Darling Beast

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “And the fact he won’t tell you his real name or that he let you think he was stupid when you first met, can you explain that, my girl?”

  Lily couldn’t, so she just kept her head down and wrapped a half loaf of bread securely.

  “You can get any man you want,” Maude said. “I’ve seen them look at you when you’re prancing about the stage—and off—from footmen to bejeweled lords, they all fancy you. Why not let one of them take you out?”

  “I’m not interested in lords, bejeweled or otherwise,” Lily said lightly.

  “I’ll give you that,” Maude said, “but there’s plenty o’ other men. Why bring a picnic lunch to a great brute you know nothing about?”

  Why indeed? Lily’s hands stilled as she tried to explain, both to herself and to Maude. “He’s big, but he’s gentle.”

  “He was fighting some stranger just yesterday!”

  “I know!” Lily took a breath and said more quietly, “I know.” She met her old nursemaid’s eyes. “I don’t know why Caliban fought that man, but I know he felt he had to.”

  “Hinney…” Maude’s old face seemed to have grown lines.

  Lily caught her hands, squeezing gently. “He looks at me in admiration, but not like those other men—as if I’m an object he wants to have, for other men to admire. When he looks at me I think he sees a woman he likes, a woman he wants to talk to. And I want to talk to him, Maude. I want to learn what he thinks about when his lips turn up, and what he sees when he looks at his garden, and what he’ll be doing tomorrow and the next day.” She stopped because she knew she’d lost any hope of eloquence. “I can’t explain it. I only know I want to spend time with him. When I’m with him, the minutes, the hours, fly by so fast and I hardly notice.”

  She blinked and stared helplessly at Maude.

  “I don’t want you hurt, hinney.” Maude’s voice softened, turned pleading. “I can’t get Kitty’s face out of my dreams, I can’t. She haunts me at night and I think it’s a warning, I do. Remember she was so taken with that man, so sure he would be kind to her.”

  “He was different,” Lily muttered. “He wasn’t nearly as nice as Kitty thought and we all knew it, even from the first. We told her not to go with him.”

  “As I’m telling you not to go with this Caliban fellow,” Maude said. “Think, dear one, what do you know of him? What has he told you of his family, his life outside this here garden?”

  “Nothing,” Lily said. She didn’t want to face it, but it was true: Caliban was hiding who he was. “But Maude, he isn’t violent—not to us. You’ve seen how gentle he’s been with Indio.”

  “And what if that’s just a false face?” Maude’s voice quavered. “He was sweet at first, too. I couldn’t bear to lose you, hinney, I just couldn’t.”

  Lily finally looked up to see to her horror that Maude’s eyes were misted. Impulsively she hugged the older woman tight and whispered in her ear, “You’ll never lose me, Maude, not even if you try.”

  “Oh, get on with you,” Maude said, pulling away as if embarrassed at her own show of emotion. She swiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Just be careful. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Lily said solemnly as she picked up the basket and left before Maude could make any more arguments.

  She found Indio outside kicking at a charred stick, breaking it to bits, while Daffodil nosed at a clump of violets. Indio held his precious boat in his arms.

  He looked up eagerly as she came out the theater door. “Did you bring the boiled eggs?”

  “Yes.” Lily fell into step with him.

  “And the jammy tarts Maude made?” Indio asked, skipping beside her.

  “Of course.”

  “Huzzah!”

  She smiled down at him and then nodded as they passed a group of gardeners. Two of the three men stopped and doffed their hats, making her feel quite fine. They hadn’t seen many of the gardeners beside Caliban, as most of the work seemed to have been away from the theater thus far. It was inevitable, she supposed, that their restoration would eventually reach the theater, though she was not looking forward to the loss of their privacy. Stepping outside to find strange men would be a bit disconcerting. Lily wondered if she ought to ask Mr. Harte for some sort of lock for the theater door.

  Abruptly she realized that she didn’t know where Caliban was working today. She looked down at her son, happily skipping with his boat cradled in his arms. “Do you know where Caliban has gotten to?”

  “He’s by the pond, digging a hole in the ground,” Indio said promptly.

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “Is he? Whatever for?”

  “Dunno,” Indio said, unconcerned. “But it’s a big ’un—bigger than any I’ve ever dug before.”

  He sounded admiring. Of course to a little boy the adventure of digging the hole was probably reason enough for the labor.

  They came to the pond and began walking along it as best they could given there wasn’t a path. Several times they had to dodge away from the pond to go around debris, but at last they found Caliban.

  He was a terrifically dirty mess, shoulder-deep in a hole that was indeed quite big. Daffodil ran to the edge and barked at him until he placed his hands on the side and levered himself out. He wore a bandage on his head to cover his wound, but it was much smaller than the one she’d dressed it with the night before.

  He grinned at the small dog and Indio, who showed him the boat, and then looked at Lily. Even with his face and hair dusted with dirt, his shirt near brown from the silt, her heart gave a little jump. Like Indio when he was excited.

  She shook her head at herself and called, “You need to wash before luncheon.”

  He looked down at his muddy hands and nodded. Then he simply took off his shirt and knelt by the pond to scoop water over his shoulders and face. The man had no modesty at all, it seemed.

  Lily busied herself spreading a blanket on a dry patch of ground and unpacked their picnic. Daffodil immediately galloped up at the sight of food and attempted to steal a tart.

  “No, Daff!” Indio cried. The tarts were rather dear to his heart. “Have this instead.” And he handed her the fatty chicken tail they’d saved for her.

  Daffodil scurried off with her prize. Lily hoped fervently that the little dog wouldn’t decide to bury the chicken tail, for she’d done so in the past with what she considered delicacies and the results had been rather messy when disinterred for later leisurely enjoyment.

  Caliban sat down, his shirt pulled over his head, but left loosely unlaced.

  Lily looked away primly, her heart beating fast. He’d slicked back his wet hair and he was, if not handsome, certainly compelling.

  Hastily she took one of the plates from the basket. “Would you like a chicken leg? Oh, and a hardboiled egg?”

  He nodded, his broad mouth slightly curved as if he was amused.

  “I’d like an egg,” Indio reminded her.

  “Guests first, Indio,” she said gently, and put a generous helping of everything she’d packed on a plate for Caliban before handing it over to him.

  He lounged on his side, like a Roman aristocrat, carefully picking up a small piece of meat to eat.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she served Indio and then selected an egg and some bread for herself. She sat back, her legs curled to the side under her dress, and tilted her face to the sun—it was quite welcome after the dreary weather they’d had lately.

  Daff came back, proudly bearing her chicken tail, and Caliban smiled at the little dog.

  Which reminded her.

  Lily cleared her throat as she tore off a bit of her bread. “I noticed yesterday that you laughed.”

  He looked up, his head cocked in obvious inquiry.

  “It’s just…” She gestured with the bit of bread before realizing and placing it carefully on her plate. “Well, it was out loud. I wondered, well, if you can laugh…”

  He was still staring at her, his expression hard to dec
ipher.

  She inhaled and just blurted it out. “When was the last time you tried to speak?”

  He reached over and picked up his cloth bag, opening the flap and taking out the notebook. He bent to write and then showed her the notebook. Months ago. I assure you nothing happened.

  She licked her lips. “How long ago did you lose your voice?”

  He frowned and wrote. Nine or so months ago.

  “So recently!” She looked up in excitement. “That’s less than a year. Don’t you see? Your infirmity might not be permanent.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Indio asked, scrambling to his knees. “What’s a ’firmity?”

  “It’s like an illness or a sickness.” Lily glanced at Caliban and saw that his face had closed. His eyes flicked to her and then to Indio and she took the hint, though she was determined to continue the discussion later. “What are you digging the hole for?”

  Caliban sat up at that, and Indio edged closer to look at his notebook as he wrote. I intend to plant an oak tree here.

  She looked between his writing and the huge hole. “That’s a big hole.”

  His mouth quirked as he wrote and she knew even before she read his words that he’d had a quick rejoinder.

  She was correct: It’s a big tree.

  “But how can you plant a big tree?” she asked as she cracked her egg. “Won’t it die when it’s dug up from where it originally grew?”

  He began to write furiously at her question. She ate her egg as she watched him, marveling at how deeply involved he was in his profession. Indio lost interest in the discussion and delved in the basket for a jammy tart.

  At last Caliban showed her the notebook and she saw a full page of writing. He came to sit beside her as she read: It’s a very difficult job to move a large tree, for the roots mirror the tree above. Thus, as tall as the tree might be, so far below the ground do the roots reach. Of course one cannot move such a mass of earth, for there is no machine to dig so far nor one to move it could it be dug up. But…

  She marked her place with her finger and looked up. “But if you can’t dig up the roots, how—?”

  He rolled his eyes and leaned forward, tapping the page below her finger.

  “Oh.” She bent over the notebook, continuing to read, aware that he was looking over her shoulder now, reading his explanation along with her.

  But as a tree’s branches might be cut—quite sharply sometimes—and the tree still live, indeed thrive, it is believed that the roots as well might be cut. In this way a tree can be moved with its roots in a ball of dirt that, in comparison to the tree’s height, is quite small indeed.

  Lily turned her head—to find that his face was quite close to hers. She blinked, for a moment forgetting what her question was. Then it came to her. “You say here in comparison to the tree’s height. But the earth and roots might still be quite big, mightn’t it?”

  He smiled slowly, as if particularly pleased with her question, and she couldn’t help smiling in return.

  He reached around her, his arms nearly embracing her, and wrote in the notebook on her lap, Very good. Yes, the root ball should be quite big, even so.

  “Should be?”

  His breath was warm against her ear. I confess. I’ve never attempted to transplant a fully grown tree. I shall do so, however, this afternoon. Would you like to watch?

  If someone had asked her a fortnight ago if she’d like to watch a tree being planted, she would’ve looked at the questioner quite pityingly. But right now, this moment, she was rather excited at the prospect.

  Perhaps too many viewings of Caliban’s nude chest had addled her brain.

  In any case she gazed into his thickly lashed brown eyes and smiled brilliantly. “Yes, please.”

  His grin was quick and all-encompassing and, she couldn’t help but think, solely for her. As she watched, it faded a bit and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips parted almost unconsciously, and she leaned a little forward, her own eyes on that wide, masculine smile.

  “Mama,” Indio interrupted, his cheeks smeared with the remains of a jammy tart. “Can I show Caliban my boat now?”

  Lily jerked back from Caliban, feeling her cheeks heat, and caught the amused glance he gave her as he turned more leisurely to the boy.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, repressing the urge to stick her tongue out at the maddening man. He’d started it—whatever it might’ve been—after all.

  She watched as Indio eagerly crawled over with the boat. Caliban held it carefully, seeming to understand how important the toy was to her son, as Indio pointed out its best features and Daffodil poked her nose eagerly into the matter.

  When at last they rose by some unspoken male accord, she noticed with a pang that Indio came only to Caliban’s waist. The man towered over the boy, so much taller and broader that his gentleness was all the more moving as a result. They walked to the pond’s bank and Indio launched his boat. Caliban restrained Daffodil from jumping in after.

  This man was not at all like Kitty’s husband. Not at all.

  APOLLO WATCHED THAT afternoon as the machine containing his oak tree was hauled into the garden. Elegant in its simplicity, it was a sort of modified cart, and indeed two dray horses labored to pull the contraption in from the dock. Two wheels were at one end with a flat bed where the tree’s huge roots lay. The bed narrowed into a long tongue that held the tree’s trunk and was supported by a smaller single wheel. The horses were harnessed to the root end, where the bulk of the weight rested.

  The entire thing had been brought down the Thames on a barge. Tree and machine had been especially ordered from a fellow garden architect whom Apollo had been corresponding with under the pseudonym Mr. Smith. He’d been quite specific in his order, including both diagrams and copious notes, and was pleased with the result before him: his oak lay like a colossus fallen, the roots spidering out from the earth-encased base.

  Now all they had to do was get the tree in the ground without mishap.

  Lily stood to one side with Indio and Daffodil capering at her feet. The gardeners had apparently become used to their presence in the garden, for there had been no questions when they’d stayed to watch.

  Apollo almost literally twitched with the desire to direct the operation himself. Herring, the head gardener, was a good Yorkshireman, able to read and follow Apollo’s written instructions, but he was plodding and not much of a thinker. He had a hard time compensating when something didn’t go as planned.

  And many things might not go as planned with the oak tree.

  Two of the gardeners—dark-haired brothers from Ireland—steadied the cart while a third man—a short, wiry Londoner, new to Harte’s Folly just this week—led the horses. Herring shouted orders while Apollo, ignominiously demoted to dullard while in the company of the other gardeners, stood by with a shovel.

  “Hold it there!” Herring called, and studied the notes Apollo had left him the week before. “Says here that the master wants the cart pulled to near the hole, then the horses to be unhitched there.” He nodded to himself. “Makes sense, that.”

  The horses were dutifully unhitched and Apollo, along with the Irish brothers, put his back into hauling the tree the remaining few feet over the hole. If he’d measured the hole correctly and his correspondent had followed his measurements, the wheels should be just wide enough to straddle it.

  He watched as the cart trundled into place and felt a surge of satisfaction in a job well done.

  “Pretty as a lamb at its ma’s tit, that,” Herring said admiringly, then seemed to remember Miss Stump. “If’n you’ll pardon an old countryman’s expression, ma’am.”

  She waved cheerily. “Not at all, Mr. Herring.”

  She exchanged an amused glance with Apollo and then he turned back to the work. The root ball now lay over the hole with the tree trunk extending to one side, parallel to the ground. Daffodil was nosing about the hole, as curious as usual, and Apollo gently toed her aside. Awful if
the little dog should be stepped on as the men labored. All that was needed now was to haul the tree upright, cut its ropes and drop it—gently—into the waiting hole.

  “Stand back, you,” Herring ordered Apollo. “Let the ones with some wits attach the ropes or we’ll have it all down around our ears and I don’t know what we’d do then.”

  Apollo feigned patience, standing by as the other men tied the ropes. He winced as one of the Irish brothers drew a rope over-tight about the oak’s trunk and hoped the man hadn’t damaged the bark.

  He took one of the ropes as one of the Irishmen and the small Londoner took the other.

  “All together now,” Herring called. “And don’t be hasty. Slow and steady’ll get us there faster.”

  At Herring’s signal, Apollo and the other two men pulled on their ropes, hand over hand, hauling the tree upright. The tongue and the bed of the cart pivoted as one on the two big wheels as the smaller wheel left the ground. Two ropes were needed for stability and to keep the tree from falling to one side or the other. Now that Apollo was actually pulling the oak tree upright he was beginning to think that three or even four ropes might have been better. Well, he’d experiment with the next tree they transplanted into the garden.

  Sweat stung as it dripped into his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Daffodil was back, peering interestedly into the hole, but he couldn’t move to shoo her away. His muscles strained and he could hear the loud grunts of the other men. Slowly the tree rose, majestic and tall. It would be lovely at the side of the pond and in a hundred years, when it had spread its branches over the water, it would be magnificent.

  He felt the sudden, sickening slackening of the rope first, followed closely by a hoarse shout from one of the gardeners on the other rope. That rope was whipping through the air, free of the men’s hands. Apollo looked up and saw the great oak shudder and then begin falling toward him.

  At the same time, Indio darted between him and the cart as Daffodil slipped and slid helplessly into the tree hole.

  The sound ripped from him, like a thing outside himself, a beast that’d been bound inside his gut and would no longer stand to be caged.