The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora

by Jayne Fresina

  "She's my wife, my property. She's got naught to say unless I tell 'er." He advanced toward Flora with his hands in fists, the wrinkles and folds of his face squeezed together in one ugly lump, like a dirty, wet, old rag being wrung out. "You leave 'er be. She needs no advice from a whore. If she stayed 'ere folk would think her no better—"

  "I beg your pardon, Grey. I surely misheard. What was it you just called your mistress?"

  At some point, Maxim must have entered the house and walked silently down the corridor to overhear their conversation. Now he stood behind Martha, taller than her by a good two feet, the wood axe resting over his broad shoulder.

  The old man mumbled under his sour breath, but shrank considerably, holding his breeches up now with both hands, stubby fingers twitching nervously at cloth.

  "Grey! I asked you a question." Maxim gripped the axe and fastened his furious gaze on the rumpled figure. "Time to use that cadaverous breath of yours for something more than insults aimed at your wife and Lady Flora. Unless you want me to expunge the last rancid ounce of it from your lungs, here and now."

  Flora intervened swiftly. "That doesn't matter now, your grace. I want to know from Martha, whether she wishes to leave my employ, or to stay here at Darnley." She sensed the old man seething with anger and hatred against her, but he dare not speak again in Maxim's presence. "Well, Martha? I am happy to keep you here, as long as you choose to stay. It is entirely up to you."

  The woman looked alarmed, fingers clinging to her apron, cheeks pale, lips trembling.

  "You will be quite safe with us," Flora added calmly, walking over to take her hands. "You are nobody's property."

  "Law says different," Grey shouted, unable to keep quiet for long.

  "You are your own person, Martha, responsible for your own happiness," Flora urged. "Do not let anybody make you unhappy, or do anything you do not want to do. Ever."

  The poor lady looked more confused and frightened at the prospect of being in charge of herself.

  Flora paused, glanced at Maxim over the old lady's head and then added, "I know our household is a little ...unconventional at the present, but you know we will always treat you with kindness and respect. Besides, you have been here longer than any of us. I think we might need you, Martha, to keep our feet on the ground. You belong here at Darnley."

  Behind her, Grey bellowed like a bull with its horns stuck in a fence. "If you stay here. woman, I shall cast you off as will all decent folk! You'll never see me again."

  Martha finally found the use of her tongue. "Thank god for that. Go on off with you then. I'm staying, you wretched old bugger."

  Even Maxim looked startled by the sudden outburst.

  Within half an hour, Grey was gone. Maxim, at Flora's request, took the old man in the cart as far as the nearest mail coach to Yarmouth where, apparently, he had some relatives still living.

  Martha sobbed at the kitchen table for a while and then she pulled herself together and began to make pastry. Before too long she was singing again and this time, rather than make her weep, the songs she chose made her laugh.

  Now Martha was her responsibility. She had asked the woman to stay; she must make certain she was well taken care of.

  * * * *

  They all knew this was only the beginning of what they would face together. But for now they did not have to hear or read any of it. The Republic of Flora was too far away from "civilization" to feel the tremors yet, and with the roads still muddy, discouraging travel, they were not likely to be intruded upon by the outside world for quite some time.

  Busy with the tasks of a new year's beginning, Flora and Maxim threw themselves into work during the day, and each other's arms at night. They avoided talking of other matters, putting things off indefinitely, knowing they must be faced in time, but for now living each hour as it came. Each moment a precious thing, a treasure, that glowed and sparkled like a new star in the sky.

  As the roads improved, letters came, but all were left unopened except those from Plumm, Nicholas or Persey.

  "And at least we have Captain Fartleberries on our side too," she pointed out as they lay on a fleece blanket by the fire one evening, the dog having squeezed his way between them to present his belly for scratching, all four paws in the air. "What else could we need?"

  "Nobody," he replied.

  Flora traced patterns on the dog's belly with her fingertip. "Let them all talk."

  "Quite." But although he smiled, a crease remained across his brow. A mark of worry that never left his face.

  It was her challenge now to erase that mark, she decided, to make the Duke of Malgrave cast his cares aside, at least for a while. If she understood them better, she might be able to help chase them away. So she sat up, swept her loose hair behind her ears and said, "Where would you be now, if you were not here with me?"

  "Castle Malgrave, I suppose."

  "Alone in your bed?"

  "Undoubtedly." He stared up at the ceiling. "I was born alone."

  "But you would not be utterly alone in the house." Knees drawn up, both arms wrapped around them, she added, "There are always servants around, of course."

  "Even with servants, one is alone."

  "Why? Do they not matter?"

  "They are unobtrusive. A good servant is neither seen nor heard. You know that."

  "You do not think of them as people... the same as you and I."

  "Because they are not, Flora."

  "Not people?" she exclaimed.

  "Not the same as you and I."

  "Of course they are."

  "You know a lot of them well, do you?" he asked. "Know them intimately?"

  "Don't you see them? Don't you take notice?"

  "Not unless they are significant to me. Why would I?"

  "Oh, lord help us." She hid her face against her knees for a moment. He could be so very pompous and he did not even know it. What had begun as a simple effort to understand his life more completely, now turned into a stark comparison of their differences.

  "I have seen how you talk to folk at the market," he said, sounding bewildered by it. "I've seen how you ask about their families and take an interest in everything they have to tell you. You even remember the names of their children. I do not know how you do it."

  She raised her head again. "It is easy, Fred, if you make the effort."

  "Hmph. If I paid attention to everybody around me, every day," he muttered, "and paused to enquire into their lives, I would never get anything done. I would not get a mile in ten days."

  "It does not take much more than a moment to acknowledge another person in your line of sight. They are no less important than you, even if they were not born with a title."

  "Oh? Do six hundred and thirty-five people rely upon them for their livelihood and food upon their table too?"

  That silenced her for a moment.

  "That is the total number of staff inside and out, in Suffolk and London, permanent and seasonal, including farm laborers and their families."

  "You know the number, but not their names."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Six hundred and thirty-five names? No. Thrash me for not remembering them all. A great many of them are John and Sarah."

  She supposed he made a point.

  Head on one side, he added, "You look like a naughty little chambermaid yourself tonight, sitting there with your hair loose and your cheeks hot." His eyes held a mischievous shimmer suddenly—the twinkling of sunlight through a shady grove. "One who knows she has lost an argument."

  "A naked chambermaid? What humble servant has ever sat before you without clothes?"

  "It was hypothetical." He chuckled. "You are permitted to mock me, but I cannot tease in return?"

  "I was not mocking you."

  "Then what was the destination of your quizzical path this evening?" When she said nothing, he added, "There it is again, madam! That expression on your face! The countenance of a pretty chambermaid who, guilty of some malfeasance, has slipped into
her master's bed to be spanked."

  "A lowly servant."

  "I did not use the term lowly."

  "But you meant it. You thought it. Servants are ordinary people, are they not? They fall into that category. I daresay you would use that theoretical chambermaid without much thought. She would be one of the advantages of your position. She would not matter to you."

  His eyes narrowed. "No chambermaid could ever eclipse your beauty in my mind, Flora."

  She rested her chin on her knees. "Now I hear sarcasm in your tone, sir."

  "Not at all," he protested. "Why would you ever be jealous of a humble maid?" And then he gave a little laugh. "How could she even be compared to Lady Flora Chelmsworth."

  "Just because she was born a servant? Born to a lower class. And I...I was not?"

  "There could never be any serious, enduring relationship of intimate nature between myself and a woman of that status. You are aware of that. You know how the world works, Flora. It is best for everybody not to venture beyond their sphere. It only causes trouble and discontent. I know you like this game here in the Republic of Flora, playing the farmer's wife and the shoeless revolutionary, but you are still a nobleman's daughter. You cannot escape your place in life anymore than I can, or a chambermaid can."

  Ah, but she was illegitimate, the earl's by-blow, born of a whore. A nobody. A hatbox squid. Ordinary. Lower than that possibly.

  Her heart felt oddly hollow, as if he'd reached in and pulled something out of it. As if he was in love with another woman.

  And he was, of course. When all was said and done, the Duke of Malgrave loved a woman whom she only pretended to be.

  He groaned. "You're not going to be angry with me now, are you? Perhaps I should take issue with your preference for the servant class, my lady. I believe I once heard something about a certain groom…?"

  She took a deep breath and waited for her hammering heart beat to ease its anxious rhythm. He had completely misunderstood her questions and thought she meant to ask him about dalliances in his past. Perhaps it was for the best not to get any deeper into this discussion tonight. He was incredibly frustrating at times, rigid in his views of the world. But she loved him; she was completely knocked senseless by it. There was nothing she could do to stop it now. She clung to this man with as much stubborn determination and unbound hope as she did anything once her mind was set. His arrogance would not beat her.

  "But the past is behind us, is it not?" he was saying, his words slower, falling heavier. Like rain. Or tears.

  She forced herself to nod, but a smile would not come. "Yes."

  "Then let us not talk again of anything from the past. There, we are agreed. Look forward, not back. All is forgotten. Now come down here and kiss me. The damn dog gets more caresses than I!"

  Once again, therefore, she gave up her chance to tell him her secret. What could be gained by telling him? It would alter everything between them, change the way he looked at her and perhaps even injure the feelings he had for her. He would not be able to help himself from looking down on her and growing distant. That was the reality and he had let it slip out tonight, because he did not realize that she was no different than one of those servants he kept at Castle Malgrave, or at his London house. Maxim was born a nobleman and everything he'd ever been taught about life, and his higher place in it, could not be undone and forgotten just for her. Not in the space of a few months. Like that line across his brow, it was indelible, wrought by time and responsibilities.

  She was not Cinderella and he was not Prince Charming. This was not a fairy-tale. They were not made of card and paper, but had real lives, real struggles, real faults.

  He may not be "Massimo the Magnificent" anymore, but he was still playing a game here with her, pretending they could live a simple life without interruption from the outside world. Playing Lady Flora had once been a game for her too.

  As her friend Persey would say, "Sometimes a man is better off not knowing. A wise lady should no more confess her age at any particular moment in time, than she would tell what she has spent on shoes, what she is truly thinking, or where the bodies are buried."

  Thus it was done. She kept her silence out of love. Fierce, stupid, unrelenting, selfish, blind love. The die was cast.

  * * * *

  As the weather brightened and the days grew longer again, there was more work to be done. Maxim went to market with Joss Radcliffe and came back with a handful of laborers. The fields were soon a hive of activity. Buds formed on the vines and from them came shoots that sprouted tiny leaves. Then, eventually, those small clusters— the Calyptra, as Maxim called them— appeared. Her precious grapevines flourished, their progress marked by her eagerly each day as she walked along the rows and checked what she found against the plan he'd drawn.

  The seasons always turned, of course, and with them came change, metamorphosis. Time moved on. Life moved on.

  Flora received a letter from Persey announcing the birth of her second child. She wrote back with warm congratulations, informing her friend of all the wonderful changes at Darnley.

  "I believe this year we will have a better harvest..."

  It was all due to Maxim, of course. He brought order to her chaotic attempts, drew plans, made lists. She was the dreamer; he was the doer.

  She hoped there was progress in the divorce, for his sake. But she dare not ask for details. Whenever he received a letter from Plumm she let him read it in peace. It did not matter to her if it never came about. They were together and happy now. What did she care if the rest of the world thought them wicked? For Maxim it was different, however. He talked often of how he wanted her to have everything he could give her, not just a little of himself, meaning that he wanted her to be his wife. As he had wanted twenty years ago.

  But they did not mention the past anymore.

  And then, one day, after they'd made love on a sunny, Sunday afternoon and he drowsily asked her what time it was, she felt for his coat, where it had been left on the floor by their bed.

  She drew out his silver watch-case. At first the catch was too stiff, but after a few moments of pushing and turning, it flipped open and she found inside— instead of the watch face—a miniature portrait of a young lady.

  Of herself.

  Instantly the room turned upside down and she saw tall buildings, concrete parks, buses, traffic, bicycles. A phone buzzed in her pocket and hot coffee spilled on her hand from a Styrofoam cup with the lid poorly affixed.

  It was but a flash of memory, but it froze her to the spot, as if a late frost crept unexpectedly among her vines and weakened them.

  Her course was compromised.

  Act Four

  Schemes, Spider Webs

  and

  Too Few Freckles

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cambridge, England

  Date Unknown

  Slowly making her way around the museum gallery, she had finally reached the last treasure on display. A glass case stood alone in a corner, carefully lit, waiting.

  She approached on the balls of her feet, as if that cabinet might suddenly explode.

  All was quiet. There was no other soul in the gallery. Her heartbeat was so fast it seemed to be spinning.

  Get it over with. Look. You know you have to. You know what it is.

  Why was she afraid?

  Inside the glass display box there was a silver gentleman's watch-case, open to reveal a clock face on one side, on the other another kind of face. A portrait.

  The small white card pinned to the silk beneath informed her:

  "Miniature portrait of a young woman, set in a silver case. Watercolor on ivory. Attributed to the artist John Smart. Sized and curved to fit comfortably inside a man's palm. Engraved with the name, Flora. c. 1760."

  Her hands were clenched, her palms hot and sticky.

  Was that her phone buzzing? How could it be? She'd turned it off. Her iPod too was off, and yet she could hear Mozart again, the soft strains of that Seren
ade for Winds. It swept around her like a warm summer breeze, lifting goose-pimples along her arms.

  A woman's voice trickled through the faint music. "Make haste, Rosie Jackanapes. Make haste."

  She looked around, but found herself still all alone in room that should have been silent.

  Her grandfather used to call her Jackanapes. He told her that it was the name once given to pet monkeys or misbehaved children. Yes, she inherited her fascination with history from him. But nobody had called her that for a long time.

  Her feet were cold.

  She stared again at the portrait and the card beneath it. Circa 1760.

  But it was her face.

  Suddenly she felt her ankles weaken, her body being pulled backward. The silver watch-case and the glass cabinet floated away. There was an odd taste in her mouth.

  "Am I to understand that you... you refuse me, madam?"

  "I most certainly do, you poor, dear, misguided thing."

  No. Go farther back.

  Farther.

  I don't want to. My feet are cold. So cold.

  "I'm afraid you cannot stay, my dear. It is time for another adventure. This world to which you go now is very different to the one you knew before, but you will soon find it just as familiar."

  Bottles, hatboxes, watch cases.

  "I ain't afeared, Cap'n. We'll see 'im off, like we always do."

  She looked down.

  "Lady Flora, where the devil are your shoes?"

  Ah. She took them, didn't she.

  Flora. Circa 1760. She took them.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  London, England

  Summer, 1783

  "I suggest you tell your master that he's making a hideous mistake." The dowager duchess sat before him in her grandest hat and wig. Clearly this was a matter requiring all her battle armor. "Since he does not answer my letters, I must rely upon you, Plumm, to see to it that he does not go through with this."