The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora

by Jayne Fresina

  "By my grandmother, was it not? Came to the estate as part of her dowry."

  "Yes, sir. Her ladyship did adore the place, but her daughter-in-law, your lady mother, thought it too rural and in need of renovation, which your father considered an unnecessary expense."

  "As he considered most things that came without four legs and a pedigree."

  "And your wife—" Plumm's face became even more rumpled and droopy, "—as you know, favored London and fashionable conveniences."

  "And fashionable fops."

  "Darnley Abbey, consequently, has languished in the Norfolk countryside quite severely untended. This lady— a charming widow— happened to pass the place and thought she might take it off our hands."

  "Well, as part of the estate's trust it cannot be sold. Your wretched widow will have to find another house to purchase for her illicit country affairs. What is she— some secret paramour of yours, Plumm? Some mopsey you've been hiding 'neath the bedcovers for those chilly winter evenings?"

  "Gracious no, sir. My good lady wife would not allow it. Us ordinary folk proceed with the matter of marriage quite differently, sir, and she insists upon fidelity."

  Us ordinary folk, indeed. Maxim wasn't fooled for a minute. "Then why am I to be bothered with this? What do I care about a stray widow?"

  "I did wonder if you might wish for me to arrange a lease, sir. If the house had a resident again it would be better maintained, saved from the elements, aired out and reclaimed from the invasion of wildlife currently taking place. And at no cost to you. Indeed, you would come the better out of such an arrangement. A short-term lease drawn up so as to—"

  "No."

  "I see, sir. You would rather burn the abbey down than lease it?"

  Maxim paused, brandy glass half-way to his lips. "Is that sarcasm in your tone, Plumm?"

  "Indeed, no, sir. I merely attempt to understand the fluctuations of your grace's mind and opinions."

  "By that you mean my whims and foibles."

  "Sir, the workings inside the mind of a great man such as yourself contain many intricacies, that I, a lowly, commonplace, ordinary fellow, can only begin to comprehend."

  "Ordinary?" This again.

  "The rest of us, sir. That are not... you."

  "So if I am not ordinary. That would make me peculiar, would it not?"

  "I think we are in danger of drifting somewhat from our course again, your grace."

  He leaned forward. "Well, compre-fucking-hend this, Ordinary Plumm. No damned Widow Frump sets foot in that house. Decision made." He fell back into the chair and propped his heel on a hassock. "What she could possibly want with the place is beyond me. Is that all?"

  Plumm's frail sigh floated through the shifting shadows, almost smothered now by the mounting chorus of cicadas. His appearance was more of a shambles than ever, but he was out of place here in this climate and must be troubled by the heat. Halfpenny Plumm had the sort of mulligrubs demeanor that really only looked at home in London drizzle; might have been created by it, all the lines formed in his face by the constant drip of rainwater.

  Finally the solicitor spoke again, "Perhaps your grace has plans to return to England soon, in any case. I know your son would be very pleased to have you back. Then you might require a place in the country and Darnley would serve you well, being out of the way, smaller and less ostentatious than Castle Malgrave. More suited to your grace's desire for privacy, with only a small number of servants necessary. At least, while you settle in again. I suppose you will want the abbey available to you then, without the bother of removing tenants at short notice."

  His response was an unequivocal, "I have no plans to return yet."

  His son. Why on earth would that boy need him back in the country? The last time he saw Nicholas it was an embarrassing encounter during which the boy had actually tried to embrace Maxim. The resulting scuffle almost gave them both a black eye and led to a very awkward parting. Where the child had acquired such strangely affectionate manners, Maxim had no idea and to encourage them would do the boy no favors.

  Besides, the moment he set foot in London again the gossip would start afresh.

  There he is— Malgrave— whose wife ran off with a poet.

  It's always been said—look at Malgrave the wrong way and he'll take out your eyes. The poor duchess! What a miserable life she suffered at his hands.

  His wife had a great talent for drama and self-pity, carefully disguised behind a facade of humility and helplessness, whereas Maxim had no skill of the sort. Any stories he told might be considered— by some— to be long and tedious, but he made certain they were always factual in every detail, not filled with flowery asides about "feelings" or any of that nonsense, and he said what he thought, when he thought it, and with no consideration for appearances, manners or subterfuge. As a result, the adulteress had transformed herself into the romantic heroine in their story, while he was the villain— the ruthless, tyrant wolf from whom she, the "innocent lamb", had escaped. For her own ends, the duchess had easily exploited his lack of social graces, his reputedly vengeful temper, and the offence or fear that his brutally straightforward manner engendered in everybody he ever met.

  Almost everybody.

  We might have been friends...

  He reached into the pocket of his coat, which hung over the worn chair arm, and felt the cool silver watch-case he kept there.

  Somewhere in the shadows he heard a cough as more dust, shaken loose by the vibrations of church bells from across the square, glittered through a thin shaft of sunlight.

  "You still here, Plumm?" he muttered wearily, every bone in his body suddenly aching.

  "I believe so, sir. Although, occasionally, one is obliged to doubt." The curtains moved again, disturbing the shadows of their crypt-like surroundings. "If I might be permitted to say so, sir— perhaps 'tis time to leave old ghosts behind and look to the future. To get on with your own life. The duchess is gone, and it might be as well if she is never recovered. Let her lie in the bed she has made of her own choosing."

  Maxim sat very still now, his gaze narrowed sharply upon the dusty outline of that other figure ambling across the shaft of light. His fingers tightened around the watch case and then released it to reach for the brandy bottle again. "Let her get away with it, you mean," he growled. "Nobody makes a fool of me. Nobody."

  Plumm fell silent and bowed his head, as if he'd spoken beyond his place and was sorry for it, although only the former was true. The solicitor could look extremely apologetic and pitiful, but that was probably how he got up in the morning and was naught to do with having actual scruples.

  "You've taken leave of your senses, Plumm, if you suggest we return to England empty-handed and allow the Jezebel to ruin our lives." He paused, tempered his anger. "If I return to England."

  Plumm meekly raised his head, his cogwheels clicking back to life. "But do you not grant her the power to do that very thing, your grace, by remaining here in this...state of purgatory? Your place is in England, with your son, and you have much there to do, many responsibilities. You are needed there. Forgive me for being so bold, but it must be said, sir, and I believe I must say all this."

  "And why you, Plumm? Come to think of it—" His fingers tapped out an impatient rhythm against the brandy glass. "What makes you so nonchalant today about the attachment of your head to its ruddy shoulders? Is it the heat to which you are unaccustomed?"

  "I am a man of a certain age and decrepitude, sir," the solicitor simpered, his eyes mournful. "It affords me little, but one value— hindsight. As I look back on my own life with regret for those chances I missed, I feel it incumbent upon me to advise others against similar mistakes." He had the air now of a martyr being led to the stake, carrying before him a great tall candle that would light the rushes of his own pyre. "I beg you, sir, bring suit of divorce. Even if you can never marry again, at least you will be cut free of her anchor, before it is too late."

  "But I have done my best to preserve
Nicholas from the finality of all that. As things stand now, if I persuade her home again, appeal to her conscience, put this to rights, the boy can still see his mother. In the case of divorce, I could not allow him any contact with her and the bond must be severed completely."

  "Sir, with all respect, your son has long since ceased to believe that his mother is abroad for her health. He is no more a child and can be sheltered only so much. Even if divorce has never been contemplated before in the Fairfax-Savoy line, the ensuing scandal cannot be any worse than that which the duchess has already caused, your grace. Better for both you and the Malgrave heir to move onward without her. Save your life and your sanity. You will be no use to Nicholas without it."

  "My sanity?" Maxim chuckled dourly, fingers stilled in a claw around the glass. "Too late. As for the Fairfax-Savoy line, I never asked to be born into it. I don't want any of it. I've learned in recent years that there is so much more to life and living. I wish I were plain and simple Maxim, an ordinary fellow who earns his way in life."

  Plumm's heavy gaze lifted from the floor with what appeared to be immense effort. His jowls quivered. "You. Don't want. Any of it, sir?"

  "No. It's a bloody dead albatross," he roared. "Good god, to be rid of all that!"

  The solicitor bent his head again and clutched his leather portfolio, as if it were a shield against his master's rage. Or perhaps he would like to throw it. The tension in the veins that webbed the back of his hands suggested the latter.

  Maxim continued, "I came here, Plumm, to find the duchess and bring her home again, not because I want her back or imagine myself broken-hearted— Christ, no!— but because her son needs her returned. Preferably in one piece." He exhaled a hollow gust of laughter. "She will never be a proper wife, but I'll be damned if I let her desert her duties to that boy too. He should have at least one parent who cares."

  "But he has you, sir." Plumm's gentle words blew soft across the room like lingering curls of smoke. "Evidently."

  "I don't count. Children and the nursery are a woman's domain."

  "As I said, sir, Master Nicholas is no longer a child in the nursery; he is a young man. You would be surprised to see how he has grown. If you were home more oft."

  "A mother is supposed to possess nurturing feelings for her children," Maxim sputtered crossly. "It is the one thing that ought to come naturally to her as a woman."

  "Is it, sir? I cannot say with any degree of sincerity that my mother had that urge. She much preferred her gin bottle and, whenever awakened, was quite startled to find us anywhere in her vicinity."

  "Well... my lady mother was never to hand either." The anger partially deflated as he thought again of that distant, decorative figure, always appearing in his memories as a colorful speck through a window or a voice on the other side of a door— more of a stranger to him than the man who pruned the roses, or the maid who emptied the chamber pots. He waved his brandy glass through the gloom. "But then I didn't require coddling. Nicholas is different. Nothing like me. And a father is simply...there...somewhere...in the background. In charge of the funds and letters of credit. He's not needed the way a mother is." He scowled, feeling agitated. "For the touching. Hugs and such."

  "Hugs, sir?" Plumm's eyelids fluttered in bewilderment. "Gracious."

  "Quite. So you see my point. The boy seeks out those gestures of affection and I'm not the soft and squidgy sort," he snapped. "I wouldn't know how to be."

  "Squidgy, sir?"

  "All...sponge-like and wet."

  "Indeed, sir? I was not familiar with the term." Plumm tilted his head to one side and rocked a little on his heels, murmuring, "But I shall be sure and use it in future. As occasion will no doubt demand."

  "The boy is lucky I didn't send him to the school I attended," Maxim grumbled, thinking again of that clumsy embrace Nicholas attempted at the close of their last audience. "They'd have soon thrashed any softness out of him there, but now it's too late I fear." He rubbed his cheek with the knuckles of his left hand. "No. He needs a mother's care and attention." At the very least the boy ought to have that. One day he would have nobody else. Even Plumm could not live forever.

  "If I might be permitted to say, sir, the lengthy duration of your hunt across the continent and its failure to run the prey to ground, suggests the duchess is most determined not to be found. A disinterested, uncaring mother is, perhaps, worse than none at all."

  "And it is your view that I should leave her here. Wash my hands of it, so that she may continue cavorting carelessly with her opium-addled, limp-faced, sap-sucking poet. She is my wife and, therefore, my damnable responsibility, however little either of us like the fact. In the eyes of the law and the church I am duty bound to try and save her. Even from herself."

  Plumm sighed again, even heavier this time. "Yes. Duty can be... tiresome. Well then, I depart for Genoa very early tomorrow, my lord, so I shall take my leave of you." He hesitated, mournfully regarding his fingers around the portfolio. "I suppose there is little point writing my bad news in letters home, as they will not arrive before me and I can relate the information in person just as quickly."

  "Bad news?"

  "Your son will be disappointed at your decision to stay longer, of course. And I must relay your refusal to Lady Flora Hartnell regarding Darnley Abbey. So if there is no other business—"

  "Nothing more. You are free to return to London and tell your good wife that I shall try not to take you from her again."

  "Oh, I believe she is quite pleased to be rid of me on occasion, your grace. She tells me it gives her a chance to keep the house clean. She is most fastidious in those matters, and it seems I am an obstacle to tidiness."

  Maxim gave a curt laugh. "Ah yes, a housekeeper, was she not?"

  "A lady's maid, sir. To the dowager, in fact." Plumm smirked and quickly hid it behind his handkerchief. "I succeeded in poaching her away. I do believe your lady mother has never quite forgiven me."

  "No. She wouldn't. She complains that good lady's maids are damned difficult to find and train to her liking. But I cannot say I would want to work for the dowager either." He hesitated, screwing up his face, suddenly remembering...I suppose, working for you, he's a nervous eater. And a drinker. "I hope it is not too tiresome to labor under my employ, Plumm."

  "One does one's best, your grace. It can, at times, be something like that game the young people play, sir, when they run about in a small place and one of them wears a blindfold to try and catch the others. Hot Cockles, is the name, I believe."

  "No, no! Hot Cockles is when a person kneels with their head in another's lap to be spanked on the buttocks."

  "Really, sir? And this is a game... performed for entertainment?"

  "The idea is to guess the identity of the person spanking one's behind. That is where the hilarity comes in. One assumes."

  "How curious." Plumm tilted his head. "I am surprised you are familiar with it, your grace. I did not think you liked games."

  Maxim cleared his throat and gave a nonchalant shrug. "One hears of these things. But the jollity to which you refer— with the blindfold and the running about— is Blind Man's Bluff, or so I was once reliably informed."

  "Indeed, sir."

  Seventeen and monstrously ill-behaved.

  Wait, just one rotten, wretched minute!

  "Hartnell?" he snapped suddenly, the brandy glass paused half way to his lips. "You said Flora Hartnell. The widow of Sir Benjamin Hartnell?"

  Plumm had almost reached the door. A thin shaft of bright light found his face as the curtains parted again in a stronger ocean breeze. "Sir?" His countenance was the picture of innocence.

  "The bloody woman looking to take Darnley Abbey. Hartnell. Was she not Lady Flora Chelmsworth in her youth?" He glanced slyly at his coat again, but kept his fingers gripped tightly around the brandy glass this time. "Earl Chelmsworth's sister, is she not?"

  "Ah, yes. That is correct, sir. Of course, you were acquainted with the earl. It had escaped my mind."r />
  But nothing ever escaped Plumm's mind.

  No mention of the proposal. The solicitor knew better than to raise the matter of that humiliating incident.

  "I offered Francis Chelmsworth my guidance on a number of occasions when he was a young man, as you will now recall," said Maxim. "He had no other assistance from his family. They were more of a hindrance than a help in his youth."

  "Indeed, sir."

  Seventeen and monstrously ill-behaved.

  "What the devil does his sister want with our property? What's she up to?" he grumbled. "I don't trust that woman. She breaks things."

  "I do remember now, sir, that for such a small and insignificant person she did considerable damage." Plumm glanced sideways from beneath his bristling grey brows. "A great many of your grace's belongings were left in pieces, never to be properly mended."

  Was she small? She certainly did not seem insignificant in his mind, but hovered like the intoxicating memory of a sweet-scented, full-bodied wine. That left him with a grievous, bloody headache.

  Maxim drained his brandy glass and swiftly reached for the bottle again.

  The solicitor was at the door; his fingers stretched for the handle. "Yes, indeed, sir. Lady Flora Chelmsworth. Well... females are a disreputable breed in general, and she was quite the worst of them. I shall take my leave of you then, sir." Plumm now appeared eager to be on his way. As if that woman was a bomb, set down in the room and with the fuse lit.

  Forgotten the connection, indeed! The man forgot nothing.

  "Perhaps you might think of a gift for your son, your grace. Something to allay his sadness when he hears that you have decided to extend your convalescence abroad."

  "Convalescence?" Maxim sat up, almost spilling his newly-poured brandy. "I'm here to find his damnable mother. This is no summer sojourn, Plumm."