“It seems so,” Mrs. Juliard said, consulting her copy.
Everyone looked up—at Madeline.
She smiled. She didn’t need to consult her copy. “I can’t think of anything we’ve missed, or any arrangements we’ve failed to discuss. Indeed, we’ve added a good few amusements which should help in keeping the whole running smoothly.”
Glancing around the faces, she ended smiling at Mrs. Entwhistle. “I think we’re all to be congratulated. We’ve done an excellent job of planning—now it’s time for the execution, which is in many more hands than just our own.”
“Indeed.” On Mrs. Entwhistle’s other side, Sybil beamed at the company. “And on that note, I suggest we ring for tea. Would you mind, Madeline dear?”
Madeline rose and tugged the bellpull. When Sitwell appeared, Sybil ordered tea while the rest of them settled to chat.
In due course, the trolley arrived, and tea and cakes were dispensed. Madeline assisted Sybil, then turned to tell Squire Ridley about Mr. Thomas Glendower.
“Well, well.” Gerald beetled his thick brows. “Time will no doubt tell. I’ll keep my ears open and let you and”—he nodded to Gervase as he joined them—“his lordship here know if I hear anything more about mining leases.”
“Indeed, please do.” Gervase exchanged a glance with Madeline. “If fresh rumors circulate, or more offers eventuate, then Glendower isn’t our man. It would be useful to know one way or the other.”
“Absolutely.” Gerald nodded. “I’ll pass the word.”
Gervase touched Madeline’s arm. “Mrs. Juliard has a question about the trestles we’ll be using for the embroidery displays. Could you…?”
She smiled. “Yes, of course.”
Together they crossed to Mrs. Juliard; the question about the trestles was easily resolved. Gervase stayed by Madeline’s side—or rather kept her by his—deferring to or drawing on her experience as various committee members verified minor details and asked last-minute questions.
It wasn’t until, all such questions answered and with all theoretically ready for the morrow when the physical arrangements would be set in place, the company drifted into the front hall, making ready to depart, and the vicar turned to them, Gervase with Madeline beside him, and took his leave of them with a jovial, “I have to say that this year seems specially blessed and the festival looks set to exceed all our previous efforts,” all the while smiling at her and shaking her hand before, with smile undimmed, shaking Gervase’s, that Madeline realized just how far into the background Sybil had faded.
Looking around, she located Sybil by the drawing room door with Mrs. Caterham.
“Good-bye, Madeline dear.”
Recalled to her place—by Gervase’s side—by Mrs. Entwhistle, Madeline squeezed her fingers lightly. “Until tomorrow, Claudia. And don’t fret. All will go swimmingly.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will.” With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Entwhistle turned to shake Gervase’s hand. “Now we have you and his lordship both overseeing the whole, I’m sure nothing will dare go wrong.”
Madeline’s smile felt a trifle distracted. She glanced again at Sybil, but she seemed to feel no burning need to take her rightful place beside Gervase. More, like the vicar, all the others seemed to take it for granted that Madeline should be the one standing beside him.
She felt a little odd—an unwitting usurper—but as Sybil merely smiled sweetly, uncomprehendingly, when she succeeded in catching her eye, and did nothing about coming to replace her, she inwardly shrugged. It was doubtless just habit formed over the previous years when the festival had been held at the Park and she had, in
fact, been the hostess. Everyone was used to her in that role, including Sybil, and with Sybil hanging back, without any real thought everyone recast her in the position. Perfectly understandable.
There was no reason whatever to make anything more of it, to read anything more into it.
She hoped they understood that.
His hand at her elbow, Gervase steered her onto the porch at the top of the front steps; she’d earlier agreed to stay behind and go over the castle forecourt and ramparts with him, with chalk marking out the booths and various spaces for tents and other activities.
So she stood beside him before the castle front doors and waved while the others rode or drove away—and tried not to think of what image they were projecting, and what incorrect ideas might consequently stir.
Chapter 11
“Ah—good morning, Jones.” Madeline smiled at the innkeeper from Coverack as he stood beside his cart, eyes wide and startled as he scanned the frenetic activity already overflowing the castle forecourt. She pointed. “If you’ll take those barrels over there, to that spot beyond the steps, and then speak with Sitwell—he’s at the top of the steps—about filling them.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Jones tipped his cap. “Right circus, this is.”
Madeline only smiled in reply, then moved smartly to dodge a donkey hauling in a cart. “Hello, Masters.” She nodded to the old wandering merchant; he’d been a goldsmith in his prime, and now traveled the country visiting festivals and fairs. “Back with us this year?”
“Always, Miss Gascoigne.” Masters bowed and doffed his hat. “One of my favorites, the Peninsula Summer Festival.”