The Perfect Rose

by Diane Greenwood

  Her savior came in the form of Rhionne who chose that opportune moment to enter the room, apprising the situation with one look. Having changed into black dinner breeches and fitted burgundy jacket, he joined the guests by making an unswerving line towards the over-zealous priest. He was easily able to extricate Torie's hand by forcefully clapping the man of the cloth on the shoulder and exclaiming; “Blandsford! Dusty trip, I daresay. This time of the year the roads are powder, are they not?"

  If this bohemian greeting were thought odd, no one in the room would dare take their benefactor to task for it. Rather, the small party of constituents smiled benignly and looked on beneficently as the priest croaked; “Aye, indeed, parched as the desert, I am."

  Lord Lairdscroft took the hint, just as he took Torie's punished hand and smoothed it soothingly as he placed it on his own sleeve. He motioned to one of the footmen. Purposefully he projected his voice. “Summon a spot of tea for the good man of Chesterfield."

  Dismay was apparent on the corpulent facial expression of the great-girthed priest. But he could not very well counter the order. He brightened at the thought of generous dollops of brandy to sweeten his beverage.

  Torie, despite the earlier incident with Rhionne, could not help but be grateful for her deliverance. However; she was further puzzled when her bruised hand was handed over to the elder Pickwick, who began to converse with her but was racked with a spasm of coughing; so much so, he had to pass the hand to his son.

  Jonathan Pickwick straightened perceptively at this honor, though his ill-fitting country tweeds still hung slack on his spare frame. He patted Torie's hand but the motion, which earlier had been soothing when provided by Rhionne, now seemed insipid and unnecessary. But Torie smiled as was required and supplied conversation. She could not help but watch Rhionne from the corner of her eye as he solicitously offered the elder parson stronger libation to bring his cough under containment.

  The Chesterfield priest nearly bowled over a stuffed wing chair in his haste to second this recommendation and offer his own teacup. A small delicate vessel, it was all that was available and would do in a pinch.

  At this time Justin and Brodie made their appearance. There was no sign of Nanny Ada; no doubt she had simply escorted the boys to the doorway, then retreated to her sanctuary. Torie saw with dismay, the boy's clothes were not as immaculate as she would have liked. But she realized it was unrealistic to expect the boys to remain unblemished since church that morning and Nanny Ada's failing eyesight could scarcely be blamed for a few wrinkles and smudges on her charges. Torie looked ruefully to Brodie's cowlick, stubbornly sticking up like a flag in the breeze, without it's ritual dousing.

  But if Rhionne was vexed over his sons’ shortcomings, there was not a blink of an eye to betray the fact as he motioned the boys to come further into the room and stand by him.

  It was fortuitous dinner was announced at this moment. Torie went in on Jonathan Pickwick's arm and though the numbers were uneven, she was used to being the only woman in the party and was not expected to pay attention to all aspects of conversation. It was just as well as the younger Parson Pickwick was seized with a case of verbosity much like his earlier sermon and Torie could not get in a word edgewise.

  To her right, at the head of the table sat Rhionne McLairdin. But if she hoped for a second rescue from this direction, she was destined for disappointment for his lordship seemed strangely intent on something Father Blandsford was saying. She once caught Rhionne's eyes on her and turned a relieved head to begin a conversation, but his dark gaze turned away and she was forced to turn her attention back to the parson. Therefore, Torie's dinner was stilted at best and she could not help but wish it would pass quickly.

  There was one diverting happenstance. Rhionne had wisely separated the boys, with Justin on Jonathan Pickwick's left side and Brodie across the table just out of kicking distance. Torie was only half listening to Jonathan's intense musings so she was shocked when his hand groped for hers under the table. She flinched but could not snatch her hand away without drawing attention to her predicament.

  Justin, looking down, saw Pickwick's hand resting on Torie's. He frowned, his thick eyebrows drawing together in exact replica of his father's. Torie could hear bits and pieces of conversations from around the table; the thump of Brodie kicking the table pedestal in boredom. She felt helpless, like a chicken cornered by a fox. From the corner of her eye Torie saw Justin grab his fork and bring his hand under the table. Jonathan Pickwick let out a yelp that equaled a baying hound. His injured hand let go of Torie's and she hastily brought her own hand to her mouth to smother a hint of a smile.

  There was the clatter of silverware as someone dropped a utensil, perhaps a sharp tined fork? Justin looked apologetic and held up his sleeve cuff. “These gold stick pins father gave me; I've not gotten the hang of fastening them properly and they're sharp as a knife. Good heavens, it appears I have dropped my fork!"

  Rhionne frowned, his brows following his son's earlier direction, before motioning to the footman to summon a maid to fetch a fork.

  Poor Jonathan Pickwick! He wrapped his wounded hand in a snowy white, linen napkin and tried to put forth a forgiving tone. “The Lord sayeth we shall not harbor ill will towards our fellow man. I take it he included young boys in his proclamation."

  "The folly of youth...” Father Blandsford echoed his sentiments on the subject. “You must either beat it out of them or persuade them to repent their sins. It is a God-fearing adult that results from a God-fearing child."

  Lord Lairdscroft scowled and dinner went on, the episode soon forgotten.

  When the last morsel of peach tart smothered in clotted cream was consumed and Brodie began fidgeting, Torie placed her napkin on the table thankfully. To her amazed consternation, even though she stifled a yawn as the men rose from the table and begged the guest's to excuse her, Rhionne put a restraining arm out. “Boys, go on up to your room. Justin, I trust you will see you and your brother reach Nanny Ada's care. Miss Beauclaire, pray grace us with your presence in the salon."

  It was not an actual request, not with that forceful tone. And even if Torie wanted to refuse, her curiosity got the better of her. The salon was the refuge of men after dinner, to smoke cigars or drink spirits. Though the group tonight was not a secular one, it still was a strange request. Her presence was certainly not needed to dole out the donations. What was the purpose?

  In the fire-lit salon Father Blandsford was the only man other than Rhionne, who partook of post-dinner brandy. After monies were charitably given, the elder Pickwick excused himself on the grounds his health required early to bed. Torie, who sat respectfully silent, gratefully took the cue and made to rise. But Rhionne was already on his feet and advanced directly in front of her chair, preventing her. He motioned to Father Blandsford. “You sir, have a long trip back to your quaint village of Chesterfield. I hope you have a safe journey."

  The portly priest could not ignore this dismissal and bade farewell. The younger Pickwick reluctantly left Torie's side to escort his father home. But again, Lord Lairdscroft did something out of character. “Nay, there is no reason to break up this cozy tête-à-tête'. I will instruct a groom to escort your father back to the parish. Remain seated Mr. Pickwick, I will return shortly."

  Then to Torie's astonishment he left her alone with the younger parson. Hadn't he chastised her severely just last week for such a breech of etiquette? And now he openly condoned it; nay, consented to it!

  Mr. Pickwick's elevated status immediately went to his head and he sat up straight, clearing his throat with a froggy growl that made Torie glance sideways at him to see what he was about. Her hand rested lightly on the arm of the gold stuffed wing chair in which she sat almost primly. Before she could utter a single protest this hand was seized and fervently pressed to a pair of moist, humid lips. Despite the fair distance to the fire a fine sheen of perspiration stood out on the parson's brow. Torie could only stare at these gathering beads, wishing th
e good parson would unhand her limb and take note of hygiene to mop his leaky brow.

  Jonathan Pickwick seemed possessed of a more pressing deed. He held tight to her hand, thankfully not forcing any further clammy kisses upon its backside. “Miss Beauclaire, if I may be so bold ... Torie!” He spoke the name reverently, his lips mouthing silently the name repeatedly, even after uttering it. “You cannot have failed to notice I have long held you in high regard. But now, I can no longer hide the true extent of my feelings. You have become my reason for drawing breath. You are the temple at which I vow to worship as long as I live! A man may not serve two gods but I will gladly give up my calling for your affection!"

  Shocked, Torie pulled her hand away. “Mr. Pickwick get a hold of yourself! I would as lief ask you to quit the church as I would ask you to jump in a lake!"

  Elated, the parson clapped his hands together in a sound that reverberated through the dimly lit room. “Then you would hold no objection to the simple title of parson's wife?"

  "Of course I would hold no objections against a parson's wife but...” Torie blamed her tiredness for her stupidity. She should have seen where this conversation was leading. “Parson Pickwick..."

  "Jonathan, please."

  Almost with exasperation Torie inquired bluntly, “Are you making an offer for me?"

  "I'm sorry, I thought I was being obvious. I am a simple man and sometimes I make a roundabout approach to my point, but yes ... I wish to marry you.” He seized her hand and held it earnestly. “With all my heart, I pledge to make you happy! We can live with father until ... Well, I won't come into my own parish as father's health is declining and he depends on me more and more. This is sure to make him accelerate retirement!"

  The romantic approach was lost with this decree. Torie was made to feel a means to an end. It was not that her heart was involved in this situation. It was just she'd had a very bewildering day, what with winding up in Rhionne McLairdin's arms and now a proposal out of the blue! The next words uttered by the amorous clergyman brought about a petulant turn of her mood.

  "I will speak to Lord Lairdscroft and seek his blessing. Is there any reason he may not condone the match?"

  Torie remembered the kiss, no chaste action on either participant's part and yet Rhionne had been able to walk from the room with the carelessness that was maddeningly characteristic. With more vehemence than she intended she replied, “None at all. But his permission is not mandatory. He is not my father!"

  "It is only right as your employer, I must inform him. It is etiquette. Oh, my love, you have made me the happiest man alive!"

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. Just at that moment a noise at the doorway caused Torie to glance up. Rhionne McLairdin stood poised nonchalantly. Torie had the impression he had been standing there a good deal longer than manners decreed before signaling his presence. She needed to set matters right with Jonathan Pickwick and meant to do so with or without privacy. “Jonathan, I cannot..."

  Her words were cut off without so much as a by-your-leave by Rhionne's forced chuckle. “Jonathan is it? My, my. I see I was gone too long about my business! You see Torie, what flaunting the rules of convention will get you. Of course what harm could come of it with a man of the cloth?"

  Torie could not help but remember this as her own justification. Was this an elaborate lesson Rhionne had concocted to prove a point? But her thoughts were her undoing as they left her no time to protest, as she was ushered from the salon following Mr. Pickwick's prophetic, over-zealous assertion. “A word with you, sir."

  Torie turned just as the door was shut in her face. Of all the idiotic male assumptions! She flounced up the stairs before it hit her. Unwittingly she had become engaged!

  Chapter Nine

  The rashness of her actions came full circle the next day as she received a summons to join his lordship in the study. It was early in the day; too early for Rhionne to have been up and about for long. Therefore Torie correctly surmised she was his first appointment.

  She supposed she should be gratified for her importance on his schedule. But all gracious benevolence was lost as she recalled the cause of her predicament was her summoner. If her mind had been on matters at hand rather than a certain kiss, she would have given Mr. Pickwick a gentle refusal and sent him on his way.

  As it was, she was affianced to a man she could not marry for a number of reasons. And one of those reasons was that kiss! She found her thoughts wandering back to the gentle insistence that had evolved into something deeper within. She could feel Rhionne's lips again exploring her own and could almost smell his scent. Good Gad! She was outside his study now and could not remember the walk that had gotten her there! What a silly pea-goose she was turning into! She could not very well go inside with her eyes agleam with a dreamy haze and with the look of a mooncalf on her face. She bit her lip to bring back a sensible state of mind and smoothed the white, printed silk gown she wore.

  But one look at the male form, turned out in a splendidly fitted blue jacket and wrinkle-free trousers that accentuated the athletic lines beneath, was enough to make her thoughts fly wayward again. It was not until the low intonations of his voice reached her that Torie realized she was facing her employer and not the Rhionne that had recklessly held her yesterday.

  His matter-of-fact voice bade her to sit and if he found anything amiss in her demeanor, he did not betray it. He only ran an eye over her as any employer looking over his property. Her hair, neatly coiled only hours ago, was escaping rebelliously from it's knot and his frown over this over-sight was enough to quail a lesser victim, but Torie was used to her shortcomings and ignored the impulse to reach up and try to make it conform.

  Rhionne's frown itself came from a similar impulse. His was more base and had to be quelled less he do a most ungentlemanly thing. He hid the impulse admirably, signaling that again Torie should be seated. Torie should have recognized the change. It was obvious with his first words. “Thank you for coming down so promptly, Torie. You must be pleased. It is a good match, considering your lack of background and finance."

  He did not mince words. Neither did he hide behind formality. She was simply ‘Torie’ now that she was safely promised to another. This formality she would clear up soon enough. “My lord,” She decided not to compromise. “Rhionne, there has been a gross misunderstanding..."

  Rhionne found himself staring at the naturally rose-red lips that had huskily uttered his name. He frowned in concentration. “Nonsense, I heartily approve of the match. I will put forth no objections."

  Torie rose agitated to her feet. “But I object. I do not love the parson ... I mean Jonathan."

  "Love? What has that to do with anything? You are having a second thought, which is natural. But when you think of the convenience of the matter you will sensibly come around. The boys are only a stone's throw from the parsonage and you can still teach them. Things can go on as they have with little to ripple the pond's water."

  "Convenience? Is that what I am, a convenience? You would have me married off to the nearest eligible bachelor to preserve the smooth running of your household? If that is the qualification for a husband for the destitute governess, I am surprised you did not make an offer yourself! Then of course you would not even have to bother sending the cart for me, I would be at your beck and call for the boys needs; and yours!"

  Rhionne looked perturbed. “Torie, you are distraught. Perhaps through my actions yesterday you were led to believe ... But I simply took encouragement from your recent dalliance with the Duke of Gaunlin and assumed perhaps you were not amiss to harmless flirtation. You have often enough stated you are not a girl in your first bloom, innocent of the ways of the world. I apologize for my misinterpretation. I can see I was mistaken. Enough said on the subject. I will end it with an apology for my behavior yesterday and we will speak no more of it. You will marry the parson and become a respectable member of our little community."

  Stunned, Torie rose with as much dignity as
she could muster. To her credit she reached the door before pressing her fist to her mouth and running for the stairs. She could hear the boys scampering above and could not bear the thought of them witnessing her humiliation. She turned away from the stairs and instead ran through the ballroom to gain access to the gardens through the double veranda doors, which were thrown open to admit the sweet scent of blooms.

  The gardens were quiet to the unassuming ear. But in truth, the birds chattered, bee's buzzed and crickets chirped, even in daylight. Torie's sobs made not one whit of difference to any of these creatures and she could cry undisturbed till her eyes ran dry of tears. She did not know or care how long she was out, sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by statuary. She might have been made of stone herself, for the weightlessness that enveloped her body and weighed heavy on her mind. With a few final sniffs she rose and walked along the path, not quite ready to return to the house. She picked a long-stemmed red-rose and twined it around her finger carelessly, stunned when it pricked her with its thorny stem. A small droplet of blood welled from the wound.

  "It is difficult to believe something so lovely can wield such a wicked weapon."

  Torie looked up into Jacques’ tanned, leathery face. He took her finger and held it up to his lips, sucking gently. “The pressure will stop the blood. You see?” He held out the injured digit. There was no sign of a wound and the stinging sensation faded. “You see the magic I perform with these callused hands and this self-taught mouth?” His blue eyes twinkled. When Torie did not respond he tilted her face up to the light. “Ma Cherie', you are unhappy! You have been crying, no? Tell Jacques about it and I will make it better, like your finger. One so lovely should never shed tears of sorrow, only happiness."

  "Oh, Jacques, if only it were that easy. But I'm afraid all the magic in the world cannot undo what I have done!"