The Slightest Provocation

by Pam Rosenthal

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was certainly none of her concern, Peggy Weightman thought, to make judgments on the way Lady Christopher was acting once she were ready to go to bed these nights.

  Cheerful, busy all day, when the bedchamber door closed behind her, she became like one of them traveling balloons come down to land when they let the air all out. Pale, passive-well, it was easy to get her tucked into bed anyway, give her a tiny dose to make her sleep, though Peggy doubted she got to sleep so soon, which were definitely none of the business of a chambermaid, even if you couldn’t help but suspect… especially since, as the lady’s eyes got heavier, she got more eager-sometimes angrily so-to be left alone.

  Peggy knotted a length of thread-how in the world had the lady torn that pocket anyway? Of course, Lady Christopher might want to be alone with her thoughts of that very kind and pleasant Mr. Bakewell, but Peggy wouldn’t lay money on it. For she did know a bit about a certain particular kind of thing, though in truth Lord Christopher couldn’t hold a candle to her own Tom, neither for countenance nor, of course, for stature.

  If so a person could still call him her own Tom. Were he and his employer ever to come to England again? And when he did finally come home, what would he think? For her predicament was becoming more probable every day, and she’d begun to mull over using a solution of tansy and pennyroyal-or (worse perhaps) to give some consideration to the man up in Ripley that her father wanted her to marry.

  Perhaps, after all, she didn’t know as much as she thought she did. Perhaps Tom hadn’t cared for her after all. Or never had-not really, not like he’d said, and certainly not as she needed him to. Perhaps, Peggy thought, I’ve been wrong all this time.

  And then this morning to have to put up with Nick Merton’s teasing-about the airs she gave herself, according to him, just because she liked to wear pretty clothes. Like she imagined herself some kind of lady, he’d said, instead of proud of where she come from-the true England, he’d said.

  The true England, is it, she’d replied, smart enough, and who’s giving himself airs now?

  Still, she’d been glad to go the village to get more thread for Miss Grandin’s everlasting gowns.

  Only to meet up with the man with the whiskers and brown coat. He’d been in Nottingham, he told her… After asking all those questions again, about everyone around the neighborhood… and then inviting her to go walking with him.

  Like walking was what he really meant. Like she were some light kind of creature… though these days sometimes she felt like one. Well, what was to become of her? And she hated the Ripley man her father was so taken with…

  Mary had found her sobbing, collapsed in a heap in the corner of her dressing room, the pelisse, with its torn pocket, abandoned on the parquet floor.

  “But what is it?” Well, that sounds stupid enough, she told herself. For what else could it possibly be?

  “Oh, don’t cry, he’ll come. After all, he must wait for Lady Rowen; she’d be lost without him, you know. He’s a fine, responsible man, Peggy. He’ll come. Lady Rowen is simply taking more time than had been expected.”

  But time isn’t really the issue, is it? Or perhaps time is always the issue to a confused girl who fears herself pregnant. Though of course she wouldn’t admit it to her sharp-tongued and demanding employer.

  Who was trying her clumsy best, at the moment, to be a comfort. Mary put her arms around the small person on the floor and patted her back until the sobs subsided a bit and the words came clearer.

  “Ah, at the coaching inn. You don’t know his name? And he said what? He treated you in which way? But that’s dreadful.”

  Even more dreadful-infuriating, really-was the way the man had continued to ask Peggy for information-about a great many things, including her employer. Which could only mean that Kit was paying him to spy on Mary-in the service of the divorce, of course. Except that he’d promised not to do so until after she’d left Beechwood Knolls.

  Perhaps he thought his promise didn’t count anymore.

  “Leave the pelisse and get a little rest,” she said. “And don’t worry. The man won’t be bothering you again.”

  Not if I have anything to say about it, Lord Christopher. Her angry thoughts seemed louder than the bracken crashing under the soles of her walking boots.

  She’d confront him at Rowen. In front of his sister-in-law, if need be. He didn’t own the district, any more than the old Eighth Marquess.

  He’d made a promise. And she’d see that he stuck to it.

  She could have taken the curricle, she supposed, but it felt good to walk. And if you were walking, this path along the stream would get you to Rowen as fast as any other-though it mightn’t seem so if you didn’t understand the design of the grounds, which had been laid out to appear “naturally” meandering, on the way to the hermit’s hut.

  The path, at the outskirts of the Rowens’ park, near Beechwood Knolls, had always been dark, mysterious, and overgrown, for what would be the point of a hermit if he were too easily approached? You got to the hut by climbing over a cunningly constructed stile that appeared to be broken. A little way farther, you’d find a well-built cottage, which boasted a good fireplace, a reasonably comfortable bed, glass in the front windows, and a writing table. It needed to; a good estate hermit would have his comforts.

  “We advertised in the newspaper.” The marchioness had told the story one long afternoon, when Kit was in Spain and Mary had needed distracting.

  “It was Mr. Brown’s idea-a hermit’s hut was just the thing, back in the last century, to add a certain je ne sais quoi to an improved estate. I, of course, was charged with choosing the hermit. You should have seen me, pouring tea for a series of wild-eyed, long-haired gentlemen, doing my lady-of-the-manor best to discern which of them was the most picturesque and poetical.”

  Several had been tried and found wanting.

  “I must not have had the knack of choosing,” Lady Rowen continued. “Or perhaps we were simply unlucky. The first man we hired didn’t like the food we brought him, another was discovered to be in league with a band of poachers, and the third couldn’t keep himself away from the girls in the village.”

  Even going so far, she added, as to wash his hair, in order to ingratiate himself with his particular lady love. “At which point we had to let him go, and after which I prevailed upon his lordship to stop this silliness and have Mr. Brown build the set of ruins you now see on Rook Hill, if we must have something picturesque about the place.”

  The plan had been to take down the hut, the marchioness had concluded, but somehow they’d never gotten around to it. Which of course, Mary already knew, having discovered the place for herself one day. Though there’d been no need to tell Lady Rowen any of that.

  Today it looked more picturesque than ever. Vines festooned the windows; the silvery stone walls were spattered with lichen and chinked with moss. She could hear loud cooing from the family of doves that had nested somewhere under the eaves.

  Or perhaps they were roosting in the chimney, which meant that one wouldn’t be able to build a fire on the hearth anymore, as Kit had once done with such care. Neither he nor Mary had known how such a thing was done-it of course being servants’ work. She’d been fascinated by how well he’d managed it, and delighted that they could take off their clothes without first diving under the ragged quilt for shelter from the chill, dank air.

  She’d covered her quim with her hands that first time. He’d prised them away. She’d clasped them behind her back, to show that she wasn’t afraid.

  But that had been much later.

  For they’d only been children when she’d first happened upon the cottage.

  She’d been wandering on the far side of her family’s land. Distracted by some pretend fancy, she’d strayed past the disputed borders and even farther, to what she should have recognized as the clear beginnings of the Rowen property. Crashing through bracken, singing or reciting to herself-she might have been twel
ve, she thought now.

  Yes, it couldn’t have been too long after that time she’d spied him in Grefford. She’d been out of breath, her heart pounding-not from the thought of him, of course; she hadn’t been thinking of him at all. She’d been running, skimming along and barely keeping her footing. Paying no attention to a darkening sky and threatening wind, or even then to the raindrops making ripples in the brook that ran beside the path, until it had gotten much too late for her to get herself home, before the rain began in earnest.

  The pretty cottage had seemed to her like something out of an old tale of sprites and elves. What great good fortune to find it-although at twelve, and still half immersed in whatever she’d been pretending, finding shelter from the rain (and just in the nick of time too) hadn’t seemed a particularly magical occurrence.

  The cottage didn’t appear to be occupied-well, who’d live out here in the forest anyway? But she’d knocked politely, preparing a smile and a curtsy as she did.

  Good, no answer. She turned the knob, pulled open the door, and took a step inside-only to find him planted firmly in her way, fairly pushing her outside into the wet again, before she’d even gotten over the threshold.

  “Damn and double damn.” She didn’t usually say such things out loud. But she wasn’t about to be shoved-and certainly (now that she recognized him) not by that conceited Rowen boy.

  “That’s nice language,” he’d said, “from a girl.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she’d muttered.

  He’d only shaken his head.

  “Beg pardon, Lord Christopher.” But her voice had come out too petulant. And she’d rather get herself soaked than curtsy to a nasty boy who wasn’t much bigger than she was-even if he seemed awfully strong, not budging an inch when she’d tried to push him aside.

  “It’s my family’s property,” he’d said.

  “Isn’t,” she replied, according to the rules of childhood confrontation, though, in fact, she knew it was.

  “Is. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Not only was he right about the property, she’d thought; he probably remembered her from the day she’d been playing with the village children.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Isn’t,” she repeated a bit dispiritedly. “And anyway,” she added with more energy (and a bit of logic as well), “I can’t get out when I’m barely in.”

  Would he push a girl out into the storm? It seemed he might. He’d raised his hands to put them against her shoulders. She’d stood up as straight as she could. Just let him try. But he’d drawn back, too polite or proper, finally, to attempt physical combat with her.

  Polite was better than impolite, but the fact remained that the wet was beating down-more intensely now-on her back and bum and calves.

  “But it’s raining,” she wailed. “I’m getting wet already and my governess is evil and will beat me with a stick for it. I’ll be tied up and chained, punished and starved and fed bread and water for a week.”

  Which was an odd thing to say, since neither Mr. or Mrs. Penley believed in using any sort of corporal force, even on the least tractable of children. Much as her governess might have been tempted, Mary had never been physically punished in her life.

  Still, she liked the sound of it-it was exciting to imagine herself in such a helpless and piteous situation. And it did get the boy’s attention.

  “Really?”

  “Truly. It’ll be your fault if I’m punished and beaten, and I bet you’ll be glad of it.”

  He’d laughed, but he’d backed up and let her in.

  After which there didn’t seem to be much to say, so they stood side by side at a broken window and watched the storm without further comment. It turned out to be a brief downpour, tumultuous while it lasted but traveling quickly south and leaving her enough time to run home before the next clouds blew in.

  Not the most auspicious way to begin a friendship. Nor a love affair either. And certainly not a marriage. But they’d both come back the next day, which was mild and sunny, and she’d had an apple in her pocket, stolen from the sideboard.

  “My governess isn’t really cruel,” she told him. “And actually,” she added, “she’s not allowed to strike me.”

  “Of course. I knew that. I never believed you.” He’d laughed, though, in fact, he’d seemed a bit relieved-after all, who knew what he’d been taught to think of the Penleys?

  “But someone struck you,” she said.

  The bandage on his nose and the black marks around his eyes were a great deal more visible than they’d been the day before, when the cottage had been so dark from the storm outside.

  “A fight. Pugilism. Broke my nose.”

  All of which she found far more impressive than her silly imaginings about a cruel storybook governess.

  “It must have hurt.”

  He shrugged, took a casual bite of the apple she’d offered, and passed it back to her.

  “Did you win?”

  He shrugged again, but she could tell that he had won, by the grin, spreading proudly, widely, and no doubt painfully over his bruised face.

  “Sent home from school until it heals. Have to keep up with my studies, though.”

  “Let me see.”

  Spread out on the writing table under the window.

  “Latin,” he said carelessly. “Very complicated. Difficult. Only for gentlemen.”

  She took a peek.

  “Poo,” she said. “You’re only in Caesar?”

  “It must be a very absorbing memory.” He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, and she jumped a bit at the suddenness of seeing him.

  “How long have you been watching me?”

  “Long enough to see a smile flit across your face before you sighed, rather ruefully.”

  She’d smiled, had she? Well, enough of that.

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Why did you set that spy on me? After you said you wouldn’t. I trusted you, you know. It’s cruel to me, Kit, and unfair to Peggy and my family too. Isn’t it enough that you’ve got me a prisoner at Beechwood Knolls? And that you’ve pulled the wool over the eyes of everyone in Grefford as to your… character. But to spy on me. I won’t stand for it, and I…”

  He raised his hands. “Wait. Halt. Desist or in any case explain. This could be serious. There’s some spy set upon you?”

  “Don’t pretend not to know. She’s seen him twice now-the red-bearded man, tall, brown coat, I think she said…”

  His eyes widened. “Him, really? Peggy saw him?”

  “There, you see, I knew you were behind it. He’s approached her twice now, bold as brass. It’s just not fair, Kit, not gentlemanly, and you promised…”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “What, you want me to be keeping track of your spy…?”

  “Mary, stop, he’s not my spy. Hell, if only she’d told you which way he… wait.” He’d taken a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “He says… damn, on his way to Sheffield. What time does the Chesterfield coach…? No, by the time I get to the village he’ll be gone. Nothing to be done about it now.” He stepped the rest of the way into the cottage.

  Now that they were both all the way inside of it, the room seemed smaller than she remembered it. He dragged a broken-down chair from next to the bed to nearer the writing table. “I seem to remember that the writing desk chair is the better one. Take it, won’t you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be going as soon as you explain to me who the man in the brown coat is, and why he isn’t spying on me. No, that’s not what I meant. But you know what I meant and you know who he is. He’s working for you…”

  “Indeed he is not.”

  “He’s in the employ of someone… you owe money to?”

  “No again. In fact, between my winnings at the fives court last week and the money your Mr. Bakewell has made for me, I’ve never been richer. But this is interesting. Try again, Mary. What other crimes would y
ou like to indict me for? A vile seduction?”

  “No, that’s not your style.” Whoring, rather, she was about to say. Except that she’d said it all already in Calais. She’d said everything bad about him that she could think of-and a few more things into the bargain. “Are you acting as magistrate these days? Oh, Lord, don’t tell me you want to arrest him for poaching.”

  The heartiness of his laughter was proof-if she’d needed any-of the silliness of that guess. She dropped into the chair he’d offered, and he took the more rickety one, leaning it back against the wall in that way that men enjoyed doing for the way it rather fore-grounded their legs and other, proximate parts of their bodies.

  While as for the man in the brown coat. It could be only one thing, then. “You’re after him for a revolutionist.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Then he was. Some vile government business she was bound to disapprove of. No point staying any longer.

  She sat a bit straighter. Actually, she thought, if she were to sit any straighter in this small, uncomfortable chair, her bum would slip off the front end of it.

  “I thought you’d be in London, working for the Home Office.”

  “I hope to be. They said to come back when Wat’s better.”

  “Well, that’s… good, then.”

  “They didn’t find me ungovernable.”

  “I’m sorry I said that.”

  “You were angry. We were both angry. It’s all right, Mary.”

  She felt herself trembling a bit, like she lately had been doing at bedtime. “I must go.”

  He shrugged. “I expect so. Ah, but wait a moment. You said I was holding you prisoner at Beechwood Knolls. Which sounds bloody unfair of me. Rather provocative, but unfair still. For I shouldn’t want to keep you from walking to the village, especially as you look so fetching with a basket over your arm. We need a schedule, as to when you can be seen in the neighborhood and when I can. Maximum freedom, minimum fodder for the gossips.”