Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) by Pearl Darling

purple ribbon and a green dress? Mrs. Madely’s expression hardened and she cast a sharp look in Harriet’s direction. Oh heavens. Harriet had gained nothing by coming to Edgar’s. She still had the lace, Edgar had threatened her wages and now Mrs. Madely, her aunt’s employer, was angry with her.
    Fiddlesticks.
    **
    Despite taking a long walk after leading Isabelle and the cart back to the cottage, Harriet was unable to shake the feeling of disquiet that dogged her. Still, she sat back in the uncomfortable school chair and listened attentively to the performance in front of her. Her finger rested lightly on the small creased book as she traced the dialogue across the page. She didn’t need to read it—she knew the dialogue by heart.
    “Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears…” she whispered silently, as Bill spoke the words out loud and drew a sword from the scabbard round his waist. It had been a masterstroke to cast him as Mercutio, even if he was a little older than the rest of the cast and a little wooden in his acting.
    “My dad told me that the new Lord Stanton has been away fighting on the Peninsular.”
    Harriet frowned. She had assembled her cast for the scene in the schoolroom, but inevitably, given Bill’s presence in the play, some of the younger more impressionable boys of the village had sneaked in to watch.
    Normally she would give them a drubbing down and usher them out of the door, but what they were saying was far too interesting to stop listening to. Harriet let out a short sigh. She really should have been thinking about ways in which to sell the dratted lace.
    “Well my da said that he had been commended for bravery by Wellington, no less.”
    She had read about that in the out-of-date London weekly Agatha had brought back from the vicarage. It had been quite a surprise. Two years of silence and then suddenly he had appeared on the front pages. That wasn’t the only article on him that followed. More editions of the journal excitedly covered the news that Lord Stanton was back in London and attending the ton balls. That should have meant that he was coming back to Brambridge, that she would see him again. Not for another six months did he return.
    Damn the man.
    “Did I do it right?”
    “Pardon?” Harriet looked up from her book. Bill gazed bemusedly at the wooden sword that pointed towards the ground. Benjamin, the sixteen-year-old playing Tybalt, gripped his sword with two hands and held it in front of him as if hanging on to it for dear life.
    “Did I hit him right with the sword?” asked Benjamin again.
    Harriet wondered where the last five minutes had gone. But she hadn’t really needed to have watched to have seen how the scene had played out. They had practiced it ten times before and each time it seemed like the sword had dominated Benjamin rather than the other way round. Although he was good at the disclaiming and emotion, the physical act of swinging the sword seemed to terrify him.
    She stood and held out her hand. Perhaps it was time to try a different method of persuading Benjamin that he could use the sword convincingly.
    Reluctantly Benjamin handed over his wooden sword.
    “’Ere Samuel. Look what Miss Harriet is doing.” Harriet shut out the voices from the back of the room and took the sword loosely in her right hand. She closed her eyes briefly, and channeled the many romantic novels that she had read.
    “Stand side on,” she said, pushing the sword out in front of her, tip up. “You don’t want to give much of your body as a target to your opponent.” She brushed the hair impatiently from her eyes with her left hand. Bill frowned at her. She dropped her hand and knocked lightly at his sword with her own, pushing it upwards. “Look determined, after all, you are about to attempt to kill a man.”
    Bill’s eyebrows flew upwards, and he took a step back. The boys at the back laughed. Harriet advanced a step. “Keep the weight on the back