Page 1 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

CHAPTER 1

York, August 1803

Blythe Simmonds should have known better than to impart unwelcome news in a moving carriage.

Ahead, the tall, carved limestone of the minster loomed, and she resisted the urge to open the window and release the stifling air in the coupé.

The carriage halted.

“I will not stand for this!” The elder Mrs Simmonds strode into the assembly rooms.

With any luck, the woman would leave her alone for the duration of the evening.

Upon entering the ballroom, Blythe observed the long set of dancers. Fresh-faced girls wearing white simpered at their handsome partners. Oh, to be young again.

Blythe tapped her toes to the jaunty music and unfurled her fan. The heat would soon be oppressive.

Mrs Tyler approached and smiled. “I must say you look lovely this evening, Mrs Simmonds.”

“Thank you.”

“It is so nice to see you out of your widow’s weeds.”

At least someone was happy to see her out of mourning. Across the room, the Simmonds family matriarch stood in full black and glared before turning back to her circle of gossiping matrons.

“How is your son?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“I suppose he will take his father’s place at the bank once he is of age.”

“That is his grandmother’s wish, yes.” Blythe was not convinced Elijah shared that dream.

Mrs Tyler wafted her fan. “What do you make of this dreadful business with France? The peace lasted barely a year. Do you believe we are in danger of invasion?”

Blythe fanned her face. The evening had only just begun, but the tedium grated. “I have little knowledge of such events.”

“I have barely been able to sleep for fear of being attacked in my bed by a despicable Frenchman.”

Dear Mrs Tyler and her melodramatics. “I suspect we will be safe in York.”

“What is to stop Napoleon from invading the Yorkshire coast?”

“Our military forces will defend us.” If she kept her response brief, perhaps Mrs Tyler would move on.

“I hope so, my dear.” The woman’s fan fluttered. “York has endured a siege before. We can do so again.” On that turnabout, Mrs Tyler abandoned her.

Blythe observed the restrained atmosphere of the assembly rooms. At least she could enjoy the harvest supper when she returned home. Images of grazing cows, strutting hens and rolling fields formed in her mind. At this time of year, her garden would be filled with lush vegetation. She could gather herbs and pull carrots. In York, all she did was look pretty, smile sweetly and listen to whatever gossip the ladies of her minuscule social circle tattled about.

It was all so dull and pointless. If she had not married Zachary, she would… well, it was perhaps better not to dwell on what could have been. She could not change her past, but she could change her future. Going home would allow her to do so. What if you are not welcome?

Oliver Drake’s approach increased her agitation. With his blond curls, bright blue eyes and chiselled jawline, the man could pass for an angel walking amongst them. His black tailcoat hugged his broad shoulders, which tapered to a narrow waist and cream silk knee-breeches.

He bowed. “Good evening, Mrs Simmonds.”

“Good evening, Mr Drake.” She curtsied.

“You look well this evening.”