posts for their game of kickball, her aproned skirts whispering over the trampled grass. As she passed through a small copse of trees, her heart sped up, her hands growing clammy against the plate, but the boisterous voices of her family and friends carried on the breeze, reassuring her that she was safe.
At the pond, she spotted Knight by the water’s edge. He’d set his hat and jacket on the ground, and he had a foot propped on a boulder. He looked solitary, not just because he was by himself. There was a remoteness to his gaze as he studied the sunset-painted water, as if he wanted to discern some secret beneath the rippling surface.
At her approach, he turned. In that unguarded moment, she saw a maelstrom of emotion in his eyes: pain and…longing brighter than the sun’s dying rays.
What is ’e thinking about? she wondered. Or, more precisely…who?
He straightened, his gaze shuttering. “Good evening, Fancy.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said hesitantly. “But you weren’t at supper, and I thought you might like something to eat.”
His gaze fell to the tin plate she held out.
He took it from her with a quiet, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” With a smile, she handed him the wooden utensils she’d tucked into her apron pocket. “Mrs. Taylor’s known for ’er ’otpot, and there won’t be much left once the boys are done.”
At his stoic nod, she paused. Since the start of the journey, when he’d requested that they be friends, she’d felt increasingly at ease in his company. Spending hours in a coach together had a way of doing that. Yet now she felt her shyness returning; clearly, he didn’t want her to be there.
“I’ll, um, leave you to enjoy your meal in peace,” she said.
“No, stay.” He seemed to come to himself. “I would enjoy the company.”
“You’ve ’ad plenty o’ that this week,” she said with a touch of humor. “I’ve been told we Sheridans are an acquired taste. It would be understandable if you’re wanting time alone.”
“Your brothers are a boisterous lot.” He gave her an amused look and then did the most gallant thing: with his free hand, he spread his jacket over the grass like a picnic blanket, gesturing for her to sit. “Please. Stay with me so that I do not have to sup alone.”
Sensing that his request was genuine, she acquiesced, and the two of them sat side by side in companionable silence. He dug into the stew, which was the result of a group effort. Mr. Taylor had done work for a butcher in a nearby village, bringing home a leg of mutton. Mrs. Taylor had chopped up the meat, braising it with chunks of onions and carrots. Since Da had fixed up the farmhouse brick oven, Fancy had sliced potatoes thinly, laying them on top of the stew along with dollops of butter and baked it. The result was a golden-brown crust, the rich filling bubbling beneath.
“This is delicious,” Knight said.
“I’m glad you like it.” To distract herself from his nearness, she wrapped her arms around her raised knees, looking out over the water as dusk spilled vivid pink and orange over the surface. “It’s beautiful out ’ere, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” He cocked his head; in this light, his dark hair had a violet sheen. “I don’t think I’ve heard so many crickets before.”
She couldn’t help but grin. “Those ain’t crickets.”
“They aren’t?”
“No, those are courting toads.” She peered at him curiously. “You ’aven’t been in the country much, ’ave you?”
“I inherited a country seat, which I have yet to visit.” He paused to eat from the plate balanced on his lap. “Work keeps me in London.”
“You ’ave to keep an eye on your factories?” she asked.
He nodded. “Among other things.”
“What other things?”
He took a bite, swallowing before he answered. “Weavers are a contentious lot, not that I blame them. Taxes and modernization are eroding their livelihood. I have my hands full trying to convince them that, since they can’t fight industrialization, they must join it. I have a new weaving machine I plan to introduce, but I have to do it in such a way that the workers will accept it and not walk out or go rioting in the streets.”
“That sounds taxing,” she quipped.
“Never jest about taxes to a weaver, Fancy.” His mouth curved faintly. “Now it’s not just work that occupies my time, but also the responsibilities that come with the title. Management of the estates, investments…and my half-siblings.”