by Lauren Royal
Her poor, misguided brother was just trying to make his sisters happy. Which meant there was no way she could get out of this without looking like a cantankerous crab, even though agreeing would mean hours shut up in a carriage with Tris.
Well, at least they wouldn’t be alone, she told herself, forcing a smile to curve her lips. “Why, I think it sounds delightful.”
“Mesdemoiselles.” Madame Rodale cleared her throat and held up a large scrapbook filled with fashion plates. “You have yet to select your designs.”
Griffin strode over and took the book from her hands. “They can choose during the drive. You won’t mind, will you, Madame?” He unleashed his charming, crooked grin. “If you’ll but wait a few hours, I should be tremendously grateful.”
Madame, who was old enough to be his mother, blushed to the roots of her graying hair. “Very well,” she murmured, forgetting her fake French accent.
Griffin’s charm could be lethal. No wonder he had so many friends.
“It’s all settled, then.” He turned his smile on the rest of them. “Girls, you have half an hour to wheedle a picnic lunch out of François and change your clothes should your feminine sensibilities require that. What does one wear to a picnic? A carriage dress? A walking dress?”
“A garden dress,” Alexandra informed him, forgiving him his masculine ignorance.
When he was nice like this, she wanted to kick herself for telling him he should leave.
FOURTEEN
“THAT WAS delicious.” In the shade of a large elm atop a rise overlooking the grapevine-covered slope, Tristan leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out on the red blanket Griffin’s sisters had packed along with the picnic lunch. He glanced into the empty basket and feigned good-natured surprise. “What, no famous Chase sweets to complete the meal?”
Sitting across from him, Corinna finished her last bite of cheese. “Griffin didn’t give us enough time.”
“Don’t go blaming me,” Griffin protested. “As though you, of all people, would volunteer to spend hours in the kitchen.”
“My talents don’t lie there.” She put her dainty nose in the air. “A Lady of Distinction said that whatever is worthwhile to do, is worthwhile to do well.”
“She was talking about dancing,” Juliana said with a roll of her eyes. She looked to Tristan. “May we see the pump now, please?”
“Certainly, at least what little there is to see of it.” He rose to his feet and stretched, gazing down to where Alexandra had her own nose buried in Madame Rodale’s book of fashion plates.
She’d barely looked up to eat; in fact, she hadn’t looked up at all during the long drive out here in the carriage. She’d positioned herself safely between her sisters and kept her eyes on the scrapbook, discussing each engraving in such detail it had made him want to scream.
While it was true he’d done his best to avoid finding himself alone with her, there was no reason for them to ignore each other in company. Once, years ago, he’d considered Alexandra a friend, one of only a handful of girls he’d ever really talked to. Perhaps she hadn’t seen it that way—she seemed to think he hadn’t noticed her when they were young. But he’d always watched her, and listened, and responded—in a proper, respectful way, of course. And he’d thought of her as a friend.
Though they could never give in to their troublesome attraction, he wanted that friend back.
He leaned down and shut the book. “Are you coming along?”
She looked up, startled.
“We’re leaving to see the pump,” he elaborated, his face still close to hers.
“Oh.” Her pupils grew large, darkening in her brandy-brown eyes. Clearly flustered, she glanced around him as if noticing for the first time that everyone else was standing. Her sisters were donning their hats. “Oh, yes. Of course I’m coming along.”
“Excellent,” he said, straightening and offering a hand to help her up.
She hesitated before putting hers into it, and when she did, he thought he felt her give a tiny jolt. He knew for certain that a surge of something unsettling swept through him. As soon as she’d gained her feet he dropped her hand.
It was a good thing he was leaving tonight.
The walk from the vineyard to the river was pleasant in the sunshine. Alexandra hurried ahead to join her sisters. From Tristan’s vantage point behind them, the three girls were a study in contrasts. By far the shortest, Juliana walked in the middle, flanked by her taller siblings. Juliana’s straight, dark blond hair was swept up in a flawless style, Corinna’s mahogany waves draped elegantly down her back, and Alexandra’s springy dark curls seemed determined to escape their pins.
They gracefully made their way across the downs in high-waisted frocks, Juliana and Corinna in white and Alexandra in pale blue. From the fragments of chatter that drifted back, he surmised they were discussing their evening gown selections yet again. Though she always dressed well, he’d never known Alexandra to be so enamored of clothing.
“The men have nearly finished testing all the stations that will water the different areas,” Griffin said, breaking into Tristan’s reflections. “Everything seems to be working perfectly.”
“You’re not surprised, are you?”
“That it would work? No. You’ve proven your reputation is well-earned. But I am surprised it came together so quickly. I didn’t believe you when you said you could do it in a week. I owe you my apologies—and my thanks.”
“You had a cooperative foundry.”
“Regardless, I appreciate your attention to the matter. And your…shall we say lack of attention to my sister.”
Tristan’s gaze went to Alexandra’s slender form. Her laughter floated back to him. “I made a promise,” he said.
A promise to keep his hands off. But he hadn’t promised to abandon their friendship, and he was determined to salvage it.
By the banks of the River Caine, all five of them gathered around the square pit Griffin’s men had dug, gazing down through the grille at the noisy gray metal pump. Rhythmic hissing sounds shimmied up through the air.
“I told you there’s not much to see,” Tristan said. “The workings are all hidden inside. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
“It’s very impressive,” Juliana disagreed tactfully. “How does it work?”
“That pipe there runs from the river down to the pump.” Everyone stepped back while he opened the hinged grating. “It provides the water, and the downwards motion of that water flowing into the pump creates the energy that the pump uses to send it back up.” He descended a ladder into the pit and stood there looking up at the rest of them. “This slender valve took me longest to adjust,” he said, indicating a shank that moved up and down with rapid precision. “It pulsates fifty to seventy times per minute—roughly once per second. Each of those pulsations provides half a pint of water.”
With each pulsation, a bit of water squirted out. “It’s losing water,” Corinna said.
“Not much, and that’s part of the design, not a leak. The vast majority of the water is sent into the main chamber here.” He laid a possessive hand on the vibrating machine. “Inside, there’s a flap to keep the water that goes up from coming back down, and air in the top forces it through the outlet and into the pipe that runs uphill to the vineyard.”
Although Tris kept talking, Alexandra wasn’t really listening anymore. She was thinking about how the pump looked exactly like the pictures he’d drawn in the library. He’d created this, and it worked to get a job done even when no one was here watching it.
She gazed down at him in the pit and thought about how he was so very intelligent. Intelligent and handsome and stunningly knowledgeable despite his few years. And honorable, too—never mind that momentary lapse when he’d kissed her.
She would have liked to kiss him again.
It was a good thing he was leaving tonight.
“Your lordship?” When a gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts, she looked up to
see a man addressing her brother.
“Yes?” Griffin replied.
“The caps on one of the stations aren’t working properly.”
Griffin looked inquiringly at Tris.
“Go on,” Tris said, climbing back up the ladder. “It’s time for you to graduate. I won’t be here to solve any problems tomorrow.”
Griffin nodded. “I’ll meet you all back at the blanket.”
Alexandra watched her brother head for the vineyard with the man. “Griffin can handle it,” she said when their voices had faded away.
“I have no doubt.” Tris hopped out of the pit and turned to lower the grille. “Your brother is a very competent fellow. He led troops all over the Peninsula.”
“Sometimes I forget that,” Juliana said as they started back at a leisurely pace. “Sometimes he makes me furious.”
“Sometimes you make him furious, too, I’d wager.” Tris softened that with a smile. “Did you ladies finally choose your dress designs?”
“Oh, yes.” Corinna gave a little skip. “Mine will be covered with embroidery and pearls.”
Juliana hugged herself. “Mine will be off the shoulder, with puffed sleeves and silk flowers tacked along the hem.”
“And yours?” he asked Alexandra.
“Oh, it will be very pretty.”
She didn’t feel like discussing her dress. A dress Tris would never see.
Other gentlemen would see it. Wearing it, she would smile and flirt and dance, and one of the other gentlemen would end up her husband. She knew she should be excited about that, but at the moment she could hardly gather her thoughts with Tris walking beside her.
It was a really good thing he was leaving tonight.
Juliana met her gaze, her eyes sympathetic. Alexandra looked away. To the north across the hedgerows, fields were planted, but the rolling land beneath their feet was covered only by untamed grass. The air smelled fresh. A kestrel hovered overhead in search of prey.
“Will there be a famous Chase sweet to finish my last dinner?” Tris asked.
“Perhaps.” Corinna looked to be considering.
“Strawberry tarts.” Suddenly enthusiastic, Juliana turned to him. “Do you fancy strawberry tarts?”
“Very much so—”
“François rarely keeps strawberries in the larder,” Alexandra pointed out.
“No matter,” Juliana said cheerfully. “There’s a patch of them over there.”
Corinna looked to where she indicated. “Wild strawberries!” Perhaps she had little talent for making sweets, but she was accomplished at eating them. “And this late in June, they ought to be perfectly ripe.” She sighed, looking down at her white garden dress. “A pity we have nothing to put them in.” Their skirts would surely stain should they use them to carry fruit.
“We have the empty picnic basket.” Juliana grabbed Corinna’s hand. “Let’s hurry and fetch it.”
Disconcerted, Alexandra watched her sisters run ahead. “That’s not very ladylike,” she muttered to Tris. “A Lady of Distinction wouldn’t approve.”
“Is that why you’re not going with them?”
“No. I’m…I cannot pick strawberries. They make me itch.”
“Even if you just touch them?”
She nodded. “If I eat them, my tongue swells and my throat starts feeling tight.”
And Juliana had known that, of course. She’d taken advantage of the fact in order to leave her sister alone with Tris. Juliana, who always knew what was best for everyone—one had only to ask her to be informed of that—had been trying to maneuver the two of them together all week.
Tris reached to touch Alexandra’s arm on the bare skin below where her blue puffed sleeve ended. When she jumped, he dropped his hand. “I’m glad you cannot pick strawberries.”
Her arm tingling, she stopped walking and turned to him. “You’re glad they make me itch?”
“I’m glad of the opportunity to talk with you.”
The little hairs on her arm were standing on end. “Talk with me about what?”
“Although it’s clear we’ve formed a romantic attachment—” He stopped when she opened her mouth to interrupt, and, raising two fingers, briefly touched her lips. “There’s no sense in denying what we both know.”
Now her lips tingled, too. “There’s no sense in discussing it, either.”
“But that doesn’t mean we cannot talk at all, about anything. I always considered you a friend, Alexandra. I don’t want to lose that, too.”
Tristan watched her fight with herself, watched her swallow hard, watched her eyes go from glassy to clear as she came to a decision. “I’ll be your friend,” she said at last. “Always.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
He expected her to pull her hand away. Instead she squeezed his back, so hard he wondered how her slim fingers could take the force. Then she didn’t let go as they continued on their way to the abandoned picnic site.
They strolled silently for a while. He was more aware of Alexandra’s hand in his than he remembered being aware of any physical sensation, ever. And he knew it was the same for her.
“Tris?” she finally said.
“Hmm?”
“Do you believe there’s only one perfect person for each of us in this world?”
He smiled to himself. This was the sort of philosophical question she used to bring up when they were younger. “Perhaps some of us have no perfect person.”
“Be serious,” she said.
He had been, but obviously she didn’t want to hear that. “No. My father believed there was only one for him, though. I don’t think I ever quite forgave him for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t always a drinker and a gambler,” he said, wondering vaguely why he was telling her this, “although I barely remember him as anything else. But my uncle assured me he’d once been a kinder man, and respectable.”
“What happened?”
“When I was seven, my mother left us.”
Her eyes widened. “She didn’t die? She just left?”
“Yes, she just left. Went to America—”
“With another man?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I expect there’s more to the story than anyone bothered telling a boy of seven.” Over the years, he’d never asked. Perhaps he’d feared the truth. And when his father and uncle died, the facts had died along with them. “One day my mother was gone, and Father said she had gone to America. She took my sister with her. Susan.”
“Tell me about her,” she said softly.
She must have heard the wistfulness in his voice—an unintended wistfulness that had taken him by surprise. He’d thought he was past feeling pain from these particular wounds.
He took comfort from her fingers laced with his. “Susan was four years older, and my half sister, really—from my mother’s previous marriage. The odd thing is, though I missed Mother something fierce, I missed Susan even worse.”
“Dear heavens.” She squeezed his hand. “You must have loved her very much.”
“I worshipped her, to tell you the truth,” he admitted sheepishly. “She was more a mother to me than my own mother, and I couldn’t understand why she would leave me. Now I realize she probably wasn’t given a choice.”
“Have you ever tried to find her?”
“They both died. Of smallpox. We received a letter a year later. That was when my father became dispirited and never recovered. It reached the point where he eventually squandered all of his inheritance, endangering the viability of his estate and the people who depended upon it. Depended upon him.”
“You were one of those people.”
“I wasn’t talking about myself, but yes, I suppose I was.” He didn’t like to think of himself as a victim. There was nothing to be gained by placing blame, he’d learned; it was better to get on with life. “You see—to get back to your original question—my father loved my mother, and
I gather that until he saw that letter, he hadn’t given up hoping she might return. But once he learned of her death, he was so convinced he’d never love again that he gave up.”
“Did you want another mother?”
The sympathy in her tone all but killed him. “Desperately, when I was young—most of the other boys had one, after all. But perhaps it’s just as well that my wish never came true.” He added to make her laugh, “With my luck, she would have turned out to be a mean stepmother like Cinderella’s.” When she did laugh, his spirits lifted. “Do you believe there’s only one perfect person for each of us?”
“No,” she said in a way that made it clear she’d thought on the subject before. “I’ve seen many of my family’s acquaintances lose spouses and find someone new. Ofttimes they seem happier.”
“Maybe the first person wasn’t the right one and the second one was.”
“Perhaps, in some cases. But I still don’t think there’s only one in the world for each of us. What would be the odds of finding him or her? God wouldn’t make it that difficult for us to be happy.”
He knew she was thinking about finding someone besides him. The sting he felt at that was unexpected—and entirely inappropriate. He hoped she’d find someone to make her happy, or two or three someones should she think that possible. With all the grief she’d suffered in the past few years, she was still optimistic about her future. Bless her for that.
Life had taught him to be more cynical.
As they came in view of the vineyard where her brother knelt by the pipeline in the distance, she slid her fingers from his with an abashed smile.
He was very glad they were friends again.
But it was a good thing he was leaving tonight.
GRIFFIN MADE dinner that night into a celebration, toasting Tris and their success with champagne. Conversation flowed along with the bubbly wine. Her tongue loosened by spirits and Tris’s offer of friendship, Alexandra was very much a part of it.
But while she watched everyone else eat Juliana’s strawberry tarts, a melancholy mood began settling in. When Tris’s horse was saddled and waiting, she defied her brother’s wishes and walked Tris downstairs.