She ignored his flippancy.
“If it were that simple, I would do it. No. Promise to meet me at the jetty tomorrow morning, and I will tell you then what I propose.”
“Perhaps we can help each other?” he suggested, extending his hand across the table. When she smiled shyly and took hold of his fingers, he added with a smile, “I’ll be there, but you have to leave your shadow behind.”
“Edith?” Rory let out a small sigh of sympathy. “Poor Edith. She is under orders never to leave me alone for a minute. Grand has turned positively medieval since you punched Mr. Watkins in the nose. He is recovering, by the bye, but his nose will never be straight again. Thank you for asking after him.” She dimpled when he laughed out loud at his own lack of interest in the fate of Weasel Watkins’ fine nose. “Grasby told Grand everything, of course, and now Grand is furious with Mr. Watkins. Yes. I thought that would please you. But you can stop looking smug that no one caught you kissing me! I am certain Grasby suspects, but it is not the sort of conversation one has with one’s sister.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“Oh, I wasn’t warning you. You can look after yourself, and Grasby will forgive you anything. Indeed. He took your side and not Silla’s regarding the whole Romney Studio imbroglio, which has sent her into a farouche. Nothing and nobody can lighten her mood.”
“I am not surprised. Grasby should not have taken sides. And he should be loyal to his wife, always.”
“I thought you had no time for Silla…?”
“I don’t. But I’m not married to her. Grasby is. That means he must do his duty by her, not me.”
Rory regarded him for a moment, blue eyes keen, and said what was on her mind.
“Interesting you say that now. I’d wager fifty pounds that at the moment you and my brother dropped through that window into Mr. Romney’s studio, you didn’t give a tuppence for Grasby’s marriage, or any other gentleman’s marriage, truth told—” She paused when he shook his head and laughed, then continued in the same blunt tone. “All you cared about was your performance, and causing an almighty hullabaloo amongst a clutch of shrieking, barely-dressed dancers, worthy of newssheet ink.”
He smiled thinly with a raise of an eyebrow, as if punctuating her assessment with an exclamation mark. She was dead on the mark, and he wondered if she had any idea that if he and Grasby had not dropped through that window, they would not now be having this conversation. Did he believe in fate? Before that night he would have rejected the notion as fanciful. Now, he was not so dismissive, particularly since Miss Aurora Talbot was the catalyst that had made him question his world view. He now saw it through a whole new lens. It was as if his life had been smeared across one of Jamie’s small glass plates, just like a drop of blood, and slid under the lens of a microscope for intense scrutiny. And just as he had peered through the eyepiece of his son’s birthday present and adjusted the lens, a whole other world appeared before his eyes, one he never knew existed or thought possible. It thrilled and alarmed him.
Rory had the same effect on him. With her, his life came into sharp relief. She made his heart beat a little too hard and his chest to ache. He was not one for deep thought or rumination, but he was confident this young woman seated across from him with the light of triumph in her eyes had forever changed the way he viewed the world. He could think of no one else with whom he wished to share his life’s journey.
“Wager?” he managed to calmly enquire. “Be careful, Rory. Have you forgotten my moniker?”
Rory laughed. “Not at all. And I advise you not take up the offer because you’d lose!”
“Yes. Yes I would.”
“I have no idea why Grand thinks my virtue needs guarding now,” she prattled on because he was looking at her intently, the look in his eye new and unsettling. “Two months ago he gave no thought to leaving me with Mr. Pleasant unattended in the Pinery for a whole afternoon. Admittedly Cedric was helping me prepare pineapple pots ready for embedding in troughs of tanner’s bark. Not even Crawford was there…” She cocked her head and grinned, wrinkling her little nose. “I suppose Grand thought having our elbows deep in horse manure was not conducive to a romantic interlude.”
“It wouldn’t have stopped me kissing you.”
“Now who is being the romantic!” she teased.
“Did the manure stop Cedric?”
The serious tone of his question surprised her. She was incredulous.
“Don’t be a silly head, Alisdair! Mr. Pleasant kiss me? Me kiss him?” She gave a little shudder. “Cedric is a dear heart but I consider him a second brother.”
“I am sure a sister is not what he considers you; besides, he already has eight of those.”
Mr. Cedric Pleasant’s feelings for her was news to Rory, and it sounded in her voice as she shifted along the cushions to the end of the table where the teapot rested on its pedestal, a lighted candle under the base to keep the water in the pot at the correct drinking temperature.
“Truly? How odd that I never thought so…” She dimpled. “Then again, I never thought of you as a brother… Please stay seated and allow me,” she ordered when he rose up off the cushion to assist her.
He had been determined to lift the teapot from its stand for her, a job normally performed by a butler or footman because of the heaviness of the silver, particularly when filled with hot tea. But he did as requested and resettled on the cushion.
“I may not have the same strength in both my legs, but I do have strong wrists and arms, and that is from the swimming I do at home, in the Thames, and here, on the lake,” Rory told him as she arranged three Sèvres porcelain cups on their saucers. “Grand insisted I learn from a young age, determined I strengthen my body and prove the physicians wrong. I cannot take exercise in long walks or dancing, and though I use a sidesaddle, I find that long rides do not agree with my ankle. But swimming—”
She lifted the silver teapot and expertly poured tea in each cup without spilling a drop and set the teapot back on its stand.
“—I love to swim! I wish I could do so all year round.”
She next used the silver sugar tongs to select a small sugar lump from the porcelain sugar bowl that was in the same pattern and color as the tea service, and dropped this into one of the teacups. Placing a silver spoon on the saucer she stood there for a moment holding the teacup and smiled down at him. “
“When I was a little girl I desperately wanted to be a bird, so I could fly free. I observed that birds with a broken foot, or with only one foot, were still able to soar high into the air. But swimming is an excellent substitute for flying. When I am in water, I feel free and-and graceful…” She gave a tinkle of laughter, shrugged her shoulders and said teasingly, “Perhaps I am a mermaid after all? Perhaps when I am in water my legs transform themselves into one long fish tail. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow morning to discover that for yourself. No, Edith. Please stay where you are. I will bring the tea to you. You look to have run all the way back from the house, and in this heat need something to revive you.”
Dair’s head snapped round, just as surprised at seeing Rory’s maid, as Edith was of being noticed by her young mistress.
EDITH HAD COME UP the pavilion steps panting, and adjusting the pins in her disheveled hair, from running most of the way down the winding path that led up to the big house. She was late but full of news. The dower house was a hive of activity. The servants were buzzing from room to room, arms full of linen, trays of polished silver and glassware, carrying endless buckets of water up stairs, and firewood was being set in every fireplace ready for the cool of the evening, though that seemed unlikely given the unusually stiflingly hot weather over the past week, day and night. The large kitchen was heavy with the mingling of delicious smells, of cooked pastries and breads, of roasted lamb being turned on the spit. The French chef was shouting Gallic obscenities at his two busy assistants (Edith was sure the words were unfit for a female’s ears, for why else would he be
yelling in French?). No one had a minute to spare for Edith, a maid from the Gatehouse Lodge, who was an interloper and in the way with their illustrious mistress returned home.
Edith followed a group of upper servants to the wide-open front door, and stood just inside the portico in time to witness a large traveling coach, black-lacquered doors covered in dust and pulled by six grays, now spent, come to a halt in the circular gravel drive. Four liveried outriders who had accompanied the carriage dismounted and stripped off their riding gloves, stable boys rushing to their horses’ heads. A second carriage with a further two outriders followed. This carriage was almost as splendid, but was weighed down with luggage, strapped to its roof and stacked inside so high that hatboxes and parcels blocked the view from one of the windows. Four upper servants piled out of this carriage, shook out their crushed petticoats or the skirts of their frock coats, and immediately went indoors, leaving the occupant of the big carriage to be attended to by her lady-in-waiting, who had made the journey with her mistress. So, too, had two spirited whippets, one black, the other white and tan, who were taken in hand by a footman, who snapped leads to their diamond studded chokers and led them away.
Edith knew she had now left Rory alone too long with the handsome Major, but she could not tear herself away until she had seen the mistress of the house, the Duchess of Kinross, a noblewoman known to her only by reputation, and by the thread of connection with her young mistress. She was not disappointed.
At first she mistook the smartly-dressed lady in the brocade gown and upswept coiffure as the Duchess, then realized the woman was too young, and she was not pretty enough. The Duchess was said to be breathtakingly beautiful, a feast for the eyes, and in every way a duchess. This must be the lady-in-waiting. She knew it was so when the woman stepped to one side of the carriage steps where a line of upper servants, from housekeeper to butler and those privileged enough to have access to the Duchess’s private apartments, had gathered to greet their mistress.
A footman at the opened carriage door offered up his gloved hand, and out onto the top step appeared a fairylike creature not much above five feet in height. Her bright blonde hair was swept off a sweet face that was still exquisite. Most of the weight of curls fell about her shoulders and down her back, tied up with satin ribbons that matched her open robe gown of soft green silk with underskirts of lace. The matching silk bodice had a delicate lace trim and displayed a magnificent décolletage, where nestled a three-strand baroque pearl and diamond necklace. Slender arms were adorned with gold bangles and a pair of embroidered silk mules were just visible under the hem of her gown. Edith was more than satisfied she had indeed seen a duchess this day, and that this particular duchess measured up to expectations. She tried to take in her every detail, from the pretty silk hair ribbons, to the Dresden lace of the underskirts, to the unusual almond shape of her eyes, convinced she would never again have such an opportunity
And then, as if by magic, the careful storage of these memories evaporated the moment the Duchess put an expensively shod foot to solid ground. She suddenly came to life, and she was mesmerizing. Clutching a handful of her delicate petticoats, she swept up to the servants, proclaiming how glad she was to be back in Hampshire, speaking not in English but in French. Fluttering a delicate fan and commenting that the heat was unbearable for this time of year, she spoke to each servant, asking questions and listening attentively to each response. And when she reached the head of the line where stood the housekeeper, who bobbed a curtsy, and the butler, who bowed his head, the Duchess took hold of the butler’s hand, and then the housekeeper’s, and engaged them in quiet conversation for three or four minutes, the housekeeper dashing a tear from her eye. And then the Duchess was gone inside. Her lady-in-waiting and the rest of the servants followed, each and every one of them smiling, leaving Edith, who had ducked to the other side of a grandfather clock to be out of sight, awestruck. To have been privileged to be in such close proximity of a noblewoman of the highest rank and of such dazzling beauty was not likely to happen again in her lifetime, and Edith vowed to remember always the homecoming of Antonia, Duchess of Kinross.
AT THE PAVILLION, Edith’s news, and the message to be delivered to the Major, entrusted to her by a footman as she left the house, were forgotten in her surprise at being proffered a cup of tea. With her head still full of images of the Duchess of Kinross’s arrival she also forgot the requisite thank-you. Her state of confused preoccupation was compounded watching Rory move about the pavilion in her stockinged feet and without her walking stick. In the absence of her special shoes and a stick to lean on, her awkward gait was at its most pronounced. This circumstance in itself was of no surprise to Edith, who had cared for her mistress since she was in her teens. It was that Rory chose to allow the Major to see her at her most vulnerable, a situation that was avoided at all costs, even with family members.
Obediently, Edith took the cup of tea and went to the spot on the marble bench between two fat columns where her needlework lay. She stirred the sugar lump and once dissolved, sipped at the sweet black brew, grateful for the hot drink, a wary eye on her mistress.
Rory returned to the table and fussed with the tea things. She placed a cup of tea, the milk jug and the sugar bowl before the Major, and then set the remaining cup of tea at her place, but did not immediately sit. She was well aware of what she was doing. She knew Dair’s gaze remained fixed on her the whole time she was chatting away about sidesaddles, flying like a bird and swimming like a mermaid. She could hardly believe she was prattling on like a shatter-brain. But it was nerves, pure and simple. She knew also that his eyes never left her while she poured out the tea and took a cup across the pavilion to her maid. That was a last minute stroke of evil genius. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen Edith come up the stairs and stop to catch her breath on the top step. Taking her a cup of tea would give her a reason to walk the length of the pavilion, without her shoes and no stick. It was not that she was worried about spilling the tea, or tripping, or making a fool of herself in that sense. She readily went about in her stockinged feet in her own apartments or out in the garden on a summer’s day, if no one was about.
What filled her with trepidation, what made her nervous, was that she had put the Rory no one saw on show, for him. The lame Rory with a turned right foot and an ungainly gait. The Rory who loved silk and satin embroidered gowns and robes, and all the feminine fripperies that went with an outfit, and could convince herself when standing before a long looking glass that men would find her attractive. That is, until she took a step away from her reflection. Her right foot would not obey her left foot and point forwards, nor would it lie flat. It turned inwards and the weight was on the ball of the foot, compressing her toes; it gave her a limp. She tried to blame the underpinnings or her gowns and the spangled silk embroidery for exaggerating her impediment when she walked. But the truth was, nothing changed when she was stripped to her chemise, or in her nightgown. She would always walk in this manner. There was no escaping the raw physical facts that when she moved about on land she would never be graceful, elegant, or pleasing to the eye.
She took small comfort in the knowledge that at least today she was dressed in a simple cream muslin gown, without stays, and with her hair an untidy damp mess down her back. Perhaps his eye would stray from her gait to find fault with her plain gown and bird nest hair…
If ever there was a moment for him to change his mind about making love to her, this was it.
Taking a deep breath, heart thumping in her ears so loudly she thought she might go deaf, she finally turned to look across at him. And what she saw, or more to the point, what she did not, was of no comfort. She could not fathom his reaction. Reflected in his eyes was something altogether unknown to her. She held his gaze, and with each passing second the heat intensified in her throat and cheeks. She would not speak. She waited for him to do so. And she waited for him to move time on, and in the direction of his choosing.
When he did,
he did so in a wholly unexpected manner. It was so unexpected that Edith’s teacup slid from her hand. The hot black tea splashed and stained the hem of her skirts, as the teacup smashed on hard marble, splintering into a hundred tiny shards across the floor of the pavilion.
TWENTY-THREE
D AIR KNEW what she was trying to do, and was having none of it. Just because he wasn’t bookish didn’t mean he couldn’t read a person’s emotions and motives. If by this display she was trying to turn him away, break his resolve, make him realize how thoroughly unworthy she was of him, then she did not know him at all. But he suspected it was her lack of confidence that made her flaunt her physical weakness so openly. It must have cost her dearly to do so. In the eight weeks (had it only been eight weeks?) since he had scooped her up into his arms off the platform in Romney’s studio, she had only ever walked in his presence with the assistance of her walking stick.
He was a little hurt she needed to test his sincerity in this way; that she possessed a scintilla of doubt he might be shallow of character; that he would not desire her, esteem her, love her, all because of a tiny flaw of God’s making. Again, he reasoned her doubt came from her youth and inexperience. Her grandfather had kept her sheltered, and that was not such a bad thing. Only time would see her lose the self-doubt and strengthen her self-belief about how truly lovely she was in character and form. And he had every intention of spending that time by her side, kernel of doubt be damned. He knew in his heart they were compatible in every sense. If this walk across the pavilion had shown him anything, it was to take a good hard look at himself, and how he had allowed his parents’ loveless marriage and his father’s vile bitterness to determine his own outlook on life for far too long.
Here was a young woman who, through no fault of hers, lived with an impediment every day. It was a circumstance out of her control, and yet she had not allowed it to rule how she viewed the world. She was not bitter. She did not blame others. She was joyful and full of optimism. He needed that in his life. He needed her in his life.
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