by Lynn Kerstan
“Then you must explain your reasons. Come along to my study and we’ll have a whisky while the servants see to your rooms. Jessica, make certain the gentlemen are settled, will you?”
And thus, she thought, glaring at Duran’s straight back, did the serpent slither into the garden.
Chapter 5
Men were never so provoking as when they failed to do what was expected of them.
Jessica’s expectations had been suitably modest—a diligent pursuit by Duran and disdainful evasion by her. But for three days—not that she was counting—he had brazenly ignored her. If they chanced to encounter each other, he bowed and smiled, but before she could give him the cut direct, he continued by without a word.
Last evening she had joined the gentlemen at dinner, accompanied by a reluctant Mariah, only to find that Duran had abandoned his usual seat near her father for a place clear the other end of the table. Was that a coincidence, or had he learned of her arrangement to be seated across from him?
He appeared to be enjoying himself. Most of the laughter at the table came from the group surrounding him, while she was stuck between her tongue-tied sister and the gout-ridden Lord Marley, who was too busy forking in collops of veal to converse.
Once, as she lifted her glass of wine for a sip, she glanced up to see Duran gazing directly at her. For a few tense moments voices faded and all the air left the room. They seemed to be attached to opposite ends of a magnetized wire. Until he grinned, and she realized she was spilling wine down the bodice of her dress.
Luckily she was wearing red, to match the wine. She covered her humiliation with an observation about the weather to Lord Marley, who grunted a reply, and waited a decent interval before suggesting to Mariah that they withdraw. Her sister, who had toyed with a slice of roast duck for the entire meal, practically bolted from the room, leaving Jessica to make a solitary, dignified exit. Had Duran been paying attention, he would have been impressed.
If his strategy of ignoring her was designed to intrigue, and she expected that it was, he was going to be disappointed. She had no intention whatever of approaching him. Never mind that she sometimes found herself circling him like a shark. It was no more than he deserved for paddling into her territory.
Besides, how else was she to deduce what he was up to? If Duran had come to High Tor merely for the shooting, she would eat an unplucked partridge.
He did shoot, though, every day. At first she watched from a distance, perched on a flat rock atop one of the high tors that gave the estate its name, but she felt uneasy there on her own. Exposed, as if other watchers had secreted themselves on the tor, spying on her the way she was spying on Duran.
Once she was nearly certain she had spotted a dun-colored figure crouched behind an outcropping of stone. But when she rose to take a better look, there was only a clump of bracken. The next morning she saw a flash, and then another, like sunlight reflecting off glass, from a hill the other side of where the gentlemen were gathered. For a long time she focused her gaze on that hill, but no more flashes caught her eye.
Duran had got on her nerves, she decided. That would explain it. But the sensation of being observed grew stronger, and on the third morning she abandoned the desolate tors and joined a snoozing Lord Marley at the crest of a grassy hill overlooking the target range. There, in the shade provided by a pair of oaks, were three high-backed benches mounded with cushions and a low table laid out with apples and pears.
Spying in comfort, thought Jessica, settling down with a pear to the accompaniment of Lord Marley’s snores. Below, perhaps fifty yards away, the sportsmen clustered in groups, drinking mugs of brandy-laced coffee and placing wagers.
The serious business of bagging partridges and gray grouse would not begin until tomorrow, she knew. Sothingdon shooting parties followed a predictable schedule. Yesterday the men had gone after the elusive Dartmoor hares, and today would be devoted to pigeon trapshooting.
There was no mistaking Duran, the midmorning sunlight gilding his hair as he prowled among the drabber beasts of the field. Waiting quietly to one side, laden with powder flask, shot belt, and a pair of rifles, was his loader, the young Hindu who had accompanied him to High Tor.
The other Hindu stood alone on the same bare hillock where Jessica had seen him each day, as still as a pillar of salt in his long white tunic and snowy turban. Lord Duran’s valet, according to the servants, all of whom were in awe of the man. He never ate meat, they said, and he had healed Bridget’s runny eyes with drops and soothed the turn boy’s burned hands with an ointment he taught the boy’s mother to make, and he spoke the King’s English like Quality except for some words he didn’t know. He asked polite enough, though, and smiled when the words weren’t the sort you could say in front of the vicar. He put them in mind of a vicar, come to think of it, heathen though he be.
She’d wanted to learn more about Duran’s odd attendants, but even under her father’s benign rule, gossiping with the servants was frowned upon. Mostly by the servants themselves, she had realized when the talkative footman she’d been plying for information was shushed by the parlor maid.
Duran, looking relaxed, was conversing with John Pageter and two other gentlemen while servants unloaded three large wooden boxes from a wagon and carried them to a spot about thirty yards beyond where the men were standing. Not long after, the first pigeon was loosed and promptly brought down by her father’s bullet. In turn, each of the gentlemen took a shot, with Duran among the few who missed.
He missed his second shot as well, laughing when Sir Gareth offered the use of his spectacles. He made a show of assuming the proper stance on his third try. This time the pigeon fell. With a theatrical gesture of relief, he bowed to an enthusiastic round of applause.
“Well, then,” said Lord Marley, who had awakened at the first shot. “I have won two hundred guineas and lost half of it back. The young man appears to be finding his range.”
“You were betting on Lord Duran?”
“Against him. Nearly all the wagering is focused on Duran, him being a stranger and an erratic shot. He don’t mind losing, though, I’ll give him that much.”
“Has he lost a great deal?”
“To be precise, he’s missing, not losing. Says he foreswore gaming, but doesn’t object if others use him for their own wagers. It’s young Pageter who’s playing deep. Owes me twelve hundred already, and the stakes will triple once the real shooting begins. There’s gaming in the evenings as well, although I wouldn’t bet against Duran at the whist table. Pageter’s winning a little there, but not enough to cover his other losses.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. John Pageter was the most serious-minded, upright man she had ever known. Of course he gambled—all gentlemen did—but never to excess. Not John. Something was wrong here.
Suddenly unable to watch any longer, she took leave of Lord Marley and set out for the house, hoping that Helena would arrive today with the bank drafts for her clients. That would provide the excuse she needed to leave High Tor and its most annoying resident.
The post had arrived, she saw by the orderly chaos in the entrance hall. Geeson was sorting the contents of the leather bag into neat piles and laying them out on a sideboard while footmen with chased-silver trays moved up and down the staircase, delivering letters to the guest rooms and quickly returning for another stack.
Smiling when she came up to him, Geeson handed her three letters, two from clients and one from her secretary, which she opened and read immediately. Helena’s cold had worsened, but she expected to be well enough to travel before the end of the week. Lord Duran had stopped calling at the town house.
No surprise there. Jessica was scanning the last of Helena’s message when Mariah, an open letter in her hand, slipped from the drawing room and walked unsteadily toward the staircase. Her face was pale as milk.
Jessica moved to intercept her. “What is it? Have you received bad news?”
Mariah gazed at her kidskin
slippers. “No. Not really. But I shall have to leave for Dorset.” The letter fluttered in her hand. “Do you suppose it would be acceptable for me to wait until morning? But there’s no reason—is there?—since it won’t be dark for hours and hours yet.”
The foyer was no place to extract the reason for her distress. “Come with me,” Jessica said, gripping her arm and towing her toward the rear passageway.
By the time they arrived at the one place in the house that was certain to be deserted, Mariah had begun to weep. “Why are we here?” she whimpered.
“Because I hate it here.” Jessica unlatched the door and tugged her sister into the conservatory. And stopped as if she had slammed into an invisible wall. “God in heaven, Mariah. Did you do this?”
Brilliant sunlight streamed through clear glass panes, all of them intact. Directly ahead, the tiled floor gave way to gravel paths, a pair of them, each winding through a patchwork of lush green plants and bright flowers. Stunned, she released Mariah’s arm to examine an herb garden filled with rosemary, feverfew, Saint-John’s-wort, and lavender.
Who could have done this? Not her father, who wouldn’t know a turnip from his elbow.
Mariah was still standing by the door, her expression confused and miserable. “I didn’t think you’d ever set foot in here, Jessica. Perhaps I should have told you. I had nothing to do with it, of course.”
The accustomed, unwelcome impatience itched at Jessica’s skin. “Never mind the conservatory,” she said briskly. “What is in that letter?”
Mariah glanced down at her fisted hand and the paper crunched inside it. “A disappointment. Gerald wishes me to return to Dorset immediately. He doesn’t say when he expects to arrive, but I am to be there when he does. So you see, I must set out this afternoon, in case he has already . . .” Her voice, faltering toward the end, faded altogether.
“Rubbish. Why must you scamper home because he has snapped his fingers? And I should be very much surprised if he has the least intention of joining you there. Not until matters are settled between us.”
“Us? You and Gerald?”
“A question of business, that is all. I intend to put an end to his scheming. For now, simply write him back and say that it is not convenient for you to leave High Tor.”
When there was no response, Jessica returned to the door where Mariah stood with tears streaming down her too-thin face. She made a helpless gesture, her eyes clouded with resignation. Jessica had seen that look before, in the eyes of a lamb caught in the boggy moorlands and slowly sinking to its death. Unable to reach it, she had watched until the ground closed over the lamb’s small head. She had watched a horse die in the same fashion, and a dozen years ago, three escaped prisoners of war had been gulped down only a mile from the house. If you didn’t know where to put your feet, Dartmoor could be lethal.
“It will be all right,” Jessica managed to say, not at all sure how one went about giving comfort. After a moment, she wrapped an arm around her sister’s waist and led her to a small bench. They sank on it together, their skirts billowing.
Long minutes passed. Jessica’s arm grew numb. Then, abruptly, Mariah slid to the edge of the bench and dug into her pocket for a handkerchief. “G-Gerald doesn’t like to be crossed,” she said. “And I did promise, you know, to obey him.”
“What of it?” Jessica waited until Mariah blew her nose. “A promise to the devil need not be kept. Should not be kept. Has he struck you?”
“Matters between a husband and wife,” Mariah said after a pause, “must not be discussed with others.”
“Yes, then. He beats you. He has, I know, spent all your dowry and sold everything of value, including your riding horse, Ginger. I remember her. You loved her. Do you love him?”
“What does it matter now?” Mariah clambered to her feet. “I am married to him. And truly, it is always best to do as he says.”
Jessica swallowed her first several responses and carefully disciplined her tone. “You have received no letter. It won’t arrive for several days, if at all. So you see, there is no reason to go home.”
“You would have me lie to him? Oh, I could never do that. I am a terrible liar.”
“Then leave it to me. We’ll speak of this later, when I’ve had time to make plans. Promise you won’t do anything foolish.”
Mariah produced a watery laugh. “Do you know, Jessica, I believe I am more afraid of you than of Gerald.”
She hadn’t meant that to hurt, Jessica knew, but surprisingly, it did. Still, she would play the ogre if an ogre was required. She rose, wandered to a patch of lavender, and plucked a spike of blossoms. They were silvery with moisture. “You have not explained how the conservatory came to be restored. Come, walk with me.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mariah, catching her up near a table strewn with potted violets. “I dislike being the one to tell you. This is all the work of Mrs. Bellwood, a widow who lives near Ridington when she is not in residence here. For the past three years, she has been Papa’s mistress.”
The lavender snapped in Jessica’s hand. “Oh, my. Have you met her?”
“Several times. I quite like her. Without raising the slightest fuss, she has brought order to the household. The servants are sworn to secrecy about her existence, of course. You’re not . . . that is, you don’t object?”
“I think it’s marvelous. But why isn’t she here now?”
“That wouldn’t be proper. Whenever Papa has guests, she returns to her cottage.”
“Then you must take me there and introduce us. Perhaps tomorrow, when your eyes are not red and swollen. Why don’t you place cucumber slices over the lids and have a nap before dinner? I can potter about here on my own.”
Mariah, openly relieved to escape, sped to the door.
Jessica went slowly in the other direction, pausing to enjoy the small, neat plots of flowering plants marked out with smooth white stones. Deeper into the conservatory she discovered grapes and pineapples, artichokes, flats for winter cauliflowers, and rows of potted lemon and orange trees, shiny-leaved and heavy with fruit.
When last she entered the conservatory, it had been all to rack and ruin. Her mother, after insisting it be expanded from a small orangery, had quickly lost interest in the project. Jessica remembered broken panes of glass, dead stumps where miniature trees had bloomed, and flourishing weeds crawling with insects. The open garden at the far end had become a pool of mud.
Now, looking ahead of her, she saw a gray-stone wall set with a wide door. It stood open, and she went through to an enclosed garden with a square marble pool at its center. Fish, golden and brindled and dove-white, glided among the lily pads. There was an open-worked pergola threaded with vines, and roses climbed the white trellises behind a pair of wrought-iron benches.
She sat on the lip of the fountain, which was no more than a foot high, and dipped her hand into the cool water. The fish, side fins and tails whisking frantically, fled to the other side of the pool and huddled together in the shadows. Something new and strange had come into their world, bringing chaos. They didn’t want her there.
No one wanted her, not really, and she didn’t care. Not any longer. She had grown up a wild child in a rigid family that still considered her an embarrassment, and since taking residence in London, there had been no opportunity to develop friendships. Only with her capable secretary, Helena, and the sweet-natured Duke of Devonshire could she let down her guard. Perhaps that would change now that her business had staggered onto firmer ground.
In all likelihood, though, she would remain isolated. The ladies of her class viewed her with suspicion and the gentlemen, wedded or otherwise, regarded her as an opportunity waiting to be seized. Her every word and action was marked down, parsed, and pronounced upon by a bored and pitiless society. She felt, sometimes, as if she were closed up in an hourglass, her life sifting slowly away under the critical regard of strangers.
On occasion, and quite seriously, she had given thought to marrying for freedom. By
the simple expedient of becoming a wife, she would acquire the gloss of respectability only a husband could provide, along with a degree of liberty that no single woman was permitted to enjoy. But in exchange for those privileges—
And that was where the imagined bargain always collapsed. She had only herself to barter, and could never decide which bits and pieces of Jessica Carville to put on offer.
Only a thin slice of her intelligence, to be sure. Nearly every man she’d ever met was off-put by indications of a working mind inside her pretty little head.
Not a jot of her temper. They would flee like startled grouse.
They wouldn’t like her humor, either, but these days it generally kept itself well concealed, even from herself. Duran used to—
She slapped her palm against the water, sending a spray over her skirts.
What had she been thinking of before he intruded? Oh, yes. Wedding a man willing to provide what she needed while demanding nothing in return. A man who would be satisfied to look upon her without touching. Perhaps a cit with social aspirations. Being the daughter of an earl ought to be of some use, should it not? And she required a man who would permit her to carry on her business and keep the money she earned for herself.
Really, she did not require a husband. Not for very long. She would do much better as a widow.
She stared into the pool, looking beyond her reflection to the fishes cowering among the ornamental grasses. Any one of them had more love in its little heart than she did. Six years ago, she had thrown all of hers into the wind.
Well, that was nothing to the point, was it? Her troubles were hers alone. And now, Mariah’s troubles were hers as well. Some way must be found to separate the poor goose from her husband. Tonight, immediately after dinner, she would recruit her father’s help. He’d always had a soft spot for Mariah, the obedient daughter who never ruffled the household waters.
Unlike his rebellious child, who was now wearing some of the household waters on her bodice and skirts. Across the pond, four carp eyed her morosely.