me?"
"It's an insanity, you know."
Something swelled inside her chest, making it difficult to breathe. "What?"
"It's an insanity, a mental aberration. Bedlam is full of those who do it."
She wondered why she couldn't make any sense of what he was saying. It was as if she had suddenly sprouted windmills in her head. "Do what?"
"Why, believe that they are constantly being followed by others with evil designs upon their persons. I assure you that I have not been following you, Miss Letty. Nor do I have any sort of design upon your person, evil or otherwise. Fate simply seems to be disgorging you into my path."
"Like Jonah and the whale?"
She had smiled at her own little joke, but he didn't return the smile. He stared at her, and because looking away from him would be the act of a coward, she stared back. His high-boned face held a strange disquiet, and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line.
"My, my," he finally said. "There is a wit beneath all that red hair." He took the bonnet from her nerveless fingers. His hand brushed hers, and a shiver fluttered across her chest, as if a chill wind had come up. Yet the evening had fallen suddenly still. "This hat would not do at all for you," he said. "It is meant for a more mature woman."
Of course, he would think of her as a child. She felt awkward and bedraggled in her speckled dimity frock with its frayed hem and the mended spot on the skirt where she'd caught it on a nail and in her serviceable leather half boots that pinched. She would never be the kind of woman who could wear such a hat and carry it off.
"I thank you for your opinion," she said. "Now if you will excuse me, please, I have business elsewhere."
"Where elsewhere?"
"There." She flung a finger past him, toward the setting sun, and only belatedly noticed where she had pointed. To her horror she saw the Reverend Troutbeck waddling toward her on his fat, bowed legs.
"Miss Letty, here you are at last," the reverend said, panting. "We've been waiting for you." The pastor gestured behind him, where a crowd had started to gather around a gibbet. Suspended from the crossbeam of the gibbet was a row of horse collars. The heads of three widely grinning boys poked out of three of the collars; the fourth was empty.
"A grinning contest!" the Trelawny man exclaimed, shock and laughter in his voice. "You are going to be in a grinning contest."
"No, no," Jessalyn protested. Her cheeks felt so hot she was sure they were on fire. "There has been a mistake. Not a mistake precisely, but a misinterpretation. Of something I said. Or rather, of something I neglected to say..."
The Reverend Troutbeck launched into a discourse about the contest, of how it had become a sort of tradition at the last few Midsummer's Eve fairs, as a way of raising money to reslate the church roof. The congregation, he said, made wagers on whose grin was the widest and whose could last the longest.
Jessalyn couldn't bear to look at the man beside her, but she could feel his gaze on her mouth. She quelled a sudden urge to wet her lips.
"Are you certain you are not mistaken, Miss Letty?" he said, drawling the words. "The good reverend here seems to be of the opinion that you've agreed to be in the competition." He waved a languid hand at the horse collars. "Indeed, he has saved you a place."
The reverend's face, florid and fat as a summer pumpkin, beamed above his grease-stained stock. "Our Miss Letty is a past champion."
"Then our Miss Letty has her title to defend, of course." The Trelawny man bowed at her, mockery in every line of his body. "Please, do not let me detain you."
There was nothing for it. She had to go through with it, to put a brave face on it. Or rather, grin on it. Jessalyn followed the reverend toward the gibbet. She mounted the steps slowly, her head high, her back stiff, as if she were Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. She thrust her head through the horse collar, fighting off a cowardly desire to up and hang
"It's an insanity, you know."
Something swelled inside her chest, making it difficult to breathe. "What?"
"It's an insanity, a mental aberration. Bedlam is full of those who do it."
She wondered why she couldn't make any sense of what he was saying. It was as if she had suddenly sprouted windmills in her head. "Do what?"
"Why, believe that they are constantly being followed by others with evil designs upon their persons. I assure you that I have not been following you, Miss Letty. Nor do I have any sort of design upon your person, evil or otherwise. Fate simply seems to be disgorging you into my path."
"Like Jonah and the whale?"
She had smiled at her own little joke, but he didn't return the smile. He stared at her, and because looking away from him would be the act of a coward, she stared back. His high-boned face held a strange disquiet, and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line.
"My, my," he finally said. "There is a wit beneath all that red hair." He took the bonnet from her nerveless fingers. His hand brushed hers, and a shiver fluttered across her chest, as if a chill wind had come up. Yet the evening had fallen suddenly still. "This hat would not do at all for you," he said. "It is meant for a more mature woman."
Of course, he would think of her as a child. She felt awkward and bedraggled in her speckled dimity frock with its frayed hem and the mended spot on the skirt where she'd caught it on a nail and in her serviceable leather half boots that pinched. She would never be the kind of woman who could wear such a hat and carry it off.
"I thank you for your opinion," she said. "Now if you will excuse me, please, I have business elsewhere."
"Where elsewhere?"
"There." She flung a finger past him, toward the setting sun, and only belatedly noticed where she had pointed. To her horror she saw the Reverend Troutbeck waddling toward her on his fat, bowed legs.
"Miss Letty, here you are at last," the reverend said, panting. "We've been waiting for you." The pastor gestured behind him, where a crowd had started to gather around a gibbet. Suspended from the crossbeam of the gibbet was a row of horse collars. The heads of three widely grinning boys poked out of three of the collars; the fourth was empty.
"A grinning contest!" the Trelawny man exclaimed, shock and laughter in his voice. "You are going to be in a grinning contest."
"No, no," Jessalyn protested. Her cheeks felt so hot she was sure they were on fire. "There has been a mistake. Not a mistake precisely, but a misinterpretation. Of something I said. Or rather, of something I neglected to say..."
The Reverend Troutbeck launched into a discourse about the contest, of how it had become a sort of tradition at the last few Midsummer's Eve fairs, as a way of raising money to reslate the church roof. The congregation, he said, made wagers on whose grin was the widest and whose could last the longest.
Jessalyn couldn't bear to look at the man beside her, but she could feel his gaze on her mouth. She quelled a sudden urge to wet her lips.
"Are you certain you are not mistaken, Miss Letty?" he said, drawling the words. "The good reverend here seems to be of the opinion that you've agreed to be in the competition." He waved a languid hand at the horse collars. "Indeed, he has saved you a place."
The reverend's face, florid and fat as a summer pumpkin, beamed above his grease-stained stock. "Our Miss Letty is a past champion."
"Then our Miss Letty has her title to defend, of course." The Trelawny man bowed at her, mockery in every line of his body. "Please, do not let me detain you."
There was nothing for it. She had to go through with it, to put a brave face on it. Or rather, grin on it. Jessalyn followed the reverend toward the gibbet. She mounted the steps slowly, her head high, her back stiff, as if she were Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. She thrust her head through the horse collar, fighting off a cowardly desire to up and hang
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