A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “Entonces, we talk to plants now?” Martha asked in her Spanish-accented English.

  “No.”

  “It sounded like you were talking to them.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “No problem if you were.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  He resolutely ignored her and focused on the orchids. She didn’t go away.

  “Congratulations on your marriage,” Martha finally said. “Very unexpected.”

  “Any news?” Rafe countered.

  He glanced up to see Martha’s face break into a grin

  “Great news,” she said. “The blacksmith’s mother-in-law came to live with him and she suffers terribly from rheumatism. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Forgive me if I do not share your enthusiasm over others’ suffering.”

  “I mean, it’s wonderful that she agreed to try my new ganja medicine, and it eases her pain and stiffness considerably. Unfortunately, it also makes her sing, which sets the dogs howling.”

  “Eh. Every medicine has a side effect.”

  “And the blacksmith said the new Malay liniment relieves the tightness in his scars, so you must try it on yours too.” Martha pinched off the tip of an orchid leaf, crushed it between her fingers, sniffed it, and tentatively tasted it. “How fortuitous that I have two of you to experiment on.”

  “And how fortuitous we both suffered for your convenience.”

  She flicked the crushed leaf into the nearest pot and sampled another one. “What are your new wife’s medical ailments? It would be marvelous if she suffers great pain during menses!”

  “Would it.”

  “Not marvelous for her, claro, but marvelous for me. No importa. She can test the bhang anyway.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve changed the recipe. It’s still mostly ganja, with a bit of opium, but I added—”

  “Not for the countess.”

  “It’s perfectly safe, although I cannot remove the intoxicating effects. Sally and I tried it. I need more people for testing.”

  “I’d rather she didn’t know what we do.”

  The last thing Rafe needed was Thea spreading more muddled stories about his and Martha’s medicine-making activities, which would only exacerbate the outlandish rumors. When it came time to sell the medicines, they would use only Martha’s name; it would be better to hide Rafe’s involvement—a difficult ask, given people’s insufferable interest in an earl’s affairs.

  “I’ll test it again,” he said.

  “Not you.” Martha sampled another leaf. “It is not good for your little problem.”

  “What little problem?”

  “I can suggest a herb for that problem.”

  “What blasted problem?”

  “The problem that makes you put your bride’s bedroom far from your own.”

  Rafe shot Martha a quelling look. “That is not a medical problem.”

  “If you’re having trouble.”

  “No trouble.”

  “Most men at some stage—”

  “Not me.”

  Trouble? Him? With Thea? The only trouble he had was remembering that he couldn’t touch her because she was not his wife and never would be.

  “Bueno.” Martha reached for another leaf. “But you should be happy with your pretty bride.”

  “And will you stop eating my orchids?” Rafe swooped the pot away from her. “They aren’t for you to make medicine from.”

  “Ah, that’s what they are. Orchids. Pretty but useless.” She followed Rafe as he positioned the transplanted orchids in those parts of the greenhouse where they were most likely to survive. “They say orchids get good prices in America,” Martha continued. “Sell them, get money so we can finally start our business.”

  “I’m not selling them to yet another bumblehead who’ll kill them with ignorance.”

  Rafe turned to head back to the work area, but Martha blocked the way, hands on hips.

  “I came with you from Peru to this cold, damp country to find a safe home and make new medicines, but still you say we have not enough capital to make bigger my laboratory and start a business, and every day I get nothing but more gray hairs. You go away with promises, and return with only pretty but useless plants and a pretty but useless wife.”

  “She’s not useless.”

  “I cannot use her for my experiments. Entonces, she is useless.”

  “That marriage got me ten thousand pounds.”

  “Ten thousand pounds of what? Oh. Ten thousand pounds.” Martha cocked her head. “That’s a lot of money, sí?”

  “Sí.” This time, she let him past, and he returned to the work area to wash. “Plan your new laboratory, Martha. As big as you want, with several assistants and whatever equipment you need. Those plants you wanted will arrive in Bristol soon, and more are on the way, and before long, your medicines will follow.”

  He dried his hands and studied the rows of plants, most chosen for their medicinal properties, their value derived from Martha’s willingness to provide her knowledge. To think: All those years Rafe had passed in foreign lands, studying plants most Englishmen would never see and facing dangers most could never imagine, and he had ended up right where he began, the place that had never felt like home. He breathed through the familiar medley of guilt and grief. What a jumbled, muddled world it was, that he was the one still alive and here. Even though Rafe’s father had never understood him, he had indulged him by hiring tutors in botany and horticulture; if only Father were here, to see what he had achieved.

  “Maybe I can make some good from it,” he muttered, as he thrust his arms into his coat sleeves.

  “Not if she dismisses Sally,” Martha said.

  “Hmm?”

  “We will get no good if your marriage brings you money, but then your wife sends Sally away.”

  Rafe stared at Martha, baffled. “Why the hell would she dismiss Sally?”

  “Because…” Martha hesitated and frowned. “Sally says your countess will change things.”

  “She won’t change anything or dismiss anyone. She isn’t even…” She wasn’t even truly married to him and would soon leave, he could say, but it was safer for Martha and Sally to remain ignorant of his fraud. “Look, the countess is friendly and full of life, and she’s remarkably resilient and…”

  “And what?”

  “And…I don’t know.”

  Confusing, that was what she was.

  “You do like her,” Martha said. “Entonces, why not sleep with her?”

  “Bloody hell.” Rafe strode back through the rows of plants toward the door. “I am going for a swim and then I shall eat dinner and I swear, if one person says one more word to me today, I’m going to kick the whole blasted lot of you out.”

  Chapter 11

  When Thea awoke on her first morning at Brinkley End, her mood was quite restored. After dressing and breaking her fast, she headed out into the sunshine to explore the estate.

  “Brinkley End is a terrible disappointment,” she wrote to Arabella later that afternoon.

  No matter how I look at it, it refuses to be sinister. But the earl was kind enough to forbid me from entering the woods under pain of death, and that cheered me up immensely.

  In the garden, she glimpsed Lord Luxborough crossing the footbridge into the Forbidden Woods, accompanied by Martha Flores, whose position remained unexplained. Resolutely, Thea went the other way. Her enjoyable walk took her through the flower-filled pleasure gardens and back to the lake, where she found the secluded area Luxborough had mentioned, with quiet waters and lush grass hidden behind weeping willows.

  For the sake of your delicate sensibilities, Arabella, I shall never reveal that I stripped to my shift and swam in the lake, so you will never know how delicious that cool water felt on a warm summer’s day.

  Next, Thea commandeered a pony gig, instructed by her borrowed manservant Gilbert and a helpful groom. It turned out to be terrific fun, driving around the estate. The
y passed fields of golden wheat and acres of apple orchards, and workers everywhere, waving and tipping their hats. Following the river, they came to the cider mill, with its great wheel slapping the water, and its foreman eager to teach the new countess how apple cider was made.

  “He gave me a taste of their finest cider,” she wrote. “And then another, and then another, and then I had to lie down.”

  Back at the house, Thea washed and changed, deciding that Helen’s pale-green gown with the gold embroidery would go nicely with the drawing room’s decor while she played at being a countess. To think that people actually lived like this! Although of course a real countess would have serious duties too.

  Over hot tea and fresh cakes, she read a letter from Arabella that had arrived with the morning post, and that contained some dismaying news concerning the Marquess of Hardbury’s return:

  Papa wasted no time in reminding the prodigal marquess of our supposed life-long engagement, to which Hardbury replied, and I quote, ‘Nothing on this Earth would induce me to marry Arabella Larke.’ Alas, thus end these halcyon days of using Hardbury’s absence as an excuse not to marry. Papa insists I marry before the year is out and draws up a list of names. I am as excited as a child on Saint Nicholas’ Day, wondering what bridegroom I shall find stuffed in my stocking.

  Thea was not fooled by her friend’s flippant tone, but as Arabella would detest the merest hint of sympathy or fuss, she settled on a cheerful:

  Allow me to offer my excellent services as matchmaker, based on my extensive experience of being ‘married’ for nearly a whole week. Luxborough is not too awful; if you like, I could send him back your way when I am finished with him.

  No sooner had she written the words than she felt a pang of something like guilt mixed with jealousy. Don’t be silly, she berated herself, and folded and sealed the letter.

  Her correspondence finished, and her solitary evening drawing near, Thea perused the library shelves for books to read. She trailed her fingers over tomes on agriculture, botany, and philosophy, until she reached a shelf of plays.

  A play could serve, she decided, and half pulled out the volumes, one by one, to read their titles. This sent a sheaf of loose papers fluttering to the floor. When she kneeled to gather them, she saw they were playbills for performances at a London theatre. A performance of Macbeth, with special billing for Miss Sarah Holloway in the role of Lady Macbeth. A performance of School for Scandal, featuring Miss Sarah Holloway as Lady Teazle. Indeed, Miss Sarah Holloway appeared on all of them. Clearly, someone in the Landcross family was enamored of the actress!

  The name was familiar, Thea mused, as she tidied the pages. Oh yes, that night in the inn when she told her story, the man named Joe had mentioned an actress called Sarah Holloway, who disappeared. Thea glanced back down at the top playbill, and a second name leaped out at her: William Dudley. But surely that was the name of the zealot outside Lord Luxborough’s house?

  What an odd coincidence.

  And yet, not really. If this Sarah Holloway had been so popular, it was only to be expected that several people might mention her. And London was big enough to hold two men with such a common name.

  Thea replaced the playbills and moved on. She had picked out the first readable books she saw, when she came across the heavy family Bible. Eagerly, she turned to the pages listing names with their births, deaths, and marriages. There were the five sons: John, Philip, Rafe, Christopher, and Edmund. John and Philip each had a “d.” and the year they’d died. Rafe and Christopher each had an “m.” and the year they’d married. Christopher and his wife Mary had several children, but Thea hardly noticed them, as her eye was drawn to the name of Rafe’s wife: Katharine Jane Russell, which bore not only a “d.” and a year, but also a strange marking. A box had been drawn around “Katharine Jane” with vertical lines scored through it, chillingly like the bars on a jail cell. How terrible, that someone had thus defaced the family Bible!

  Thea slammed the book shut and shoved it back onto the shelf as though it might bite her, grabbed the books she had chosen, and dashed back to her room.

  Where she was perfectly content, she decided, to stare out the window and daydream about finding her new home, and even more content, when dinner was served, to dine alone, for there was no one to object when she ate her syllabub first.

  Rafe was duly informed that Lady Luxborough was out exploring the estate, and, lecturing himself that she did not require his company, he and Martha began making plans in earnest. Rafe sketched out a second greenhouse, Martha listed extensions to her laboratory, and both agreed to hire a man of business as soon as possible, as neither wished to deal with paperwork or the outside world.

  Satisfied with the day’s work, Rafe plunged into the lake for a long, vigorous swim. On the way back to his rooms, he passed Sally and Martha, talking quietly in a hallway.

  “How is the countess?” he asked Sally.

  “I believe she is in her rooms.”

  “I asked how she is. Not where she is.”

  “Peculiar thing about being married,” Sally mused. “A man’s allowed to talk to his own wife.”

  A teasing expression stole over Martha’s face. “He is also allowed to sleep with her. Then you will make babies and I can test new medicines on them.”

  “You will not experiment on my babies.”

  Martha shook her head. “There will be no babies if you do not sleep with your wife. Entonces, Sally. Do I explain how to make babies, or do you?”

  “I know how—” Rafe stopped short at their infuriating grins. How the hell had he managed to form a household with two eccentric, impudent women who nagged him more than his own nursemaid ever had?

  “The countess is nervous,” he explained. “I am waiting until we know each other better.”

  “Never talking to her will help with that,” Sally said dryly, and Rafe muttered dark curses all the way back to his rooms.

  No sooner had he dressed and dismissed his valet than the footmen brought his dinner. Rafe drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece as they laid out his meal, following the same routine they had for years.

  One bowl of vegetable soup. One dinner plate. One glass of syllabub and raspberries. One set of silverware. One goblet. One serviette.

  Two chairs.

  “Must you do that with quite so much sarcasm?” Rafe said.

  “My lord?”

  “If you’ve something to say, spit it out.”

  The two servants exchanged nervous looks.

  “Ah. Dinner is served?” one of them hazarded, and removed the last cover from the dinner plate, to reveal potatoes, French beans, and half a small roast duck.

  Half. It was a blasted conspiracy.

  Waving the servants away, Rafe pulled out his chair. The empty chair opposite smirked. The half fowl said nothing. The image of Thea’s bright blue eyes filled his mind.

  “All be damned,” Rafe muttered, and replaced everything onto the tray and hefted it into his arms.

  The door to Thea’s parlor was ajar, so Rafe kicked it open and barged in, to see Thea alone at her dining table. She leaped to her feet, dropping her soup spoon with a clatter, and fidgeted with her dress. It was an elegant gown in pale green; it had long sleeves and a modest bodice and still managed to reveal acres of creamy, touchable skin. Matching green ribbons were woven through her hair, and her complexion flaunted a new glow from her outdoor adventures that day, as if she had brought home the sunshine.

  “No talking.” Rafe dumped his tray and offloaded his plates onto the table. “We will dine together, because you don’t like to dine alone. But I don’t like talking. So no talking. Understood?”

  She nodded rapidly, her lips pressed together in an exaggerated manner. Once she had resumed her seat, he poured wine and sat too. In silence, they dipped their spoons into their soup and ate.

  The vegetable soup was tasty, and Rafe tried hard to ignore Thea, but it was difficult when she sat across from him, and might or might not h
ave an alluring dusting of pale freckles on the skin above her bodice, and so his eyes kept drifting back to her.

  Which was why he saw her fierce frown as she pushed away her empty soup bowl. He followed her gaze: She was glaring at his glass of syllabub as though it had accused her of cheating at cards. Then she gave her head a little shake as if to clear it, half smiled into the air, and turned her attention to her roast duck and beans. Yet as she ate, her gaze wandered back to his syllabub. Again she frowned; again she shook it off.

  This ferocious internal argument continued throughout their meal, until Rafe could bear it no more.

  “What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “I never said a word. You don’t like talking and I’m not talking.”

  “You are thinking. I can hear you thinking.”

  “Then I shall think more quietly.”

  “You seem upset.”

  Again, she frowned, first at his side of the table, and then at her own, and sighed. “I’m not upset. I am merely…confused.”

  “About what?”

  “I cannot help but observe that your meal includes syllabub and raspberries.”

  “So it does.”

  “But mine does not. That is all.”

  She carved the last of the meat from her half of the bird, shoved it into her mouth, and chewed with dignified fury.

  Rafe examined the table. “True. Your meal is entirely devoid of syllabub and raspberries, or indeed, syllabub and fruit of any kind.”

  “No doubt there is an excellent reason why the earl has syllabub but the countess does not.”

  “You want dessert, call a servant for it.”

  “No!” Her knife and fork clattered to the plate and she tidied them. “I do not wish to antagonize them. I can live without syllabub.” She heaved a sigh that would put the most tragic of martyrs to shame. “I suppose all the best countesses must suffer deprivation.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” He shoved the glass across the table. “Have mine.”