“Dios mio, he is come! Quickly, quickly, quickly, ring for Benson. We must have wine. Ah, bah! Will he expect tea, do you think? And food, there must be food. Quickly now, how do I look? Have I grown too thin? Too pale? Ah, dios, tell me I have not lost my looks…”
Doña Elvira, who had dutifully rung for the butler, patted Violante’s raven hair into even greater perfection, pinched her niece’s pale cheeks into a rosy glow. “Rub your lips together, straighten your shoulders…smile!” she commanded as Violante winced from her ministrations. When she merited Doña Elvira’s nod of satisfaction, Violante arranged herself on the sofa in a pose of elaborate graciousness, chin high and regal as if sitting for a court portrait. The charming stance was soon spoiled by a twitch, a wiggle and finally a distinct extension of the lower lip, for Benson did not return to announce a visitor. By the time the major appeared some twenty minutes later, Violante had been pacing the drawing room for some ten of those minutes, more like a leashed tiger than a sheltered young lady of excellent breeding.
When she saw him, she ran the full length of the drawing room and launched herself onto his chest. “You have come at last!” she cried. “It was so very bad of you to abandon us, mi Nicolas.” She raised her still lovely tearstained face to his. “You cannot imagine how lonely I have been. If it were not for your so kind brother I do not know how I should have survived.” She sniffed, managing a brave smile.
Don Raimondo, who had entered the room with Nicholas, nodded benignly. His Violante Modestia, though not quite living up to her middle name, was carrying off a situation which would have been difficult for a woman twice her age. “I have given the major permission to speak with you,” he told his daughter. “We are agreed that you must know what we have discussed. The situation is awkward and it is not yet clear whether the law or the heart will prevail. You must listen carefully and understand that the major is not free to do as he would choose.” With a formal nod to his sister Doña Elvira and a bow to the major, Don Raimondo left the room.
Violante, dragging Nicholas by the hand, led him to a sofa as far away from her aunt as it was possible to get in the less than stately drawing room. Nicholas, who was finding it impossible to begin such a delicate discussion, momentarily fell back on polite social conversation. Yes, Violante assured him, the dower house, though small, was adequate for their needs. And, no, she did not find the country cold. Too flat, yes but she was accustomed to the cold of the high country. The village was quaint and quite pretty and very clean. She looked forward to seeing the gardens in bloom.
“Homesick?” repeated Violante after his next question. “Of course not. This is my home now. It is understood that a woman goes to the home of her husband. I like your England very well. I shall be happy here.”
“I see.” Nicholas repressed a grimace. There was not going to be an easy way out of this tangle. And, now, seeing his exquisite Spanish violet in all the breathtaking beauty and innocence of her seventeen years, he was not at all sure he wished a way out. “So you and my brother have become friends,” he said a shade too heartily.
Violante’s eyes lit at this opportunity to repeat what Oliver had told her. “Ah, yes, your brother has called on me many times. He has explained to me about this Miss Litchfield—how clever she is. That she married you when you were too ill to know what you were doing so that she could have your money and The Willows as well. She had to run away when you came home or you would have had her arrested. He says that if you will not do so, then he will find a way to take her away himself so that you will be free. He is hidalgo, your brother, a true gentleman.”
Nicholas heard this rush of words in a haze of astonishment. Had he himself believed such calumny before Daniel and Sophy Upton dinned the truth into his ears? Possibly. For a few moments, he conceded. Before his chaotic thoughts slowed long enough for him to recall the look on Julia’s face when he walked back into her life. “You don’t understand,” he murmured to Violante. “Nor does my brother. It wasn’t that way at all…”
Violante paid him no heed, having recalled another story recounted by Oliver Tarleton. “And she is in trade, a most vulgar enterprise, I am told. She even works shoulder to shoulder with peasants. I assure you, my dear Nicolas, she is quite beneath your notice. A disgrace to your name.”
While catching her breath, Violante could not help but notice that her betrothed looked less than pleased with her outburst. A swift glance at Doña Elvira revealed that lady too far away to hear their conversation, was keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her embroidery. Violante, sneaking her hands up the front of Nicholas’ jacket, favored him with the smile she had perfected while coaxing Nicholas out of the sullens during his bout with pneumonia. Her lower lip quivered. There was a catch in her husky little voice. “You must get an annulment immediately, Nicolas, so we may put all this behind us like a very bad dream.” Daringly, she moved her hands still farther, clasping them around his neck, her heart-shaped face turned up to his. “And then we may live happily ever after, no?”
Traces of tears still dotted her cheeks, only enhancing her beauty. Nicholas swallowed hard. This was his darling Violante, daughter of Don Raimondo. Sister of Carlos.
Hell and the devil confound it!
Gently, Nicholas removed the fragile fingers from around his neck. He looked into the depths of the liquid brown eyes which gazed up at him with such eagerness and trust. Inwardly, he groaned. “Violante,” he said firmly, “I am not at all certain an annulment is the…ah…appropriate action in this case. I am convinced Julia married me in good faith. She saved my life at La Coruña. She has held household for me here through very difficult times. I am bound to her in an almost inextricable bond of obligation.”
“Obligation?” Violante cried. “To such a one as she? Señor Oliver says she is little better than a whore, carrying on with Mr. Harding at the cottage where the herbs are kept. Everyone knows she meets him there! It is a great scandal.”
“I beg your pardon?” Nicholas stared at his innocent little violet as if she had just sprouted horns.
“It is true!” she insisted. “Everyone knows. Your brother has told me so. Me, I do not yet speak enough English to go into society but I know that you cannot wish to be married to this…this puta.”
The word was as ugly in Spanish as it was in English. Nicholas rose to his feet, scarcely aware of where he was or to whom he was talking. His adieus, his promise to return on the morrow, were mechanical. He was on his horse riding through the woods before any semblance of rational thought returned.
And when it did, it was rage.
Chapter Fifteen
Several hours before Nicholas paid his call to the Dower House, Julia, Sophy and Meg took refuge in their herbal empire. Outdistancing the other women who rushed out of cottage to greet them was Beth Collins, at sixteen the youngest of Willow Herbal’s faithful workers. “Ah, missus,” she bubbled, eyes aglow, “you must be right happy to have the major home. ’Tis a miracle, me mum says, but I say it’s just like a fairy tale…” As young Beth took in the awkward silence which greeted her fanciful disregard of the lord of the manor presenting his wife to his betrothed, she clapped her hand over her mouth. The eyes peering over her fingers opened wide in fright.
“What Beth means,” said Mary Carter, a mild-mannered woman of middle years long accustomed to mending other people’s fences, “is that we are happy the major has returned to us at last and Lord Cheyney as well.”
“You are quite right, Beth,” Julia assured the younger girl, though a shade too heartily. “It is a miracle and no one could be happier than I to know the major is alive and well.” She smiled encouragingly at the stricken sixteen-year-old. “Come along now, Beth and show me what you have done while I’ve been gone.”
As the women wound their way through the forest of drying herbs, suspended upside down from every rafter and inspected rack upon rack of herbs and flowers already dried and stored in jars, conversation did not lag. When Julia had been apprised of all
the news of Willow Herbals, the women—in a not-so-subtle effort to avoid the sensitive topic of Major Tarleton—switched the talked to Captain Avery Dunstan, Viscount Cheyney.
“Most of us have known the lad since he was a gleam in his mother’s eye,” declared Mary Carter. “Is that not right, Alice? Emma? Seems ’twas only yesterday he was toddling about trying to keep up with Mr. Jack and Mr. Nick and we wuz never sure they’d all live through the summertime. The major well earned the name Old Nick—though never fear, missus, there never wuz an ounce of vice in either of ’em. But the devil’s own for mischief, they wuz,” she added with a reminiscent smile, a shake of her head.
“Jack and Nicholas grew up together?” Julia was incredulous.
“To be certain,” asserted Emma Tompkins, eldest of the group. “Inseparable they was, every summer long. Miss Summerton was never so high in the instep that she would keep the boy from running with Ellington’s bastard. Only two young sprigs that age. Down from school fer the summers, they were. Mary has the right of it. Doubt there’s any sort of mischief those imps didn’t get up to.”
“And still up to mischief,” snipped Alice Potter, a striking woman of some thirty years, with long flowing black hair. “I’ll grant you Mr. Jack seems right fond of ’is brother,” she added hastily, “though what’s good about having to give up a title and all that goes with it to a lad ten years his junior I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
“You’re much too free with your words, Alice Potter,” said Sophy Upton severely. “It’s not for you to judge your betters.
“Betters!” Alice snorted. “And who’s to say a bastard is my better?”
“That’s enough, Alice,” said Julia firmly. “You’re a hard worker and a staunch ally but no one criticizes Jack Harding in my presence. Without Mr. Harding’s support there would be no Willow Herbals and well you know it.”
“Sorry, missus,” said Alice pertly. “I’m that fond of Mr. Jack but he is what he is and there’s no changing it now, is there?”
“Nor is it his fault,” returned Julia shortly. “Now let’s get to work. What needs to be done?”
“’Tis stuffing we are today,” said Mary Carter. “All them pretty little sashays we been making all these months.”
The materials for the day’s work were already laid out on the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen. Baskets of varying shapes and sizes, filled with small square pockets of white muslin, ringed the rim of the table. Each pristine square was decorated with embroidery or a crocheted edging, the result of long hours of devotion by nearly every woman on the estate.
Large glass jars of herbs and flowers, also the product of months of work, were lined up down the middle of the long table, leaving the center bare. The seven women, displaying smiles ranging from eager to quietly satisfied, upended the contents of the jars into a large mound in the center space. Julia promptly sneezed, sending a small shower of flakes drifting to the floor while the others laughed or pretended to be horrified at such waste. Eyes brimming with good humor, Sophy handed Julia a long-handled wooden spoon and, taking a similar one for herself, the two creators of Willow Herbals began to gently mix the ingredients. Rose petals spiked with tiny buds, geranium leaves, lavender flowers, rosemary, thyme, marjoram and verbena. Julia’s eyes watered but it was well worth the discomfort. The scents—sweet, tangy, even pungent—transformed the ancient kitchen into a realm of delight.
At first, as the women settled to the task of filling each square of muslin with a handful of the newly created potpourri, they worked in near silence, taking care to gauge the amount of filling before stitching each bag shut with tiny invisible stitches. But as their hands caught the rhythm of the work, the chatter rose. And soon enough they were once again lured by long-standing camaraderie into free speaking.
“Ah, missus,” said Mary, as she bit off a thread and started to reach for another pocket of muslin, “there’s a bit of petals left in this jar.” She upended the contents into her hand, offering the dried bits of rosa mundi to Julia with a look compounded of sympathy and determined optimism. “’Tis coming up to Guy Fawkes. If ye throw the petals into the bonfire, ’twill bring ye good luck.”
Julia’s hand accepted the gift by reflex, a mist obscuring her view of the middle-aged countrywoman’s compassionate features. It was of course Beth who blurted out what none of the others dared say, “And there’s violets, missus, right over there on the shelf and rose leaves and orris root. You could make a sachet o’ it to tuck in the major’s fav’rite jacket. Or under ’is mattress might be best. My mam says it’s a right powerful love potion. Used it on me pa, she did.”
For the second time that morning Beth was brought up short by the horrified looks on her companions’ faces. “Oh, missus, I’m right sorry,” she stammered. “No offense intended, I’m sure. But my mam says you’ve done so much for us, it’s positively cruel what’s happened to you.”
“You are a child, Beth Collins,” Alice stated with scorn. “There is somethin’ better she can do. ’Tis supposed to be done on Midsummer’s Eve but there’re still some fall roses to be found and All Hallow’s should do well enough.”
Meg added a vigorous nod.
“You see, missus,” said Alice, her long black hair gleaming in the glow of the fire warming the large kitchen, “on All Hallow’s Eve—after dark, mind—you must pluck three roses. Bury one under a yew tree, the second in the soil above a new grave and put the third under your pillow. Leave them there for three nights and then burn them.” Alice cocked an eyebrow at Julia before adding the final triumphant touch, “Your lover’s dreams will be haunted until he returns to you.”
“For shame, Alice Potter!” Mary Carter scolded. “’Tis a frightful tale! And you knowing well tonight’s the new year of the ancients, the coming of the dark spirits of winter. The vicar would cast you out if he heard you. Save your mischief for Guy Fawkes, if you please.”
“It’s the Druids you mean, is it not?” Beth Collins asked, embarrassment forgotten in titillating enjoyment of the turn of the conversation.
“Aye,” said Mary, primming her mouth, “and even here in the east the old ways are not altogether forgotten.”
Alice, aware that Julia was listening with open fascination, was not shy about adding to the ancient tales. “’Tis said that on Hallowe’en the spirits of darkness dance with joy that their time, the long dark winter, is coming.” She lowered her voice to a throaty murmur. Hands slowed and stopped. Alice had her co-workers’ undivided attention. “There were only two ways for a poor human to escape the spirits. They must be fed with sweets or a body could put on a disguise—the mask of a spirit—and join their revels as one of them.”
“Such nonsense!” scoffed Emma Tompkins. “’Tis no wonder the church wishes us to ignore it. In four days you can dance around the bonfire as the Guy burns. That should be enough excitement for even the silliest among ye.”
“There’s some,” said Meg ominously, “as does not care to celebrate Guy Fawkes.”
Sudden silence descended on the table. Hands quickly returned to muslin, needles and handfuls of potpourri. The spectacular death of the Catholic daredevil from Yorkshire who nearly succeeded in blowing up Parliament had been celebrated—frequently riotously—for so long that most had forgotten the reason why Guy Fawkes was burned in effigy each November. Rebels, including the husbands, sons and fathers of nearly every woman present, were unlikely to celebrate the death of one of their own.
“I’m sure Mrs. Tompkins meant no offense,” Sophy declared. “I, for one, admit I rather like the old ways. Perhaps it’s part of being an herbalist.” She favored Julia with the thin secret smile of a conspirator. “Perhaps we might light our own small fire tonight, my dear and toss on the petals Mary has given you. It surely won’t do any harm and we can’t deny a bit of luck would be welcome.”
A look passed among Julia, Sophy and Meg. They would do it, indeed they would. That very night.
“You might try the
love potion yourself,” Alice Potter advised young Beth. “I’ve seen the looks you’ve give the Irishman, him as is newly come to town.”
Beth Collins turned scarlet. “He’s far too old!” she protested. “And everyone knows he’ll soon be gone. He’s only here to buy wool.”
“Or so he says.” Emma’s voice was tart. “I hear he’s sampled more ale than wool.”
“My Tom thinks he’s a Runner,” Alice Potter declared, enjoying the sensation of the women’s shocked attention. “Too dark and dangerous by half fer a wool buyer. And as for ‘old,’ you silly child, I doubt he’s more’n a year or two past thirty.”
“Runner?” Julia questioned sharply. “Do you truly think so? When did he come?”
“He calls himself Terence O’Rourke, missus.” said Meg, “and he’s been here since a day or two after you left. Black Irish he is. Thin face, wicked black curls, the bluest eyes you ever seen. And sinful long lashes. Not one you’d call ’andsome. Don’t need to be. He swaggers down the street like a cock of the walk and the women fair swoon at his feet. Though ’tis said he’s not done more than wink at a single one.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Alice, looking like the cat who’s just finished the cream, gave every appearance of one who could tell a good deal if only she would.
“Hush!” Emma chided with a glance to young Beth.
“Ladies!” Julia’s raised voice brought all work to a halt. “Is he, or is he not, a Runner?”
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