Page 21 of An Uncommon Earl

“I hope I did not interrupt you from your work, Alice.”

“Not at all, miss.” The young maid’s eyes shone. Her fair hair was pulled up neatly beneath her mobcap, and a few freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and cheeks. “I was ’appy to accompany you. After all, it’s not often I get to go out when it’s not me day off.” She glanced out of the window at the passing scenery. “It’s right different than Yorkshire, ain’t it, miss?”

Alice had been born and brought up in a small fishing village up north. She’d been with the Hadford family for almost four years and had never been anything but friendly and loyal. Indeed, she was probably the best companion Jane could have asked for.

“It is indeed,” Jane said, taking a moment to appreciate the view of their new home as the carriage rolled down the drive.

The white, multipaned window frames contrasted with the warm, red brick of the walls. Tall chimneys stood sentinel above the two-story house, and a wide double door welcomed people inside. The gravel drive looped around the front of the house and cut through a vast lawn lined with tall bushes. Flowerbeds full of dormant rose bushes were positioned in tiers leading down to a wooded area currently splashed with yellow and red from clusters of daffodils and tulips growing in profusion at the base of the trees.

There was a part of her that would always miss the wild, rugged beauty of the Yorkshire moors—the rolling purple heather, the wild grass waving in the blustery wind, and the gray, craggy rocks—but the countryside of southern England had a beauty all its own. It was as though nature had been tamed in this part of the country. Here, the trees stood tall rather than leaning into the wind. The cows and horses of southern England stood placidly in tidy green fields; whereas, up north, the sheep roamed free and ate whatever they could forage amongst the shrubs on the heath.

The carriage turned onto the road that led to the village, and above the hedge, Jane spotted a church spire in the distance. It would not be long before the first cottages came into view, and if Mrs. Wilson was correct, after them would come the inn and a handful of shops. The green was likely in the center of the village. Perhaps she would find someone there who could direct her to the butcher’s shop.

The inn was a welcoming, whitewashed building with a thatched roof. A sign swung above the door, displaying a large fish leaping above a river, with the name Trout Tavern written in black print above. Across from the inn was a wide grassy area, the stone cross at its center surrounded by blooming tulips. Two ancient horse chestnut trees marked the nearest corner of the green, their branches reaching out over the road. Jane studied them with interest. It would not be long before those branches were covered by the distinctive blossoms that reminded her so much of white candles. She would have to return to see that sight, as well as the shiny brown nuts in prickly green shells that would come later in the year.

“Look, Miss Hadford. Isn’t it lovely?”

At Alice’s exclamation, Jane followed the direction of the maid’s pointed finger and spotted an arched entrance on the far side of the green. The wooden structure was almost completely hidden beneath an explosion of bright-yellow forsythia blooms.

“Oh,” Jane breathed. It was so beautiful her chest ached at the sight.

“You must paint it, miss.” Alice turned her shining eyes on Jane.

“I could never do it justice,” Jane said, even as she itched to try.

“Forgive me if I’m bein’ too bold, miss, but I’ve seen some of yer paintin’s, an’ if anyone can capture that sight on a canvas, it’s you.”

The carriage rolled closer, and Jane’s gaze remained on the floral bower. “Perhaps I should at least try.”

“Yes, miss.” Alice was quite firm, and Jane smiled.

“Shall we get out and look at it more carefully?”

“Yes, miss,” Alice repeated, offering her a tentative smile in return.

The carriage came to a stop a few feet from the floral arch, and shortly afterward, the driver appeared to assist Jane out of the vehicle.

“We shall not be long,” she said, and the driver nodded.

“I’ll be ’ere whenever yer ready, Miss Hadford.”

“Thank you.”

Steadying herself with her cane, Jane moved closer to the forsythia bush. The yellow appeared even richer than it had through the carriage window. She reached out to gently touch a blossom.

“Why is it all the same?”

A child’s voice sounded at her right. Startled, Jane turned to see a young boy—painfully thin, with large brown eyes—staring up at the profusion of yellow. His shirt was of coarse linen and was smudged with dirt. His breeches were worn and sported a hole above one knee.

“I beg your pardon,” Jane said.

He frowned, his small nose wrinkling up at the effort. “Wed is my favowite. But in that whole bush, there isn’t even one flower that’s wed.”

Jane smothered a chuckle at his indignation and pronunciation. The letter R was troublesome, it seemed. “It does not seem very fair, does it?”

He shook his head glumly. “No, miss.”

She studied the flowers, wondering what she might say to cheer up the child. “Do you see how they all point upward?” she said. His large brown eyes met hers, and she smiled gently. “Perhaps they thought being yellow was the best way to greet the sun after the long winter.”