Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  "Well, I’m very grateful that you did. Only think what might have become of me if you had given up and turned back. I daresay I would be in that stupid wood yet, huddled under a tree and half drowned by now." Chloe carried a petticoat over to the basin and wrung it energetically. Bare toes peeped from beneath the hem of her bedsheet as she walked, but it was so voluminous on her diminutive frame that a train of bulky linen dragged behind her.

  Gil grinned. "Is that modish ensemble comfortable?"

  She tossed a saucy smile over her shoulder. "It’s a deal more comfortable than wet wool, at any rate."

  "Well, if informality is the order of the day, would you mind if I took off my jacket?"

  "Heavens, no! Haven’t I been telling you you should? No sense standing on ceremony with me, Gil. We’re practically family."

  He gingerly removed his jacket and spread it on Barlow’s other chair. There were only two in the tiny cottage, both pulled up to the wooden table in the center of the floor. Gil lifted the clothing-draped chairs and set them closer to the fire. "I dare not remove my breeches," he remarked. "You might take advantage of me."

  Chloe giggled. "Well, if that’s what’s worrying you, I should think you’d be in less danger if you did. A man looks far more attractive in wet breeches than wrapped in a bedsheet."

  Gil turned to her with mock sternness. "And just how many men have you seen wrapped in bedsheets, Miss?"

  Her cheeks reddened, but she laughed at him. "None, of course! I was only trying to reassure you."

  "Hm!"

  "Gil, I really would feel terrible if you caught cold. And I can’t think what has turned you so prudish all of a sudden." She removed her wrung-out petticoat from the washbasin and draped it over Barlow’s dinner table, apparently completely unconcerned with the immodesty of displaying her undergarments to a bachelor.

  He glared at her, exasperated. "Nothing sudden about it. We ain’t children any longer."

  "Ain’t?" she repeated, distracted by this linguistic lapse.

  "It’s the fashion," he explained. "But don’t you follow it! Bad grammar is thieves’ cant—all the crack in London, but not for females. Where was I?"

  "Preaching decorum."

  "So I was!" He resumed his stern demeanor. "If you have a fault, Chloe, it’s that you are too trusting by half. Don’t you know what people would think, if they knew we had paraded round Barlow’s cottage dressed in his bedsheets? Don’t you know what they would say of us?"

  Chloe placed her small fists against her hips and sniffed at him. "I’m not completely birdwitted."

  "Well, then?"

  She sighed, rolling her eyes. "If you have a fault, Gil, it’s that you simply aren’t practical! You and I both know that you would never touch me. What does it matter what people might say? No one will know."

  "I daresay old Barlow will be able to add two and two. He’s always been fly to the time of day."

  "Barlow is a dear. If he does figure it out, he won’t say a word. He would no more harm me than you would."

  Gil groaned, but his groan ended in another sneeze. Chloe marched to a cupboard and withdrew Barlow’s sole remaining sheet. She tossed it to Gil. "Not another word! I shall turn my back on you until you tell me to turn round."

  He caught the sheet. She turned her back. But Gil still hesitated. "You’re absolutely certain old Barlow is away?"

  "He left only yesterday, I believe, so if he’s gone for a visit he can’t possibly return for days yet."

  "And we are going to buy him a new set of sheets?"

  "Of course."

  He sighed. The wet breeches were deucedly uncomfortable. And she was right; it was highly unlikely that any harm would come of it. Lord knew they had done far worse things together, and never been caught. He grinned reminiscently as he peeled off his nether garments. "You always were a fearless little thing. Remember the summer when I taught you and Tish to swim?"

  Chloe’s white shoulders shook. "Poor Tish! You had no mercy."

  "Yes, but much you cared! You nearly drowned, trying to follow my lead. I was trying to teach you a lesson. A lesson you badly needed! You frightened me half out of my wits that day."

  "You weren’t trying to teach me a lesson. You were trying to put me in my place. I knew it, too! I couldn’t let you win, Gil."

  "Let me win? No such thing, you impertinent little snip! You may turn round now."

  She did, and burst out laughing. The damp breeches and stockings were in a heap before the fire, and Gil stood before her clad only in his shirt and a kind of giant diaper that hung below his knees. "Charming!" she gasped. "Oh, Gil, I was right—you were far more fetching in your wet breeches!"

  Gil grinned. "Beauty is as beauty does," he informed her piously. "And this beauty saved your groats today."

  "Yes, indeed! I am in your debt. And Wager’s, of course."

  "Of course. Is that tea ready yet? You may pour me a dish, ma’am, and I’ll tell you why I risked life and limb to seek you out."

  Chloe poured the tea into two mugs of slightly-cracked glazed pottery. Since Barlow’s chairs were occupied by their clothes and the table by Chloe’s petticoats, the two friends seated themselves cross-legged on the hearthrug. While Chloe was occupied in arranging her voluminous skirts, Gil took a gulp of the tea. His face contorted into an extraordinary grimace. "What the deuce—!"

  "What’s the matter?"

  "Clo, this can’t be tea!"

  "Of course it is tea! Oh, dear. Is it very bad?"

  "Devilish."

  "Well, I daresay Barlow doesn’t buy the best tea. Tea is very dear these days." She took a cautious sip, and immediately set the mug down. "Oh, my."

  Their eyes met, and together they fell into whoops. "Well," gasped Chloe eventually, "now I know what to give Barlow on Boxing Day."

  Gil’s eyes traveled around the tiny cottage and he shook his head. "Phew! I tell you what, Clo: I wouldn’t be poor for anything.”

  He seemed so earnest that she looked at him in surprise. Then she bit back another peal of laughter. "Gil, you are dreadful!"

  He grinned. "Aye, we ought not to laugh at such things. We’re a fortunate pair, Chloe."

  "Yes, and Barlow isn’t doing so badly. This is a very snug little home, I think." She waved a hand to indicate. "A bed, a table, two chairs, a servicable wardrobe, cooking pots, dishes. What more does a single man need?"

  "A valet, a card-case, some letters of introduction, and a fat bank account," said Gil promptly. "Oh, and a cow."

  "A cow! Why?"

  "I don’t know, but Barlow has one. He seems to have collected only the bare essentials, so a cow must be a necessity. Stands to reason."

  Chloe choked. "Do you have a cow?"

  "No, but I’m dashed well going to get one!"

  Off they went into another fit of laughter. Chloe, wiping her streaming eyes with the edge of her bedsheet, finally managed to say, "Oh, Gil, it’s wonderful to see you again! Why do you spend so much of your time in London? I miss you terribly."

  He grinned affectionately at her. "I miss you, too, Clo. Why do you stay stuck down here in the back of beyond? No reason why you can’t visit the metropolis. All the world does so. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about—"

  But Chloe was shaking her curls resolutely. "I cannot. The farmers cannot spare me."

  "What, are you still ruling the roost at Brookhollow?"

  "You know I am. Someone must."

  Gil frowned. "I don’t like to say aught against your father, Chloe, but he ought to take a hand in managing Brookhollow’s affairs. Daresay if you left him for a time, he’d be forced to do so. Good thing!"

  Chloe shuddered eloquently. "It would kill me to come home and find everything at sixes and sevens, after all my hard work."

  Her friend’s mouth set grimly. "I am strongly tempted to say something I know I would regret."

  Affection lit her eyes. "Very well, I’ll say it for you. You wish to tell me that Father ought to do the har
d work, and I ought to lead the life of leisure! But talking pays no toll, Gil. Father has no interest in keeping up the property. Why should he, indeed? He is not really master at Brookhollow. The property was left to me, together with the fortune. I cannot blame him for his indifference. You must own, it would weigh heavily on any man to live as his daughter’s pensioner."

  "He’s no one to blame but himself," said Gil with asperity. "Had he shown any disposition to lift a finger while your grandfather was alive, I daresay your mother’s property would not have been left in that skimble-skamble way! At any rate, I don’t like to see him punishing you for something you could not help. You are in no wise at fault for the way things were left. In fact, you had nothing to do with it."

  A touch of cynicism curled Chloe’s rosebud mouth. The worldly-wise expression sat oddly on her elfin face. "That was then. He blames me now."

  "Why, for the love of Heaven?"

  "I am of age. Should I choose to do it, I could hand my property over to him. I could give him Grandfer’s mill, or the glassworks, or one of the Harrowgate properties. I could make him a present of Brookhollow, for that matter. Well, I don’t choose to do so."

  Gil was appalled. "Good God, no! Why should you?"

  She lifted one rosy shoulder in a slight shrug. "Why, indeed? And of course Father would never demean himself by asking me for anything. But I know exactly what he is thinking, and why he is so surly to me. I bought Thunder for him, you know, but he hasn’t thanked me. And I don’t believe he’s even ridden the creature yet."

  Gil clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "If your father was five instead of fifty, I’d call that behavior pouting."

  Chloe smiled. "No one could accuse Father of pouting! His manner is far too elegant."

  "His manner may be elegant, but his manners leave something to be desired."

  She threw up her hands in mock horror. "How can you utter such heresy? No son of Lady Maria Littlefield—née Westwood—Westwood, Gil!—can be apostrophized as ‘ill-mannered!’"

  Gil eyed her grimly. "Yes, he was reared to think too well of himself; that’s the largest part of his problem. Westwood, my eye! I’ve no patience with it. I’ve witnessed the Turkish treatment he gave his wife and daughter—"

  "Now, Gil, really—! Anyone would think he beat us regularly, or locked us in our rooms. He was never brutal, you know."

  "Aye, that’s true. Just cold, and distant, and disapproving of everything you did. Or said."

  "Or thought. Or was." Chloe’s soft smile turned slightly bitter. "I have never understood how anyone could disapprove of my dear little mother. Mama had the most affectionate nature, and the sweetest ways! I daresay she wasn’t very clever, and I know she wasn’t well-born, but still . . . " Her voice trailed off, and she stared into the fire.

  "Her birth was perfectly respectable," said Gil firmly. "And if your father thought her connections were too deuced low for a man of his breeding, he ought not to have married her. A man should show his wife more courtesy than to criticize her day and night."

  Chloe sighed. "Yes. My poor mother thought the sun rose and set in my father. And he felt nothing but contempt for her."

  Gil eyed his friend shrewdly. "I’ll say this for you, Clo—whatever he thought of your mother, he feels a healthy respect for her daughter! You’ve handled him very skillfully for a chit fresh out of the schoolroom. I was half afraid you’d let him browbeat you, but no such thing! I’m proud of you."

  She blushed. "Thank you," she said, with difficulty. "I couldn’t let him overpower me. I couldn’t bear to think of him squandering Mama’s money on his latest mistress, or—or anything like that. I wanted to put some heart back into the land, and do good works, and keep the fortune safely out of the Westwoods’ hands. I owed that to her memory. And Grandfer’s."

  "Well, if your father ever tries to come the ugly over you, Clo, I hope you know you can always turn to me."

  Her blue eyes widened in surprise at this unnecessary statement. "Of course."

  Gil grinned. That was the best part of having a friend like Chloe. Each knew, without question, that the other could be counted on in any extremity. But that put him in mind of something. He slapped his forehead with an exclamation.

  "Dash it all, I nearly forgot! I need a favor from you, Clo."

  "It is just like you, Gil, to spend the better part of the day chasing me down, and then forget to tell me what you needed!"

  "Yes, well, it puts a man out, to have so many adventures piled on top of him. But I did have a good reason for seeking you out."

  "Very well: what is it?"

  Gil frowned, and did not immediately answer her. "It’s a rather delicate matter. Now that I must come to the point, I find it a bit difficult."

  Chloe waited expectantly while Gil’s eyes traveled round the room as if seeking inspiration. Finally he gave a little sigh and returned his troubled gaze to Chloe. "It’s Tish," he said simply. "I’m worried about her."

  "Tish! I thought she was perfectly happy."

  "She was. She’s not any more."

  Chloe’s eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, do not say so! I haven’t written to her for ages, but we are both such wretched correspondents, you know, that neither of us thinks anything of it when we do not hear from one another. And she was so aux anges at her wedding, I expected her to live in untrammelled bliss forever after! I am sure she expected no less. Poor Tish! Is Robert unkind to her?"

  Gil snorted in disgust. "Lord, how would I know? If that’s not just like a female, to ascribe every misery to the state of someone’s marriage!"

  "Well, for heaven’s sake, Gil! What is it, then?"

  "That’s just it. I don’t know. On the surface she’s very gay; dashes about town as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Well, she’s shamming it. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do."

  Chloe nodded. Gil always knew when one was shamming it. "Have you asked her what’s amiss?"

  "I’ve tried. She won’t confide in me, which makes me deuced uneasy. What I mean to say is—Tish! Keeping secrets!" He shook his head.

  Chloe, well acquainted with the former Leticia Gilliland, was as alarmed by this departure from the norm as Gil had evidently been. "Gracious! It sounds most unlike her. Tish, of all people! She was never one to hide her feelings."

  "No. Well, there you have it. Makes my hair stand on end, thinking of all the things it could be, and not knowing what it is. But I’m only her brother. Perhaps she’d confide in you. I’d give a great deal to be able to set things right." He leaned forward and placed a beseeching hand on Chloe’s linen-swathed knee. "I thought if you paid Tish a visit, you could learn first-hand what’s what. I daresay between the two of us, we’d be able to steer her away from point-non-plus."

  Chloe looked anxiously at her friend’s worried countenance. "I know you would never ask me to come to London if you did not believe it to be important. But I can’t be spared just now."

  "What, from Brookhollow? A rubbishing farm? Chloe, I need you!"

  "It’s a very large farm," she protested feebly.

  "I daresay! But the crops will grow, or not grow, whether you are here to coax them along or not."

  "Oh, Gil! If you knew the first thing about land management—"

  "Don’t come for my sake, then. Come for Tish."

  "I would do anything for either of you, or both of you! You know that."

  "Well, then? Will you return to London with me?"

  Chloe hesitated, biting her lip. It was very hard to turn Gil down. He had come to her rescue time and again over the years, and he rarely asked her for anything.

  He reached for her knee again, and gave it a friendly shake. "Clo. Don’t let Brookhollow steal your girlhood. Are you never to have a life of your own?"

  She straightened indignantly. "Not that again! Are we speaking of Tish? Or of me?"

  Gil’s grin was wholly unrepentant. "Both! You can’t expect me to see both my girls in the suds, and make no attempt to pull you out. You c
an take my word for it, Clo: London will do you a world of good. And Tish needs you, too."

  Chloe’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Gil looked completely guileless. "Very well," she said at last. "I will think on it."

  "I leave tomorrow. With or without you."

  "Tomorrow! Then it will have to be without me. I can’t possibly be ready in one day."

  Gil’s aspect became stern. "Are you thinking you need time to pack your things? You may rid yourself of the notion. Trust me, Clo! If you parade through London in those ghastly frocks Gertrude Tewksbury made for you, you’ll be laughed out of Town."

  Chloe blushed. "The muslins aren’t so very bad," she said defensively. "And poor Miss Tewksbury needed the work. She won’t take charity—"

  "Nor should you! I saw you in that monstrosity she called a dinner dress. Looked like something from the bottom of the missionary barrel. Yes, I see you are laughing, but you weren’t obliged to sit at table across from the thing, and look at it by the hour! Enough to put anyone off his dinner. It was all I could do to keep my tongue between my teeth."

  "You did not do so, as I recall," said Chloe, twinkling mischievously. "You read me a lecture on the evils of frumpery the instant we were alone."

  "Did I? I wish you had taken it to heart! It’s more than flesh and blood can stand, seeing you in those frightful clothes of yours day after day. Besides, dash it all—people know you for a friend of mine! I daresay the knowing ’uns blame me for allowing you to go about looking such a figure of fun. Here I am, fancying myself a man of taste—I say! What’s so deuced funny?"

  "You are!"

  "I? Why, I was never more serious in my life! Leave your things behind, Clo. Never saw anyone who needed a new touch more than you do. And it’s not like you can’t afford it! You’re as rich as Croesus."

  "That’s all very well, but I still cannot be ready tomorrow! Nor can you, Gil. We are here, stuck in Barlow’s cottage. What if we must stay the night?"

  A brief silence fell, while the two friends listened to the rain drumming steadily on the roof. It was a sobering sound. Gil turned a little pale. "We can’t stay the night. That will throw the cat amongst the pigeons."