by Connie Mason
From Le Dernier Mot,
The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know
“Oh, milady!” Eleanor bleated. “You should have seen ’em—a regular pair of gentlemen they were despite their shabby turnout. Honestly, Miss Braithwaite, did you ever see such fine manners?”
“I’d have been more impressed with their fair words if we hadn’t been looking down the barrels of a brace of pistols at the same time,” Amelia said as she supervised the reloading of the coach’s boot. The highwaymen had required all the trunks to be pulled off of the luggage rack and the strongbox brought down from the roof of the coach as well.
“But they didn’t take very much,” Eleanor said. “Your jewels are all still safe.”
“That is unusual, I daresay,” Serena said. Along with a number of smaller pieces, she’d packed her ruby necklace and earbobs, an emerald choker that weighed her down each time she wore it, and a length of beautifully matched pearls that reached to her knees unless she looped them multiple times over her head. “What did they take?”
Amelia cast Jonah a sheepish glance. “They rifled through your trunk most thoroughly, sir. And I very greatly fear you are missing a set of wrist studs, a horse pistol, and a leather-bound case which I suspect contained your shaving accoutrements.”
Jonah swore and muttered something under his breath, but Serena couldn’t catch the words.
While Serena was thankful for the apparent chivalry of the robbers, their targeted theft of Jonah’s things seemed suspect. Perhaps he’d had a run-in with the pair in the past. “That’s all the highwaymen took?”
“Oh, no. They insisted on kissing my hand, milady,” Eleanor said with a giggle. “They wanted to kiss Miss Braithwaite’s as well.”
“No need to encourage such riffraff. I refused them.” Amelia cast a dagger glare at the maid.
“Well, it seems you’re not so much worse off for your adventure, then,” Serena said. She wished her belly would quit jittering every time she glanced at Jonah. Just because they’d had their own unexpected adventure together, it didn’t signify a change in their association.
It couldn’t.
He was helping the driver and the outriders load up the boot again. As a passenger, he wouldn’t have had to do that, but he seemed to be staying busy in order to avoid looking her way, which was probably the wisest course.
She watched while he hefted the trunks and imagined his muscles bunching and flexing beneath his clothing. Which was probably not the wisest course.
“Are you unwell, milady?” Amelia laid the back of her hand to Serena’s forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever, but your face is flushed.”
“I’m fine. It’s only on account of the wind,” she lied.
Why wouldn’t he look at her? She sauntered over to the rear of the coach where he was arranging their considerable amount of luggage in the most efficient configuration. “When we reach Wyndebourne, we’ll be within an easy ride of Portsmouth, Sir Jonah. Perhaps we can visit town and replace your losses.”
“That’ll do. I intended to visit the port in any case,” Jonah said as he pulled down the boot’s canvas cover and fastened the straps tight. “A…former friend of mine is staying there, and I hope to renew our acquaintance.”
Friend. Did he mean a former lover?
Serena, stop being such a goose. Just because they’d shared a moment, a glorious, heart-stopping moment, it gave her no claim on him. Or him on her. But she could have no more stopped the words that came out of her mouth next than she could have stopped herself from bleeding if she’d been cut. “Who is this friend?”
“Someone from my time in the military. You wouldn’t know him. He doesn’t move in your exalted circles.”
Serena was annoyed at the relief that washed over her when he said “him,” but the relief was no less real.
Once the coach was reloaded, the travelers climbed inside out of the wind. Serena wasn’t sure how she felt about being back in the confined space with Jonah on the opposite squab. She couldn’t very well insist he ride, so she made herself as small as she could, keeping her knees together and making sure they didn’t brush his.
It irritated her that he didn’t seem the least affected by her proximity. Jonah folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, almost immediately feigning sleep.
No one could drop off that quickly.
Of course, the soft snore that rose from him did sound pretty authentic.
She decided to pull back the curtain and watch the Hampshire countryside roll by. There were forests and heaths, winding rivers and hills. In a few more weeks, they’d be spring green and bursting with new life, but now they were weighed down with the last drabness of retreating winter.
Then the coach crested a rise and she was treated to her first glimpse of Wyndebourne in the distance. Slanting sunlight caught the multiple rows of windows, and the manor sparkled like a jewel on its bluff overlooking the sea. Wyndebourne was a study in form and function, balance and beauty. Her chest ached at the loveliness of it.
Far more than the town house in London could ever be, this was her home. It was the place where she’d taken her first toddling steps, where she’d helped her mother plan and lay out the garden that rioted each spring and summer in waves of blooms, where she’d wept her first heartbroken tears…
“What are you looking at?” Jonah’s voice was unusually soft, so as not to disturb the other occupants of the coach. Both Amelia and Eleanor, obviously exhausted by their brush with felons, had succumbed to the rocking motion of the coach and were asleep with their heads nodding in time.
Serena met Jonah’s green-eyed gaze and wondered how long he’d been watching her. “It’s Wyndebourne. We’re almost there.”
He lifted the curtain and peered out. “A commanding location.”
“Trust a man not to appreciate the graceful aesthetics of an elegant house. It’s also a warm family home. However, if a defensible position is all that interests you, there are ruins of a castle not far from the manor,” she said. “My family has claimed this land since the time of the Conqueror.”
“Or the Bastard, depending on which side of history you hail from,” he said.
“There are always two sides to every question, aren’t there,” Serena said. “However, the passage of time generally shakes matters out.”
She didn’t have much time left before her most pressing question was settled. If her father managed to finalize an agreement with the Duke of Kent, she might be wed inside a month.
She’d been resigned to it and even found the bright spot of parenting a future monarch in the situation, but now there was a dull lump of something new in her chest. A simmering resentment perhaps over being treated as if she were nothing more than an available, suitably noble womb? Or was it fear of being trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she didn’t know?
Until Jonah showed her what glory there was to be had between a man and a woman, she’d thought she could grit her teeth and muddle through a royal marriage and mating well enough.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
As the coach rumbled up the tree-lined drive, the servants came spilling out of the massive double doors. From a distance, the flurry of activity reminded Serena of a disturbed anthill, all the small figures scurrying about in seeming confusion that slowly attained a measure of order. The faithful Wyndebourne retainers delighted in arraying themselves in a tidy line of welcome whenever any member of the family came home.
It was a constant source of anguish to her father that his immediate family was so small. And that his only offspring was of the wrong gender.
If Serena had been a son, someday Wyndebourne in all its splendor would belong to her instead of her cousin Rowland. Not that there was anything wrong with him. Rowland was a fine fellow and she had no doubt he’d do right by her, unlike some heirs apparent who all but ignored the needs of their predecessor’s family. But it did seem unfair that she should be
penalized for something over which she had no control.
“You’re frowning,” Jonah observed. “What’s wrong?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she said. “It’s silly really. But sometimes I wish I’d been born a man.”
“I’m very glad you weren’t.”
His words warmed her cheeks. Drat. Would she never stop this infernal blushing? Of course, she’d never had better reason to blush. After all, Jonah was acquainted with her womanliness in a way no other man on earth could claim.
The coach lumbered to a halt and the occupants disembarked. Serena was careful to traverse the entire line of servants, calling each by name and inquiring after their families, until she finally came to Mr. Honeywood, the head butler. He was as efficient as the steward Mr. Brownsmith ever thought about being, but his apple cheeks and ubiquitous smile made him seem so jolly, Serena almost thought of him as a favorite uncle instead of a servant.
“A thousand welcomes, milady,” he said, his high tenor carrying in the bright cold air. “We trust you’ll find everything in order here at Wyndebourne.”
“I always do, Mr. Honeywood,” she said as she accepted his bow. The butler made certain that the estate was ready to receive and entertain any number of guests at all times. She was sure there would be little to do to prepare for the upcoming ball except choose the menu, engage a decorator, and hire the musicians and dancing master.
Serena swept in through the tall double doors with the rest of the party in her wake. The circular marble-floored foyer rose to a domed ceiling, but the grandeur of the place didn’t speak to Serena. She was too busy remembering how she used to take a running jump and slide across the polished floor in her stockinged feet as often as she could get away with it.
“Miss Braithwaite,” Mr. Honeywood said to Amelia, “his lordship sent word that your effects were to be moved to a different chamber from the one you occupied the last time you were in residence. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Eleanor would take her customary room on the topmost floor. As Serena’s lady’s maid, she was entitled to a chamber that was a bit larger than most of the other servants. Eleanor had cooed over the small window that looked out over the garden and managed to snag some fabric from Serena’s old curtains to dress up her space. A series of cords linked Eleanor’s chamber to the bell pull in Serena’s so she could ring for her maid whenever she needed her.
Amelia and Eleanor began to follow the butler up the grand curving staircase, but Jonah held back.
“Mr. Honeywood will see you to your chamber,” she said, gesturing for him to follow the butler. “There are some interesting ones in the east wing. Ask for the Africa Room.”
It was furnished with all manner of outlandish pieces, including an ottoman made from the foot of an elephant. Serena had often sneaked into the chamber as a child for the guilty pleasure of running her chubby fingers over the rough hairy hide.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To say hello to the garden.” She turned away and started through the labyrinth of rooms she’d have to negotiate before she reached the French doors that led out to the back of the great house.
Jonah fell into step beside her. “A little early in the season for a garden, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Nothing will be in bloom yet except maybe a jonquil or two.” She lengthened her stride, but he kept pace with her easily. “You don’t have to come.”
“You’ve piqued my curiosity. ‘Hello to the garden,’ you say. I’ve never seen one that required a greeting.”
“Why do you insist on making my words sound ridiculous?”
“Did I say it was ridiculous to say hello to a garden?”
“No, but you make me feel…” She waved a hand in the air, as if the right word was hovering there and she could somehow pluck it down. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Indecisive. All true, but not things she cared to share with him and no more appropriate sentiment was forthcoming. “Oh, never mind.”
She led Jonah through the stuffy parlor with its matching yellow chintz-covered chairs and settee, and past the music room where the Broadwood grand was kept in perfect tune though no one had played it in months. Then she skirted the perimeter of the blue-striped breakfast room that gave onto a stone terrace.
She paused long enough to allow him to open the door for her.
May as well let the man be useful instead of merely ornamental since he’s set on accompanying me, she reasoned. Then she resolved to pretend he wasn’t there.
The vines that covered the trellis forming an arch over the entrance to the garden proper had been cut back last fall. By mid-summer, the heliotrope would be so thick and fragrant, it would leave Serena slightly lightheaded when she passed through the portal and into her mother’s horticultural dream.
“A garden should never be squared off, dear,” her mother used to say. “No hard edges. Green growing things need freedom to follow their own course.”
So, it happened, did small girls.
All one spring and summer, they’d spent nearly every day together, side by side, planting, watering, and weeding. With trowel and shovel, they’d dug out a hint of a wandering pathway and placed flagstones at intervals in the pea gravel. There was no design to the place in the truest sense. Higgledy-piggledy was the watchword.
“Where does this rosebush want to live?” her mother had asked. Serena cocked her head to the side for a moment as if she were listening for the rose’s quiet, slightly prickly voice. Then she announced that the red rose wanted to live by the statue of Hera because it was feuding with the yellow rose that had already taken the spot near the stone bench and wanted to be as far away from its mortal enemy as possible.
Her mother had accepted this as perfectly reasonable and planted accordingly.
The garden was a horror by French standards. But to Serena’s mother, who preferred to let a garden be itself, it was a disorderly triumph.
And even as the garden lay now, in the stillness of waiting for its first tender sprouts to push through the cold sod, it was the place where Serena felt the presence of her mother most strongly. The family crypt in the nearby village church may have held Miranda Osbourne’s earthly remains, but her essence, her spirit lived in the garden at Wyndebourne. Sometimes, Serena talked to her there.
“Hello.” Jonah’s voice interrupted her musings.
“To whom are you speaking?” Serena asked.
He did a slow turn, arms extended. “To the garden faeries or whoever it is you feel the need to greet here.”
“There actually is a faery by the fountain.” She walked toward the now quiet stone basin that would be pattering with life once the threat of the last frost was past. In several places, the shrubbery on either side of the path was so overgrown, it threatened to choke off the narrow trail. She’d have to cut them back later. “There she is.”
Serena pointed to the statuette, nearly hidden in the shadow the fountain. Some sort of lichen was creeping up the faery’s dainty stone legs and she stooped to scratch at it with a fingernail. The rough greenish-gray growth refused to relinquish its hold. She’d have to come back with a stiff bristled brush and some bleach.
“My mother loved that little thing,” she said softly.
“That’s who you’re really greeting here, isn’t it? Your mother.”
She nodded. No point in shutting the man out since he seemed able to read her more easily than a posted placard. “She and I planted this garden together. It may not seem like much to you, but—”
“It seems very fine,” he assured her. “I like it.”
She couldn’t help but smile. When she gave this tour to most people, they launched into lengthy exhortations about how a formal house like Wyndebourne required an equally formal garden. Still, she couldn’t allow Jonah to think she needed his approbation.
“Even if you didn’t approve,” she said, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Jonah snorted and shook his head.
Then his amused grin faded. “What sort of things do you talk to your mother about here?”
Drat the man. He seemed privy to her every thought. “How do you know I—”
“Because if I had a place like this where I felt I could connect with my mother, I would.”
“That’s quite an admission from a man with a reputation for cold toughness like yours.”
He shrugged. “Such a reputation usually works in my favor.”
“No doubt. Men fear you and women want to…to fix you.”
“That implies I’m broken.” His eyes darkened, but the shaded glen of those green orbs promised no calm retreat. “Is that what you want, Serena? To fix me?”
He stepped closer and she almost backed away reflexively. Then she remembered this was her garden. She straightened her spine and stood her ground.
“We can all do with a bit of improvement,” she said, taking comfort in one of Amelia’s well-worn homilies. “Not that I think you’re broken,” she hastened to add.
“Sometimes I do.” He cupped her cheek in one of his large hands. His touch was so warm, she couldn’t resist leaning into it slightly. “Say I were, what would you do to improve me?”
How would her mother answer such a man? There were certainly times when she heartily wished she could hear Miranda Osbourne’s calm measured tones. Serena remembered her as being full of wisdom and good humor. And any woman who dealt regularly with Serena’s father had to have a few feminine tricks up her sleeve as well.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that would depend on the nature of your brokenness.”
He traced the curve of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “Suppose my heart were broken.”
“I can’t imagine you’d ever allow anyone close enough to do that.” She swallowed hard. His lips were so near. If she simply tilted her chin up a bit, he’d be on her before—