Fortune's Flower

by Mary Ellen Boyd

  He turned at the sound of her stumbling steps, his gaze unfixed, his face washed out with grief, stark and unavoidable, palpable on the air. His blue coat was uneven on his shoulders, as if he’d thrown it on when he left the house, and he wore no cravat. Verbena stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do next, half expecting him to throw her off his land.

  “Who are you? Did you not see the fence? This is protected land.” His voice was rough. After Edeline’s grief, she knew with complete certainty that the sharpness was not directed toward her.

  Verbena did not have time to answer. She saw the instant recognition hit. His sad, red-rimmed eyes suddenly focused on her and they widened, his black gaze piercing the years. He took a sharp breath, and a strange sound pierced the air. “It is you?” His voice was gravely and harsh, he cleared his throat and tried again. “You are the girl I met on this very path with the basket of bread, are you not? After all these years, it is you.”

  *

  The girl nodded, and he saw in her eyes that she knew exactly the day he referred to. She could not know, however, why he remembered that day, or what seeing her on this path, in that exact spot, was doing to him.

  She was here, real after all those ephemeral dreams, on his side of that same fence. He did not dare blink for fear he was wrong and she would vanish like all the other dreams of the night. His feet were stuck to the ground or they would have let him move to her, his hands were frozen at his side or he would have reached for her. He could only stare and take note of the other changes.

  Not so young any longer but still as appealing, as fresh as the summer morn, curling hair of sun-gold, eyes of leaf-green. Her lithesome body had grown no taller, but it was womanly now, all girlishness gone, and round in the right places. Her face was still slender, her skin flushed and glowing, pink cheeks, rose-petal lips.

  He could hardly do what his dream-self would have done, kiss those lips, pull her into his arms and hold her, just to feel her heart beat, feel her breath against his chest. He fixed his gaze on her, absorbing her face into his mind, this new face of her grown into woman.

  Her eyes narrowed, but she could not know that he had learned to read men in the seconds before the battle began, learned to know which of them could hold the line, and which were in danger of breaking and running and needed a sharp word and a forceful presence.

  Or a distraction. “We have never been formally introduced. I am Damon Thern. May I ask your name?”

  She hesitated, and Damon held his breath. She did not answer and his heightened senses knew she was still poised to run.

  “So we have a mystery here.” He hoped his smile would soften his tone and avoid sending her into panicked flight. He moved over and leaned against a tree to hide the weakness that had flared in his wounded leg. His leg was not up to a chase.

  Fear clouded her green eyes. Damon had seen that same expression, eyes clouded with fear, on his sister-in-law far too many times of late. He clapped a hand to his forehead. “You are Edeline’s sister. How stupid of me. I should have noticed it immediately.”

  Her breathing sped up, her eyes fixed wide like a trapped deer’s.

  “Edeline sent for you, did she not?” He saw the answer in her face, more fear behind her green eyes. “I should have expected that. Of course she would want her family with her at a time like – this.” Damon cleared his throat before he embarrassed himself further. How odd, he thought with a start, that Edeline had never even mentioned her. “Now may I have your name?” Edeline had never said anything about her family. Nor had Andrew – he shoved aside the slash of pain. “We are in-laws. Of a sort.”

  She bit her lip. He could see her brain working behind her eyes. With a sigh of resignation, she said, “Verbena.”

  Verbena. The healing flower. Damon gave a shallow bow, the best he could do. If he did not sit soon, he would fall on his face.

  There was a fallen tree not far away. He waved to it now. “Please, come sit with me. Just for a moment or two,” he added when he saw the ‘no’ start in her eyes. “We are practically related, and I know next to nothing about you. Where are you in the family?” Damon smiled at her, his best smile, the one that had garnered him all the mistresses any man could want.

  He tucked her hand into his arm without letting her decide and turned her toward the tree, hoping she would not notice how heavily he was leaning on her. She was so much shorter than he that his elbow nearly rested on her shoulder. He looked down onto her pale, white-gold curls and wished he dared touch them to see if they were as soft as they appeared.

  “I’m second. She is the eldest, as you might expect.” Verbena looked up at him, her gaze direct. “I shall save you the wondering. I am two and twenty.” She said it without any obvious embarrassment and went along with him, walking smoothly over the grass. He could hardly seat her properly, waiting until she was settled before sitting down himself as a gentleman should. No, he dropped down onto that ancient, dead tree trunk just in time, and let the air in his lungs out with a groan of pain and relief.

  Verbena sat down slowly, perching on the edge of the trunk as if ready to jump up and bolt. She startled him when her hand touched his arm, as soft as a butterfly, there and gone, no longer than a blink. “Are you ill?”

  He sighed. It was so far from being a secret, how could she not have heard? She seemed genuinely concerned. “I was wounded in the war. I thought the word had blanketed the village.”

  *

  Verbena looked at him more closely. In the rising sun she could see the lines of pain around his mouth, the dark circles under his eyes, and the grey tinge beneath his tanned skin. He was thinner than before, too. The coat was not loose from hurry, it was simply loose. “No, I had not heard. I do not have the luxury of making calls and listening to gossip.”

  “No?” He tilted his head as he asked the question, teasing, disbelieving.

  “No.” She was talking to Damon once more. Verbena could hardly believe it. He was sitting close enough on the tree trunk that if she dared, she could touch him again. She still felt his warmth on her fingertips. If only she did not have to measure her words so closely.

  He was even more handsome up close, despite the marks pain and sadness had left on him. Age had given his face character. His shoulders were just as wide as she remembered, though she could see his arms were thinner, leaving the sleeves draped over bones. He was wearing the new trousers, not breeches, and one leg looked twisted under the woven fabric. Even Julius had more muscles than Damon Thern did now. She remembered the coat that had stretched taut seven years ago and made her heart flutter at his blatant strength. Her overloaded basket of fresh bread had been nothing to him then. She wondered if he could even hold it now.

  He cleared his throat. “So. How many of you are there? Edeline says noth – ” he seemed to catch himself. “Your sister is quiet about her family.”

  She hesitated while she thought. Anyone in the village could tell him what he wanted to know. “We are six all together, four girls, and my brothers are in the middle.”

  “And your parents?”

  “My mother is dead. She died the year Edeline married Andrew.” After all these years, her mother’s death was still sore. They had not just lost their mother. Their father might as well have died with her, he was so changed.

  Verbena suspected her sister had told no one about her mother’s death. Edeline had not made it to the funeral, and they all had struggled with resentment at how she had ignored them in their time of grief. Now Verbena knew why. If the tale she had just heard was true, even a portion of it, Edeline’s asking for a trip back to this town, indeed any reminder of who she was and how little the family had would have left her open to more abuse and mockery.

  At least Edeline had loved Andrew. That was a consolation.

  The lines around Damon’s eyes deepened, the flash of humor she had seen disappearing as grief settled on him again, the heavy weight pulling his shoulders down. “I am indeed sorry. I might have known Ede
line’s mother was dead, but I’m ashamed to admit I did not remember it.” His brows went down. “What are their ages? And remember,” the smile of a moment ago crept back, “I can find out easily enough, now that I know who you are.”

  “The boys are seventeen and fourteen.”

  “And the girls?”

  “Eight and seven.”

  “Four, in addition to yourself.” She could not read his face. “Is there a nanny or nurse to help?”

  She choked on a laugh. Or was it a scoff? “No.” It was light enough he had to be able to see how old her gown was. No one who could afford a nanny would dare wear this gown. Not even in the dark.

  “No help? You are raising them?” He read something in that sound, based on the next question. “You no doubt do much of the work your mother would have done?”

  What could she say to that? He remembered the basket of bread she was carrying to feed others. How little he knew! “Yes.”

  A deep scowl across the brow matched the tightness around his mouth. “And your sister has kept you all a secret this whole time.”

  With long practice Verbena defended Edeline. She was going to be doing a lot more of that in the future, she realized. “You have not been here this whole time. I do not know if we are a secret to the rest of your family. Or your staff.”

  “True. You said you were two and twenty? Is your father still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m certain he is grateful to have such a diligent daughter.”

  Verbena turned her head from that prying gaze. She could walk away, he could not pursue her, but for some reason she did not want to do that to him. “My father is often not home.”

  He sighed, the vibration running along the trunk, and shook his head.

  Verbena felt the strange compulsion to defend her father. “He is a sailor.”

  “You live nearby.” It was not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “In the village?” He looked at her again, one eyebrow raised.

  “Just outside. We have a small bit of land.”

  Damon nodded. “I did remember Andrew married a local girl.” His voice broke near the end, and he went very still.

  Verbena could not ignore the grief that sat on him. Thern or not, he suffered as Edeline did, and she could not let it go unremarked. “I am sorry for the loss of your brother.”

  He nodded. They both were quiet for a moment, as if neither knew what to say after that. Finally he said, “I never wanted to be heir.”

  But he was not the heir now if Edeline carried a boy, and he did not know it. Could not know it. She spoke carefully. “It is a heavy responsibility.”

  Damon nodded again. She thought she saw a sheen of moisture on his eyes. He turned away. Looking at him, Verbena wondered that he could belong to the same family Edeline had told her about. This one, at least, could still feel. Perhaps . . . perhaps he could see reason. He would need to.

  She gathered her courage. “Since you have been away for a while, you may not know all that has happened. Your tenants might not be as tractable as they once were. Resentment is rising, and a number have moved away. Life is not easy here anymore.” The tenants would not be shy with their bitterness.

  He seemed to read her mind. “Ah, yes. I remember from the last time. I have noticed the fences. They make walking about much more difficult.”

  Verbena highly doubted he needed to walk much. Or that he even could. She had this chance and she would not lose it. “It is more than that.” Words rushed out, pushed by the injustice she struggled with every day. “So many lost all grazing for their stock with the Enclosure Acts. Every year it seems Parliament passes more of them, keeping all of us off lands that we once were able to use at will. People are starving in your village, on your land!”

  Damon’s head jerked back as if slapped. “I know of no starving villagers. And these laws have a purpose. At first the benefits were not obvious, but it is a brilliant way to manage our flocks and herds. How are we to control our breeding if our cattle and our sheep are allowed to mix with the villagers’ animals? Or try to cross pollinate our new varieties of wheat and rye if your plants mix with ours? We are already seeing the results. The sheep we are producing out of the controlled breeding are fatter, and more healthy. The wheat experiments are even better than expected.”

  “Experiments?” It came out as a whisper. His word had hit like a blow, callous and unfeeling, stealing the breath from her lungs. She cleared her throat and tried for more volume without success. “This is all an experiment? Fencing off lands, forcing everyone who owns anything to put up fences they neither needed nor wanted? How dare you say this is for our ultimate good?”

  She glared at him. Strength came back into her voice. “Tell that to your tenants who can no longer keep their sheep or their cattle because they have nowhere to graze them. What ultimate good is it for them? Try to convince them that someday it will help when they leave for London, hoping for work. I don’t see the good, now or later, when we can no longer feed our families.”

  The words kept rolling out. “It got especially bad when the common grounds were fenced. They had belonged to everyone! Those were the fields for all the villagers’ sheep and cows to graze. Before you pushed us off those grounds, before you found it so important to lay your claim on them, people could eat and clothe their families. We had milk and meat, we all shared our breeding stock with each other. Everyone could have a new lamb or calf, these awful breeding messes you are so eager to eliminate. Now we have the added cost of fencing our own properties – well, people are starving for the cost of a fence because those who passed those laws found it . . . expedient for themselves.”

  Damon raised a hand to stop her. Only her need to take another breath made her comply. “You seem inordinately well informed.”

  Her hands clenched, hiding in the folds of her skirt. “I would be the veriest idiot if I could not see what was before my own eyes. I don’t have the option of running away to London to hide. I live here every day, I see what happens. We Barnes have little land left, yet I have to find a way to pay for our own fences.”

  He seemed to sit straighter. “I did not run away, nor do I hide. If you feel I owe you an apology for laws I had nothing to do with, then I certainly will apologize. For my whole class, if that will help. Perhaps there was a better way of managing the land. There is – there was – nothing I could do to prevent the passage of so many laws, but they are working. And if others are affected badly, I’m truly sorry.” He looked off into the woods, but his eyes were haunted. “I can’t fix everything.” His voice was so soft she barely heard the last sentence.

  He had been in the war. She had heard some tales of the horrors Napoleon had thrust on the Continent. He had seen them, lived them, and suffered.

  But it was still hard to absolve him of blame for her problems when he was so determined to defend the cause. She let out a deep breath, trying to release the anger that bubbled up every time she thought of their struggle. She did not want to take it out on him – exactly. Someone, certainly, but not him. After all, he had not even been here, as he said. He had been in the war. He had undoubtedly seen worse horrors than the starving villages that surrounded them.

  Damon’s father had been here, though. His mother, his haughty sisters, his dreaming brother who could not see what was in front of his face.

  A bird suddenly chirped from nearby, and Verbena jumped to her feet. “I have to go. I have breakfast to prepare before my brothers go to work.”

  The sun creeping over the horizon painted the leaves with color. She was in for it when she got back. Please let Father still be asleep, she prayed quickly, but suspected that prayer, like so many in the past few years, would go unanswered.

  He grabbed her arm before she could run, and struggled upright. “Your brothers work? What do they do?”

  “Whatever work they can get. We do not have the luxury of servants. We all contribute whatever we can.” She tried to ignore h
is hand, warm on her arm, holding her in place, and his chest so close to her, where she could see every breath he took. Through the fine fabric of his shirt, she saw the dusting of chest hair, making her heart go fluttery, and causing a curious melting in her knees. She stiffened them, and forced herself to look away from the temptation in front of her.

  “You all contribute.” His eyes narrowed as he quoted her words. “Why do I think none contribute as much as you? It is barely dawn, yet you have already been out to minister to your sister’s needs, and now you are racing home to feed the others. What else do you do for them? Do you clean for them? Wash their clothes? Raise them? You sound like little more than a servant.” His eyes burned down.

  “It is not Edeline’s fault,” she blurted. “She has been in London. She is married – well, she was. She had her own – ” Verbena caught herself before she said ‘problems.’ “Family to take care of. I was already an adult, if I did not take care of my brothers and sisters, undoubtedly I would have had a family of my own to care for.”

  “You said your mother died soon after Andrew and Edeline wed. They were married for six years, so if you are twenty and two now, you were sixteen when it happened?” He sounded disgusted, furious, but his hold on her arm was still gentle. Firm, but gentle. “You have borne that responsibility all this time.” He shook his head as he looked down at her. “Fine. Go take care of your family.” He smiled. “You are not alone anymore.”

  Verbena stared at him, appalled. Edeline would be back at the Barnes’ family home at any time, at least briefly, and soon her pregnancy would show. Not alone any more. Just when she needed him to ignore her most.

  She turned and ran down the path.

  .

  CHAPTER 4

  She was too late. Her father was waiting when she slipped into the kitchen. He still wore the same stained clothes he had been in earlier, the heavy brown breeches that sagged about his knees, his collarless shirt blotched with stains that spoke of ale and soup that had missed his mouth. The wrinkles from sleeping fully dressed did little to hide the signs of hard wear. “There is nothing cooking! Did you not think of us while you went out to enjoy yourself?” He closed on her, his voice a soft, ominous hiss. The lingering odor of whiskey brushed her nose. “What have you been doing? Who did you go out to meet? Did I raise a whore?”