This had become a familiar sight to him now, but of course it wasn't home. It couldn't be, for he would always be the "strano inglese", as they called him at the vineyard. He could not quite fit, no matter how he changed his appearance and relaxed into a more casual way of life. Even if they called him by another name here and did not know of his title, he still did not fully belong. He kept telling himself that this life was more genuine, yet it was, in fact, just as false as the one he'd led before. He was still missing something.
What was he doing here in this self-imposed exile?
He was forty-one years of age. At twenty-one he'd been certain of his place and his future. By thirty it had all fallen apart. Now he no longer knew where he belonged or where he was headed. Were he not a Malgrave he would be terrified.
Suddenly he felt the dusty walls of his rented villa closing in, the ground sinking under his feet. But it was no earth-tremor this time; it was all happening within himself. He could no longer be content here in his living crypt, letting the time pass.
He was restless. He wanted...he wanted...
Plumm's voice crept through the shadows. "Perhaps it is time to leave old ghosts behind and look to the future. To get on with your own life."
But how could he do that? How could he return to the world he once inhabited, when he had found so much more inside himself? War had changed Maxim. He was a peg that could no longer fit inside a hole. Ah, but it wasn't all about him, was it?
"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."
As for his wife; perhaps she too had found a better side of herself here and that's why she hid so determinedly. She had recognized her unhappiness and discontent before he did, fleeing England to escape and find something new. Here he was now, doing the same, although he had never realized how much he hated himself in that previous world, until he arrived in this place and discarded his shell.
Certain opinionated ladies would not recognize him now. He smiled wryly at his reflection in the warped glass. Would they not be surprised by all the changes?
He returned to bed, his body still wound up in the counterpane, and fell heavily to the mattress, causing a light dust shower in the moonlight.
Now he had a tight, skipping, suffocating pain in his chest. Thoughts of that woman had an uncanny knack of causing him discomfort of all sorts, even across great distance and considerable time. But that was why he'd kept her portrait; to remember his first and worst failing and to punish himself for it.
With these and similar, unsquidgy and unromantic musings, he had soon rediscovered sleep. Whether or not the scandalous Lady Flora invaded his dreams that night with "debauchery and whatnot", his grace prefers to keep to himself in the interests of that lady's honor. Somebody had to care about that and, surprisingly, for all the trouble she caused, Maxim did care. Still.
Chapter Twelve
One month later.
Tired, dirty and deflated, she perched on the side of the great barrel and stared in at the results of their first harvest.
"Won't get much wine out o' that sorry lot," her steward helpfully pointed out. "You can stamp with those dainty toes until the cows get home, but you'll not get more than two dozen bottles. And that'll be thin and reedy, unless you throw in some rough Spanish stuff to make it stretch."
"Yes, thank you, Grey, but we do not make counterfeit claret in this house."
"We don't make no claret." The old man sniffed. "That's gnat's pee that is. No good for aught but vinegar. I told you them vines weren't no good. Never 'ave been and 'tis only got worse for all the neglect. The grapes are bitter and small. The land here isn't right for it. I told you from the start. And those lads you hired knew nothin' about grapevines, whatever they said."
Her steward was a mumblecrust, who fussed constantly, as if he were overwhelmed with work, and yet never actually got anything useful achieved. If he should be given a task of any importance he would only make a complete pig's ear of it and then blame anything or anybody but himself. The one thing he was able to do with prompt efficiency— apart from eat his supper, which he managed with startling skill considering his lack of sturdy teeth— was to point out the dour and dreary obvious. Yes, his name was most apt. But despite all this she kept him on because his wife was a sweet, sad old thing who made a wonderful almond cake and sang herself to tears in the kitchen as she worked.
Like the drafty windows, the mice under the floorboards, and the bats under the eaves, the elderly couple had come with the house, so she kept them, even though they had no formal agreement. In addition to the Greys, Flora had hired a handful of workers, found at the local market fair that summer. But they had all departed once they saw the mistress growing steadily more short-tempered and impatient, not to mention working as hard as them— if not harder. Surely, they gossiped amongst themselves, if the fine lady mistress has to bend her back to the vines too, that cannot be a good sign.
They thought they could get better paid work elsewhere— under a "master", of course— and she could not afford to keep them on through the winter in any case.
Grey tsk-tsked at her between his gums. "Lass should never have taken on the task. 'Tis too much for a woman. That sorry lot you brung back from market were out o' work for a reason when you found 'em. As lazy a bunch o' layabouts and thieves as I ever clapped eyes on. They only came here to ogle at a lady with bare ankles and her hair down, no doubt. Filthy pack o' rogues they were."
"Yes, well, they've gone now."
"'Tis best you give up on the idea, knit yourself some thick woolen stockings and just settle in for winter. Besides, yer a lady, not a farm 'and. T'aint proper to see you toiling in the earth."
"Settle in? And then who will save all the fruit and preserve it? Who will get all the vegetables in and stored before winter?"
His face lengthened as he closed his eyes and shook his head somberly. "You took on too much, tryin' to do the work of a man. Now we shall suffer, I daresay, and go hungry while all of it wastes upon the ground." Eyes open again, he looked up at the sky, as if he could read omens in the clouds. "Aye, the season shall be harsh this year. Sacrifice and strife. I knew it would be, as soon as you tipped up with bows on your shoes, frills on your sleeves and the cleanest, softest 'ands I ever did see. Oh, we're in for it now, says I to the wife. Here comes a fine lady to play at work until the novelty wears off."
But even if her hands were soft, her head was not. She had begun this enterprise with such hope, and defeat was not in her nature. She would simply have to bite down on her pride and admit she needed help from an expert. A real expert.
With freshened resolve, she said, "I'll just have to take Persey's counsel, won't I?"
Her best friend, Persephone Radcliffe, once the Marchioness of Holbrooke and now married to the most successful landscape designer in England, lived little more than an hour's ride away in good weather and visited when she could. During her previous trip to Darnley, Persey had casually mentioned a recent encounter her husband had with a most interesting fellow in London.
"An Italian, I believe," Persey had told her as they dined on the terrace, during one of the last fine days of the year. "Remarkably clever about grapevines, apparently. Now he seeks employment in this country. Is that not a wondrous coincidence? I told Joss I would mention it to you. Of course, he's probably—"
Flora set down the decanter with a bang. "I did not mean to concern you both with my problems. I wish I had never said anything about the paucity of good workers, but you caught me at a weak moment that day when you were last here. It was a momentary despair, however, and now it has passed."
"My dear Flora, the meeting occurred quite by accident. Lucky accident. Joss happened to be in London and so did the Italian fellow, who—"
"I do not believe in lucky accidents. London is a very large place in which to run upon the ideal person without design."
"But he is—"
Her friend replied gently, "This Italian fellow is a genuine expert in viticulture."
"Persey, I have taken on three gentlemen already this year, who supposedly specialized in the growing of grapes. They came, they saw and they went away again, leaving my purse a little lighter each time on wasted effort. They always come here thinking to take charge and take advantage. A woman living alone with no man at her side is, apparently, fair game for any villain looking to cheat and steal from her. And an Italian? Of all things."
"What's especially wrong with an Italian?" her friend had asked in bemusement.
"They pick quarrels and bear the most fearsome grudges. They are hot-heads, always putting hexes on people. They are far too lusty for their own good. They're not manageable."
"Flora, darling, I believe you just described yourself."
She took exception to that, naturally. "I am exceedingly level-headed, judicious and forgiving. And chaste." She had frowned, restlessly rubbing her back against the chair to vanquish an itch under her corset. "These days." Reaching for her wine, she added firmly, "I left those failings behind in my youth."
"Ah, I did not know you then. Our acquaintance has been but ten years in duration." True. Although, like most things in Flora's life, the span of their friendship felt longer. The two women had bonded while Persey was married to the elderly Marquess of Holbrooke and Flora newly widowed. Being of a similar age and temperament, they had made much mischief together, greatly entertaining the old marquess in his winter years.
Once they were both widowed their friendship strengthened even further, but time moved on, as did they. Persey had remarried and begun yet another stage of life with her new young husband and babies. Now Flora had decided it was time for herself to have another season, to mature like an oak tree and be useful. She might not be in a position to make babies— or acorns— but she could do something.
"I can assure you I was once much worse than I am now," she muttered. "Ask Francis."
"What about Lord Hargreaves, at whom, only a year ago, you hurled your slippers from a box at the opera? I believe he would disagree about your temper being any calmer in latterly years."
"The entire world, my dear woman, knows how much he deserved it. He was always an utter cad to his poor, downtrodden wife. I only wish I had something more hefty than a slipper to fling at the scoundrel's vast, ham-like head in her memory."
"And Miss Harriet Seton, at whom you once shouted that you hoped her nose fell off at an inconvenient moment? If that is not a long-held grudge and the deliverance of a hex, I do not know what is."
"Harriet Seton is a despicable, unconscionable gossip." And she was particularly spiteful lately since her long-time beau, George Tarleton, had recently proposed marriage to Flora— an offer she had politely and firmly declined, not that this fact made it any more palatable for Harriet, who appeared headed for an old maid's cap. "She blames me for every suitor she's ever lost, and all I do is laugh at their jests. I do not want any of her old lovers, but she seems to think I steal them from her for sport. As for marriage, her father left her a very good portion in his will and she ought to be content. I do not know why she frets about having no husband. As I have told her many times, she's exceedingly fortunate not to need one for financial reasons. But the only joy she seems to find is in other folk's scandals and downfalls. She is forever sticking that nose into business that is not her own. It would do the world a great service if her proboscis did fall off. Sweetly apt vengeance."
"And yet Italians are the hot-heads?" Persey muttered wryly through her napkin. "Is there any breed of man whose advice you would listen to, I wonder? They're not just playthings, you know. Some of them can actually be useful, if they are allowed to be."
"I shall take your word for it and withdraw from the debate. Now, let us enjoy our dinner and the fine weather." She paused, sighed and added with great warmth, "It is very good of you and Joss to look after me. I am grateful, you know, that he sought out this Italian, even if it comes to naught. I did not mean to sound as if I'm not thankful."
"Joss would not offer to help if he did not want to. He's always honest, never an artificial friend. If he likes you he'll do anything for you. If he doesn't, well..."
"He must be tremendously busy now he's in such demand. Do tell him not to worry so about me. I'm sure I can find experienced laborers myself. This time I shall know better what to look for and what to turn away. I'm learning in this matter as I go." Flora had looked thoughtfully into the distance. "I could ask the estate solicitor, Master Plumm, to advise me too. He has been very kind and obliging and seems most interested in my dreams for this place. It is unusual to find a man who does not judge a woman for trying to achieve something on her own. I'm sure he might know some likely fellows to help."
"Well, this was his idea, of course. If he had not mentioned Darnley Abbey to me and suggested I ask you about it—"
"I thought it was your idea? I thought you found the place and had me in mind for it when you made inquiries."
"No, no! It was Master Plumm who approached me last winter and said his grace was in need of a caretaker for Darnley. He said he had heard you might be searching for a home away from your brother's estate and asked me to suggest it to you."
Flora sank back against the iron scrollwork of her chair, frowning. "Really? I could have sworn he told me it was your idea. I had not thought of leaving Wyndham until he came to suggest it, supposedly because you had put the plan into his head."
Persey shrugged. "I do not object to taking credit if old Plumm has some cause not to want it. Wherever the idea came from, it was a good one. I've never seen you so content."
"Yes, I am happy here. Even with all the hard work." Perhaps because of it, she mused. It felt good to be busy again, to wake up in the morning with purpose on her mind. Whatever Grey thought of her inadequacies, and however often he predicted grim failure, she remained stubbornly optimistic. In fact, his attitude probably made her more determined, just for the pleasure of proving the doubter wrong.
"We must do what we can about all that work and find you some useful young men to lend a helping hand," said Persey.
Flora laughed, reaching for a strawberry. "Just as long as you don't find me more young men than I can manage. And please— none that are too handsome. I am so very weary of handsome and muscular. At my time of life one prefers the old, saggy, comfortable and lived-in."
Her friend laughed too. "Oh, I'll make certain these workers are not likely to distract you. There shall not be a full set of teeth among them."
"Well...perhaps it is not necessary that they be too unsightly," Flora hedged. "An old woman should have something pleasing to look at once in a while. Something to keep the blood running through her veins."
"Of course." Persey had continued to laugh— on and off— at various volumes, for a good half an hour, but then she was seldom in a glum mood these days and had much to be light-hearted about, so this merriment might be nothing to do with Flora at all. Since Joss Radcliffe was a healthy young man of great energy and eight years his wife's junior, Persey ought to be exhausted. But it was not the case, apparently. She was bursting out of her stays.
So much so that if they were not such very good friends, Flora might have suffered a little pinch of jealousy at all that good fortune.
But no, she didn't want another man commanding her life, no matter what he looked like, how sweet-natured he was, or how much vitality he possessed. The horror of marriage to Sir Benjamin Hartnell was still fresh in her mind, even ten years after his demise. In general, men bored her these days. Unless they made her laugh— really laugh— in which case she gladly made a pet of them for as long as they might be tolerated and until they tried taking charge of her.
> For some reason she had always been resistant to the traditional female role. Where she got her rebellion from, she could not say. Great Aunt Bridget used to complain that she must have read it in a book somewhere, but Flora really didn't think that was the case. Goody Applegate was not the sort to keep any revolutionary or scandalous reading material on her bookshelf, only wine, her precious almanac and ledgers full of recipes.
It had puzzled her for years. Why could she not settle and be satisfied? Why had she ever envisaged something more for herself as a woman? Where did the yearning come from?
Then she had met Persey who was another lively, pleasure-loving creature, a woman who boldly reached for her own happiness and did not wait for it to be parceled out to her in rationed portions— the first female Flora could actually consider a bosom friend. It was almost as if they had both felt somehow lost in a foreign land and time, until they found a companion in each other.
"I believe, dear Flora," her friend had teased as they sat on the crumbling, weed-strewn terrace that evening, "you have accumulated most of your information on Italian men from the plays of Shakespeare and Webster. You should give this fellow a chance. He comes highly recommended."
"Perhaps you're right," she admitted, stooping to pick up Captain Fartleberries and give the slobbering creature a hug that made Persey wince. "We could give him a trial, could we not, Captain? In any case, when he finds out there's so little money in it for him, he'll probably leave in a very dramatic Italian huff."
"You still have Lady Manderby's jewelry to sell. I'm sure you have no sentimental attachment to it."
"No. But I do like looking at it. Those pearls and sapphires cheer my spirits when I'm down." Then she grinned. "I suppose it has something to do with the fact that my cousins are so bitterly annoyed by it. They never liked me, and when they found out about the will— ha!— that was the last straw. It's a small victory, but we must take those wherever they can be got, as Great Aunt Bridget herself would say."
The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Page 14