“Yes. I am interested in herbs and remedies. Your grandmother has very kindly taught me a great deal. I come here to learn and to purchase supplies from her. She has let me have a corner of her garden for my own.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You are growing them yourself?”
“Why, yes. I dry and grind and mix them, as well,” Nicola responded tartly. “I realize that you think I am a useless, shallow slip of a girl, but I do have interests outside of my dress and my hair.”
He had the grace to redden a little beneath his tan. “Indeed, miss, I did not think you useless and shallow. It is just a little unusual.”
“If you knew me, you would find that I am a little unusual.”
He smiled. “I could already tell that. Not many ladies would stand about chatting with grooms.”
“Mmm. My mother tells me I am deplorably egalitarian,” Nicola agreed lightly.
They had reached her horse, and Nicola turned to him. “Well. Goodbye, then. I—it was nice to see you again.”
“Thank you.” He paused, then said quickly, “I come to visit Gran every Sunday.”
“Do you?” Nicola’s heart began to pound a little harder in her chest. He was telling her that he wanted to see her again, wasn’t he? “I—uh—” She had to pause and clear her throat, which seemed suddenly swollen. “Then perhaps I will see you here again.”
She ended her statement on an upward note, sneaking a glance up at him. To her explosive relief, he grinned.
“Perhaps you will,” he agreed. “Let me help you up.” He nodded toward the horse.
Then, to Nicola’s surprise, instead of cupping his hands to give her a leg up, he placed his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her to her saddle. He stepped back, looking up at her. Nicola took up her reins in trembling fingers. She could feel the imprint of his fingers against her flesh, as if they had burned into her.
“I—I don’t know your name,” she said softly.
“It’s Gil, miss. Gil Martin.”
“Don’t call me ‘miss,’” Nicola said quickly, something in her rebelling against the subservience in this common form of address from servants.
“All right,” he said slowly, watching her. “What should I call you, then?”
“My name is Nicola Falcourt.”
The smile that crept across his face this time held none of its former amusement, only a kind of heat that stirred Nicola’s blood. “All right. Nicola.”
HE WAS THERE AT GRANNY ROSE’S the following Sunday when Nicola arrived. Nicola saw the faint consternation on Granny’s face when she opened the door to find Nicola on the step, as well as the uneasy way she glanced over at her grandson. Though she and Granny talked easily enough together, as equals, she supposed that Granny must be uncertain about her being thrown together with a servant.
Gil rose from his seat at the table, his eyes intent on Nicola’s face. Nicola looked at him, and a wave of heat washed through her, so fierce that she blushed with embarrassment.
She sat down at the table with Gil and Granny Rose, and Granny politely offered her a cup of tea. The three of them sat and drank tea together, their conversation awkward and stilted. But later, he walked her halfway home, strolling along beside her as she led her horse by its reins. They talked about any and everything, from Granny Rose and her home medicines to Nicola’s father to a foal that had been born two days ago at the Tidings stables. Nicola found herself telling him things she had never told anyone before, even her sister Deborah, her innermost feelings and thoughts. When at last they reached the point where he must turn off for Tidings, they hesitated, unwilling to part.
“Will ye be comin’ to the main house this Friday, then?” he asked, glancing at her, then away. “His lordship’s dance, I mean.”
“What?” Nicola was looking at him, watching the play of the sun on his crow-black hair and fighting the sudden urge she felt to reach up and sift her fingers through it. It took a moment for his words to register. “Oh. Yes.”
She grimaced. She no longer had any desire to go to Tidings now that she had found Gil. But she could hardly tell her mother that, so she had had to accept the invitation.
Gil looked away, seemingly studying intently a rock on the ground at his feet. “The others are sayin’ that he’s sweet on ye.”
“Exmoor?”
He nodded. “’Tis common gossip about the house.”
Nicola sighed. “He seems to be.”
“And you?” He looked up abruptly, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What do ye feel for the man?”
“The Earl?” Nicola asked in some astonishment. “Why, nothing. What would I feel?”
“There’s those sayin’ ye’ll be acceptin’ him.”
“Never.”
Gil relaxed a little. “Well, then…that’s all right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Gil smiled faintly. “Never mind. I’d best be going. Almost anyone could happen by.”
He hesitated, his eyes going to her mouth, and for a brief, dizzying moment Nicola thought that he meant to kiss her.
But then he swung away, moving swiftly down the track toward Tidings, turning back once to raise his hand in a farewell wave. Nicola watched him go, her insides in a turmoil. Had he wanted to kiss her? Had she wanted him to? When he had asked her if she was attending the Earl’s ball on Friday, she had felt an instant’s leap of hope, a vision of his leading her onto the floor in a waltz, before she had realized how foolish that idea was. If she saw him, it would certainly not be on the dance floor, but in the drive in front of the house, helping with the horses and carriages. That was the last thing she wanted, she thought, after this afternoon—to see him in the context of servant, with her the guest, and with Exmoor, her mother and all the others around.
Nicola turned and led her horse to a low stile, where she could climb up and remount him. She scrambled up and turned the gelding toward home, sunk in her thoughts. She had never felt this way before, so confused and torn and giddy. She had wanted Gil to kiss her; she was too honest to deny that fact, at least to herself. She had wanted to taste his lips, and she wished with all her heart that he could be one of the local swains at the Earl’s ball, that she could twirl around the floor in his arms, swooping and turning to the grand strains of a waltz.
But she was no fool. However well she might get along with the servants and the villagers, however much she might think that the common folk she knew were as good as or better than her fellow aristocrats, she also knew that the gulf between her and a stable boy was vast—even unbridgeable. There could be no future for them—nor, if she was honest, could there be much present, either. What could they possibly have except a few afternoons together like this? What could happen except that both their hearts could be broken?
Her
