He went down on his haunches and dabbled the tips of his fingers in the pool, and invited Mary to do likewise. She did, and smiled up at him.
“Oh! It is the temperature of bathwater! How ingenious of your father and grandfather! Such enterprising gentlemen. I see now where you inherited your entrepreneurial spirit and interest in all things mechanical. They would have been proud of your cloth mills and approved of Smeaton’s waterwheel very much.”
Christopher gave a bark of harsh laughter and shook his head. “I wish they were alive to hear you say so. But my mother would argue that my insatiable curiosity, not to mention stubbornness to want to solve what I perceive as a problem, are traits singular to her. But yes, my love of tinkering with the mechanical and my interest in Roman antiquity was most certainly instilled in me by Squire Bryce senior. Who, by the way, was Henry Christopher—”
“Which is why you were known as Christopher and not by your birth name Cavendish? Couldn’t your parents decide by which name you should be known?”
“Something like that,” he answered. “Now let me show you the cottage and the mosaic.”
Mary followed him back to the cottage, a frown between her brows, for this was the second time he had changed the subject when the conversation turned to the personal, most particularly about his parents. Her brow cleared and so did her thoughts when he sat on the bench under the portico outside the front door and removed his jockey boots. She watched him set them aside and then wriggle his toes in their black stockings. For some unfathomable reason this simple action had the power to ripen her cheeks with embarrassment. She mentally upbraided herself for such a ridiculous reaction to an equally innocuous action as looking upon a man’s unshod feet. She could only suppose it was because it was not every day, in fact not any day, that a man removed his shoes in female company. It was in fact a deeply intimate act, as intimate as what was occurring now when she sat beside him on the bench and he went down on bended knee before her and unlaced her half-boots, and removed them for her.
He then opened the front door, and held it wide for her to enter before him. She stood there a moment and looked out across the clearing to the stream, and further afield to the forest of autumn colors. She had no idea why she was hesitating, but subconsciously knew that by entering the cottage her life would be changed forever.
Christopher continued to wait. He did not have to speak. She saw in his soft smile that he was asking her to trust him. She did. She smiled back, took the hand he held out to her, and stepped into the warmth of the cottage. He closed the door, drew the latch, and shut out the world. They were now alone, to do as they pleased, and that pleased them greatly.
TWENTY-ONE
‘OH! IT’S WARM! The floor is warm.”
Mary’s astonishment and delight had Christopher grinning. His grin widened, if that were possible, when she lifted her petticoats to look down at the stone flagging and her toes wriggling in their white clocked stockings. She smiled up at him.
“It is magical! And I would have thought it magic at work had you not shown me the thermal spring and the pipes laid by your father.” She unbuttoned her cape and he took it from her and hung it on a peg on the wall beside his frock coat. “Oh, he is clever!” She walked about the room, wholly focused on the warmth under her feet. “All the floor is warm. And that has in turn made the room warm. You could stay snug in here all winter long without the need for firewood or coal, or a bed warmer. Even if you were snowed in for months and months you would never be cold.”
“Yes. But you forget one all important ingredient to ensure we can last out the entire winter.” When she stood still and looked at him enquiringly, he laughed. “I suppose it must be a male preoccupation, and for those who do the cooking and thus think about food as much as men do. Not thinking about food is a luxury few can afford.”
Mary appeared disgruntled. “I may not be able to cook but I do know how to prepare a menu—”
“—and keep bees, collect eggs, and turn cheese wheels.”
“Now you are making fun of me!”
“No. Not at all. I was being playful with you. There is a difference.”
Mary pondered that for a moment, then conceded, “Yes, of course you were. Forgive me. It’s just that I-I do not know how to be-to be—playful. We were discouraged as children from exhibiting such frivolity. My mother thought it vulgar and beneath the children of an earl to show such-such—spirit. Though I must admit my brother Dair has always been a rogue in spite of our mother. He never listened to a word she said. And I do know playfulness when I see it,” she added earnestly, and blushed because he was regarding her with an understanding smile. “Cousin Duchess is the most playful person I know.”
Christopher gasped dramatically and put a hand to his chest in mock horror. “But she, my lady, is a duchess, and so can do as she pleases.”
Mary giggled. “So you have met my mother!”
“I would like to.”
Mary’s smile died. “I would not like you to meet her.”
“Why?”
Mary regarded him forlornly. He had the loveliest smile, and the kindest eyes, and she was quite sure he was the most caring person she had ever met. All she wanted to do was kiss him and to have done with talk of her mother. Talk of her mother was a reminder of what was to come, and she did not want to think of the future, she only wanted to think of the here and now, with him.
“Because she is not a nice person and you are.”
“Thank-you. Though I would still like to meet her one day.”
“Let’s not talk about her, not here.”
“As you wish.”
For the first time since entering the cottage she noticed her surroundings, and was diverted sufficiently to push her mother and the future she had mapped out for herself to the back of her mind and look about her. There was a small, rustic dining table that had upon it a branch of candles and two chairs drawn up to it. It was in the furthest corner, and opposite was a bed with a high mattress set into the wall, much in the French manner. It was nestled head to toe in a niche, but the curtains that could be pulled together from either end for privacy were not heavy velvet to keep out the cold, but of a diaphanous blue silk that allowed for light and, if lying in bed, to see out the window with its view of the stream. A large chest, a small bookcase, and a wingchair completed the furniture. There was no fireplace, but with a heated floor, none was necessary.
“Sorry to harp on about food, but I’m rather famished and there is stew…”
“I’m hungry too.”
Mary followed Christopher into the next room and found herself in a kitchen well-equipped for its compact size, complete with fireplace stove, work bench, shelves holding various containers and the necessary implements for cooking all manner of dishes, and a sink next to a door that led outside, she assumed to a kitchen garden and the wood pile. A heavy pot suspended over the coal fire was being kept warm, and when Christopher carefully lifted the lid to stir the contents, a burst of delicious mingled cooking aromas permeated the air and made Mary realize she had not eaten since first light, and then only a slice of bread and butter. And the preceding few days she had lost her appetite with the worry of the decision she was to make about her future, and with thoughts consumed with Christopher.
And now here she was in his cottage kitchen, watching him prepare their dinner.
“Is there anything I may do?”
“Set the table? You’ll find cutlery and goblets in that cupboard over there. And a cloth for the table, and napkins. And there is a loaf of fresh bread in that terracotta pot by the sink. Oh, and wine, but that’s in the next room. Which reminds me, I must show you the mosaic before we sit. But first, taste this and tell me if it needs more salt, or perhaps a pinch of pepper?”
He held up a ladle over the pot with his hand underneath and she gingerly took a sip of the rich broth, then ate the small morsel of meat. She let the flavors linger on her tongue, surprised by their intensity and richness, an
d how much flavor was in such a small bite. The taste was oddly familiar and yet delightfully different.
“What is this?”
“Stufato di coniglio con carote e cipolle or you may know it better as ragoût de lapin aux carottes et oignons.”
“De lapin—rabbit…? Rabbit stew with onions and carrots? But I cannot distinguish the herbs you’ve used. But it does not need salt or pepper. It is perfect as it is.”
“Good. Silvia will be pleased. I followed her recipe as best as I could remember. As for the herbs and spices, that’s a secret between Silvia, me, and the pot.” He dropped the ladle back into the stew and replaced the lid. “Let me show you the mosaic and then we’ll eat.”
“And you made this rabbit stew all on your own?”
“And trapped the rabbit too, if you want details from first principles.”
“Is this Silvia one and the same that Teddy has told me about—the wife of Carlo?”
“Yes. The very same. Silvia is my Italian cook-housekeeper. I brought her and her husband Carlo with me when I returned from Italy with my—aunt. They had been in her employ before they were in mine.”
Mary watched as he took a taper from the candelabra on the work bench, pulled back the heavy curtain that separated the kitchen from the third room, and disappeared inside. When she did not immediately follow, he poked his head back into the kitchen.
“This is where the wine is kept. And so is the mosaic. You will find the floor a little chilly.”
The temperature of the floor in this third room was in marked contrast to the rest of the cottage. It was cold, but the temperature was forgotten when Christopher held the candle low over the floor. The entire area but for the outer perimeter on three sides was covered in tiny geometric tiles of yellows, browns, reds, and blacks. When viewed in its entirety, the tiles depicted the head of a woman, possibly a goddess. Along the fourth wall the mosaic disappeared under the stone work, and orientating herself, Mary suspected that this wall had been built over part of the foundations of the villa. Christopher confirmed her suspicions.
“My father wanted to preserve the mosaics, but he also wanted to enjoy them. So this was his compromise. Instead of re-burying the entire villa, he left this section of the floor exposed and preserved it from the weather by adding this third room to the cottage. In this way he could come here and enjoy it whenever he pleased. It is also used as a cold room for storing wine and provisions.
“Do you intend to keep the villa buried? It seems a shame to lock away something so beautiful, when there are others, scholars and the like, who would appreciate the opportunity to study it. You never know but this site could be just as important as the one in Bath, particularly because it has this natural thermal spring. And the Romans were fond of such springs as places of worship.”
“For someone who professes to have had a woeful education, you do know more than you think about Roman antiquity! Here, this decanted bottle of red will complement the stew nicely.”
“I was an excellent listener,” Mary said proudly, following Christopher back into the kitchen. She collected up the forks and spoons, covers, and linen. “And Cousin Duchess and the Duke often discussed Roman history—and the different scholars in particular. Of course I had no idea what they were talking about, but I did listen, and it improved my French.”
Christopher ladled a large helping of stew into two bowls. “They always spoke in French?”
“Except on Tuesdays. Tuesdays they spoke exclusively in Italian.”
“So you can speak the Italian tongue?” Christopher asked her in the language of Dante.
“Poco—But not enough to converse with your servants.”
Christopher carried the bowls into the main room and set them on the table Mary had set. He then returned with the decanter and half-filled her goblet. Before sitting he raised his to her and looked into her eyes.
“Welcome to my humble cottage, my la—”
“Mary,” she interrupted with a smile, raising her glass. “Here it will always be Mary. And you will always be Christopher. Shall I say grace?”
In spite of himself, Christopher felt the color rise in his cheeks at the soft pronouncement of his name, nodded, and quickly took his seat. After grace they ate in companionable silence for a time, Mary only making comment on the deliciousness of Silvia’s secret recipe rabbit stew, before asking conversationally,
“Will you tell me something of your life abroad?”
Christopher paused in pulling a chunk of bread from the loaf and looked across at her.
“Anything. But first will you answer a question that I have been eager to ask you since your arrival?”
“Of course.”
“Have you finished the embroidery work on the christening cap for your cousin’s baby?”
Mary peered at him as if he had a fever. “Is that truly your question or are you being playful again?”
He shook his head with a laugh. “That truly is my question.”
She sat back with a self-satisfied smile. “I have indeed. And sewn it up to my satisfaction so that all that is needed is for me to attach the silk ribbon ties. Teddy says it is my finest work yet.”
“I do not doubt it. Teddy has a discerning eye. Your cousin will be delighted. A very fitting gift for a ducal baby, and one the parents will cherish. It is sure to become a family heirloom. I hope you’ll show me before sending it off to your cousin.”
“I would be very happy to. Which puts me in mind of a question I have for you regarding Teddy and the christening…”
Christopher looked up from sopping up the last vestiges of stew from his bowl with a chunk of bread and waited for her to continue.
“I intend to be at the christening of Cousin Duchess’s baby, and I want Teddy to accompany me. Cousin Duchess is my closest cousin. She was a second mother to me—indeed was a better mother to me than my own. And it is not every day a duchess gives birth to an heir, and even rarer that this duchess, who is a duchess twice over, will be the mother of two ducal houses. That in itself is cause for celebration. But what I most want is for Teddy to have some contact with my Roxton family; to see what they mean to her mother. Is that such an impossible request?
“No.”
“Oh?” Mary sat forward. “Then you will not oppose Teddy coming with me?”
Christopher refilled her wine goblet. His gaze did not leave her for a moment.
“Why would I? She should be there with you on such an important occasion. But have you ever thought to ask Teddy her wishes? And need I remind you that Teddy was to accompany you to her Uncle Dair’s wedding at Treat. I gave my permission for her to attend that momentous event. Your brother is her favorite uncle. It was illness which kept her from that happy day, not I.”
“Thank-you, I do not need reminding. And it was a sad disappointment to us all when she was taken ill. But at the time I was more concerned for her health than her attendance at Dair’s wedding—”
“And still you went, leaving her in the care of her nurse, and managed to get yourself held up by highwaymen into the bargain.”
Mary gaped at him.
“I left her because the physician assured me she had turned a corner in her illness. I would never have done so had she still been feverish. But I knew you were coming into Buckinghamshire to fetch her, so that put my mind at rest. And if the truth be told, it was you she most wanted when she was ill.” Mary screwed up her little nose. “What has the hold-up of our carriage by ruffians got to do with anything?”
“You could have been injured—worse! Molested. Shot. Killed. And where would that have left Teddy and-and—me! If you’d waited but a day I could’ve escorted your carriage into Hampshire, and seen you safely to Treat. But no, you go off alone, with only your mother as company. Two vulnerable females with no male protector, in fact no protection whatsoever.”
“Mother would not hear of waiting. We had already been delayed by Teddy’s illness.”
“You should have insisted.�
�
“Yes. I should have.”
“When you and Teddy go anywhere, do I not ride with your carriage as far as I’m able?”
“Yes, you do,” she replied in the same quiet tone.
She said this with a small smile, one she could not suppress because his guarded anger for her welfare was of immense interest. Because now he put her in mind of it, he had always accompanied them on their travels, be it to Bath, or further afield when she went to Treat. He had become so much a part of the fabric of her life and Teddy’s, much like her most devoted servants, that she had taken him and his service for granted. But at least with her lady’s maid and Teddy’s nurse she had always shown gratitude, and they were paid well. Christopher received no payment, and if she had thanked him it was in a perfunctory manner, because she had considered his presence as an interference at best, at worst a strain on her liberty. She had not until now considered an alternative: That he cared for her and wanted to keep her safe. She was mortified. He had every right to his anger, but that anger and concern left her with a deep sense of contentment, which had brought out the smile. Yet, her smile fell away, troubled by something he had said earlier about Teddy’s wishes.
When he returned to the table, having cleared it of their evening meal and in its place set down a coffee pot and two mugs, she asked bluntly,
“What did you mean have I thought to ask Teddy what she wants?”
He looked up from pouring out the coffee and remained silent until he had set a mug before her, with the sugar bowl, a small earthenware creamer, and a spoon. He then sat again.
“Precisely that. Have you ever asked Teddy if she wishes to visit your Roxton relatives?”
“No. Just as my mother never asked me. She goes where I go—well, she did unless her father said otherwise. Just as you have placed restrictions on her movements, so did he.”
Proud Mary Page 28