She wanted the floor to open up and consume not just Oaty and Lucy’s mercer shop, but the village green and an additional half mile, as well. Sadly, that option did not seem imminent.
She felt Noel’s confused look on her.
“Tess?” She frowned as if in confusion. “My name’s not Tess.”
Oaty took a step toward her. “But—”
The door swung open, and praise everything, Cynthia dashed inside. She panted, her hand pressed to her side.
“Your Grace,” Cynthia gasped. “My lady. So glad. You made. The journey.”
“My lady?” Oaty scratched his head. “It’s—”
“I’m Lady Whitfield,” Jess said, iron in her voice. “Not this Tess person you’re speaking of.”
“She doesn’t resemble Tess in the slightest,” Cynthia said. “For one thing, she’s far prettier than Tess. Wouldn’t you say, Lucy?”
“I . . . uh . . . yes. Yes, Tess is completely different from this woman. Um, Lady Whitfield.”
“Wouldn’t you like to show Mr. Williams some new fabric, Lucy?” Cynthia said. “Perhaps take him into the back room?”
Lucy blinked. She strode forward and grasped Oaty’s arm, then tugged him behind her. “This way, Oaty. We’ve some lovely calico that would look stunning on Ellie.”
Oaty let himself be pulled along, yet he objected, “But it’s—”
Lucy dragged him through the door that led to the storeroom, and shut it firmly behind them, quieting Oaty’s protestations.
Cynthia fixed a smile on her face that was so manic as to be almost vicious. “In any event, I’m Cynthia McGale. My brother, Fred, awaits us at the farm.”
“Peculiar bloke,” Noel murmured, glancing back and forth between the closed storeroom door and Jess. “Mistaking you for someone else.”
“Poor Oaty hasn’t been quite right since we had to fish him out of the well,” Cynthia said. “Confuses his goat with his horse and tries to ride his goat into town. It’s sad, honestly.” She shook her head mournfully.
“We don’t want to keep anyone at your farm waiting,” Jess said, her words pointed. “I imagine there’s quite a lot to see, and we ought to move things along if we plan to return to His Grace’s estate before nightfall.”
“I came over in my gig,” Cynthia said cheerily, “so I can lead your carriages to the farm.”
“By all means, let’s put a bit of distance between us and . . . Oaty,” Noel said. “Before he mistakes me for the butcher and tries to order a haunch of beef.”
Noel placed his hand on the small of Jess’s back as he guided her out. Under different circumstances, she would have accepted his touch gladly. It might have even enflamed her, small and mundane as it was. Yet these circumstances, however, made Jess stiffen. Hopefully, Cynthia wouldn’t notice.
Cynthia noticed. Of course. She shot Jess a questioning look. Jess gave her a silent threat of bodily harm if her younger sister was to press the matter. Cynthia responded with a sly little smirk.
Apparently, there was no age barrier to a younger sibling’s irritating behavior.
Everyone clambered back into the vehicles to prepare for the short journey to the farm. Cynthia brought her gig around, pulled by the family’s gray mare, and then they were off.
Riding in an expensive ducal carriage toward her family’s farm was far removed from her usual experience of being in the gig or driving the farm’s wagon or even being on foot. It was unsettling to see Noel’s profile silhouetted against the fields that she’d known her whole life, as if she sat down to the battered wooden family kitchen table and was served a meal of delicacies on golden plates.
They finally reached the farm, and everyone gathered in the yard outside the main house, where the family lived. Cynthia appeared, with Fred at her side.
Her brother glanced from the carriages to the refined company—lingering in awe on Noel—before his look skipped to Jess and her borrowed regalia. Yet, like Cynthia, her brother said nothing that gave her away.
“Your Grace, my lords and ladies,” Cynthia said with a friendly smile, “what an honor to have you here at McGale & McGale. As some of you know, I’m Cynthia McGale and this is my brother, Fred.”
Fred bowed. “Refreshments before we begin our tour?” He bent down and scooped up the farm’s orange tabby, then gave the cat a scratch between its ears. The mouser purred its approval. “We’ve excellent mead made from our very own honey.”
After setting the cat back down, Fred motioned to a trio of the farm’s laborers who, Jess knew, helped in the soap production process. Today, Katie, Sam, and Dot had