Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Chapter Nine

  Six weeks.” Pacing the music room and shaking her head in disbelief, Alexandra popped a ratafia puff into her mouth. They sure didn’t seem to be working any magic. “He wants us to plan a ball in sixweeks.”

  “We can do it.” At her easel, Corinna sighed happily. “A ball! We’ll all need new evening dresses.”

  “Alexandra isn’t concerned about our wardrobes at the moment,” Juliana chided. She rose from her harp and went to stop her sister’s frantic pacing, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “I cannot believe Griffin is after another husband for you already. You haven’t even recovered from the loss of Lord Hawkridge yet.”

  Alexandra wanted to protest that she couldn’t have lost Tris when she’d never had him. But it did feel like an immense loss. “I don’t believe he committed murder.”

  “Neither do we,” her sisters chimed in unison.

  “He doesn’t have it in him,” Juliana added. “Griffin had no right to forbid you to marry him.” Juliana always wanted to see everyone happy. “You should elope; you could run off to Gretna Green—”

  “Don’t be a goose.” Alexandra moved away from her sister and back to the ratafia puffs. “Have you thought about the effect such a marriage would have on your own prospects? Our good name would be ruined. You and Corinna would never find suitable husbands.”

  “Perhaps that wouldn’t happen,” Juliana said. “You cannot know for certain how society would react—”

  “Oh, yes, I can. Look how they’ve treated Tris!”

  “In any case, you shouldn’t sacrifice your own happiness for us,” she concluded loyally, looking to Corinna for agreement.

  Corinna swallowed hard but nodded. “We shall survive, one way or another.”

  “Geese. I’m surrounded by geese.” Alexandra resumed pacing, now wishing there were real ratafia in the ratafia puffs. Was she forever doomed to exercising enough common sense for all three of them? “I won’t marry if the two of you will suffer as a consequence.”

  The look that passed between her sisters set her teeth on edge. If they were conspiring against her, it wouldn’t be the first time. Juliana made a hobby of meddling in people’s lives, and Corinna had played her willing accomplice more than once. But Alexandra was determined to undermine them, never mind that their hearts were in the right place.

  “Tris hasn’t asked me in any case,” she informed them. “He doesn’t wish to marry me.”

  Juliana and Corinna exchanged another glance. “He’s hardly had time to propose,” Juliana started.

  “That doesn’t signify.” Alexandra feared her protests were falling on deaf ears. “He made his intentions—or non-intentions—perfectly clear. So don’t go getting any ideas in your head. One little kiss doesn’t mean—”

  “A kiss?” Juliana interrupted. “He kissed you?”

  “What was it like?” Corinna demanded.

  Alexandra hesitated. Even if she could have found words to describe the marvelous sensation, she couldn’t have brought herself to say them aloud.

  Juliana came to her rescue. “I’m sure it was just a good-natured peck on the cheek. There’s nothing so wrong with that.”

  “That’s not what it says in The Mirror of the Graces,” Corinna informed her. “A Lady of Distinction claims that ‘good-natured kisses have often very bad effects and can never be permitted without injuring the fine gloss of that exquisite modesty which is the fairest garb of virgin beauty.’”

  “Must you remember every word you read?” Alexandra asked with a huff.

  “I cannot help being able to picture the pages in my head. And in any case, I didn’t say I believed it. The Mirror of the Graces is dreadfully straitlaced.”

  Alexandra had had quite enough of this nonsense. She was tired and brokenhearted, and she wanted to go to bed. “Well, it wasn’t a good-natured kiss, anyway,” she said, leaving her sisters gaping as she quit the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Breakfast the next morning was uncomfortable. Conversation was stilted, and Tristan couldn’t help but notice Alexandra wasn’t wearing his cameo. He wasn’t sure whether he found that a relief or a disappointment.

  After breakfast, Griffin and Tristan went out and called for their horses. Griffin waited in stiff silence while Tristan wondered what he should say. But it was a crisp, sunny morning, and once they were on their way to the vineyard, it felt good to be astride in the fresh air. Good and familiar.

  “Race you,” he challenged.

  Griffin slanted a single look at him before digging in his heels.

  They hadn’t designated a stopping point, but it didn’t matter. Tristan leaned over his mount, bunching his muscles along with the animal beneath him, enjoying the rush of cool wind, the pounding rhythm. Beside him, Griffin kept pace; they could both afford expensive horseflesh.

  What Tristan couldn’t afford was to feel this distant from the only friend he had left. They were neck and neck, yet farther apart than when they’d lived on separate continents.

  When the horses were blowing, they slowed to a walk and rode silently for a while.

  “You can still ride,” Griffin conceded.

  Looking toward him, Tristan raised a brow. “And I wasn’t in the cavalry.”

  “Keep your hands off my sister.”

  “I will.” He wondered how much Alexandra had revealed. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” Griffin said.

  Just like that, the tension eased. Such was the way of old friends. But Tristan felt very fortunate that their friendship had survived his indiscretion.

  It had been a terrible mistake. They were all lucky the two of them hadn’t been caught. In a sphere where a kiss was often as good as a declaration, an observed kiss was sometimes enough to compel a marriage.

  And Tristan had not the slightest intention of marrying—not Alexandra or anyone else.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “It’s forgotten.” Griffin raised his face to the sun. “I’m certain it won’t happen again.”

  They rode in silence a few more minutes, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Tristan felt his muscles unclench and the stiffness ease from his neck.

  “Why did your brother plant this vineyard so far from the house?” he finally asked.

  “You think I understood Charles? Ever?”

  “He was a dandy, if ever I met one. But he left this place in decent shape, didn’t he?”

  “Though it pains me to admit it, yes. He was good at what he did.” They rode over a crest, but the grapevines still weren’t in sight. “What made you decide to restore Hawkridge’s vineyard?” Griffin asked. “I understand the vines had long been unproductive. It must’ve been an arduous task.”

  Tristan shrugged. “It wasn’t so much damaged as neglected. Grapevines are hardy, for the most part.”

  “Not mine, apparently.”

  “We shall see. In any case, I viewed the vineyard as a chapter of family history. It was planted more than a century ago, in the early 1680s.”

  “By whom? Do you know?”

  “Oh, yes. Not only who, but why. The Hawkridge records are impeccable. An earlier marquess—one Randal Nesbitt—saw taxation rising under Charles II. With the extra duties imposed on French wine, he thought to try to produce his own. According to the accounting, his fatherin-law was something of a gardening devotee and helped to establish the vines.”

  “And they survived all this time.”

  “Under the brambles, yes. I’ll do my best to make sure yours survive, too.”

  At last, the vineyard loomed before them, tidy rows of staked vines lining a vast hillside. Tristan gave a low whistle. “It’s large.”

  “Charles never did anything halfway.”

  “He did his research. They’re spaced nicely and on a south-facing slope, both of which are ideal.”

  “But they’re not thriving.”

  “Let’s see why that may be.”

  As they rode closer, T
ristan could see his friend was right: The vines’ tendrils were drooping, the young leaves were wilted, and there was no fruit in sight. He swung off his mount and crouched by a particularly pathetic example, digging his fingers into the soil.

  “You’re getting dirty,” Griffin said.

  “You never got dirty fighting a war?”

  “I wasn’t a marquess then.”

  “For pity’s sake, you’re turning into your brother.”

  “That didn’t come out right,” Griffin protested. “I only meant that I didn’t ask you here to do manual labor.”

  Tristan scraped away at the roots. “You want to grow crops, you have to expect to get a little dirty.” He stood, pulling the whole vine up with him.

  They both stared at the scrawny thing.

  “The roots are stunted,” Tristan finally said, stating the obvious.

  “Do you expect Charles planted them the wrong time of year?”

  “We’ll never know. You say these are three years old?” Tristan thought back. “There may have been drought conditions the season they were planted.”

  “Drought? Here in England?” Griffin gestured to the blue sky, where seemingly ever-present rain clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  “If you’re unaware of the reality of drought, you clearly weren’t trained to farming.”

  “You can say that again,” Griffin muttered dryly.

  “Those clouds?” Tristan flung a hand in their direction. “They may dump several inches on the next village yet leave the ground here bone-dry. English weather is nothing if not random and unpredictable. And drought or not, it seems Charles neglected to see his new vines received enough water.”

  Griffin looked skeptical. “I’ve never heard of irrigating vineyards.”

  “Established ones, no. It’s commonly held that some water stress is optimal for producing fine wine. Irrigation affects both the size and the quantity of the fruit, but wine grapes shouldn’t be allowed to grow as large as table grapes—the sugar concentration is more important than overall yield.”

  “Well, then it seems to me—”

  “That has nothing to do with cultivating young vines. The soil surrounding new roots should be kept damp until they’re deep and established. I’d guess Charles neglected to do that here.”

  “Is it too late to save them?”

  “Perhaps.” Tristan considered. “But maybe not. Deep watering may cure the shallow roots even now. The vines are still young—it’s worth an attempt.” He scanned the landscape, focusing on a glistening ribbon in the distance. “We can pipe water from the River Caine.”

  Griffin shook his head. “The river is lower than this hill. Even I know that water runs down. Short of carting it by hand, there’s no way to get it up here.”

  “Have faith, my friend.” Tristan grinned. “You’ve summoned the right fellow.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ve just built a hydraulic pump to supply my new gasworks direct from the Thames. A water ram pump. You’ve heard of them, I presume?”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “Naturally. My sisters talk of little else.”

  Tristan ignored him, already deep in thought. “We’ll need a drop,” he mused, embracing the challenge. “If there’s no waterfall nearby—a few feet is all that’s required—we’ll have to situate the pump in a pit and pipe the river water down to it.”

  “And the pump will force the water back up?”

  “An amazing distance—thirty feet or more in height. It’s a brilliant design; wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “Will the force be sufficient to propel the water this far overland?”

  He gauged the span to the river. Half a mile or so, no more. “That won’t be a problem. You’ll want to water very heavily, an entire day so the flow penetrates the soil to a goodly depth. Then repeat when the ground begins to dry. A week between sessions,” he decided, his brain racing as he formulated the plan. “We’ll run a pipeline along the top of the slope with caps every few feet. You—or your people,” he amended, watching Griffin’s face, “will cap and uncap different sections every day, so by the end of the week the entire vineyard has been deeply watered. Then begin again where you started.”

  “Where was this intellectual capacity when we were trying to figure a way out of our third floor rooms at Eton?” Griffin shook his head in undisguised awe. “For how long must the irrigation continue?”

  “I’m not sure. A few months, if you’re asking me to guess. You’ll have to keep checking. When the taproots have reached three feet or so, you’ll shut off the pump.” Pleased with the plan, Tristan nodded to himself. “I’ll stay until it’s all in place.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Griffin rushed to assure him. “If you explain how to build the pump—”

  “I don’t believe I can. It looks like a simple enough design, but the parts must be adjusted perfectly. The first pump I built was a colossal headache. I’ve thought of a better design since then, so I believe this one will be easier, but for someone unfamiliar with the basic concept—”

  “How long will it take to set this up?” Griffin didn’t sound happy. “Run the pipeline? Build the pump?”

  Tristan hesitated, knowing Griffin’s real question was the one left unstated: How long will you be here tormenting my sister?

  Old friends or not, Griffin didn’t really want him around.

  But Tristan wanted to stay and help. He wanted to make up for last night’s folly. He wanted Griffin to have the satisfaction of making a success of his brother’s failure. And he wanted to prove he was worthy of Griffin’s extraordinary loyalty.

  “It depends,” he answered slowly. “Have you a foundry nearby to cast the pump’s parts from my drawings?”

  “Yes.”

  “A cooperative foundry, willing to drop everything at your request to take on this project?”

  “I’m the marquess,” Griffin said dryly.

  “There is that.” Tristan had learned he had power as a marquess as well, regardless of his state of disgrace. “Will you hire a goodly sized crew to construct the pipeline?”

  “Of course.”

  “A week, then. We can have this in place in a week.”

  “I suspect it will take longer, but even a week isn’t insubstantial.” Griffin measured him a moment. “You’d take a week out of your life to build a pump and run pipeline that will be used a scant few months? Knowing it may not even achieve the desired results?”

  “Do you want to save your brother’s grapevines or not?”

  Griffin hesitated only a beat. “I want to save them.”

  “Then we’ll do what needs to be done.” Tristan knelt to reseat the vine and pat the soil into place around the roots. “I’ll draw up the pump design today, then return here tomorrow to take measurements.” He climbed back up on his black horse, holding the reins with muddy fingers. “And choose a spot to site the pump.”

  “Thank you,” Griffin said.

  Tristan gave a deceptively casual shrug. “This is what friends are for.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lady St. Quentin,” Alexandra said that afternoon in the drawing room, adding the name to their guest list in her careful, tutored script. “We cannot forget her.”

  “I’d like to forget her.” Corinna stood and stretched and, leaving her easel, wandered over to where Alexandra sat at their mother’s pretty rosewood writing desk. “She’s a busybody.”

  Seated on one of the blue sofas, Juliana looked up from the menu she was creating. “Do you think we should serve beef or lamb?”

  “Both.” Corinna peered over Alexandra’s shoulder. “Holy Hannah, how did this list get so long? I was unaware we even knew so many people.”

  “How many?” Juliana asked.

  Alexandra pulled out a third sheet of vellum. “A hundred and thirty-eight, so far.”

  Juliana’s eyes widened. “Griffin has hardly had time to become reacquainted with anyone these past months. Where did
he come up with all these names?”

  “He’s always been friendly,” Corinna said in a tone that made the statement more like a complaint than a compliment. “Consider all the young men he’s managed to bring around to meet us already. My hand is hurting just thinking about writing all these invitations.”

  “Think about the new evening dress you’re going to make him pay for instead,” Juliana suggested.

  Corinna grinned. “It’s going to be pink. With embroidery and seed pearls.”

  “I sent a note to the mantua-maker this morning,” Alexandra said. “She should be here in a week.”

  “Excellent. I can scarcely wait!” Corinna plopped onto a coral velvet chair. “What shall we say on the invitations?”

  “There’s proper, accepted wording, I’m certain.” Alexandra pointed her quill at her youngest sister. “You’ve finished reading The Mirror of the Graces. What does A Lady of Distinction have to say?”

  “Nothing. She is distinctly opinionless concerning invitations. She discusses dress and deportment only. We’re supposed to choose the colors of our new evening apparel by candlelight, you know. For otherwise, she says, ‘If in the morning, forgetful of the influence of different lights on these things, you purchase a robe of pale yellow, lilac, or rose color, you will be greatly disappointed when at night it is observed to you that your dress is either dingy, foxy, or black.’”

  “Black!” Juliana laughed heartily at that. “Perhaps A Lady of Distinction is colorblind.”

  “A Lady of Distinction is a twit,” Corinna said.

  “None of this is helping with the invitations.” Alexandra frowned. “Mama always knew what to write.”

  “She had a book with examples of correspondence,” Corinna reminded her. “Remember that slim volume with the dark green cover?”

  “Oh, yes!” Juliana exclaimed. “I think I saw it in the library last week.”

  “Will you fetch it, then, please?” Alexandra asked. “We’d best get busy writing if we’re to give everyone proper notice.”

  “Proper,” Corinna muttered as Juliana rose and left the room. She went back to her easel and dabbed a brush in blue paint. “Everything must be proper.”