Page 33 of My Fair Lord

“Why Miss Wakechild! How delightful to meet you here.”

Ned swept the top hat from his head with a flourish and bowed deeply. Miss Wakechild curtseyed, a little confused by his behaviour if her expression was anything to go by.

“I am so sorry to intrude on your solitude. Had I known you were alone in the gardens, I would never have presumed to visit Goreswarth Chase; however, I was in this area of the county and decided I must see your beautiful grounds. Please accept my apologies,” Ned said.

“Oh, I see. You are play-acting!” Miss Wakechild dropped into another curtsey. “No apology necessary, Sir… Sir…”

She stood upright and bit her bottom lip. “I don’t actually know what to call you. We haven’t given you a title yet, have we?”

“That’s very true.” Ned rubbed his sideburn with his thumb. “I don’t yet have a name. If I am to be a viscount, I must be Viscount Someone or Somewhere. And it’s ‘Lord’ of course.”

“Of course. I know that,” Miss Wakechild said quickly. “Now let’s think. We cannot use a name already in existence.”

She looked around.

“Miss Wakechild, do you propose to pick a name out of the air? Am I to be a Fish or a Swan like my cut-out companions?”

“I don’t know. I am afraid I don’t have much imagination.”

“Should I be Viscount Gravel or Leaf perhaps? Why not the Earl of Weathervane?” he asked.

“Oh Mr Blake, you are funny. I didn’t see that before, but you are.”

Miss Wakechild giggled; a sound which was so utterly unexpected that Ned felt a laugh bubbling up inside him.

They looked at each other, both smiling. A breeze that had been ever present swelled into a gust that was colder than it had any right to be given the sunny day. The fine hairs at the nape of Ned’s neck lifted and fluttered, making his skin feel unusually sensitive. He reached a hand up and adjusted his collar.

“I shall accept that as a compliment,” he said quietly, replacing his hat and extending an arm. “Shall we walk along the path and see if inspiration comes to us?”

They walked as far as the temple; not really a place of pagan worship but a small folly that stood at the end of the rose garden and looked back at the house.

He glanced at Miss Wakechild. She was staring up at the sky but must have been watching Ned out of the corner of her eye because she turned her head to him, tilting it on one side. Over the top of the house, as the baroness had predicted, there were gathering clouds. Fluffy to begin with, but growing heavier where they met and joined.

“Shall we return?” he asked.

“I think we’re safe from rain for the time being. Let’s walk as far as the village. We should have time before it rains if it’s going to, which I doubt. My brother-in-law says the Cheshire plains rarely get rain to the extent the Peaks do.”

One thing Ned appreciated as a commoner was the opportunity to be truly alone with no one caring what he got up to. For the upper classes, it was rare to get a moment alone without a servant of some sort bustling around and inevitably reporting any gossip back to the Servants’ Hall. He didn’t care himself, but for Miss Wakechild and the family, it wouldn’t do to have talk.

“Your sister won’t be able to see us,” he pointed out, gesturing to the figure of Lady Griggs silhouetted in the window, the visible but distant chaperone.

Miss Wakechild grinned. “Precisely. I’m already the subject of talk because I’m American, according to Dottie, and therefore of as much scientific interest as a kangaroo in the zoo. I’d like to have a few minutes of freedom, if you’ll come with me.”

Ned looked around. Even though he and Miss Wakechild appeared to have some privacy now, it was illusory. There were two gardeners working away on the ornamental hedges off to the right of the rose garden. Everything in society was designed to ensure people behaved as they should and woe betide anyone veering off course. Women had it worse and it must grow wearisome.

“A short walk, but only to the village green,” he agreed.

He held an arm out for her to take and together they strolled across the lawn towards the rear of the estate where an iron gate in the wall led to Goreswarth village. The houses looked picturesque and the village prosperous, with a rectangular green. Three shops, a forge, and a small inn were set on one side while a row of neat cottages edged another.

They walked around the pond in the centre of the green, where five ducks and a moorhen were clustering round a pair of well-dressed gentlemen throwing them sponge cake. At the third side of the pond stood the church of St Paul which, Miss Wakechild informed Ned with wide eyes, had stood for almost four hundred years. It clung to one edge of the grey stone wall as if it were trying to hide from the rest of the village. Slanted sunlight filtered through the sycamore trees, dappling the gravestones which stood amid lovingly tended grass. A more idyllic scene was hard to imagine.

They watched the two gentlemen for a moment, placing bets on which duck would get the most cake, then walked back towards the gate. The sound of a tuneful baritone humming wordlessly came from the open window of the vicarage. Reverend Reed was presumably deciding on the hymns for the Sunday service.

“I should have gone into the church as a young man,” Ned commented. “My family expected me to.”

“You wanted to join the clergy?” Miss Wakechild’s eyes grew wide, as if she could no more imagine Ned in the pulpit than he himself had.

“Not wanted to. The expectation was on my father’s side,” he corrected. He clamped his lips together. How had he managed to let something so personal slip out? He never talked of his family to anyone. No one ever grew close enough to care to listen to him, but he found himself wanting to continue.