Page 47 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Candace thought that Vera wouldn’t be pleased to see her name at the very top, but her appearance was a source of great consternation to Candace. Even now, her friend wore that awful brown dress that looked like horsehair. It wasn’t, of course—it was a cheap wool that went stiff where it should have draped flat and limp where it should have held structure. Somehow, it turned Vera’s lovely form into something nearly as appealing as a barrel of ale.

Though Hortense had done her utmost with Vera’s hair—sweeping the lovely ash-brown curls into a coiffure that left several draping pleasantly over Vera’s right shoulder—there was only so much a hairstyle could do in the face of such stylistic refuse.

“I’m going to decorate the rooms that need it, for starters. I’m heading to the village after breakfast; would you like to join me?”

“Of course. I’ve been eager to visit.”

“Don’t be too hopeful. I’ve heard that ‘quaint’ is being generous where the town is concerned. Still, they have a few shops and an honest innkeeper who handles the post. That will be more than adequate for what I have in mind. Besides, I’d like to check on my copies of the Quentin Daily. It’s been several days—I thought more would have arrived by now.”

Vera gave a noncommittal hum. “You know how the post is between the countryside and London. Doubtless, you’ll receive a month’s worth all at the same time.”

The rest of the breakfast was spent in pleasant conversation regarding Candace’s plans for the back parlor. She wanted it to feel as though it fit with the rest of the house, and Vera helpfully suggested that they check with Mrs. Penn to see if any local craftsmen had contributed to the other rooms.

Mrs. Penn was summoned and provided a surprisingly comprehensive list. Thus armed with information, unfettered access to funds, and a rigid determination to complete the items on the List of Things To Do, Candace and Vera walked the mile or so into town, Hortense trailing behind.

The village of North Bovey nestled in the lee of a small hill, with a copse of trees just behind it. From a distance, it had a charming, provincial air—the sort of small town that might be painted by a talented artist and hung on a wall.

Things were always different up close than they were in paintings, Candace thought, picking her way up the muddy street. Mrs. Penn’s list had taken them from the main street which, thanks to Percy, was in the process of being paved with cobblestones, then up a side street that had no such aspirations of grandeur.

“Are you sure this is quite safe?” Hortense asked grimly, gripping her ironwood umbrella in one hand. Her head swiveled this way and that, frowning severely at anyone who dared look in their direction.

“Of course,” Candace panted.

She paused—there was a puddle in her path. Her options were to lift her skirts a small amount more than propriety dictated or to let her hem soak up the moisture of a dubious nature. Candace scanned the street. No one was looking, so she lifted her skirts and hopped over the slush.

Vera plowed through it doggedly. Candace glanced at her hem. Apparently there was one benefit to the wool she wore—it seemed completely impervious to water.

“Mr. Harris’s shop is just up the street,” Candace continued. “Mrs. Penn says we can place all manner of orders with him. She would never recommend we visit a part of town that wasn’t safe.”

Hortense nodded, frowning.

The storefront was old but tidy. An antique bell clanged overhead when they entered. Shelves filled to bursting with all sorts of things stretched to the ceiling, leaving only narrow walkways between. Candace and Hortense were obliged to stand in single-file behind Vera, who had entered first.

From her vantage point between Vera’s back and Hortense’s front, Candace could only see a small piece of the store. Though the assortment on the shelves was random—candles, a second-hand cuckoo clock, a couple of bolts of thickly woven wool, and a case that she assumed held a fiddle—it was all assiduously clean.

An elderly man peered at them from behind the counter which ran the length of his narrow shop. His hair stuck out from his pink scalp in odd tufts of soft white fluff, and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. He reminded Candace of a baby owl she’d seen once—all fuzz and large, blinking eyes.

“Welcome in, ladies.” His voice was a strong, rich tone that contrasted his somewhat feeble appearance.

“Mr. Harris, I presume?” Vera said as Candace and Hortense peered around her.

“He is I, and I am he,” Mr. Harris announced proudly. “How may I help you this fine morning?”

Vera moved forward into the small clearing before his counter, allowing Candace and Hortense to crowd in beside her. A brief introduction was made, and Mr. Harris’s smile stretched wider.

“I heard we had some esteemed additions to our humble hamlet,” he said. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Candace, Miss Ashbury, Miss Hortense.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Hortense said, “but I’m just the maid.”

“And I beg your pardon, miss, but I see three respectable young ladies before me. How may I help you today?”

Candace tossed a smile over her shoulder to Hortense as she dug in her reticule. “We have a list. It’s quite lengthy—I hope you don’t mind.”

Mr. Harris grinned as if a long list was the best thing he’d ever heard of. “Indeed, indeed. No bother at all.”

Candace smoothed the paper. “Firstly, do you have quilts for sale?”

Candace and Mr. Harris discussed each item on her list at length while Vera rambled the aisles of the crowded shop, occasionally returning with an item in hand to show Candace. Once she made a brief inspection of the premises and concluded it safe, Hortense ducked out to check for any post at the inn.