by Lisa E. Pugh
The mansion looked totally different during the day. The gallery above the foyer was bright and airy, without a shadow to be seen. The drawing room was equally cheerful. Intermittent rays of sunlight shone through the large windows. The wood on the richly upholstered furniture gleamed like polished bronze. The oil paintings showed off their beautiful vibrant colors, the images looking freshly painted.
The veranda was on the other side of a pair of French doors. A wrought iron table sat covered with a white linen tablecloth and two chairs stood on the muted red brick. A platter with a jug of lemonade and two glasses rested on the fine Irish linen.
Lord Yawron—call him Christopher, she reminded herself—stood on the edge of the paved skirting. He was looking out over the gardens. He wore a lightweight dove-gray suit, out-of-date but beautifully tailored. A hood of the same color rested unused on his shoulders. His brown hair touched the nape of his neck in a style equally obsolete to his clothes. His head was tilted back slightly as if he were enjoying the feel of the sunshine on his face.
At his butler’s “ahem,” the earl pulled the cowl over his head and turned. He stood very still for a moment. He was watching her again. By his sharp inhale, he seemed to approve of what he saw. At least, she hoped he did.
Coming out of his reverie, he said, “Good morning, Miss Taylor. I hope you are well.”
“Very well, my lord,” she replied with matching courtesy, “And how are you?”
“Well, very well.” He signaled her to sit.
Brenlaw held her chair. She sat and thanked him. He simply nodded. With eminent tact and professionalism, he poured the drinks and withdrew.
Margaret and Christopher took sips of their lemonade. The tartness made her wet her lips. His hood tilted slightly, showing that the small movement caught his attention. It was some time before they talked.
Finally, Margaret broke the silence. “May I still call you Christopher, or is this formality to continue in private as well?”
“I'm just following your excellent advice and maintaining propriety in front of the servants,” Christopher explained casually. “You may call me Christopher if I may call you Maggie again.”
“You may.” She paused before broaching the uncomfortable subject of the dinner. “Christopher, about the other night…”
He held up his hand. “No, Maggie, please, let us say no more about it. We were both in an awkward situation, and we both handled it with varying degrees of success and failure. Today is a fresh start.”
“Very well.” She relaxed a bit at his magnanimous response. Now they could begin again without any regrets or complaints. She raised her glass. “To new beginnings then.”
“New beginnings, indeed,” he replied, clinking their tumblers together.
He leaned back with a sigh, took a sip, and looked around him. “I’ve always loved this house after a good rain. There’s a gleam off the stones, a refreshing smell from the wet grass, and a certain way the sun shines over the garden. For me, sunbeams piercing through the clouds and shadows racing over the bushes and flowers stir the soul in an indescribable way.”
Margaret smiled. There was a lyrical quality to his speech sometimes that was beautiful to hear. “I feel the same whenever I'm in the country. Everything is washed clean, and there is a fresh, invigorating air. You don’t get that in London. Mostly, the rain washes the smog onto the buildings. It cleans the air but not always the architecture.”
Christopher nodded. “I remember. Haven’t been to the capital in a dog’s age, however. Not since I went to a specialist after my… accident.” He fell silent with a slight shiver. Then he took a breath and said, “I’m sorry. It still affects me sometimes, the memory of it, I mean.”
She shrugged. “It’s understandable. The event must have been very traumatic, and it had such a lasting effect on your life.”
“Yes, it did,” he mused. “It changed everything.”
She started to reply and stopped. What could she say? He didn’t want pity or pretty words. He’d probably heard all of the usual platitudes immediately after the tragedy.
However, he might need to talk to someone who wasn’t a relative, a doctor, or a servant. From reading about Doctor Rivers’ techniques, she knew to simply sit and listen was often the best route to take. He would direct her where he wanted to go.
He tilted his head and watched his fingers tapping a rhythm on the fine linen. It was a familiar pattern, but she couldn’t place it. She waited patiently as he continued to play a one-handed melody only he could hear. He seemed to be deep in thought.
After a few moments of silence, he began speaking quietly. “It was a car crash, you know. My accident. I don’t know if anyone told you that, and ‘accident’ can mean so many things.”
“True,” she replied, her tone and expression firmly neutral.
“I was coming home late after meeting a friend. The rain was pouring down, and I was in a rush. A stormy night, a muddy curve and a form in the road—that’s all it took to blow up my life.” He turned his head toward the garden and sighed. “It was so long ago, but I’m never free of it. I live every day with the consequences of my rash stupidity.”
He spat out the last two words, and his palm slammed onto the table. She jumped at his flash of anger but didn’t reply. The frustration was, after all, completely natural.
She knew better than to complain or chastise. Any negative reaction would be counterproductive. It would only lead to him not speaking about it altogether, and she felt certain he needed to talk, if only for a little while.
“You know, I’ve never spoken much about that time until now—not at all, in fact. Certainly not with someone outside the household.” He turned to her and sat back casually, relaxed once more. “Something about you, Miss Taylor, puts me strangely at ease. Without trying, you seem to invite confidences.”
“Thank you, Christopher.” She blushed, dropping her eyes for a moment. A small delighted smile curved her lips. “That means a lot to me.”
He stood up and offered his arm. “Would you like to take a stroll in the garden with me? The rain seems to have moved on, and Brenlaw will signal us when luncheon is ready.”
“I would love to.” She rose and took the offered arm. They walked down the sloping lawn and into the hedge-bordered gardens.
Entering the various gardens was a pleasantly jarring experience. The first plot beyond the wall of evergreen bushes bristled with the chaos of a country garden, very like her own but much larger. There were lilacs, wisteria, oxlips, crocus and columbine—all of them seemed to climb over each other, vying for sunshine and attention.
The path then led through an arch in the hedgerow to beds of tulips arranged by color and hue. It was as ordered as the previous garden was anarchic. After that came the statues, pond, and ornamental bushes of an eighteenth-century English lawn.
Finally, through another arched door, Margaret saw a rose garden. Remarkably for the time of year, several plants were already in bloom. The sheltered position of the garden and its orientation to the sun had some effect, but she was sure that would not have been enough. There seemed an almost magical quality about the profusion of blossoms so early in the season.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“That was my mother’s favorite garden. She and Brenlaw worked hard to get it just the way she wanted it. Her beds were always the first to bloom in the entire county.” Though he described the place with pride, he slowed his approach. He seemed almost loath to go inside its walls.
When he spoke again, his voice was filled with affection and sadness. “It was her sanctuary in many ways. Whenever she needed to think, or cry, or just breathe free from the responsibilities and duties of an earl’s wife, she would go there.”
“I reckon a lot of women like her needed such places. My mother did, and she was just a country squire’s wife.”
“You’re probably right,” he remarked, dry amusement in his tone. A moment later, he sighed. “When s
he learned I would survive the crash but not completely intact, I was told she screamed and ran out of the room. My father was so concerned that he ordered Brenlaw to follow her. According to that trusty old manservant, she spent a long time in that garden crying.”
His voice caught in his throat, and he stopped speaking. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “She collapsed on one of the benches and thanked any higher power that heard her for sparing her son. Weeping for me, she prayed for the strength she knew she would need to help me carry on—to aid me through the challenges ahead.”
“May I see your mother's garden?” Margaret asked gently. “I do love roses.”
“I haven’t really been in there since her death,” he admitted, ashamedly. “I was afraid that, without her influence, the place would change too much… or too little. I'd hate to think my mother left no mark in there.”
She understood only too well the need for reminders and permanence in the face of loss. “It’s all right. We don’t have to go.”
He shook his head, bracing himself. “No, we’ll go in. My mother was proud of her roses. She'd want other people to enjoy them as well.”
They crossed the threshold together.
It was indeed a beautiful space. Unlike the tulip garden, the plants here were encouraged to intermingle. Peach-colored flowers mingled with pink. Brilliant white blooms exploded among clusters of deep red. Dark, almost black buds peppered the beds of pale rose. The garden was both a riot of color and a picture of well-chosen compliments.
Christopher looked around, amazed. “Nothing, not a thing has changed.”
“Could the gardeners have kept it up the way she would have wanted?”
Chuckling at himself, he nodded. “Of course, I should have realized it. And there are differences. This garden is well maintained, but my mother had a gift for shaping her plants in very specific ways. It would almost count as topiary. The gardeners kept the combinations and mixtures, but the contours are much more traditional.”
“It's lovely. May I look around a bit?”
“Certainly.” He dropped his arm and signaled her forward.
She moved away along the paths. Gradually, she went around sampling different scents and marveling at the variety of hues. It was a lovely riot of colors, an intoxicating mixture of sights and smells.
Christopher stood, breathing deeply. He held himself very still. Whether the familiarity of the spot was pleasant or painful, Margaret couldn't tell.
She glanced back at him and smiled several times. The scents and beauty were so heady, she found herself nearly skipping down the path like a child. She hoped he realized how much she appreciated this place. For her, this was a little bit of heaven.
He didn't say a word or move. He didn't shift with impatience or huff with frustration. He just watched her enjoy his mother’s garden and seemed in no hurry to leave.
He only stirred when a gong echoed over the gardens. His head tilted toward the sound, and he straightened his stance.
“What’s that?” Margaret asked, joining him.
“That means luncheon is served. We should return to the house.”
Before they left, Christopher lifted a pair of shears, cut a white blossom, and handed it to her. “Here’s a rose, for one just as beautiful.”
Margaret was touched by his gallantry. “Thank you,” she replied, accepting his gift. Feeling his eyes on her, she sniffed the petals deeply and smiled. It really was exquisite in scent, color, and shape.
After a moment, his lordship continued in a breezy tone, “Now come along, or dear Mrs. Hinten will complain that her work is never appreciated.”
She took his arm again, and they began to stroll back to the veranda. As they walked, he tentatively touched the soft feminine fingers on his sleeve. She tensed for a moment, worried she'd done something wrong. She was not sure what he would do next.
He didn't do anything else, just waited. She soon relaxed, smiling shyly. With a sigh, his own unease faded, and he rested his hand more fully over hers.
Christopher smiled to himself. It was good to have a woman on his arm again. It had been too long. His mother had occasionally walked with him arm-in-arm, especially during her last illness when his strength was needed. However, it had been quite a while since a woman he felt this way about was walking beside him. Not since…
The face of his former fiancée flashed into his mind. He quickly banished it into the hinterlands of his memory again. Even this early in their friendship, he knew what he had now was far better. He was more relaxed, more contented, and calmer now. He did not feel hard-pressed or laden with expectation. The whole thing felt more comfortable—more right—than it ever had with her.
Margaret was honest, open, and without affectation. It was incredible. She shocked him with her frankness sometimes.
When she admired his mother’s flowers, he did not feel as if she was trying to impress him. Nothing she said seemed to point in that direction. When she blushed, there was no coquettishness at all. She met him with a directness that a man might use, and yet she retained her femininity without effort. The incongruity fascinated him.
Chapter 10
There was no conversation on the trip back to the house, but Margaret didn't care. She was glad to just walk with her new friend. She could breathe freely here. No whispers floated in the air. No eyes narrowed at her approach. No one judged her based on lies.
When they returned to the veranda, his lordship held her chair and then took a seat across from her. His every move was correct and precise, every gesture perfect. The lessons from his childhood apparently still stood him in good stead.
The spread itself was impressive in its variety—a collection of cheeses, fruits, sliced meats, and breads. A pot of tea under a cozy now sat next to the jug of lemonade. They took a moment to fill their plates before settling down to enjoy the feast.
As they ate, she commented, “I don’t believe I’ve thanked you for inviting me today.”
“It was my pleasure. I’m glad you came.” He indicated the flower on her dress. “And I’m flattered that you wore one of the carnations I sent you.”
“They were gorgeous. I wanted you to know how much I appreciated them.” She inhaled, letting the peace fill her soul. “This place really is beautiful.”
“Thank you. I’ve always loved it here.”
“And despite all modern progress, it remains isolated and uncluttered. It’s quite a retreat. Rather like the village.”
“Oh?” He poured them both more tea.
“Yes. That’s why I chose it. It’s a tremendous refuge where I can do my writing. It’s far from the crowds, distractions, and noise of London. It’s close to my research materials as well.”
They ate in silence for a short time. Margaret sensed that he was trying to find a way to say something that was possibly ungracious, but he couldn't find a polite way to do it. Finally, he simply said what was on his mind.
“From what Mrs. Hinten tells me,” he began with false nonchalance, “the village hasn’t been a very restful sanctuary of late.”
Margaret frowned. “Can we not talk about that?”
“We can, if you like.” With a blade-sharp edge to his voice, he added, “I just wish everyone else would stop talking altogether.”
She just smiled slightly. “That would be nice. Unfortunately, once a malicious story starts, it's impossible to stop, no matter what the facts truly are. Instead, it seems to only grow with time and telling.”
“I’ve been living here on my own for over a decade. What stories there must be about me!”
“Well, leaping your estate walls is considered an act of juvenile bravery, and it is often the subject of dares.”
He chuckled. “That bad, is it?”
“Unfortunately. However, most adults don’t seem to feel the need for rampart-climbing heroics.”
“No?”
“No,” she replied with a dry tone. “They just assume the isolation has turned your mind.”
“Charming!” he sneered.
Suddenly, she stopped, realizing what she'd just said and how offhanded it probably sounded. “I’m sorry. I meant that only as a joke at the notions of those who go by what they hear, not what they know. I didn’t mean to sound so heartless.”
“I know.” He sipped his lemonade. “And what do you think?”
“About you?”
“Yes, dash it. I know it sounds all shades of self-centered, but I want to know what you think of me. The rest of the village can go hang. I haven’t interacted with them in fifteen years. But you… I care what you think.”
She thought a moment and shrugged. “I like you very much. You've been nothing but sweet, considerate, and charming. You have a temper, but not an unmanageable one.”
He remarked ruefully. “A family flaw, I'm afraid.”
“I’ll remember that.” She smiled. “Sometimes, when you speak, it sounds like poetry. I just want to sit and listen to you talk. You could talk piffle, deep philosophy, or just read the telephone directory. I honestly wouldn't care.”
She hesitated, considering her words carefully. “You're occasionally insecure. However, given the circumstances, that isn’t very surprising. You're used to getting your own way and can be quite arrogant, but you don’t seem given to malicious or arbitrary use of your authority. You're a good enough master to have very loyal servants.”
She paused and looked down, picking idly at the tablecloth. He waited as if sensing that she wanted to say more. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn't see them. It was very unnerving.
Finally, she remarked quietly, “Mostly, you just seem lonely, wounded, and rather unhappy.”
Christopher sat very still. Once again she had dissected him with surgical yet gentle precision. She had mentioned, but had not dwelt on, vice and virtue alike. She recognized how his situation influenced his behavior. She did not excuse his failings as a sycophant might, but she did not completely condemn him for them either.