The Lie and the Lady (46 page)

“Your practicality has always impressed me.” He smiled as his lips descended to hers again.

After an inappropriate amount of time, she pulled away, but remained in his arms. “Now . . . I need you to tell me if in our current arrangement I'm going to have to learn to bake. Because I really would rather not.”

“Bake?”

“Yes. You see that building there?” She pointed to one of the outbuildings to the mill. It was original to the property, having survived both fires. “You own it, correct? But it stands empty.”

“It used to be extra grain storage, but I expanded the granary when I rebuilt so . . .”

“Excellent, so you could turn it into a bakery.”

His eyebrow went up. “A bakery?”

“This town hasn't one, you know. You have all the flour in the world, you could profit by simply turning it into bread.”

“That's not a bad idea . . . I don't suppose you know how to run a bakery.”

“Oh, I haven't a clue.”

“Not one to get your hands dirty, are you?”

“Not with flour.” She smiled at him.

“It's too bad I didn't fall in love with a baker, then,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her. “She could have run that side of the business and we could have all been fat and happy.”

“Yes. It is too bad,” she replied, slapping his arm at his jest. “But I do happen to be proficient at hiring bakers. And there's one who made my wedding cake, which regretfully will never be served. Perhaps she would like continued employment.”

“You have excellent ideas.”

“Oh, I'm full of them.”

“However, you are wrong about one thing. You will see your wedding cake served. We are changing the groom, no other details of your wedding.”

Now it was time for her eyebrow to go up. “Not even the day?”

“Well,” he hedged. “I imagine we will have to wait for the banns to be read again.” At her exasperated look, he explained. “I haven't the ability to procure a special license. You're marrying a poor, unconnected miller, my love. Not an earl. Not even a Sir Barty.”

She relented, her shoulders relaxing, her face painting into a smile as she slid her arms over his shoulders.

“I wouldn't have it any other way.”

EPILOGUE

T
hree weeks to the day after the disastrous events in St. Stephen's churchyard, those memories were replaced by far more joyous ones, when Leticia Herzog gave up the title of Lady Churzy and took on the name of Mrs. Turner.

It was said that Leticia was the only person in the history of the parish to have her name read aloud six times in seven Sundays, and therefore she decided to forgo even waiting an extra week, bending the rules as far as Vicar Spilsby would allow and having the wedding ceremony take place directly after the last banns had been spoken, no week of waiting in between.

She suspected Mrs. Spilsby had something to do with her success.

She also suspected that Mrs. Spilsby had something to do with the minimal amount of gossip that she heard when she walked through town on market day. Mrs. Spilsby, Miss Goodhue, Mrs. Robertson, Rebecca the baker, Molly, her lady's maid, Mrs. Dillon, and Jameson had all come down on the side of support, brooking no ill word and vigorously defending her by playing down the entire situation.

But mostly, she had Margaret and Sir Barty to thank. They immediately let it be known that there were no hard feelings, inviting John and Leticia to dine, for walks in the gardens on Sundays after church, and for public strolls on market day.

Leticia suspected Helen, and her increased presence at Bluestone Manor, had something to do with that success as well.

The Babcocks even went so far as to invite Leticia to stay with them until her wedding day—she was so familiar there now it seemed natural, but here Turner put his foot down. He'd waited a year to have Leticia at his side, there was no way he was letting her out of his sight now, he'd said.

She'd needed very little convincing to see his side of things. But still, she'd let him present his argument. Day and night. Often, and extensively.

Dr. Gray did leave Helmsley as planned, shortly after the fight in the churchyard, but only to return in due course with Turner's other best friend, Ned Granville, the Earl of Ashby.

Who, of course, Leticia had spent the better part of a fortnight last year thinking of as Mr. Turner.

He'd come alone, leaving his bride at home, as she was temporarily not keen on travel—their time on the Continent had been productive.

As for Mr. Blackwell and Mrs. Emory, they were hauled off, facing charges of arson and conspiracy. Mrs. Emory gave a full account, placing all the weight of the deed on herself and Mr. Blackwell, hoping to spare her precious Harold of any blame.

One might say some unkind things about Mrs. Emory, but her love for her less-than-worthy son was never in question.

Later they would hear tell that Mr. Blackwell had been transported to Australia. Rumor had it that he tried to bribe his way off the ship, but as far as anyone knew his attempt was unsuccessful, for they never heard from him again. And his mills, without an heir or successor in place, faltered quickly.

The number of grain mills in the area suddenly reduced from seven to one, Turner Grain Mill found itself with its busiest season in its decades-long history. And no one cared about any scandal attached to the owner, much like no one cared about any worries attached to the new fortuitously installed steam equipment. They simply needed their grain either sold or milled . . . or turned into bread, as the case may be.

Sir Barty's grain included.

It was not long before they found it necessary to expand, first purchasing the remnants of Blackwell's mill in Fennish Moor. There was every chance that they would purchase more in the future.

Since they became so busy, the circumstances of how Mr. Turner acquired his wife faded from collective memory faster than otherwise. To the town, Leticia simply became Mrs. Turner, the savvy and improbably stylish miller's wife, her countess origins forgotten as soon as the townsfolk of Helmsley forgot to use the “my lady” honorific when addressing her.

Surprisingly, she did not miss it.

And to Turner, Leticia became what she always had been—Letty. The maddening woman who could recognize him at a thousand paces, whom he loved and who loved him back.

She asked him once how he'd decided that he loved her. And he, amazingly, had an answer.

“Because you unbalance me.”

“I unbalance you?” she replied.

“Yes, every time I think I've reached an equilibrium with you, you do something to throw me. It's not even anything direct. It could be as simple as a mischievous look. A practical sigh. A vulnerable posture. Everything about you breaks my heart and pieces it back together at the same time.”

“Heavens,” she replied, concerned. “That sounds uncomfortable.”

“Oh, it is . . .” He smiled, rolling over on top of her. “I often ask myself, is this what it's going to be like forever? Or will I be able to ever see her without feeling the floor going out from under me?”

“And what is your conclusion?” she replied, shifting delightfully beneath him.

“That I'm doomed,” he said. “This is how it is for me. This is my truth.”

He kissed her nose.

“I love Leticia Herzog.”

He kissed her eyes.

“I love Lady Churzy.”

He kissed her mouth.

“I love you, Letty Turner. And not a damned thing is going to change that.”

D
ear Reader,

I love research. Not only does it help fill out the world my characters live in, but sometimes it helps fill much larger plot holes.

From The Game and the Governess, I knew that John Turner had a family mill, but I didn't know what kind, or what they milled precisely. I knew only that the mill was in Lincolnshire—a pleasantly named county I'd yet to explore in any of my books. So when I was researching Lincolnshire (oh, those Wolds!) and discovered it was populated with windmills back in the Regency day, suddenly John Turner's entire history—and his place in Helmsley—clicked into place.

Besides, Cervantes isn't the only one who finds windmills romantic.

Unfortunately, I don't live near any working windmills, but my research led me to the Maud Foster Mill in Boston, Lincolnshire, on which I based the Turner Grain Mill. I tried to stay as close to the specs of a working windmill as I could, but I didn't find a single one that had a space for a bed. Thus I did some judicious rearranging of the blueprints, so John (and Leticia) could enjoy some privacy away from all the flour.

I hope you enjoyed the story of the miller and his countess, and the whimsy and majesty of spinning white sails. . . .

Sincerely,

K
ate
N
oble

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