The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)
Page 71
“Not once.”
“Never snitched a picnic from Cook?” Val was frowning now. “Never pinched your papa’s second copy of the Kama Sutra to puzzle over the pictures in the privacy of the hay mow?”
“He had no such thing in his library.”
“Never crept down to the study in the dead of night and gotten sick on his brandy?”
Darius’s brows rose. “God in heaven, Windham. Did Her Grace have no influence on her menfolk whatsoever?”
“Of course, she did. I am a very good dancer. I have some conversation. I know how to dress and how to flirt with the wallflowers.”
“But one expects a certain dignity from the ducal household. Did your papa have no influence on you?”
“A telling influence. Thanks to him, my brothers and I learned to indulge in the foregoing mischief and a great deal more without getting caught.”
Darius eyed his companion skeptically. “And here I thought you must have been spouting King James in utero, reciting the royal succession by the time you were out of nappies, and strutting about with a quizzing glass by the age of seven.”
“That would be more my brother Gayle, though Anna has gotten him over the worst of it. The man is too serious by half.”
“And you’re not?” Darius was carefully surveying the surrounds as he posed this question.
“I am the soul of levity,” Val rejoined straight-faced. “Particularly compared to my surviving brothers. But this does raise something that needs discussion. The folk in these environs know me only as Mr. Windham, or young sir, or that fellow out from Sodom-on-Thames, and so forth.”
“Sodom-on-Thames.” Darius’s brows drew down. “This isn’t going to be like summering at the family seat, is it?”
“One hopes not.” Val shuddered to think of it. “No womenfolk to drag one about on calls just to observe how decrepit various neighbors have gotten, no amorous looks from the well-fed heifers of the local gentry, no enduring the vicar’s annual sermons aimed at curbing the excesses of Moreland’s miscellany.”
“So it wasn’t all Indians, pilfered brandy, and erotica?”
“Not lately. The point I wanted to make, however, is I do not want to be—I most assuredly do not want to be—Moreland’s youngest pup while I am among my neighbors here.”
“You’re a mighty strapping pup, but you are his son.”
“I could be the size of your dear brother-in-law, Nick Haddonfield,” Val retorted, a note of exasperation in his voice, “and I would still be Moreland’s youngest pup, and not just to the doddering old titles His Grace battles with in the Lords. You try being the youngest of five boys and blessed with a name like Valentine. It wears on one.”
Darius did not argue, which meant when they approached the Markham estate in the waning light, they did so in silence. Valentine was certain the silence on Darius’s part could not be described as awed.
***
In her five years in Little Weldon, Ellen had found evening was at once the sweetest and the most difficult time of day. Memories crowded closer at night, and even a good memory had an element of loss about it, for it was only a memory.
And she was acquainted with loss. If she’d known how brief her marriage was going to be, she’d have been a better wife. The sentiment was foolish, for she hadn’t been a bad wife, not until the end, but she would have spent less time wishing she were in love with her spouse and more time loving the man.
As shadows lengthened over her yard, she spied Marmalade stalking his great, fluffy-footed way across the back gardens. He was a big cat, made all the more impressive for the fact that his fur was long, luxurious, and scrupulously groomed. The idea that such an animal—and bright orange to boot—could sneak anywhere was vaguely comical. As Ellen watched, he pounced among the daisies and pounced again but then sat back, exhibiting a sudden need to bathe, as cats will when their dignity is imperiled.
I’m like that cat. I don’t fit in as an exponent of my species, and yet my dignity still matters to me.
Thoughts of that ilk required a fortifying cup of tea, lest the thinker become morose, or worse, lachrymose. As she filled her teakettle, tossed kindling on the hearth, and swung the pot over the flames, Ellen reminded herself she’d started her menses that morning, and every month—every useless, benighted month—that occasion filled her with sadness. When she had been married, the sadness made more sense, as it signaled yet another failure to provide Francis his heir.
She poured the boiling water into her porcelain pot, added the tea strainer, assembled a tea tray that included strawberries, bread, and butter, and took her repast to the back porch. Marmalade had arranged himself on the bottom step, taking advantage of the heat retained in the wood both behind and beneath him. As she sipped her tea, Ellen set her chair to rocking and tried not to set her thoughts to remembering, but the evening was peaceful, beautiful, sweet—and lonely.
Tonight, Ellen decided, she would wander in the wood, searching for herbs, or perhaps, just searching for a little peace.
***
“A bit of work needed,” Darius remarked, glancing around at the overgrown track. The front gate to the Markham estate, with stone griffons rampant on the gate posts and the wrought iron sagging, lent an ominous touch to the entryway.
“A bit,” Val conceded. “But then, if the drive is not navigable, I will have to concern myself less with uninvited company.”
“Are you planning on becoming eccentric?” Darius inquired as he steered his gelding past a pothole. “Or will it just overcome you gradually, like the vines obscuring Sleeping Beauty’s castle?”
“We’ll have to wait and see. For the present, I rather like all the rhododendrons.”
Darius peered at the foliage. “They have misplaced their self-restraint.”
The drive was lined with towering oaks that created a dense canopy of greenery overhead. The understory had been taken over by the rhododendrons, and it being the proper season, they were awash in blooms. In the lengthening shadows, the pink, purple, and white flowers stood out luminously against the dark foliage and shifting dapples of sun.
Val rode on in silence until the manor house itself stood before him.
“Oh dear,” Darius said softly, “and that is an understatement.”
The house lay north-south in orientation, so the full impact of the westering sun hit the entire façade. The southern wing and the center section were unkempt and dilapidated. Shutters hung crookedly, windows were missing panes, porch bricks had come off and tumbled to the grass.
The northern wing, however, was a complete shambles. The slate roof was visibly sagging near the soffit in the front corner, three of the chimneys were on their way to becoming piles of mortar, the north-facing porch was listing hard to port, and as Val watched, bats flew out of the missing attic windows.
“Well, come on.” Val swung off his chestnut. “The light won’t last forever, and I’ve a mind to look around.”
For Val, there was an incongruous sense of pleasure just looking at the place. Last year when he’d been ostensibly looking for property to purchase, he’d needed a key to gain access. This year, any number of broken ground-floor windows afforded the same privilege. Many a boy had obviously tested his aim against mullioned panes without thought to the cost of replacing them. Still, as Val gazed upon the wreck fate had dumped in his lap, he had the thought: She’s waited for me.
In the mellow evening sunbeams, the house held on to a kind of dignity, despite disrepair, neglect, and abandonment. The native stone blended beautifully with the surrounding wood, while patches of wildflowers splashed color in unlikely spots around the yard. Opportunistic saplings were encroaching, but a liberal use of imagination put the former serenity and appeal of the place within sight.
“The stables aren’t bad at all,” Darius said as he caught up with Val at the back of the house.
“Where is your home farm?”
“That direction, being worked by a tenant most likely.”
“You’re fortunate to have stone walls.” Darius frowned as he turned slowly where he stood. “They’ll take some effort to repair, but the materials are at hand, and most of your tenants should have the skill.”
“It so happens, while in Yorkshire enjoying my brother’s hospitality, I acquired the skill. It’s more a matter of wearing gloves, cursing fluently, and not being able to walk or rise from one’s seat the next day.”
“And who wouldn’t enjoy such an undertaking as that?” Darius smiled as he spoke. “Are we going inside?”
“Not tonight.” Bright morning light would serve better for an inspection, and Val had seen enough for now. The place still stood, and that was what mattered.
Though why it mattered escaped him for the present.
“Let’s peek inside the carriage house, though, shall we?” Val suggested. “There might be usable quarters above, and the first thing we’re going to need is a stout wagon to haul supplies and debris.”
“You’re staying?”
“Think of the privacy.” Val’s smile widened at the incredulity on Darius’s face. “The insipid teas and dances we’ll miss, the scheming young ladies we won’t have to dodge under the arbors, and the unbearable stink of London in summer we won’t have to endure.”
The pianos he wouldn’t have to abstain from playing. Hot cross buns… Hot cross buns…
“Think of your back hurting so badly you can hardly walk,” Darius rejoined as he crossed the yard beside Val. “The endless small talk at the local watering hole, the pleasures of the village churchyard on a Sunday morning, where no man escapes interrogation.”
“You’re not”—Val paused in mock drama—“afraid, are you, Lindsey?”
While giving Darius a moment to form the appropriate witty rejoinder, Val pushed open the door to the carriage house. No doubt because vehicles were expensive and the good repair of harness a matter of safety, the place had been built snugly and positioned on a little rise at the back of the house. The interior was dusty but dry and surprisingly tidy.
“This is encouraging.”
Darius followed him in. “Why do I have the compulsion to caution you strenuously against going up those stairs, Windham? Perhaps you’ll be swarmed by bats or set upon by little ghoulies with crossbows.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, what could be hiding in an empty old carriage house?”
***
Ellen had meant to take herself off for a little stroll in the dense woods separating her cottage from the crumbling manor, but the chamomile tea she’d drunk must have lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, Marmalade was curled in her lap, the kneading of his claws in her thigh rousing her even through her skirts and petticoats.
“Down with you, sir.” She gently put the cat on the porch planks and saw from the angle of the sun she’d dozed off only for a few minutes. Something caught her ear as she rose from her rocker, a trick of the time of evening when dew fell and sounds carried.
“Damn them,” Ellen muttered, leaving the porch with a swish of skirts. Bad enough the village boys liked to spy on her and whisper that she was a witch. Worse was when they ran tame over the old Markham manor house, using it as a place to smoke illicit pipes, tipple their mama’s brandied pears, and practice their rock throwing.
“Little heathen.” Ellen went to her tool shed and drew a hand scythe down from the wall pegs. She’d never had serious trouble with the boys before, but one in particular—Mary Bragdoll’s youngest—was growing into the height and muscle for which his brothers and father were well known. By reputation, he could be a sneering, disrespectful lout, and Ellen was more afraid of him than she’d like to admit.
She tromped through the woods, hopping over logs to take the shortest path, until she came out of the trees at the back of the old house. That view was easier to look on than the front—the roof wasn’t quite so obviously ruined.
When Francis had been alive, this property had still been tidy, graceful, elegant, and serene, if growing worn. The years were taking a brutal toll, leaving Ellen with the feeling the house’s exterior represented her own interior.
Time was slowly wearing away at her determination, until her reasons for going through each day without screaming and tearing her hair were increasingly obscured.
“You have started your menses,” she reminded herself, “and this is no time for silly dramatics.”
The voices came again from the carriage house, and Ellen’s eyes narrowed. Heretofore, the encroaching vandals had left the carriage house in peace, and their violation of it made her temper seethe. She marched up to the door, banged it open with a satisfying crash, brandished her scythe, and announced herself to any and all therein.
“Get your heathen, trespassing backsides out of this carriage house immediately, lest I inform your papas of your criminal conduct—and your mamas.”
“Good lord,” a cultured and ominously adult male voice said softly from Ellen’s right, “we’re about to be taken prisoner. Prepare to defend your borders, my friend. Sleeping Beauty has awakened in a state.”
Ellen’s gaze flew to the shadows, where a tall, dark-haired man was regarding her with patient humor. The calm amusement in his eyes suggested he posed no threat to her, while his dress confirmed he was a person of some means. Ellen had no time to further inventory that stranger, because the sound of a pair of boots slowly descending the steps drew her gaze across the room.
Whoever was coming down those stairs was in no hurry and was certainly no boy. Long, long legs became visible, then muscles that looked as if they’d been made lean and elegant from hours in the saddle showed off custom riding boots and excellent tailoring. A trim, flat torso came next, then a wide muscular chest and impressive shoulders.
Good lord, he was taller than the fellow in the corner, and that one was a good half a foot taller than she. Ellen swallowed nervously and tightened her grip on the scythe.
“Careful,” the man in the shadows said softly, “she’s armed and ready to engage the enemy.”
Those dusty boots descended the last two steps, and Ellen forced herself to meet the second man’s face. She’d been prepared for the kind of teasing censorship coming from the one in the corner, a polite hauteur, or outright anger, but not a slow, gentle smile that melted her from the inside out.
“Mrs. FitzEngle.” Valentine Windham bowed very correctly from the waist. “It has been too long, and you must forgive us for startling you. Lindsey, I’ve had the pleasure, so dredge up your manners.”
“Mr. Windham?” Ellen lowered her scythe, feeling foolish and ambushed, and worst of all—happy.
So inappropriately happy.
Two
Valentine Windham continued to smile at her, an expression of concentrated regard that formed a substantial part of Ellen’s pleasurable memories of him.
“Mrs. Ellen FitzEngle.” Mr. Windham’s gaze—and his smile—remained directed at her. “May I make known to you the Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, late of Kent, come to assist me in the assessment of damages on my newly acquired property.”
Lindsey fell in with the introductions with the smooth manners sported by any well-bred fellow.
“You’ve bought this place?” Ellen kept both the hope and the dread from her voice, but just barely.
“I have acquired it, and apparently just in the nick of time. Do you often have to shoo away thieves and vandals?”
Ellen glanced at the scythe in her hand. “It’s worse in the summer. Boys wander around in packs and have not enough to keep them busy. There’s a very pleasant pond i
n the first meadow beyond the wood, and it draws them on hot days.”
“No doubt they are responsible for my broken windows. Perhaps they’ll be willing to help with the repairs.”
“You’re going to restore the house?” Ellen asked, though it was none of her business.
“Very likely. It will take a good deal of time.”
“Where are my manners? May I offer you a pot of tea, gentlemen, or a mug of cider, perhaps?”
“Cider.” His just-for-you smile broadened. “An ambrosial thought.”
“I take it you live near here, Mrs. FitzEngle?” Mr. Lindsey interjected as they left the carriage house.
Ellen gestured vaguely. “Through the wood.”
“Well, darkness approaches,” Mr. Windham said. “Darius, if you’ll bring the horses along down the track, I’ll escort Mrs. FitzEngle through the wood.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ellen replied. “I know the woods blindfolded.”
“You wound me.” His smile—and worse, his green eyes—put a hint of sincerity in the words, leaving Ellen to feel a little flip of excitement in her vitals. Oh, God help her, her tame, tired memories of his single previous visit did not do him justice. Either that, or Mr. Windham had become even more intensely attractive in the year of his absence. Dark hair slightly longer than was fashionable went with those green eyes, and if anything, in the year since she’d seen him, he’d grown leaner, taller, and better looking than was decent.
“Despite the fact that periodic wounding keeps him humble,” Mr. Lindsey spoke up, “I must ask you to humor my friend’s suggestion, Mrs. FitzEngle. He will only want to inspect his wood come morning, in any case, so you are the ideal guide.” He spun on his heel and strode off toward the front of the house.
“You are looking well,” Ellen said, dusting off her long unused skills with small talk.
“I’m tired. Road weary, dusty, and probably scented accordingly. You, however, look to be blooming.”
“You mustn’t flatter me, Mr. Windham,” Ellen replied, not meeting his gaze. He offered his arm, as he had once long ago, and she took it gingerly. “I did steal a nap after my supper.”