The Fall of a Saint

by Christine Merrill

  Best of all, it was natural, wholesome and real. The flower beds might be carefully tended, but they lacked the fearsome design of the bedrooms, or the aloof dignity of the ground-floor rooms. The plants here were well established and growing together like welcoming old friends. She wandered down the rows between them, which led her to the back of the house, and the stables.

  She would not linger there for long. She had not grown any fonder of horses in the few days that had passed since her visit to Tattersall’s. But as she passed one of the paddocks, she saw the animal a groom was leading towards the freshest green grass in the field.

  ‘Buttercup?’

  The horse did not answer to a name it had only heard once. But the sound of Maddie’s voice made the big head swing in her direction, as though the nag was trying to remember why that particular sound seemed familiar.

  ‘Aye, your Grace,’ the groom said with a bow. ‘That is what his Grace calls it.’ The man said it as though he felt the word horse might not be appropriate. ‘It is a sad thing, to be sure. But his Grace seemed to think that it was important to have it—who am I to question him?’

  If she had saved it from the knackers, then it made sense to keep it with the other cattle. But that did not explain its presences in Aldricshire. ‘I know this horse was in London just a few days ago,’ Maddie said. ‘Surely she did not walk all the way here.’ At the time of purchase, she would have doubted that the beast could manage the trip from the auction to St Aldric’s London stables. Yet here she was, forty miles away and as close to healthy as she was likely to be.

  ‘No, your Grace. His Grace thought that the country air would be better for her old lungs, but she was not strong enough to make the trip on her own. She rode here in a wagon.’ The groom smiled. ‘It was quite a sight when they arrived. I think it was an affront to the dignity of the St Aldric cattle to have to carry one of their own. But Buttercup took it placid as a milk cow.’

  ‘He brought her here,’ Maddie said again, still amazed.

  ‘And gave special instructions for her care,’ the groom added. ‘He has already been down to visit her this morning with a sugar lump and a carrot for her breakfast.’ The groom grinned. ‘I cannot tell why he has her. But he seems to think she is worthy of a peaceful retirement. And she is grateful for it, pricks up her ears when she hears his voice and comes like a faithful dog.’

  When she had purchased the poor animal, Maddie had not thought further than causing a moment’s aggravation. But a thing as large as a horse did not simply evaporate once the joke was over. Now she felt proper guilt for her actions. She had thought Buttercup good for nothing more than dog meat and glue and had paid an exorbitant sum, not caring what was to become of her other than that she might be a vehicle for revenge.

  But St Aldric could not be moved to anger over a thing such as this. Instead, he had rescued the horse, just as he had spent his youth repainting model farms and tending cotton-wool sheep.

  Maddie held a cautious hand to the mare, who regarded her sceptically.

  ‘Oh, come on, then,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘The duke may have cared for you, but I was the one who bought you in the first place. I deserve some small credit for it, don’t I?’

  The horse gave her an experimental nuzzle and then pulled away when she noticed the absence of treats.

  She plucked a handful of clover out of the grass at her feet and offered it to the horse, who took it gingerly. ‘See? There is nothing to fear here.’ And it was true, was it not? There had been no danger to her, even if she provoked him. There had been no threat at all since the moment she had accosted the duke in the street. Last night they had lain together, but she had been the aggressor.

  Three weeks ago, she could not have imagined it possible.

  Maddie patted the horse’s nose. ‘It is a strange old world, Buttercup, full of unexpected events.’

  The horse mocked her with an understanding stare and a deep snort that blew spittle onto her hand.

  Maddie wiped her fingers on the grass and took the horse by the nose again, staring into its eyes with her best governess look. ‘The next time I come to you, I shall bring a carrot. You had best accept it gratefully, or I shall have the grooms put a saddle on you.’

  The horse looked properly chastened by the idea of a ride and snuffled her hair with grudging affection.

  She took her leave of the stables in a more pensive mood than when she had come to them. Even if she had done the poor mare some good, she had been stupid and spiteful to buy it, thinking only of herself and her needs. It was wrong of her and she was sorry for it.

  It made her feel rather foolish to have lectured the duke about the need to allow a mistake now and then. She had made a rather large one with Buttercup, but he had been the one to deal with the consequences of it.

  The path she had taken from the house continued downhill towards the river. At the foot of the gardens there was a small, round building made of rough stone and spattered with bird droppings. She approached quietly, not wanting to disturb the residents.

  She had never worked in a house with a dovecote. But now, it seemed, she was mistress of one. She enjoyed the taste of the bird, but today it would be soothing to see the soft grey feathers of doves and pigeons, to hear the cooing and perhaps to scatter some grain for them and watch them feed.

  But when she poked her head into the room, it was not pigeons that looked back at her. The matched pairs of beady black eyes that looked down on her from the majority of the nesting holes were set in bright red plumage and the whistles and chirps were the same that she had heard on her wedding day.

  The man tending them gave her a sad look. ‘Welcome, your Grace. And thank you for honouring me with a visit.’ He stared up into the rafters. ‘Although I am not usually quite so upended as this.’

  ‘You are having difficulties with the birds?’ she said, feeling the same twinge of guilt as she had at the stables.

  ‘These new ones are putting the pigeons out of sorts. I suspect they’d pack off their nests and move to Rayland’s property if they could manage it. But if they go, what am I to do with a bunch of parrots?’

  ‘Lovebirds,’ Maddie said softly. ‘Abyssinian lovebirds.’

  ‘Parrots are parrots,’ the bird keeper said stubbornly. ‘The brighter the bird, the more delicate their temper. Other than peacocks, of course. Those are just plain loud. But at least peafowl are big enough to roast.’

  He was obviously unaccustomed to visitors, for he waxed to his subject. ‘There is not much meat on these lovebirds at all. And if they be from Africa, then how will they winter? I shall have to set burners to keep them warm. But if I do not open a window, they will all die of the smoke. And they do live up to their names, it seems. I must gather the eggs each day, for they are paired up and cannot seem to leave each other alone. If I am not careful, we will be arse deep in parrots.’ He snatched his hat off and bowed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, your Grace.’

  ‘You have my sympathy,’ Maddie said, caught between amusement and horror at the thought of a waist-deep sea of birds. ‘I will talk to his Grace about them. I am sure we can find homes for some of the pairs. They are all the rage in London.’ She had been the cause of this problem, as well. But perhaps if she could get rid of the birds, she might be the solution.

  But before she had even known there was a problem, St Aldric had dealt with it. Perhaps it was wrong to be thinking of the bible verse about knowing the fall of a single sparrow. But it seemed The Saint, much as he hated the nickname, had earned it by his behaviour. She thought again of the miniature sheep, the fishing nets of knotted string and the tiny farmers standing in front of each small house. There was no detail too small to be handled, no name forgotten, no hardship that could not be eased.

  And then he had dishonoured a governess. How abhorrent that must have been to such a car
efully ordered existence. She remembered his apologies and his insistence that this had never happened before or since. If it had not happened to her, she would have nothing but the rest of his life to judge him by.

  And she would have given him absolution.

  She thanked the bird keeper and turned back towards the house. As uncomfortable as it might be, she needed to talk with her husband and bury the past between them, once and for all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Children often learn from mistakes. If they are never allowed to make them, they often have problems later in life. Michael listened to the sound of his own steps on the mahogany floor of the hallway, as precise and modulated as ever. They were unvaried and he counted them without thinking. If someone had called upon him to recite the paces necessary to reach any room in the house, he’d have a number in his head before they could finish the question.

  He had reached the door to his office. As an experiment, he broke step, letting his foot drag on the parquetry before continuing.

  It felt wrong. His body struggled to be in step. As he crossed the threshold, it ought to be right, left, not left, right.

  The only places he did not know by heart were the bedroom wings, where he had rarely been permitted. While his wife’s part of the house might remain alien to him, he should at least take the time to learn his own domain. How else would he ever find comfort in it?

  With a wife and child, he would be forced to spend time here. He could not raise a son in London and expect him to learn and understand his role as the next St Aldric. He’d had some half-formed thought that, when the time came, he would leave his wife here to deal with the house. But that had been when he’d thought to marry Evelyn. On their visit here, she had proclaimed the place quite charming. And he had made sure to show her only the main rooms, making up some lame excuse about the bedrooms not having been aired.

  But he’d meant to dump her here and to let her sort out the details. Now, if he left, it would be Madeline and an impressionable child. He could not allow that until he could be sure that she would not use his absence to insert her own mad ideas in the place of his far more sensible ones.

  He stopped. What knowledge of child-rearing did he have other than what his father had given him? As a boy, he had been miserably unhappy. And while he was mostly satisfied with his adulthood, behaviours that had seemed precise and orderly now seemed rigid. The care with which he’d kept the little animals in the nursery was not so much responsible as unnaturally fussy. They were but toys. He had not wished to make even the smallest error, knowing how costly it might be.

  Once grown, he had refused to allow for the possibility that sickness or weakness might change the plans he’d set for himself. He had thought that his own body could be as easily controlled as a machine. When it failed him, he had been like a rudderless ship. And when he had strayed...

  The fact that the root of his mistake needed to point out his flaws to him was all the more galling. When she was not hurrying to keep up with him, her gait was regular without being regimented. It was the step of a governess, a woman who brooked no nonsense, but was capable of changing course and altering plans when needed to keep ahead of her charges.

  Last night, she had proven that she could be spontaneous, passionate and deliciously improper.

  ‘Your Grace?’ Upton was staring at him.

  He had paused with one foot on either side of the threshold and was daydreaming about bedding his wife. He smiled at his estate manager and continued into the room, turning his mind to business.

  After a brief meeting about the state of finances and projections for the seasonal profits, Upton went into the front hall and collected the first tenant in the line of those who had requested an audience with the duke. So many people to see him. Each one had a problem or a petition that would require careful thought and wise judgement.

  He did not doubt his ability to deal with them fairly. It had simply become too easy to avoid these sessions by staying in London and allowing Upton to deal with the day-to-day running of the estate. But was it really fair to the people to do so?

  The smiles on most of their faces assured him that it was not. Many came today to offer thanks rather than complaints, as though they were bringing tribute to an emperor. While he dared not admit it to the Regent, he expected it was similar to holding court and more than a little flattering.

  He had missed his tenants, of course. But did he deserve this? He could feel the knowledge of the holdings that had been carefully drummed into him from birth slipping away from disuse. He glanced up at the man approaching the desk, searching for a name, and for a moment his mind was a total blank.

  Then he saw the ham the man carried beneath his broad arm, which reminded him of pigs. But there was not a whiff of manure about this fellow, which meant butcher and not farmer.

  ‘Old Joe?’ He smiled at the man’s start of recognition. ‘Surely not, for it has been too long. Young Joe, then.’

  ‘Not so young anymore, your Grace.’ The man grinned back at him.

  ‘But I see you have taken the shop in the village. Is your father still with us?’

  The man nodded. ‘And with enough teeth yet to test our wares and assure me that this was worthy of you.’

  The ham. He remembered it well. Smoky, sweet, pink and cured, but not dry. Michael’s mouth watered at the thought.

  Joe noticed and produced a blade from his pocket, slicing expertly through the rind and offering a sliver of meat.

  Michael took it and tasted with a sigh. ‘Paradise. It is good to be home again.’ And for a moment, the words were not a lie. There would be cheeses, ale and a loaf from Mrs Weaver. Strangely enough, Mrs Weaver was from a family of bakers, though the Bakers grew and spun flax. One by one, the names and faces were coming back to him with the flavour of the meat.

  ‘Good to have you here, your Grace. And your bride.’ Heads swivelled up and down the row, for many had brought gifts as an excuse to visit the manor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new lady.

  ‘I will relay your good wishes.’ He tried not to let the thought of Madeline put a chill on his tone and passed the ham to his overseer for safekeeping, turning the conversation to thatching and glazing of cottage and shop, and the need to grade the road of the village before the rains of winter.

  One by one, the people came and he greeted them, listened to their problems and accepted their gifts, asked about their children and their lives. While Upton took notes in his little leather journal, Michael filed the information carefully in that part of his mind reserved for important facts about the land.

  The line was dwindling, but he sensed a change in the crowd, a murmuring at the back and an awed hush.

  Madeline was lurking in the hall.

  He cursed silently that her interest had turned to the house at such an inappropriate time. He’d given her no warning, no instructions on what might be expected of her, simply because he had not wanted another argument. Worse yet, there might be a veiled threat that she meant to embarrass him with more talk of his mistakes while he was surrounded by the tenants.

  She had been improving of late. And after last night, he had hopes. Some things were obviously changing for the better. Their tryst had made him forget the nature of their marriage and the way she’d behaved in London. The temporary truce between them could end as quickly as it had begun.

  But at breakfast, he had teased her until he’d managed to provoke an argument. Then he’d walked out on her and slammed the door. He had been foolish.

  There was a growing murmur in the crowd beyond the office door as she moved through them. And the nearer she came to him, the more tense he felt. Perhaps appearances were deceiving. The only people they had seen recently were servants and Sam and Evelyn. Madeline thought too well of them to misbehave in front of them. She had been on her best behaviour and
he had grown complacent. In any case, they knew him too well to give much credence to her bad opinion of him.

  His people knew him, too, but not as well as they should. They were glad to have him back and they were full of hope that he might stay. Suppose she realised this and worked to widen the breach? She could set the whole region in an uproar with a few well-placed rumours. She would make him ashamed, both of his behaviour towards her and the woman he had chosen to be their duchess.

  Embarrassing him in London was one thing. If she came between him and his people, he would grow to hate her. But it had not happened yet. He stood and smiled, ready to offer her the respect due to his duchess, whether or not she deserved it. Damn it to hell, he would greet her as a bridegroom if it killed him. ‘Is that my wife I see, loitering at the back? Come here, my dear, and meet our tenants.’

  She moved forward in a hesitant lockstep, her eyes wide. There was no sign she meant to make mischief. In fact, she looked intimidated, almost to the point of fear.

  But frightened animals were often the most dangerous. He would be on his guard. He gestured her to his side and signalled Upton to bring a chair for her, but she wavered on her feet, unwilling to take it. Which meant that he could not sit either. Even a pleasant meeting day was tiring and he did not wish to stand through the last third of the petitioners.

  The next family stepped forward. It was the Bakers, husband and wife and a girl of about fourteen, come to discuss the dry season and the possibility that the rent might be late. What did one have to weave when the flax had died? He nodded sympathetically while Madeline stood at his side in confused silence.

  ‘But that does not mean we have nothing to offer,’ Mr Baker said earnestly, despite his protestations that they need not worry. ‘It is a trifle. A nothing, really. But our daughter is learning from her mother, as she should. And with the cloth we’ve made, she’s hemmed a handkerchief. A wedding gift for your lady.’ Cautiously, the girl held out the folded square of cloth, dropping her eyes and holding her breath as she waited for the reaction.