"The Harvest Festival is the most important social event of the year," Maisie expined as she vigorously brushed Rosalind's hair. "Everyone from the estate and surrounding farms gathers in the vilge square. There's music and dancing and food enough to feed an army."

  "And I'm expected to attend this rural bacchanal?" Rosalind asked, wincing as the brush caught on a particurly stubborn tangle. A month into her exile, her once-pampered tresses had grown wilder and less manageable, exposed daily to wind, sun, and the various substances endemic to farm work.

  "Mrs. Hawthorn says you're to help with the Thornfield dispy," Maisie confirmed. "Each household contributes something to show off their harvest—preserves or baked goods or handicrafts. We always have the rgest table, being the main estate."

  Rosalind stifled a groan. After nearly a month of constant bor, the prospect of a day spent serving as an estate representative at a country festival was distinctly unappealing. What she longed for was a day of uninterrupted rest, perhaps with a book borrowed from Thomas's impressive collection—she had already finished the agricultural history his father had lent her, finding it surprisingly engaging despite its technical nature.

  "What exactly would I be expected to do at this festival?" she asked, resigning herself to yet another trial in her ongoing rural education.

  "Mostly just stand by the Thornfield table and look pleasant," Maisie replied cheerfully. "Answer questions about the preserves and such. Maybe participate in some of the competitions if you're feeling brave."

  "Competitions?" Rosalind echoed warily.

  "Oh yes! There's apple bobbing for the children, of course, but also contests for grown folk. Best-preserved fruits, finest needlework, strongest arm for the men." Maisie's eyes twinkled as she added, "And the dancing competition in the evening. Everyone says Thomas Brookfield is sure to win again this year—he's the best dancer in three parishes."

  "Thomas? A dancer?" Rosalind couldn't hide her surprise. Somehow, the image of the practical farmer executing complex dance steps seemed incongruous with the man she had come to know.

  "Oh my, yes," Maisie nodded enthusiastically. "His mother taught music and dancing before she married his father. Gave lessons to all the local children for years. Thomas has a natural talent for it—even studied formal dancing during his time at the Agricultural College."

  This unexpected revetion added yet another yer to the increasingly complex portrait of Thomas Brookfield that had been forming in Rosalind's mind. Farmer, schor, poet, and now dancer? The man continued to defy categorization.

  "Well, I certainly won't be competing in any dancing contests," Rosalind decred firmly. "I've made enough of a spectacle of myself in this community without deliberately inviting public scrutiny."

  "That's a shame," Maisie said with a sigh. "You'd give the other girls some real competition. I've seen you move about the kitchen—you've got natural grace, even when you're trying to avoid the cook's hot pans."

  Rosalind smiled despite herself. "Court dancing and country reels are hardly comparable, Maisie. I'd be as lost attempting your local dances as you would be navigating a formal quadrille at an imperial ball."

  "Perhaps," Maisie conceded, securing Rosalind's now-smoothed hair into a practical braid. "Though I'd wager Thomas could teach you our dances quick enough. He's got patience for instruction, that one."

  Indeed he did, as Rosalind knew from experience. Over the past weeks, Thomas had continued his informal tutoring in various aspects of farm work, expanding from field tasks to include basic machinery maintenance, weather prediction, and even rudimentary animal husbandry. His teaching style was characterized by calm demonstration, clear expnation, and an unwavering belief that Rosalind was capable of mastering whatever skill he presented—a confidence that had, despite her initial resistance, begun to influence her own self-perception.

  "There," Maisie decred, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Not as fancy as you'd have had in the capital, I'm sure, but neat and practical for festival day."

  Rosalind examined her reflection in the small hand mirror. The braid was indeed neatly done, with a few wispy tendrils framing her face in a way that softened her features. Combined with the simple blue dress Agnes had altered for daily wear—her st remaining gown that hadn't been patched or stained beyond redemption—she presented a picture of modest country propriety that would have been unrecognizable to her former court companions.

  "You've done wonders with limited materials," she told Maisie sincerely. "Thank you."

  Maisie beamed at the compliment. "Mrs. Hawthorn wants you at the main house by seven tomorrow to help load the wagon for the festival. It starts at nine in the vilge square." She hesitated, then added with a shy smile, "I'm gd you're coming. It's more fun with friends."

  After the girl departed, Rosalind found herself lingering over the word "friends." Was that what she had become to Maisie and the other estate workers? Not Lady Rosalind Harrington, exiled noblewoman performing penance, but simply Rose, a young woman sharing in their daily work and social occasions?

  The thought was both discomfiting and oddly warming. In the capital, "friendship" had been rgely transactional—alliances formed for mutual social advantage, connections maintained for political expediency. The genuine affection evident in Maisie's parting comment operated under different rules entirely, rules Rosalind was only beginning to understand.

  "Agnes," she called to her maid, who was mending a tear in one of Rosalind's work dresses, "have you attended this Harvest Festival before?"

  "No, miss," Agnes replied, looking up from her stitching. "Last year we were still in the capital, if you recall."

  Rosalind sighed. "Of course. It seems like a lifetime ago." She paced the small cottage room, restless with the strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension the festival had inspired. "What does one wear to such an event? Maisie mentioned dancing, but also agricultural dispys and competitions..."

  "I believe your blue dress would be suitable," Agnes suggested. "Perhaps with your mother's pearl earrings? They're small enough to be appropriate for a country gathering but would add a touch of elegance."

  "My mother's pearls at a rural festival," Rosalind murmured, torn between amusement and mencholy at the incongruity. "She would be horrified."

  "The Duchess would understand the importance of appropriate presentation in any social context," Agnes replied diplomatically.

  Rosalind ughed, genuinely entertained by her maid's persistent formality even in these reduced circumstances. "Ever the loyal servant, Agnes. Yes, we shall maintain standards even at a country harvest celebration. The pearls it is."

  As she prepared for bed that night, Rosalind found her thoughts returning to Maisie's casual revetion about Thomas's dancing prowess. Why should the idea of him excelling in dance surprise her so? Had she still, despite all evidence to the contrary, been clinging to the stereotype of the country farmer as uncultured and physically ungainly?

  The memory of Thomas guiding her hands on the sickle, his movements precise and fluid, suggested otherwise. And hadn't she noted his natural grace even during that first meeting in the dairy? Perhaps what truly surprised her was not that Thomas could dance, but that their worlds might overp in yet another unexpected way.

  Court dancing had been one of the few social accomplishments at which Rosalind had genuinely excelled. Her natural coordination and sense of rhythm, combined with years of rigorous training from the capital's most demanding instructors, had made her a sought-after partner at imperial balls. It had been one of her strategies for capturing Prince Adrian's attention—ensuring she dispyed her dancing skills to best advantage whenever he was present.

  The thought of Prince Adrian sent an unexpected pang through her—not of longing or regret, but of something closer to embarrassment. How childish her pursuit of him seemed now, how artificial the emotions she had convinced herself she felt. Had she ever truly known him as a person, rather than as a symbol of the status and power she coveted?

  Pushing these unsettling reflections aside, Rosalind extinguished her candle and settled into her now-familiar bed, its once-offensive roughness having gradually transformed into a welcome comfort after days of physical bor. Tomorrow would bring yet another new experience in her ongoing rural education. Best to face it with at least a few hours of sleep.

  The vilge of Thornfield proper y approximately two miles from the estate, a collection of stone cottages, modest shops, and community buildings clustered around a central square. Rosalind had passed through it briefly on her journey from the capital but had not returned since, her duties keeping her confined to the estate and its immediate surroundings.

  On festival morning, she found herself loaded into a wagon along with Mrs. Hawthorn, Mrs. Bennett, Maisie, and several other estate workers, perched somewhat precariously among baskets of preserved fruits, freshly baked goods, and various agricultural products destined for the Thornfield dispy. The blue dress and pearl earrings had indeed proved a suitable compromise between practicality and dignity, though Rosalind felt a flutter of self-consciousness as they approached the already-bustling vilge square.

  "Remember," Mrs. Hawthorn instructed as the wagon slowed, "you represent Thornfield today. I expect appropriate behavior."

  "I shall endeavor not to disgrace the estate's reputation," Rosalind replied, unable to resist a touch of irony. "Though I make no promises about the apple bobbing competition."

  To her surprise, Mrs. Hawthorn's stern mouth twitched in what might almost have been a smile. "Your father warned me about that sharp tongue. It's good to see some things remain constant despite changed circumstances."

  Before Rosalind could process this unexpected glimpse into communications between her father and Mrs. Hawthorn, they had arrived at the square, and the bustle of unloading the wagon consumed everyone's attention.

  The vilge center had been transformed for the occasion. Colorful banners hung between buildings, trestle tables den with produce and crafts lined the perimeter, and a wooden ptform had been erected at one end for music and announcements. Vilgers in their best clothes mingled with farm families from the surrounding countryside, creating a lively tapestry of conversation and ughter.

  "Rose!" called a familiar voice, and Rosalind turned to find Martha from the dairy waving enthusiastically from a nearby cheese dispy. "Come see what we've brought! Our new sage cheddar won a ribbon st year, and this year's batch is even better!"

  Thus began Rosalind's immersion in the Harvest Festival—a whirlwind of introductions, expnations, and an overwhelming array of sights, sounds, and smells. She was shuttled between dispys, instructed in the finer points of various competitions, and introduced to what felt like every resident of the surrounding ten miles.

  "Lady Rosalind," whispered an elderly woman with bright eyes and a mischievous smile, pulling her aside near the preserves table. "I knew your grandmother, you know. Same green eyes. She had a sharp wit too—reduced my te husband to stammers when he mismanaged the eastern grazing nds."

  "You knew my grandmother?" Rosalind asked, startled by this unexpected connection.

  "Old Lady Harrington visited the estates regurly, not just sent stewards like most nobles these days," the woman nodded. "Understood that nd needs a personal touch. You have her look about you, especially now you've got some sun on your face instead of that capital pallor."

  Before Rosalind could inquire further, they were interrupted by the arrival of the Brookfield family wagon, Thomas at the reins with his parents and several farm hands seated behind him amid their own impressive dispy contributions.

  "Thomas won't have time to chat until the machinery demonstration is complete," Martha informed Rosalind with a knowing smile. "He's showing the new threshing design to the regional agricultural committee. Quite the honor for someone his age."

  Throughout the morning, Rosalind caught only glimpses of Thomas as he moved purposefully through the festival, alternately expining mechanical principles to serious-looking men with notebooks, helping arrange the Brookfield dispy, and occasionally entertaining groups of children with impromptu demonstrations of simple farm tools adapted to their size and strength.

  It was yet another side of him—the community leader, respected despite his youth for his knowledge and willingness to share it. Rosalind found herself watching his easy interactions with people of all ages and stations, noting how he adjusted his approach for each group without condescension or impatience.

  "He'll make an excellent teacher when the agricultural school is established," commented Mrs. Brookfield, appearing suddenly at Rosalind's side with a basket of freshly baked bread. "If we can ever convince the regional governor to allocate the funds."

  "Agricultural school?" Rosalind inquired, accepting a warm roll from the basket.

  "Thomas's pet project," Mrs. Brookfield expined with maternal pride. "He wants to establish a training center where modern farming techniques can be taught to local youth. Has all the pns drawn up—curriculum, building designs, equipment needs."

  "That sounds...ambitious," Rosalind observed, impressed despite herself.

  "That's my son," Mrs. Brookfield agreed with a smile. "Always looking beyond the immediate horizon. The governor's office cims there's no budget for such 'luxuries' in rural education, but Thomas keeps revising his proposal, looking for ways to make it more economically appealing."

  The casual mention of governmental budget allocations and educational policy sparked something in Rosalind's mind—a connection to her previous life, where such matters had been regur topics of dinner conversation at her father's table. The Duke of Harrington's influence extended into numerous aspects of imperial administration, including regional development funds.

  "Perhaps..." she began, then stopped herself. What was she thinking? That she might leverage her family connections to support Thomas's project? Such an offer would be both presumptuous and potentially hollow, given her current estranged status.

  "Perhaps what, dear?" Mrs. Brookfield prompted.

  "Nothing," Rosalind shook her head. "Just a passing thought. The bread is delicious, by the way."

  Mrs. Brookfield studied her for a moment longer than was comfortable before changing the subject. "Will you be staying for the evening festivities? The dancing doesn't start until after the judging concludes."

  "I'm not sure," Rosalind replied honestly. "I'm here at Mrs. Hawthorn's direction, and she hasn't mentioned evening pns."

  "Well, I hope you do stay," Mrs. Brookfield said warmly. "It's the best part of the festival—when all the work is done and everyone can simply enjoy themselves."

  As the older woman moved on to distribute more bread, Rosalind found herself genuinely torn about the prospect of the evening dance. Part of her was undeniably curious to see Thomas in this new context—the accimed dancer rather than the practical farmer. Yet another part was apprehensive about her own pce in such festivities. Would she be expected to participate? To partner with local men? The thought made her unaccountably nervous, though she had danced with countless partners at imperial balls without a second thought.

  The midday meal was a community affair, with long tables set up in the square where festival-goers shared food and conversation. Rosalind found herself seated between Mrs. Bennett and Old Willem, listening to the tter's colorful recounting of harvest festivals from decades past.

  "The dancing was wilder in those days," he insisted, gesturing broadly with a piece of bread. "None of these refined country reels they do now. We had proper stomping dances that would shake the very ground beneath your feet!"

  "You only say that because your memory improves everything from your youth," Mrs. Bennett countered good-naturedly. "Next you'll be telling us the sun shone brighter and the wheat grew taller back then too."

  "Well, it did!" Willem decred, to general ughter from those within earshot.

  Rosalind found herself smiling, caught up in the easy camaraderie of the gathering. There was something refreshingly direct about these interactions—no hidden agendas, no carefully calcuted social maneuvers, just the simple pleasure of shared food and conversation.

  After the meal came the formal competitions, beginning with the judging of preserved foods and baked goods. Mrs. Bennett's bckberry preserves earned a blue ribbon, bringing honor to the Thornfield estate and putting the cook in such good spirits that she distributed extra pastries to everyone at their table.

  The craft competitions followed, with dispys of needlework, woodcarving, and practical innovations designed to improve farm efficiency. To Rosalind's surprise, Thomas's father took top honors in the woodworking category with an intricately carved set of storage boxes designed for seed organization.

  "The decoration was my contribution," Thomas expined when he finally joined her briefly at the Thornfield dispy. "Father's designs are always perfectly functional, but I convinced him that adding the carved wheat motif might appeal to the judges' artistic sensibilities."

  "A successful colboration, it seems," Rosalind observed, noting the proud way Mr. Brookfield dispyed his ribbon. "I didn't realize woodworking was among your family's talents."

  "Winter evenings are long in the countryside," Thomas replied with a smile. "Most farm families have some craft they practice during the quiet season. Father taught me carving when I was barely old enough to hold a knife, though I've never achieved his level of skill."

  "Yet another hidden depth to the Brookfield dynasty," Rosalind remarked, falling into their usual pattern of light banter. "Is there anything your family doesn't excel at?"

  "Singing," Thomas said promptly. "We're universally terrible. Tone-deaf to a person. It's quite tragic at family gatherings."

  Rosalind ughed, genuinely entertained by this admission of imperfection. "How devastating. And here I'd begun to think you were fwless in all rural accomplishments."

  "Far from it," Thomas assured her with a grin. "I'm also a hopeless fisherman. No patience for it whatsoever. And my attempts at poetry would make Wordsworth weep with despair."

  This easy self-deprecation was yet another quality that set Thomas apart from the men of Rosalind's previous acquaintance. Court gentlemen would sooner die than admit to any ck of skill, particurly to a dy they wished to impress. Even Prince Adrian, generally considered modest by royal standards, had been carefully coached to dispy only his strengths in public settings.

  "Will you be staying for the dancing?" Thomas asked, echoing his mother's earlier question.

  "I haven't decided," Rosalind replied, suddenly very interested in arranging a dispy of apples that didn't actually need rearranging. "It depends on Mrs. Hawthorn's pns for the estate contingent."

  "I see," Thomas nodded, his expression unreadable. "Well, should you decide to stay, I'd be honored if you'd save me a dance."

  Before Rosalind could formute a response, he was called away to assist with preparations for the strength competition, leaving her with a strange flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with the exertions of the day.

  As the afternoon progressed into early evening, Mrs. Hawthorn approached with unexpected news. "The cart is returning to the estate with the elderly workers and children," she informed Rosalind. "The rest of us will stay for the evening festivities and walk back ter. You may join either group, as you prefer."

  The choice was clear: return to the quiet cottage for an early night, or remain for the dancing that was clearly the highlight of the festival calendar. Prudence suggested the former, but curiosity—and something else she wasn't quite ready to examine—urged the tter.

  "I'll stay," Rosalind decided, surprising herself with the immediacy of her response. "If that's acceptable."

  "Entirely acceptable," Mrs. Hawthorn replied with a knowing look that Rosalind chose to ignore. "The dancing begins after the final judging. Light refreshments will be served."

  As the day's competitions concluded and twilight began to settle over the vilge square, a transformation occurred. Lanterns were hung from posts around the periphery, casting a warm golden glow over the gathering. The judging tables were cleared away, creating an open space in the center of the square. A small group of musicians took their pces on the wooden ptform—two fiddlers, a futist, a man with a hand drum, and another with a stringed instrument Rosalind didn't immediately recognize.

  "That's a dulcimer," Maisie expined, following her gaze as they stood at the edge of the rapidly forming crowd. "Old Fergus made it himself. Been pying at harvest festivals for forty years, so they say."

  The musicians began a lively tune, and within moments, couples were forming for the first dance—a circle formation that seemed to involve complex patterns of advancing, retreating, and partner exchanges. Rosalind watched carefully, noting the steps and trying to discern the underlying structure of the dance.

  "It's not so different from your court dances," came Thomas's voice beside her, making her start slightly. "The same principles of pattern and bance, just with more... enthusiasm."

  He had changed for the evening, she noticed, into a clean white shirt and dark trousers, with a blue vest that brought out the color of his eyes. His dark hair was neatly combed, though a rebellious lock had already fallen across his forehead in the familiar way that Rosalind had come to find oddly endearing.

  "I'm told you're quite the accomplished dancer," she said, hoping her voice sounded more casual than she felt.

  "Exaggerated rural legend," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "I merely have the advantage of height and a mother who insisted I learn properly."

  "False modesty doesn't suit you, Mr. Brookfield," Rosalind countered, falling back on courtly formality to mask her uncharacteristic nervousness. "Maisie informs me you've won the dancing competition for several years running."

  "Maisie talks too much," Thomas observed good-naturedly. "But yes, I've had some success in our local contests. Nothing that would impress the imperial ballrooms, I'm sure."

  "You might be surprised," Rosalind murmured, watching as the current dance concluded with a flourish of fiddle music and ughing couples.

  The musicians paused only briefly before striking up a new tune—slower and more melodic than the first.

  "This is the Harvest Waltz," Thomas expined. "A local tradition. Simpler than the circle dances, just a basic waltz step with a few regional flourishes." He hesitated, then extended his hand. "Would you do me the honor?"

  Rosalind looked at his offered hand—strong, tanned, calloused from years of physical bor, yet undeniably graceful in its movements. Dancing with Thomas would cross yet another invisible line in her gradually shifting understanding of her pce in this community. No longer merely working alongside him or conversing at his family's dinner table, but engaging in a social activity that, despite its rustic setting, carried its own set of implications and observations.

  "I should warn you," she said, pcing her hand in his with a decisiveness that surprised her, "I was considered quite proficient at court dancing. Your reputation may be at risk."

  His fingers closed around hers with gentle firmness. "I'll take my chances," he replied, leading her toward the center of the square where other couples were already forming.

  The basic waltz position was familiar enough—his right hand at her waist, her left on his shoulder, their other hands csped at shoulder height. What was unfamiliar was the immediacy of the contact, the ck of the formal distance maintained in court dancing. Country dancers stood closer, their movements more connected to their partners and the music itself rather than to rigid protocols of etiquette.

  "Follow my lead for the first pass," Thomas suggested as the music's introduction concluded. "Then you'll have the pattern."

  As they began to move, Rosalind's body remembered the fundamental waltz step instantly—one-two-three, one-two-three—but with subtle differences in emphasis and weight distribution that gave the country version its distinctive character. Thomas led with confidence but without force, his movements telegraphing each turn and variation with enough crity that she found herself adapting almost instinctively.

  "You dance well," he observed after they had completed a circuit of the square. "Though differently than we do here."

  "How so?" Rosalind asked, genuinely curious about how her court training manifested to his experienced eye.

  "More precision, less abandon," he replied thoughtfully. "Perfect technique but somewhat contained. As if you're always aware of being observed."

  It was another of his uncomfortably accurate insights. Court dancing was indeed performed with constant awareness of critical eyes—every step, every gesture an opportunity for either admiration or censure from the assembled nobility.

  "At court, one is always observed," she acknowledged, allowing him to guide her through a slightly more complex sequence as the music built toward its middle section. "Dancing is as much about dispy as enjoyment."

  "That sounds exhausting," Thomas commented, executing a turn that momentarily brought them closer together before the pattern separated them again. "Here, dancing is about connection—to your partner, to the music, to the community sharing the experience."

  As if to illustrate his point, the dance pattern shifted, requiring them to briefly join a four-person circle with another couple before returning to their paired formation. Throughout the transition, Thomas's hand remained steady at her waist, his guidance clear but unobtrusive.

  "I'm beginning to see the appeal," Rosalind admitted as they resumed their original pattern. The music had infected her movements now, allowing her to anticipate the rhythmic flourishes that distinguished the country waltz from its more formal cousin.

  "You're a natural," Thomas said with evident approval as she executed a particurly complex turn without hesitation. "You feel the music rather than simply counting the beats."

  The simple compliment warmed her more than it should have. "I've always enjoyed dancing," she confessed. "Even at court, when it was weighed down with social significance, there was still the simple pleasure of movement in harmony with music."

  "And with your partner?" Thomas asked, his blue eyes meeting hers directly.

  "That depended entirely on the partner," Rosalind replied, suddenly very aware of his hand at her waist, strong and supportive yet light as a summer breeze.

  The music built toward its finale, and Thomas guided her through a series of increasingly intricate turns that somehow remained perfectly banced despite their growing complexity. Rosalind found herself responding instinctively to his lead, their movements synchronizing with a harmony that seemed to transcend their brief acquaintance.

  As the final notes sounded, tradition apparently dictated a concluding pose—Thomas dipping her slightly backward in a move that would have been considered scandalously intimate in court circles but here was met with appreciative appuse from nearby dancers.

  "Well done!" called Mrs. Brookfield from the edge of the dance area, cpping enthusiastically. "Rose, you dance beautifully!"

  Restored to an upright position and somewhat flushed from both the exertion and the unusual proximity, Rosalind found herself genuinely pleased by the approval. "Your son is an excellent teacher," she replied, stepping back to a more comfortable distance as the musicians prepared for the next selection.

  "Years of practice with reluctant partners," Thomas expined with a grin. "My sister was particurly challenging—convinced she had two left feet until age fifteen."

  The next dance was announced—a livelier number requiring groups of six—and Thomas was immediately cimed by a group of vilge children who clearly considered him their preferred partner for this particur formation.

  "You must come join us!" insisted a small girl with braids, tugging at Rosalind's hand. "We need one more grown-up for our circle!"

  Before she could demur, Rosalind found herself swept into the children's group, with Thomas providing hasty instructions as the music began. What followed was a chaotic but joyful experience—the children's enthusiasm compensating for their sometimes erratic execution of the steps, and Thomas's steady presence anchoring the circle through its various configurations.

  By the end of the dance, Rosalind was ughing openly, her hair escaping its careful braid and her cheeks flushed with exertion and genuine enjoyment. The children dispersed with cheerful thanks, already pnning their next dance formation, leaving her momentarily alone with Thomas in the swirl of festival-goers.

  "I believe we've created a convert to country dancing," he observed, his own face alight with pleasure. "Unless I'm mistaken, that was actual enjoyment showing on the face of Lady Rosalind Harrington."

  "You're mistaken," she countered, trying and failing to maintain a serious expression. "That was merely polite tolerance for local customs. Any apparent enjoyment was an illusion created by the fttering ntern light."

  "Of course," Thomas agreed solemnly, though his eyes danced with suppressed mirth. "Far be it from me to suggest that a noble dy might genuinely enjoy rustic entertainments."

  The evening continued in this vein—Rosalind participating in various dances, sometimes with Thomas, sometimes with other partners, gradually learning the patterns and rhythms of country celebrations. She danced with Old Willem, who despite his years retained a surprising sprightliness; with the vilge bcksmith, whose massive hands proved unexpectedly delicate in the intricate figures; even with the vicar, who executed the steps with mathematical precision while providing a running commentary on their historical origins.

  Between dances, she found herself drawn into conversations with vilgers and farmers who, perhaps loosened by the festive atmosphere, spoke to her with increasing openness about their lives, concerns, and aspirations. She learned about the married couple who created intricate wood carvings during the winter months, selling them to merchants from the capital; the young widow raising three children while managing a small orchard inherited from her husband; the elderly sisters who supplied medicinal herbs to communities throughout the region.

  These were not the faceless "common folk" of her previous understanding, but individuals with complex lives, skills, and dreams—people who, while cking the political influence and material luxuries of the nobility, possessed their own forms of richness and purpose.

  "Penny for your thoughts," Thomas said, joining her at a quiet corner of the square where she had retreated briefly to rest between dances. He offered a cup of the spiced cider being served from rge barrels at the refreshment table.

  "I'm not sure they're worth even that much," Rosalind replied, accepting the drink gratefully. "Just... observations."

  "About?" he prompted, settling beside her on the wooden bench that offered a comprehensive view of the continuing festivities.

  Rosalind considered how to articute the shifts occurring in her understanding. "About how little I really knew of the world despite my supposedly excellent education," she admitted finally. "In the capital, 'the people' was an abstract concept discussed in political terms—tax bases and bor sources and voting blocks. Not... individuals with names and stories."

  Thomas nodded, his expression thoughtful rather than triumphant at this acknowledgment. "It's a common blindness among the ruling csses. Not necessarily malicious, just... structural. The systems are designed to create distance."

  "Is that your Agricultural College education speaking?" Rosalind asked with a small smile.

  "More my own observation," he replied. "Though we did have one professor who insisted on discussing the social dimensions of agricultural policy. He was considered quite radical."

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment, watching as the dancers formed new patterns under the golden ntern light.

  "The dancing competition will begin soon," Thomas remarked casually. "It's the traditional conclusion to the festival."

  "Will you defend your title?" Rosalind inquired, recalling Maisie's earlier prediction of his certain victory.

  "I generally participate," he acknowledged with characteristic modesty. "It pleases my mother."

  "What does the competition entail, exactly?"

  "Couples demonstrate their skill in three traditional dances chosen by the judges," Thomas expined. "They're evaluated on technique, harmony, and interpretation of the music. It's less formal than it sounds—mostly an excuse for showing off and friendly competition."

  "And your partner?" Rosalind asked, immediately regretting the question that revealed more interest than she'd intended to dispy.

  Thomas hesitated, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sent an unexpected warmth through her despite the cool evening air. "I was hoping," he said carefully, "that you might consider the position."

  The request should not have surprised her—they had already danced together several times that evening with evident compatibility—yet it carried implications that extended beyond simple festival participation.

  "I'm hardly qualified," she protested, though without real conviction. "I just learned these dances tonight."

  "You're a natural dancer with years of formal training," Thomas countered reasonably. "And you learn more quickly than anyone I've ever taught." His expression grew more serious. "Unless, of course, you'd rather not be so publicly associated with a farmer, even in a festival setting."

  The suggestion that pride might motivate her reluctance stung, particurly because there was a grain of truth in it. Despite her genuine enjoyment of the evening, some small part of her still maintained the mental distinction between herself and the community around her—the invisible barrier between Lady Rosalind Harrington and the country folk she was temporarily living among.

  "That's not it," she insisted, though perhaps with less certainty than she might have wished.

  "Then what?" Thomas asked simply.

  What indeed? Fear of making a spectacle of herself? Hardly a compelling concern after weeks of public agricultural failures far more humiliating than any dance misstep could be. Concern about social propriety? A quaint notion given her current circumstances. The truth, she realized with a jolt of crity, was both simpler and more complicated: dancing with Thomas in a formal competition would be an acknowledgment of connection, of willing participation in community life rather than mere tolerance of her exiled state.

  "I accept," she said before she could overthink the decision. "Though I warn you, I may inadvertently introduce court variations that scandalize the judges."

  Thomas's face broke into a genuine smile—not the restrained half-smile that was his usual expression, but an unguarded dispy of pleasure that transformed his features and caused that now-familiar flutter in Rosalind's chest.

  "I'll risk the scandal," he assured her, standing and offering his hand with formal courtesy that somehow avoided mockery. "They're assembling the competitors now."

  The dancing competition, it transpired, was a significant event in the festival calendar. A panel of three judges—the vicar, an elegant older woman introduced as a former regional dance champion, and the vilge schoolmaster—took their pces at a specially designated table. The musicians prepared more eborate versions of traditional tunes, and the gathered crowd formed an expectant circle around the cleared central space.

  Six couples had entered the competition, each representing different parts of the community—the bcksmith and his wife, two teachers from neighboring vilges, a pair of siblings known for their theatrical performances at regional fairs, a young couple recently betrothed, an elderly couple celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary, and now Thomas and Rosalind.

  "The Thornfield-Brookfield alliance," murmured one spectator just within earshot as they took their pces. "That's a partnership with potential beyond dancing, if you ask me."

  Rosalind pretended not to hear, focusing instead on Thomas's quiet instructions regarding the first dance selection—a stately processional that apparently dated back to the region's founding.

  "Follow the music more than the strict steps," he advised as the other couples arranged themselves in the starting formation. "This one is about dignity and connection to tradition. The judges value personal interpretation within the cssical framework."

  The music began—a hauntingly beautiful melody carried primarily by the flute, with subtle string accompaniment that seemed to echo ancient ceremonies. The couples moved through the pattern with deliberate grace, each bringing their own character to the traditional steps.

  The bcksmith and his wife danced with surprising delicacy given their robust builds; the sibling performers added theatrical flourishes that pushed the boundaries of tradition; the elderly couple moved with the perfect synchronicity that comes only from decades of partnership.

  Thomas led with quiet confidence, his hand at Rosalind's waist providing subtle guidance while allowing her the freedom to interpret the music in her own way. She found herself drawing on her court training for precision while incorporating the more grounded, connected quality of the country style she had observed throughout the evening.

  "Perfect," Thomas murmured as they completed a particurly complex turn. "You're finding the bance."

  The second dance selection proved more challenging—a rapid, intricate pattern that required precise coordination between partners through a series of separations and reunions. Here, Rosalind's years of technical training proved advantageous, allowing her to grasp the complex sequence quickly while maintaining the musical connection that distinguished superior dancers from merely competent ones.

  Thomas matched her step for step, anticipating her movements with an intuition that belied their brief acquaintance. Together they wove through the pattern with a harmony that felt both carefully practiced and spontaneously joyful—a combination that drew appreciative murmurs from the watching crowd.

  "They move like they've been dancing together for years," Rosalind overheard someone comment as the second piece concluded. "The city girl's got unexpected talent for our country ways."

  The final selection was announced—the traditional Harvest Home dance, a celebration of successful gathering and community abundance that incorporated elements from all the evening's previous dances into one culminating expression of regional identity.

  "This is the one that matters most to the judges," Thomas informed her during the brief pause while the musicians prepared. "It's meant to tell a story—the cycle of pnting, growing, harvesting, and celebrating. Each section has its own character."

  The music began softly, evoking the tentative awakening of spring, and the dancers moved accordingly—careful, hopeful steps that suggested seeds being sown and early growth nurtured. Thomas guided Rosalind through gestures unique to this dance, his movements both instructive and naturally integrated into the performance.

  As the music built in complexity and vigor, representing summer growth and approaching harvest, the dance pattern expanded, incorporating broader movements and more intricate exchanges between partners. Rosalind found herself fully immersed in the narrative the dance conveyed, her body responding to both the music and Thomas's lead with an intuitive understanding that transcended her brief exposure to these traditions.

  The final section—the harvest celebration itself—exploded into joyous, energetic patterns that required both precision and abandoned enthusiasm. Couples spun, separated, reunited, and engaged in friendly competition through increasingly eborate variations on the basic steps.

  Thomas and Rosalind moved as if they shared a single consciousness, their steps perfectly aligned yet individually expressive, technical precision enhanced rather than constrained by the evident pleasure they took in the dance itself. When the music reached its climactic finale, Thomas executed a traditional lift that sent Rosalind briefly airborne before returning her to earth in a concluding pose that perfectly captured the dance's spirit of celebration and partnership.

  Breathless and flushed with exertion and excitement, Rosalind found herself smiling unreservedly as appuse erupted from the watching crowd. Thomas's hands remained at her waist a moment longer than strictly necessary, his own face alight with a combination of physical exhiration and something deeper that made her heart beat even faster than the vigorous dance had.

  "That," he said simply, "was magnificent."

  Before she could respond, they were surrounded by well-wishers offering congratutions and commentary on their performance. Mrs. Brookfield embraced her son proudly before turning to Rosalind with equal warmth.

  "You dance as if born to our traditions," she decred, csping Rosalind's hands in her own. "I've never seen Thomas better partnered."

  "The credit belongs to your son's excellent guidance," Rosalind demurred, though she couldn't suppress her pleasure at the genuine compliment. "I merely followed his lead."

  "You did considerably more than that," Thomas countered, rejoining her after accepting congratutions from several elderly vilgers. "You brought your own interpretive skill to dances you'd never performed before. That's remarkable by any standard."

  The judges conferred at their table, creating a ripple of anticipation through the crowd. After what seemed an interminable discussion, the vicar stood to announce their decision.

  "The judges have evaluated all performances with careful consideration of technique, harmony, and interpretation," he began formally. "All couples demonstrated admirable skill and understanding of our traditional dances."

  A diplomatic preamble, Rosalind recognized, simir to the carefully crafted speeches that preceded award announcements at imperial court functions. Some rituals, it seemed, transcended social boundaries.

  "The couple demonstrating the most outstanding combination of technical precision, partner harmony, and musical interpretation," the vicar continued, building anticipation with practiced skill, "and thereby winning this year's Harvest Festival Dance Competition... Thomas Brookfield and Rose Harrington!"

  The crowd erupted in approving appuse, with several particurly enthusiastic supporters—including, Rosalind noted with amusement, Mrs. Hawthorn—adding vocal expressions of approval. As Thomas led her forward to receive the simple urel wreaths that symbolized their victory, Rosalind experienced a surge of genuine pride utterly different from the calcuted satisfaction of court achievements.

  This victory carried no political advantage, no advancement of family position, no strategic value whatsoever—yet somehow it felt more meaningful than any of the carefully orchestrated "successes" she had accumuted in her previous life. Perhaps because it was earned through actual skill and genuine connection rather than social maneuvering; perhaps because the approval it garnered was straightforward appreciation rather than calcuted alliance-building; or perhaps, she admitted to herself as Thomas pced the woven urel carefully on her brow, because she had shared it with someone who valued her participation for itself rather than for what advantage it might bring him.

  "As is tradition," announced the vicar with evident enjoyment, "our victorious couple will now lead the final dance of the evening—the Friendship Circle!"

  This proved to be a rge formation that eventually incorporated every festival attendee into concentric rings of dancers, alternating between pattern movements and spontaneous expressions of community celebration. Standing beside Thomas at the center, instructing newcomers and demonstrating the basic steps, Rosalind found herself fully integrated into the festival spirit, her usual self-consciousness dissolved in the collective joy of the gathering.

  When the final notes sounded and the st steps were completed, a curious sensation swept through her—a feeling of belonging that had nothing to do with title or station and everything to do with shared experience and genuine connection. For perhaps the first time since her arrival at Thornfield, Rosalind felt not like an exile performing penance, but like a participant in a community with its own forms of richness and meaning.

  "Traditionally, the winning dance partners close the festival by lighting the thanksgiving ntern," Thomas expined as the crowd began to disperse, many stopping to offer final congratutions as they passed. "It's meant to carry the festival's light through the darker seasons ahead."

  He led her to where an eborate paper ntern waited on a special stand—rger and more ornate than those that had illuminated the evening's festivities, decorated with symbols of harvest abundance and community unity.

  "Together," he instructed, offering her one end of a long taper that had been lit from the main festival fire. "We touch the fme to each of the four sides, representing the cardinal directions and the spread of prosperity throughout the region."

  The simple ceremony carried an unexpected weight of meaning as they moved around the ntern, touching fme to wick in the pattern Thomas described. As the ntern glowed from within, casting intricate shadows of its decorative cutouts onto the surrounding ground, a murmur of appreciation rose from the remaining festival-goers.

  "May the light of successful harvest illuminate our community through the coming seasons," Thomas recited, the formal words clearly part of long tradition. "And may we gather again next year in health and abundance."

  "In health and abundance," echoed the watching vilgers, their faces golden in the ntern light.

  As the gathering dispersed into the night, small groups making their way home by ntern light and starshine, Rosalind found herself walking beside Thomas toward where Mrs. Hawthorn was organizing the Thornfield contingent for their return journey to the estate.

  "Thank you," she said quietly, "for asking me to be your partner. I enjoyed it far more than I expected to."

  "High praise indeed," Thomas replied with a smile, though his eyes remained serious. "I hope you're beginning to see that joy can be found in unexpected pces—even in an enforced exile from the glittering capital."

  The observation was typically perceptive, cutting to the heart of the subtle transformation occurring within her. Before she could formute a response that acknowledged without overstating this shift in perspective, Mrs. Hawthorn approached.

  "There you are, Rose. We're gathering to return to the estate." She nodded respectfully to Thomas. "Mr. Brookfield, congratutions on your victory. Rose performed admirably for someone new to our traditions."

  "She was exceptional," Thomas corrected gently. "A natural talent for the true spirit of country dancing."

  Mrs. Hawthorn's expression softened fractionally. "Indeed. Well, we should be on our way. The morning's duties will arrive as early as ever, festival or no."

  With a nod of acknowledgment, Thomas turned back to Rosalind. "May I call at the cottage tomorrow?" he asked with uncharacteristic formality. "There's a matter I'd like to discuss."

  Curious about both his request and his suddenly more serious demeanor, Rosalind nodded. "Of course. I believe I'm assigned to the stillroom in the morning, but I'm free after the midday meal."

  "Until tomorrow, then." He took her hand briefly, the contact warm and somehow both casual and significant. "Thank you again for being my partner. It was..." he paused, searching for the right word, "illuminating."

  As she walked back to Thornfield with the estate group, their way lit by nterns and the nearly full moon, Rosalind found herself revisiting the events of the day with a sense of wonder at her own transformation. She had entered the festival as an observer, detached and slightly condescending despite her best intentions. She had departed as a participant, connected to the community through shared experience and, most surprisingly, genuine enjoyment.

  The urel wreath still rested on her brow—a simple token of victory in a country competition that would have seemed ughably inconsequential to the Rosalind of two months ago. Now, it represented something far more significant: an acceptance of connection, of community, of the possibility that meaning and joy might be found in pces and experiences she had previously dismissed as beneath her notice.

  As the cottage came into view, its modest outlines silvered by moonlight, Rosalind realized with a start that she was returning not with a sense of imprisonment, but with something closer to homecoming. Not because the small dwelling had suddenly transformed into her idea of suitable accommodation, but because her own understanding of what constituted home had begun to expand beyond marble halls and silk hangings to include the warmth of connection and the satisfaction of genuine accomplishment.

  Thomas's words echoed in her mind: "Joy can be found in unexpected pces." Perhaps, she reflected as she carefully removed the urel wreath and pced it on her small bedside table, the most unexpected pce of all was within herself—in the person she was becoming through this strange, challenging, increasingly meaningful exile.