The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora

by Jayne Fresina

  Great Aunt Bridget had spent her last days living in Hertfordshire, looking after Sir Roderick, pandering to his every shallow need. Francis had found them a small, but elegant house and politely insisted they move there, having their furnishings and belongings transported from Wyndham one night before they could protest. Now that the old lady was dead, Sir Roderick was tended by a grim-faced nurse who weighed considerably more than he and stood for no nonsense. Sweet vengeance.

  Other members of the Chelmsworth and Manderby families were scattered about the country, sent hither and thither with the tide in search of fortune and circumstance. Occasionally they returned now to Wyndham, looking for a handout from Francis who, being generally too sweet-hearted and amiable for his own good, didn't like to turn any of them away. The cousins all considered themselves too fine to associate with Flora these days. They found her behavior as a merry widow too wild and their own precarious reputations threatened by it.

  Now, all she had left for close family was Francis, and she was aware that their great aunt had tried, several times before she died, to make him sever their bond for his own good. But Francis, despite occasional bouts of frustration with his sister had a certain streak of determination and loyalty within himself too, and, although it was not the done thing in their family, he loved her. Even the annoying, troublesome parts.

  "That girl may not mean harm, but she fancies herself a pirate, sailing through life recklessly wherever the wind takes her and causing chaos at every turn," Flora once overheard the old lady lecturing Francis. "She cannot put her mind to the slightest dutiful, honorable course. It is well past the time when she should have outgrown that silliness and settled down. We must get her married again as soon as possible, her ship safely anchored in another port."

  "But has she not already done what you wanted once before, when she married Sir Benjamin?" her brother had replied, finally coming into a little boldness of his own thanks to Flora's example. "Perhaps this time my sister might be allowed to choose her own husband—"

  "Allowed to choose? This is not Virginia, Francis. This is not the colonies. This is England. And that girl wouldn't know the best choice in a room full of men if he walked right up to her and proposed. Which he has done, at least once to my certain knowledge, when she was barely seventeen. If she had only seen sense then."

  Ah, yes. That.

  Flora knew that not all of her past decisions had been good ones. Yes, with hindsight and maturity she could agree with that statement. But at the time of their making she was content with her choice, therefore she refused to have any regrets. She had been seventeen and full of herself. What more could she say?

  Her great aunt might insist that women were put on earth merely to produce babies, but Flora felt certain they were all there to learn and grow from their mistakes. In short, to live life; to experience failure as well as success. A well-rounded person must be humbled occasionally too by their own foolishness. Consequently, there were, by now, no sharp edges left on her person for they'd all been chipped and filed away by her many tumbles. She had been tumbling for a long time. Years and years. Centuries even. At least, it sometimes felt that way.

  On this day, however, standing in the lane with her brother and surveying Darnley Abbey, Lady Flora Hartnell was absolutely certain she knew what she was doing. In this place, at last, she felt as if she belonged, she could stop tumbling and rest. For a long time she'd been out of step, wandering and lost. Here she was almost home. Almost.

  When she looked at the gentle slope she imagined it brought to life, all the colors blooming, the orchards flush with plums, apples and peaches, the fertile earth producing an abundance of grapes, and busy, jolly workers stamping away in great barrels with pink stained ankles and feet— just like the pictures she'd seen once in a French tapestry. Where had she seen it? Oh, she couldn't remember, but it was a delightful scene playing out in her mind. She could even hear a fiddle playing and feel the good, honest perspiration on her skin.

  Yes, this is where she was meant to be.

  In her mind's eye she saw shelves and shelves of bottles, produced by her own hands and all with pretty labels attached. Her own pictures would not be quite so beautifully done as those that once adorned Goody Applegate's libations, but she could make an effort to achieve something similar.

  When she was first widowed, Flora had made several attempts to find Goody Applegate, but Sir Roderick had flatly refused to help and Great Aunt Bridget's mind was so full of holes that occasionally she could not remember where she lived, let alone where anybody else might be found. Flora had studied a map, trying to calculate how far she must have traveled when her relatives first took her back to Wyndham, but there were no village names she recognized within a feasible traveling distance.

  On her deathbed, Great Aunt Bridget had pretended not to know anything about a kindly old lady by that name.

  "You always suffered a vivid imagination, Flora," she had muttered wearily, her eyes glazed from the laudanum.

  That much was true. She could imagine all manner of inventions for the future and had frequently made predictions that came to pass, leading to several remarkably lucky wagers. In 1780 her brother won a small fortune at his club when, on Flora's urging, he wagered that a horse called Diomed would win the first Epsom Derby. They also won again— somewhat treasonously, according to some— when she predicted that America would declare their independence on July 4, 1776.

  "I have an instinct for these things," she liked to say.

  Now, the leasing of Darnley Abbey felt like another lucky prediction. It was the best decision she had ever made. She was determined.

  Francis suddenly exclaimed, "Wait! I know who owns this property. It's part of Malgrave's estate. Oh, lord!"

  "Ah, the shilling has dropped. But that's the beauty of it. Since he's skulking about somewhere abroad, I can do as I want with the place."

  "And what if he returns, Flora? Are you quite certain he won't object to having his fields and orchards...messed about with? And you, a woman, making wine on his property? With his fruit and grapes."

  "Better that than his fruit lies bruised upon the ground and wasted. I told you, his solicitor is in agreement and he ought to know if his master would disapprove. He thinks that somebody should take care of the place before it is too late, and I agree."

  "I don't like it, Flora. Malgrave is not a bear one wants to poke, however great the distance and length of stick."

  "What are you fussing about, Francis?" He really did seem far too anxious. "How can he be upset by a few grapevines and some fruit being put to use before it spoils?"

  "You wanted my counsel, sister. Supposedly. Well, I would advise you not to get on your new landlord's bad side."

  "Dear Francis, like any dutiful sister, I would happily comply with your counsel, but I fear that when it comes to sides I'd be hard pushed to find the Duke of Malgrave's better one."

  "Well, then you know that it is exceedingly unwise—"

  "What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve after. Besides, he has agreed to the lease, as long as a man signs for me. So there. It is as good as done."

  In truth she was rather surprised the duke had agreed to let her rent the place. She had quite expected to be sent on her way in no uncertain terms. He was a difficult person in general and she ought to know, having once done her best to get along with the man and failed. But if he was willing to let her stay in his house, grumpy old "Fred" must not remember her at all.

  Leaving Francis to stumble along in her wake, she hurried on ahead now, confident that Malgrave, having endured far worse trouble in his life since their last encounter, must have other matters to worry about now, including his duchess. Flora had not laid eyes on him for twenty years. The duke took no pains to politely tolerate those he disliked and he'd had no time for Sir Benjamin Hartnell's company, so despite the often incestuous circles of society, they'd managed to avoid the same parties with scant effort. Now, of course, he was abroa
d somewhere, looking for his runaway duchess to drag her back by the hair.

  As long as he stayed away, landlord and tenant would get along beautifully.

  But, it must be said, she felt a slight pang about it. And about him. A little one. Sometimes, like the man himself, it was not so little.

  Chapter Eleven

  September 1782

  ".... I am appalled that you would see fit to lease Darnley Abbey to a woman of so scarlet a reputation. Everybody knows Sir Benjamin Hartnell died in suspicious circumstances, once his money had been used to pay off the Chelmsworth family debts, and she has worn her way through a multitude of lovers since then. She gambles for high stakes and drinks like a man. She has even been seen, on occasion, in breeches! Flora Hartnell is a woman who thinks she may do as she pleases with no care for propriety and tradition. I am told men, young and old, are deceived and disarmed by her smile, but surely you are beyond that nonsense.

  Who knows what she will get up to within those walls? She will pollute the place and the family name by this association that you have condoned...I do not suppose Plumm has kept you abreast of all the news while you languish abroad, but there is talk of Flora Hartnell cheating the great aunt out of a fortune in jewelry, prying her last possessions from her fingers as she lay dying. No wonder she hides away now in the country, rather than show her face in any good society..."

  This letter was a rare event indeed, for under normal circumstances his mother contacted Maxim only with whinging complaints about her allowance not being quite enough, messages all delivered via Plumm, with shambling apology and his wig helter-skelter. Apart from that they had no communication.

  This sudden concern for family honor and Darnley Abbey was vastly amusing, especially since the dowager had firmly refused to live there herself when Maxim offered it to her. No, the abbey, a "drafty, ugly place", wasn't good enough for her needs and she wanted to be in London with her friends. But now she felt compelled to take an interest and complain about the house being put to use by another woman.

  As for the family name being polluted, surely Maxim's wife running off with a poet had already done that. But the dowager really had a bee in her bonnet about Flora Hartnell.

  The ungrateful woman once had the gall to reject your proposal. What will people think, now you give her a house to live in, a roof over her head, a shelter for her debauchery and whatnot...?

  Hmm. Debauchery and whatnot. The mind boggled. Blind Man's Bluff and Hot Cockles, no doubt. She liked her games and the rowdier the better.

  He suddenly recalled Plumm's sly remark in the spring. "I see, sir. You would rather burn the abbey down than lease it?"

  Perhaps that possessive streak ran in the family. Even Maxim's mother, who didn't want the place for herself, couldn't bear the thought of anybody else enjoying it. She would get out her claws over this, just as she did over a lover she thought was taken from her by Bridget Manderby many years ago. But he was not supposed to know about that.

  So he sent a brief note to England,

  "Find out what That Chelmsworth Girl is about will you, Plumm? The Various and Sundry believe she converses with Beelzebub and his minions. Perhaps we should not put it past her."

  He found himself thinking of his tenant quite often, wondering what had drawn her to Darnley Abbey. Occasionally he took out her little portrait and questioned it, but no answer was forthcoming. The wench remained tight-lipped and saucy, even as he caressed her face with his thumb, trying to pry her lips apart, imaging their softness yielding. To him.

  Ridiculous. As his mother said, he was beyond that nonsense.

  Finally he received Plumm's reply and learned of Lady Flora's attempts to restore the vineyard and orchards at Darnley Abbey. That, apparently, was why so many young, able-bodied men, had been seen about the place stripped down to their breeches and "cavorting" in her company. They were hired hands put to work on the property.

  His lady tenant struggled alongside her laborers, according to Plumm's letter, and was often dressed more like a shepherdess, or a cow-herd, than a baronet's widow and the daughter of an earl. No doubt the dowager had got her information second and third hand from her web of gossiping friends, then pieced one and two together to make a juicy dozen. To make a scandal out of nothing, just to relieve her boredom.

  Lady Flora, on the other hand, made wine. Or attempted to do so.

  Maxim had never known there were grapevines and orchards at Darnley. He supposed it must have been somewhere in the records from when his grandmother's dowry was handed over to the estate, but he had never bothered to read those details. He left all that to Plumm.

  Grapevines and fruit. So that was it. That was what drew Lady Flora to Darnley Abbey. And by some strange coincidence here he was, many miles away, also making use of himself in a vineyard.

  They finally had something in common to talk about. If they ever chanced to meet again.

  * * * *

  At night, when the street outside was quiet, apart from the occasional barking dog, he lay in his bed, weary arms tucked beneath his head, and let his mind travel into the past.

  A memory fluttered by, of that oily tick, George Tarleton, sidling up to him in somebody's drawing room.

  "That Chelmsworth girl... there is something about her. Something...I cannot say what. Different."

  Yes, Maxim vividly recalled those words surrounded by a fog of stifling perfume and the whine of stilted music on a harpsichord. False smiles and inane conversation.

  She was the one woman who stood out. He couldn't take his eyes off her and, at first, he had assumed it was because she was so unsuitable, so unguarded. One could not look away from the disaster. But it was not long before he was thinking about her even when she was not in the same room.

  Had she married him, she could have had Darnley Abbey for no rent whatsoever now. But the Chelmsworth Girl had failed to recognize the advantages of his offer. What is it she had said to him?

  You can scowl at me all you like, Malgrave, you don't frighten me. Nor do I find you the least little bit inscrutable and enigmatic with your brooding stares and reluctance to say anything nice. You, sir, are an unmitigated bore, so stuffed full of your own importance I shall be surprised if you don't burst into a thousand little pieces one day.

  At some point she had touched his sleeve— patted it with her naughty fingers— a daringly casual way to behave in the Duke of Malgrave's presence. Nobody else ever touched him as she did without his permission. Nobody.

  And it was the second time she'd touched him uninvited, the first being with both hands on his face as she, blindfolded, tried to guess his identity, even though they'd never met until that moment.

  In the beginning he did not know how he felt about her and that uncertainty alone made him irritable. Maxim liked to know where he was, what he was doing, and what would happen next. He did not care for surprises or arguments from silly young women.

  Of course, back then he thought he knew it all. Thought he had nothing left to learn.

  In any case, three years after her rejection — again he saw her silhouette running away from him and toward the sunlight— he was married, instead, to Amelia Stanhope of the impeccable reputation, meekly bowed head and appearance of eager obedience. The very opposite of "That Chelmsworth Girl". Amelia was a perfect woman, perfect wife and perfect match. Everybody said so.

  Now they all knew how that had turned out.

  A year after his marriage, Flora Chelmsworth was also forced into an expedient union, arranged by her family in some attempt to salvage the remnants of her reputation and their finances. He had read about it in a letter from her brother and it quite spoiled his breakfast. He heard rumors of how her family had pushed her into the marriage and that upset his digestion even more. In his opinion, physical force was used against women by imbeciles, cowards and the impotent.

  But it was none of his business. She had seen to that. Did not want his advice or his guidance, or the shelter he'd offered. Put herse
lf into the hands of another man instead.

  Had she ever regretted turning him down? If she once thought Malgrave a bore, what did she make of Sir Benjamin Hartnell? Ha!

  He could have saved her from that atrocity at least.

  Now they all knew how her marriage had turned out too.

  Twenty years was a very great time, and much must have happened to them both. But what was time? It was a nothingness. Yesterday could not be changed and the future, as he now knew, could not be predicted with any certainty. Only in the present did a man have the power to act and even those chances slipped by like bubbles popping on the surface of a stream. Every thought was gone the moment he had it. Like that one. And that one.

  And that one.

  His moments were passing too quickly.

  He had been to war in more ways than one since he last saw Flora Chelmsworth in the flesh.

  Maxim made an effort to relax his jaw. He scratched the scar that itched on his shoulder and turned over, thumping his pillow.

  Why could he not sleep? He must stop dwelling on the past. Lusty Lucretia's company might have helped distract him tonight, but he'd sent her on her way with a very good pension soon after Plumm hired a new housekeeper.

  Finally he got up. Draped in the counterpane like a Roman emperor, he stormed to the window, throwing the curtains aside and opening the latch. Although it was autumn and much cooler, the air was still not as crisp as it could be in England this time of year. At Castle Malgrave in September the leaves would be changing. In the early morning one's sighs would linger like smoke. He almost felt a pang of homesickness then, the first in four years.

  Moonlight touched the cobbled stones of the town square and gently caressed the church tower. A few candles, dotted here and there, glowed against the darkened walls, but most windows had vanished in the shadows behind their shutters, leaving only the bulk of a building against the night's sky.