by Amy Jarecki
Papa sighed.
“Naturally, Danby admits our marriage did not begin well—which is an unmitigated understatement. But do you have any idea as to his solution?” Eleanor rubbed her hand along the red velvet armrest. “He believes I need to be courted.”
She sat for a time, pondering the notion. “How, exactly, does one go about courting his own wife?”
Ever so slowly, Papa reached out and placed his hand atop hers. “He’s a…good man. You…try.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
As the days passed, the castle came alive with bustling activity and Margaret and Viscount Lisle began to settle in. Sher sat at his writing desk and dipped his quill. He was having an amusing time dreaming up ways to court his wife, which shocked him to his toes. Never had he thought himself capable of such frivolity. Though now he had decided on this course, he was eager to execute and impress.
He tapped his pen on the edge of the inkwell and held it just above the missive he was about to write.
Dearest? My Dear? Darling? Your Grace—though it was proper, he didn’t want to bow to convention. Madam?
An ink splotch dripped on the paper—his sixth sheet. “Blast.”
He wadded it up, tossed it at the bin, and reached for another.
Eleanor,
Please do me the honor of joining me in the garden’s conservatory at half two.
Fondly,
Sher
Replacing his quill, he sat back and reread the note. Perhaps he should have signed it “cordially”?
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Temperance, appearing from the servants’ entrance.
“Yes?” he asked. Deciding to keep the missive as is, he set to sanding and folding it.
“Would you have a moment?”
Sher used the candle to light a stick of red sealing wax and dripped a coin-sized blob onto the letter. “By all means. What is it you wish to discuss?”
The housekeeper clasped her hands, gripping them with white knuckles as she moved nearer. “Alas, I feel I must mention that Weston is nothing like Hartley. With dismay, I’ve found Her Grace’s butler seems to be expecting us all to change to his whims.”
“Truly?” He pressed his seal into the blob. “I’m sure most men of his station have certain ways they’d like to see things done. So, tell me, what is it you find disconcerting?”
Mrs. Temperance snorted with one of her stiff-lipped huffs. “The fellow begins each morning by mustering the footmen and issuing them with assignments for the day—which is all well and good, I suppose. The footmen are under him, naturally. But I draw the line when he ventures into my territory. As soon as he’s finished with the footmen, he insists on sitting down with me over a cup of tea, mind you, to discuss the day’s schedule.”
“Hmm.” Eager to be done with this conversation, Sher glanced toward the door. “That seems rather good management to me. And why is this bothering you?”
“I simply do not have time for such frivolity. I run the house. My maids start at dawn to ensure hearths are warm, chamber pots are clean, the table is laid, et cetera, so the family will awake to comfort.”
“I see. May I assume that Weston’s meeting with you cuts into your need to meet with and supervise the housemaids?”
“Absolutely. I have my duties and he has his. And the man does not have the authority to order me about.”
Sher pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I quite understand. How is he ordering you about?”
“These ridiculous tea parties.”
“I would think sitting down with him would help to run a smoother ship, so to speak. Are you not fond of tea? Does he not let you have your say?”
“I enjoy tea as much as the next person, but bless it, the man is overbearing.”
“Perhaps if you give me an example, I might better understand.”
“Well, just this morning, he told me Her Grace’s new draperies had arrived for the ballroom and he had assigned two footmen to hang them after luncheon, and he felt he needed me to assign a housemaid to clean the windows whilst the ladder was out.”
Sher rubbed his chin, trying to understand whether or not there was truly a problem. It wasn’t like Mrs. Temperance to complain without cause. “What I suggest is you talk to him about it. You are the housekeeper. You must tell him how you feel and agree on a time to meet with him that will be suitable to you both.”
“Little good that will do. He has taken charge and does everything Her Grace asks and runs around as if he’s been here for decades.”
“Mrs. Temperance, if you could only hear yourself. You are complaining about that which you admire in most servants.”
As her mouth opened, Sher held up his palm. “Do you not appreciate a maid who takes initiative?”
“I do, but he—”
“Do you not appreciate a servant who takes his work to heart and does everything he can to make the master and mistress of the house content?”
The housekeeper looked as if the wind had just changed and her sails deflated. “Yes, sir.”
Sher stood, tapping the letter in his palm. “You have had free rein of this house for a very long time. And do not doubt me when I say you are efficient and capable. But, things do change, and you must bend with the times. Moreover, this grievance should have been directed to Her Grace. She runs this household and you report directly to her as you did my mother when she was duchess.”
Mrs. Temperance nodded. “As you wish, sir.”
He gave her the note. “Please take this to my wife straightaway. And if you feel you cannot come to a suitable solution with Weston on your own, do discuss your concerns with her.”
Sher watched the housekeeper carry the missive away and wondered exactly what was in her craw. With luck, she would work out her differences with the new butler. Nonetheless, he made a mental note to pay more attention to Weston in the future.
After checking his pocket watch, he retrieved the notes he had earlier scribed, and headed directly for the gardens. Unlike Prinny’s conservatory at Carlton House, the glass building at Rawcliffe was full of exotic plants and flowers. Moreover, Sher only had three quarters of an hour before Eleanor was summoned to arrive.
Eleanor entered the conservatory, her head buzzing with questions. Danby had never sent her a note before. Why now? Why, when they were residing under the same roof, did he see fit to write a letter rather than make an appearance? Was he upset about something? Had she made some grievous error? At least he hadn’t addressed the missive formally, which made her think he mustn’t be too angry with her.
“Danby?” she said as she took a few steps inside, the heady fragrance from a myriad of flowers enveloping her. When there was no response, she tried again, “Sher?”
In front of a trellis of honeysuckle, she spotted a note attached to a wooden post. “What is he up to?” she asked before she read.
Proceed to the right until you see the next note. There was an arrow pointing in the same direction.
Eleanor complied. Along the pathway, she passed bright marigolds and pompadour azaleas, not finding a note until she happened upon freesia. It was attached to a similar wooden post that appeared to have been recently placed in a pot of stones.
Freesias have always been a favorite of mine,
In hues of white, pink, and port wine,
But their meaning in this poem is a must,
Because in you I trust.
Tingles skittered across Eleanor’s neck and shoulders as she removed the note and pressed it to her chest. Such a simple sonnet, but it contained a wealth of meaning. And she savored it. Trust. Perhaps trust was what they needed to move forward in this relationship.
She read it again, this time noticing another arrow instructing her to continue. It was so quiet inside the conservatory, almost churchlike, almost eerie as if she were being watched by fairies—magical ones. She took her time, strolling past enormous green ferns in dozens of varieties, some of which she’d seen the maid
s use in the house flowers. Eleanor found another note in front of a deep violet dahlia.
Of all the flowers behind this post,
Dahlias remind me of you the most.
You are a stalwart example of dignity and inner strength,
But I boast of your creativity at length.
Eleanor chuckled to herself. One of the reasons she took on consulting for remodels was because it allowed her to transform something drab into something utterly remarkable, and it warmed her inside to know that Danby considered her art a gift.
Fancy him dreaming this up. I never would have thought him capable of such tenderness.
Instructed to move on, she thought she might find the next note in front of the red roses, but it wasn’t until she came to the rows of pink roses that she found it. In truth, red roses signified deep, passionate love and had she found a sonnet about red roses, it would have seemed insincere.
Eager to read what he had to say about the pink, she plucked the letter from the stand. Across the top, between two scrolls, was written: Eleanor Rose Price. Below, the sonnet began…
Your middle name, though hidden from view,
suits no other barring you.
Pink roses I’ve chosen as they pose no dalliance.
You embody sophistication, grace, and elegance.
And though I admire all these things,
We have begun a new relationship, one upon which to build our dreams.
A tear stung the back of her eye. Never had any man written her poetry. Furthermore, he’d been careful to incorporate the true meaning of the blooms he’d chosen, and woven them into personalized rhymes. How remarkable.
“Hello,” Sher said, stepping out from behind the orange tree that stood in the center, beneath the domed, glass ceiling.
She held up the notes. “This was so very thoughtful. Thank you.”
He smiled, not his usual half-cocked grin, but a brilliant smile displaying a row of lovely teeth. “I’m glad you played along.” Stepping closer, he presented a bouquet from behind his back. “Please accept this gift and allow it to signify my sincerity in courting you. The blossoms I chose are all here—freesias for trust, dahlias for all I said in the sonnet and the willingness to change.” He hesitated for a moment while he raked his fingers through his wild crop of fashionable hair, making a disheveled wave dangle over his eye. “Pink roses to signify my commitment to our beginning.”
Eleanor accepted the gift and drew it to her nose. “So stunningly beautiful and they smell delightful.” She also noticed the green ivy sprigs interspersed in the splay. Ivy stood for fidelity, and though he had chosen not to mention it, she suspected Danby was well aware of the meaning as well. “And put together with such skill. I had no idea you were brilliant with flower arrangements.”
“I’m good at improvisation, I suppose. However, before you came to Rawcliffe, I had no idea you were a pianoforte proficient.”
“You flatter me.”
“I am honest.”
They stood silent for what seemed like ages, though it only could have been a few heartbeats. As the corner of his bottom lip disappeared beneath those perfect white teeth, his gaze trailed to her mouth.
Eleanor’s breath caught as her chin raised ever so slightly. Will he kiss me?
“Um…” He seemed a tad out of sorts…a tad boyish. But instead of pulling her into his arms and ravishing her, the gentleman offered his elbow. “Shall we?”
Not certain if she was disappointed or not, Eleanor looped her arm through his. “Where are we off to?”
“’Tis such a fine day, I thought we’d take a stroll through the gardens.”
“Lovely.” As they headed out the doors, Eleanor held up the bouquet for another look in the sunlight. “I think this combination is so striking, we shall use it for the house flowers during the ball. I do like your use of ivy. The greenery enhances the colors all the more.”
His eyes flickered toward her with a knowing glance—an unspoken confirmation that he had purposefully added them.
Good. If they were truly to make a go of this union, fidelity was of utmost importance to her, and after her ineloquent blathering last week at the track, he knew how much it meant to her.
“I heartily approve,” Sher replied as they strolled around Poseidon’s fountain. “And how are the arrangements coming for the ball?”
“Everything seems to be falling into place, though Weston and Mrs. Temperance have tried my patience some.”
“Oh? Tell me more.”
“’Tis nothing you ought to concern yourself with, though when one suggests something, the other seems to go out of her way to explain why his idea will not work.” Eleanor brushed a freesia bloom across her nose, inhaling the scent. “Something as simple as situating the orchestra in the northeast corner ended up a topic of great debate that I allowed to continue for far too long.”
“Has the issue been resolved?”
“I put my foot down and said they would play in the northeast corner. Which was a moment of triumph for Weston while Mrs. Temperance pursed her lips and went about the rest of her day as if she were utterly vexed.”
Danby plucked an oak leaf from overhead. “Are you leaning more toward one than the other?”
“I don’t think so. After all, right before I came out here, I agreed with Mrs. Temperance that we’d keep the refreshments in the vestibule beyond the ballroom—so much less of a chance to have the bowl of raspberry cordial knocked. I would hate to see someone’s gown ruined.”
“Well, I must be forthright. Mrs. Temperance complained to me that she feels Weston is overbearing.”
“She did? How did you respond?”
“I told her to first try to work things out with the butler and if that didn’t work, to take all future grievances to you.”
“Thank heavens. I wouldn’t want you to encourage her to go behind my back. I know having all of us descend upon Rawcliffe mustn’t be easy, but—”
“She is not paid for easy. And if she doesn’t like how things have changed, she can always have a go at finding employment elsewhere.”
Eleanor was shocked. People who entered service were usually there for life—especially when serving a duke. “I hope you didn’t say that to her.”
“I did not, but she will hear it if she doesn’t tighten her apron strings and adjust.”
“Agreed. Let’s give them some time. Mrs. Temperance likes things her way, and Weston can be quite opinionated. They are both capable and efficient. I would hate to lose either one of them.”
“Even the housekeeper?”
“We’ve disagreed on a few things, especially Rosie. But I think she has softened some since my little chat with the housemaids…though it is early yet. I say, if she keeps coming to you with gripes, I’ll have to side with you about seeking employment elsewhere.”
A baby’s cry came from the tower window—the one housing the nursery.
Sher glanced toward it. “Do you think it is too soon for Margaret to start breaking her fast with us?”
“Below stairs? I don’t know about that. She has only started eating solid food and hasn’t quite acquired the knack for it. The carpet would suffer greatly.”
“Then why don’t we take our breakfast elsewhere—the dining hall is awfully formal for breakfast anyway.”
“I’m shocked. You seem to be comfortable there, as if you’ve been taking your meals formally all your life.”
“Except when I took them in the nursery.”
“I have an idea. Why not eat breakfast up there with her?”
“Do you think it is large enough for all of us?”
“Yes, and there’s plenty of light in the mornings.”
“Capital idea. I’ll see to it a proper table is moved into the nursery at once.”
“Perfect, and it will be so wonderful to include Margaret—though Papa has never stood on ceremony for breakfast. He prefers a tray in his chambers.”
Sher tugged her toward a giant oa
k with a tree swing. “Enough on the day-to-day. I’m attempting to court you, after all.”
Eleanor held up the flowers. “In my estimation, today you have earned not only top marks but a vote for exemplary effort. The flowers themselves are lovely, but the poetry truly moved me.”
He swung her around to face him and took the bouquet from her hand. “I’m glad I’ve passed muster. This courting business is new territory for me.”
“Is it, truly?”
He set the flowers by the tree’s trunk and urged her onto the swing. “I’ve managed flowers and poetry, but what else is there?” Moving behind her, he gave a gentle push. “Or should I say, what other things might you find riveting?”
Eleanor thought while the breeze cooled her face. How long had it been since she’d sat upon a swing? Not since her childhood for certain, and the only man who’d ever courted her may have given her flowers, but his poetry was horrendous, and his company dull. “I do enjoy dancing and balls. Oh, and carriage rides. We ought to go to town—besides, I need to do some shopping.”
“Do you find shopping romantic?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Carriage rides are romantic.”
“They can be—dusk, sunsets, and whatnot.”
“And shopping…Why can’t shopping be romantic? Certainly, it always impresses me to see a gentleman escort a lady into a dress shop or haberdashers.” He pushed a bit harder and Eleanor helped the effort by pumping her legs. “I’d forgotten how fun swinging is. I used to go as high as I could and leap from the chair.”
“I did as well. From this very chair.”
“Higher, then, if you please!”
Sher shoved. “If I push you any higher, you’ll go flying and crack your head like an egg.”
“Is that a dare?”
“That is a warning.”
“Oh, no! It sounded far more like a challenge!”
With one final heave with her legs, Eleanor flung herself forward and flew through the air. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
She hit the grass, ungracefully crashing forward, stopping herself with her hands. “Ow,” she squeaked.