Page 30 of To Swoon and to Spar
But he wouldn’t. Jane didn’t know how she was so certain, but she knew without a doubt that he would come into the village to purchase the cinnamon buns himself.
For her part, Jane was doing her best—she answered questions that were asked of her, she made introductions when warranted. She wished desperately that she was better at asking questions, though—this was an aspect of conversation that had always given her some trouble. It wasn’t that she was disinterested in the answers, merely that she could never think of the right thing to ask. It was so much easier when people just spoke unprompted, at length, and she could listen without much being expected of her. But this—trying desperately to think of things to inquire about, pleasantries to exchange…
It was exhausting.
Her interest was piqued at one point, however, when they stopped by the village’s small school just as the children were fleeing in a disorganized horde, as though Lucifer himself were at their heels. When the crowd of small bodies had cleared, it revealed merely a frazzled-looking schoolmistress who appeared to be only a couple of years older than Jane and seemed in a decidedly foul mood. Jane, contrary creature that she was, rather appreciated this; it was nice to encounter at least one person in the village who didn’t dissolve into paroxysms of delight at the sight of the viscount and his viscountess.
The schoolmistress gave a weary sort of sigh and bobbed a curtsey at them, her arms full of books. She had dark hair and eyes, a nose scattered with freckles, and a sharp look in her eyes that Jane noted with respect.
“My lord, my lady,” she offered.
“Miss—” Penvale paused. “I apologize, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced on my previous visits to the village, which now seems like a grievous oversight.”
“Trevelyan,” the lady supplied. “I was likely holed up attempting to instruct those monsters you just witnessed departing.”
“They did seem rather… spirited,” Penvale said diplomatically, stepping forward to relieve Miss Trevelyan of some books. “Where are you bound with these? We’re happy to escort you there.”
“Just to my cottage,” Miss Trevelyan said with a grateful nod, turning to lock the door of the schoolhouse behind her. It was a small, rather ramshackle building with ivy creeping up its walls that Jane imagined was glorious to behold in the summertime. “Those are a few books from my personal collection that I brought in for the children to read, and we’ve finished with them.”
Jane, who had thus far contributed nothing to the conversation, frowned as they set off along a narrow side street behind the schoolhouse. “Are the children in need of reading material, Miss Trevelyan?” she asked. The words sounded awkward and abrupt even to her own ears, but she was pleased she’d got them out nonetheless.
Miss Trevelyan glanced at her. “Always, Lady Penvale. The village doesn’t have any sort of lending library, and the school’s collection that I inherited from my predecessor was a bit pathetic, so I’ve been supplementing with a few of my favorites from when I was a girl.”
“I have a number of books from my own childhood that I saved and brought with me to Cornwall,” Jane said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she realized what was happening. “I would be more than happy to bring them to you on my next visit to the village, if you would like them.”
Miss Trevelyan smiled at her, the crease between her brows easing. “Thank you, Lady Penvale, that would be most welcome.”
Jane felt oddly… pleased. It was nice, she reflected, to feel as though she had something to offer someone. Something to contribute.
And, even though she could not bring herself to admit it, equally nice was the flash of a smile, bright and fleeting, that Penvale gave her over his shoulder before he turned back and inclined his head to whatever Miss Trevelyan was saying.
By the time they had deposited Miss Trevelyan—and her books—at her small cottage on the outskirts of the village, the sun had already passed overhead and was beginning its slow descent over the course of the afternoon. Penvale suggested they stop for luncheon, and Jane, wearied by the day’s activities so far—and the effort of keeping a somewhat pleasant expression on her face for so long—eagerly agreed.
“Would you like to use the private room, my lord?” the innkeeper asked upon their arrival at the village’s lone inn, a respectable, timbered establishment in the center of St. Anne’s. Jane saw Penvale hesitate—undoubtedly, he would prefer to mingle among the other patrons of the inn; after all, if the objective of this trip into the village was to see and be seen, there was little point in sequestering themselves in a private room to eat their meal. Jane was just mustering up the energy to attempt to look politely acquiescing when, with a glance at her, Penvale said, “Yes, please. A private room would be perfect.”
Jane didn’t say anything as they were led to a small room with windows facing out onto the bustling street before the inn, nor as the innkeeper departed with promises of ale (Penvale) and tea (Jane). It was only once they were alone again that Jane said—somewhat unenthusiastically—“We could have dined in the public room.”
Penvale ignored this half-hearted suggestion. Instead, he fixed herwith a steady look and said, with the air of a man who has made an important scientific discovery, “Jane. You’reshy.”
Instantly, Jane felt her cheeks warm. She glanced down at the wooden surface of the table, tracing the pattern of the grain with her index finger. “Congratulations,” she said. “Do you want some sort of prize for working out something so blindingly obvious?” Penvale grinned, opening his mouth to reply, but Jane wasn’t finished yet. “Of course I’m shy, any fool can see that. Have you truly only now realized it?”
Jane felt almost offended. Did he really pay her so little attention that it had taken him over a month of marriage to notice something so fundamental about her character?
Penvale was undeterred by her outburst. “I don’t think it’s as obvious as you think it is,” he said. “I personally just thought you were misanthropic.”
“Did you have to look that word up in the dictionary?” she asked him peevishly, trying her best not to be charmed when he let out a hoot of surprised laughter. The sound was nothing at all like what she would have expected to hear from him.
“I think people just think you’re unfriendly,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table as he spoke. “But I watched you today—I could practically see you squirming when you were trying to think of something to say, or when the attention of the group landed on you.” He laughed again, shaking his head. When he laughed, she noticed, the lines at the corners of his eyes, normally barely visible, deepened. She liked them and didn’t like that she liked them. “I can’t believe I’ve spent the last month thinking you hated me.”
“If you continue this conversation much longer, I promise you I will.”
He smiled at her. “I feel as though I should write to all of my friends and tell them not to worry.”
Jane frowned. “Were they worried?”
The innkeeper returned at this point to give Penvale his ale and Jane her pot of tea, and Penvale waited until they were alone to respond. “Now that they’ve all settled down to matrimonial bliss, they were exceedingly concerned by the terms of our arrangement.”
“Because ours was not a love match.”
