someone else entirely.
They reached Stoke on Trent and found the quaint little market town transformed. Large tents ringed the green, and nearby shops had thrown up awnings and set out tables. Pens of livestock were visible beyond the tents, and crowds thronged the streets, spilling from taverns and dancing to the tune of some fiddlers and cheering at an exhibition boxing match on the green.
“Oh my,” gasped Bianca in surprise, throwing up the window shade and leaning out. “I forgot about Stoke wakes!”
“Wakes?” Max moved to the opposite seat, to see better.
“A country fair,” she explained. “I suppose it used to be a saint’s day but now it’s nothing to do with the church. Oh, Papa must be beside himself!”
“Why?” Max gazed out with interest. He’d been to a country fair only once, the year they lived with his grandfather. Old Maxim had gone for the ale tent, and Max’s mother had taken him to see the races and bought him hot cross buns from a man with a cart. She had denied him watching the cock fighting, but paid sixpence for a hoop for him to race with the other children.
At his question, Bianca sighed. “All the workmen will be here and not at the factory. There is nothing Papa can say to deter them. He offered extra wages to anyone who worked, or more days free at Christmas, all to no avail. And we’ve brought so many new orders, too.”
“How long do the wakes last?”
“At least a week. After a few days, when everyone will have spent their money, some will come back to work.” She made a face. “Some will stay until they’ve drunk it all away, and will be useless for work for some time.” She shook her finger at him. “And it shall hurt your Fortuna ware, you know. Every man you might have taken on for it will be drunk and indolent for at least a fortnight.”
Max laughed. “Everyone deserves a spot of fun.” He looked at her mischievously. “Let’s stay a bit.”
She blinked. “What? Before going home?”
“It’s early still,” he countered. “Send the carriage and servants on to Marslip. We can hire a gig.” It was only five miles to Marslip, and on a fine summer day, they could walk if necessary.
Her lips parted, and then she slowly smiled. “All right. Let’s!”
They stopped at the inn, to change clothes and freshen up. Max told Lawrence to send back the gig after he got everything else to Marslip, and gave him and Jennie permission to return to the fair. From the man’s wide grin, Max thought Percy Willoughby would never get back his valet.
Although he had savored the sight of Bianca in her London finery—particularly that black gown she’d worn to Vauxhall—Max thought he’d never seen her look better than when she came down to the tap room, wearing one of her old day dresses with her hair tucked up under a cap and broad straw hat. She was just as beautiful as ever in faded linen.
At the sight of him, she smiled broadly—and his heart felt strangely light in his chest. He realized he was smiling back at her when she stopped in front of him.
“I hardly recognized you, out of your velvet coats,” she teased.
He grinned. He’d also put on an older suit of wool and linen. If the Stoke wakes were anything like the Lincolnshire fair, it was not a place for fine clothing. “And now I look a dreadful fright to you?”
She blushed. “No!”
He leaned closer as he led her out the door, back into the bustling street. “I very much hope not. You, Mrs. St. James, look perfectly splendid to me.”
They strolled through the town. He bought meat pies from a peddler, ale from the tavern, and they wandered through the tents set up on the green with all sorts of things. They laughed at a man with a monkey, nibbling their pies, and placed penny bets on a horse race, which they both lost.
Bianca was stopped every few feet by someone from the factory, and she introduced Max easily and warmly.My husband, she said, over and over, with a smile and sometimes a fond glance at him. Her hand was on his arm, and when the monkey leapt at her, she pressed closer to him and laughed. Max’s heart was weightless, suffused with light and something he hesitated to name.
And then they came upon the cricket pitch.
A group of people were milling around the open ground before the woods, some with bats in hand. Three men were laying a rope for the boundary while others set the wickets. There was an air of anticipation, and one person was collecting wagers.
