He was about to answer when a high, delighted shriek split the air. Down by the duck pond, three children—two with identical braids and one missing a shoe—had managed to upend a fourth into a drift of mud.
August pointed. “Observe: natural selection at work.”
Eliza smothered a smile. “You are terrible.”
“Terribly accurate.” He looked around then leaned closer. “Would you like to see who wins the wheelbarrow race? I have money on the Sykes twins, but the younger one cheats.”
“I would, but only if you explain the rules as we go. I have never attended a country fair,” she admitted.
He stopped walking, genuinely caught off guard. “Never?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you count the harvest festivals in town, but those were more about voting and less about sport.”
“Then it is my solemn duty to provide the full experience,” he announced, and offered his arm as if escorting her into a ballroom, not a field of trampling boots and hay.
They circled the pond, passing a ring of baking contests and a man painted entirely blue who was singing patriotic songs inthe village dialect. August greeted everyone by name, swapping greetings and minor insults, and Eliza noted each with a slight inclination of her head, as if filing the data for later strategic deployment.
He found himself pointing out every tenant, every minor eccentric, and offering up stories he usually kept for after-dinner whiskey. “That’s Mrs. Bramley—she once chased a fox from her henhouse with nothing but a broom and her nightcap still on.”
“Did she succeed?” Eliza asked.
“She did. The fox is still in therapy.”
She laughed—really laughed, not the cool chuckle she reserved for London acquaintances. It made something in his chest rearrange itself, and for a moment, he almost missed the next hazard: a ginger-haired boy with a tray of biscuits and a single front tooth.
“Would you like a biscuit, M’Lord?” The boy thrust the tray upward, nearly toppling the entire batch.
August bowed slightly. “Only if you baked them yourself, William.”
“I did! But Mamma says they are not fit for the judges.” He looked at the ground. “Too much…” He scrunched his face. “Everything.”
“They cannot be worse than the Sykes twins’ biscuits from last year. Their secret ingredient was pipe tobacco,” August confided.
Eliza accepted a biscuit and bit down. For a moment, her expression did not change. Then she swallowed—audibly. “That is… robust,” she said and turned to August, daring him to follow suit.
He did. The taste was like an assault, and he had to will his features into neutrality. “Excellent depth of flavor,” he said, but even William looked skeptical.
Eliza’s mouth twitched. “The second note is… overwhelming.”
“Is it cinnamon?” August guessed.
“Mustard powder,” William declared, pleased.
Eliza blinked. “That would explain it.”
They handed back the empty napkin, and August slipped the boy a shilling. William vanished, trailing crumbs.
They walked on, past a coconut shy and a display of prize turnips, and everywhere they went, people greeted them as if they were minor deities. Eliza accepted it. She stooped to admire a hand-carved whistle at a toy stall, tried a skein of yarn at the spinner’s tent, and was promptly recruited by Dorothy to judge the “Best Jam” contest.
He watched her work the crowd, marveling at her ability to remember names and preferences after a single introduction. When Mrs. Warburton presented her with a jar of rhubarb preserve, Eliza not only praised the flavor, but she also referenced the woman’s daughter’s recent marriage, earning a blush and a grateful curtsy.
She was, in every way, a marchioness, but she made it seem accidental.
His sisters were stationed at the fortune-teller’s tent, casting lots and causing mischief. He saw June arguing with the fortune-teller, demanding a second reading on the basis that the first was “clearly a fraud.” Dorothy was nearby, cradling a bundle of scones as if it were a newborn.
Albert, true to form, had planted himself at the center of the green, using his cane as a prop to direct the ebb and flow of passersby. He looked five years younger than he had the previous week, a king in exile finding himself back among his subjects.
August waved to him, and Albert managed a salute with the cane. “You’re not embarrassing yourself, I hope?” the old man called, loud enough for half the village to hear.