Gyles slanted her a glance, grey eyes hard, then ushered her into the inn.
Harris came rushing to conduct them to the parlor he’d prepared. Francesca was pleased to approve both the parlor and the fare the innkeeper and his buxom daughter efficiently set before them. Then Harris and the girl withdrew, leaving them in comfort, well supplied with viands and wine.
The food was as delicious as it looked; Francesca was free with her praise. Glancing up, she noticed the amusement in Gyles’s eyes, noted his not entirely straight lips. “What is it?”
He hesitated, then said, “I was just imagining you at a dinner party in London. You’ll create a panic.”
“Why?”
“It’s not common practice for ladies of the ton to evince such… desire over food.”
She opened her eyes wide. “If one has to eat, one may as well enjoy it.”
He laughed and inclined his head. “Indeed.”
The table could have sat four; they faced each other over it. It was easy to converse, and they were free of all ears. As they sampled the various meats and pastries, Francesca asked about the estate in general, encouraged when Gyles answered readily, with no hint of reluctance. They discussed the past year, the trials and successes, and the harvest presently being gathered in.
Then Harris returned to remove the dishes; setting a platter piled with fresh fruits between them, he beamed benignly and left them in peace.
Selecting a grape, Francesca asked, “The families on the estate-are they primarily long-term tenants?”
“Mostly long-standing.” Watching the grape disappear, Gyles leaned back in his chair. “In fact, I can’t think of any who aren’t.”
“So they’re used to all the”-another grape was selected-“local traditions.”
“I suppose so.”
She studied the grape, turning it in her fingers. “What traditions are there? You mentioned a market.”
“The market’s held every month-I suppose it’s a tradition. Everyone would certainly be upset if it was stopped.”
“And what else?” She looked up. “Perhaps the church sponsors some gathering?”
Gyles met her wide eyes. “It would be a easier if you simply told me what it is you want to know.”
She held his gaze, then popped the grape into her mouth and wrinkled her nose at him. “I wasn’t that transparent.”
He watched as her jaw worked, squishing the grape, watched her swallow, and didn’t answer.
Folding her hands on the table, she fixed him with an earnest look. “Your mother mentioned there used to be a Harvest Festival-not the church celebration, although at much the same time-but a fete day at the Castle.”
Although he kept his expression impassive, she must have seen his reaction in his eyes; she quickly said, “I know it hasn’t been held for years-”
“Not since my father died.”
“True-but your father died more than twenty years ago.”
He couldn’t now argue that most of his tenants wouldn’t recall the event.
“You’re the earl, and now I’m your countess. It’s a new generation, a new era. The purpose of the Festival was, as I understand it, to thank the estate workers for their efforts throughout the year, through the sowing, husbanding, and reaping.” She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. “You’re a caring landlord-you look after your tenants. Surely, now I’m here, it’s right-appropriate-that we should again host the Festival.”
She was right, yet it took some time to accustom his mind to the idea-of holding the Festival again, of he himself being the host. In all his memories, that was a position his father had filled. After his death, there had never been any question-not that he could recall-of continuing with the Festival, despite the fact it was, indeed, a very old tradition.
Times changed. And sometimes adapting meant resurrecting past ways.
She’d been wise enough to say no more, to push no further. Instead, she sat patiently, her gaze on his face, awaiting his decision. He knew perfectly well if he refused she would argue, although perhaps not immediately. His lips lifted spontaneously as he recalled her earlier comment. Transparent? She was as easy to read as the wind.
Hope kindled in her eyes at his half smile; he let his lips relax into a more definite one. “Very well. If you wish to play the role of my countess to the hilt-”