He gave her a fixed smile.
The farmer pulled his wagon to a halt and turned to them. “Cardiff Hall lies down that road a stretch of the leg. The village of Tunleah Mews is on up this way ahead.” He spoke with the round vowels of a Sussex man. “Follow this road and you should meet the drive. It’s shaded by huge oaks and there are two stone pillars at the end. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” John said, and jumped off the wagon. He reached up to help Mallory down from the high wagon bed. His hands came to her waist.
For a moment their eyes met. It had been on the tip of Mallory’s tongue to tell him she didn’t need his help, but the words died in her throat.
He grinned as if he understood the battle warring inside her and swung her easily down to the ground. Mallory quickly stepped away, needing to put distance between them.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
John waved to the farmer. “Thank you for the ride.”
“No bother,” the farmer replied. “Give my respects to Lord Woodruff.”
“Do you know him?” John asked, shrugging into his jacket.
The farmer gave a bark of laughter. “I know of him. He don’t come around much. Spends most of his time in his garden, talking to himself. He couldn’t raise pole beans. You should have an interesting time of it, young man.” With those words, he flicked his switch at the ox and started the cart moving up the road.
John laced his fingers with Mallory’s, the gesture natural and unaffected. Mallory knew she should remove her hand from his, but she didn’t. As they walked toward Cardiff Hall, the contact was comforting.
It was a perfect day for a walk in the country. Primroses and buttercups bloomed in the ditches on either side of the road.
John broke the silence between them once again by whistling.
“What’s that song called?” Mallory asked.
“No name. Just a melody I like. So, I know you don’t sing, but do you whistle?”
Mallory looked at him as if he were ready for Bedlam. “You should know a lady never whistles.” She lowered her voice and confided, “But sometimes I do, when I’m alone, even though Mother doesn’t like it.”
“Would you whistle now?”
“Of course not.”
“Because of those rules, or because of me?”
She shot him a look from beneath her lashes. “Both. Besides, it is one thing to whistle in your own scullery while churning butter and quite another to be walking hatless and gloveless on a public road, whistling away. My mother would suffer heart palpitations if she saw me now.”
John winced. “Is this the same mother who said women shouldn’t have freckles?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” John’s tone was dry, “we’ve had one piece of luck.”
“What is that?”
“Your mother is not with us.”
“I’m glad she’s not here, too,” she admitted with equal candor.
When her father had been alive, he had catered to her mother’s every whim. Now it was Mallory who struggled to see that all her mother’s needs were met.
“Does your mother like Squire Hal?”
John’s question caught her by surprise. “Do you mean Squire Thomas?” she asked pointedly.
He shrugged, turning his head to look over the fields on the other side of the road.
Mallory decided to take his question seriously. “They get along. We’ve been friends with Hal for years. Mother believes he is beneath me socially but admits he is a good man.”
“But no grand passion?” he asked.
Mallory rolled her eyes. “What does passion have to do with marriage?”
“Everything,” he told her stoutly.
She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “Now I know what went wrong in our marriage. A lack of passion.”
“Mallory—”
“Are you going to pretend you felt passion for me, John? We were complete strangers and obviously mismatched from the start. At least I know Hal. I know his morals and his beliefs. We shall do well together.”
John pretended to yawn.
“I’d be better off speaking to a stone wall than you, John Barron,” Mallory said, ignoring him by focusing on the road ahead.
John easily kept pace beside her. “How does your mother feel about the divorce?”
“She’s against it, or was.”
“Was?”
“Losing Craige Castle upset her, although she was still arguing with me to give you another chance when we came to London.”
“A wise woman.”
Mallory drew a regretful sigh. “However, now that you’ve lost everything, I’m certain she will agree to a divorce without delay.”
John stopped dead in his tracks. “For no other reason than that I’m bankrupt? What happened to our wedding vows, Mallory?”
She turned to him. “The ones we both took forsaking all others?” she asked archly.
John frowned. Her point made, Mallory continued walking.
A second later, he followed. “Is your blister bothering you?”
“No. The plaster helped.”
“You should have more sturdy shoes.”
Mallory opened her mouth to warn him to let her feet alone, but he held up his hands as if begging for mercy. “I know, we are talking about your feet again. However, I do think we should get you a new pair of shoes. Those slippers won’t last a week on the farm.”
“Spending what little coin we have on shoes is not a wise idea. We must practice economy, John. Do you have any idea what shoes cost? You must remember, you are not a rich man anymore. You can’t purchase whatever strikes your fancy.”
John reached out, took her arm, and swung her around to a halt. “A man has to make sure his wife has a decent pair of shoes. That’s not some fancy.”
“If you don’t have the money, you can’t buy anything,” Mallory said. “Furthermore, I’m not your wife. Not truly.”
John’s eyes burned bright with angry pride. “You are until the divorce. You may not believe this, Mallory, but I am not a spendthrift. I’ve lived on close to nothing for years, believing during that time that all my money was going to you and Craige Castle. I will buy you shoes.”
Mallory chose not to argue further. She shrugged her shoulders and almost smiled as he practically ground his teeth in frustration. “Having a wife isn’t as easy as you thought, is it?” she asked, before striding away, her pace brisk.
He easily caught up with her. “By the way, while we are alone, you should start teaching me about farming.”
“All right. Tell me what you know and I’ll fill in the spaces,” Mallory said, not slowing her pace.
“It can’t be difficult. Everyone in England does it.”
“Is that a fact?” Mallory said, feigning wide-eyed wonder.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you sarcasm is the lowest form of humor?”
“No.”
John changed the subject. “Well, look over there. That field of whatever doesn’t look so bad.”
Mallory gazed in the direction he was pointing beyond the oak trees to a field of ripening wheat. “No, you are right. The field looks very good. By the way, John, what crop is that?”
“Crop?”
“What is growing in that field?”
John’s gaze slid from her to the wheat and back again. He quirked his mouth to one side, a small dimple Mallory had never noticed before at the lower corner of his mouth. “Oats?”
She shook her head. “Wheat.” She crossed to the side of the road for a better look. “It will be ready to be harvested in three to four weeks. Your job as steward will be to hire and oversee the workers for the harvest. Then you will be responsible for the threshing and seeing the grain to the mill.” She bent down to look at the hedgerow circling the field. “Of course, here it appears there is a hole in the hedgerow.” John hopped over the ditch to join her and she stepped back so he could see the underweaving of
the hedgerow. “It isn’t a worry now, but when this field is turned over for grazing—”
“It’s a field of wheat. Why would I let anything graze on it?”
“To clean the stubble and fertilize the field.”
“Fertilize?”
Mallory was beginning to enjoy herself. “The refuse from the animals enriches the field. Of course, you don’t have to let animals graze on the field. If Cardiff Hall has a good-sized stable, you can shovel the muck from the stalls over to the field and work it into the soil.” She stood, brushing off her hands, and drew a deep breath. “Can you smell it?”
“What? The muck?” His nose wrinkled.
She smiled and shook her head. “No, the ripening wheat. This is my favorite time of year. I love the sunlight, fresh air, and the smell of growing things. And listen—can you hear them?”
John listened a moment before saying, “Hear who?”
“The insects, the birds…this whole field is teeming with life. Listen again.”
John cocked his head. “I hear birds. I hear a bee.” He looked toward the sound, and a huge bumblebee buzzed dizzily toward them and away. He shook his head. “But I don’t think it’s anything special.”
“You don’t?” Mallory said with genuine surprise. She took his hand and led him back across the ditch to the road. “I’ve never grown tired of life in the country. Mother would like to move to London, but not me. The two days I spent in London were enough.”
“This was your first trip to London?” John asked.
“My first and only time…and I didn’t like it. It’s too smelly and crowded.”
“Oh, but you didn’t really see London. You should visit the theaters, the parks, the opera—”
“Instead of the home of your mistress?” she asked innocently.
He ignored her. “I can’t believe your parents never took you there.”
“My parents had planned on you taking me there after our wedding.”
John stopped, his hand pulling her back. “Mallory,” he started, then stopped as if words failed him. A myriad of emotions—regret, anger, uncertainty—flickered in his eyes.
And suddenly, Mallory wasn’t sure she wanted him to explain himself. She didn’t want to hear the truth. “It’s passed, John. It no longer matters.”
He lightly touched the braid lying over her shoulder. “It still matters to you.”
She conceded his point. “All right, I’ve been a bit snippy.” A cloud passed over the sun, softening the bright sunlight. “Would it help if I confessed that I’m no longer quite so angry as I was when we first met at Lady Ramsgate’s?”
“I’m not certain I should be let off the proverbial hook so easily. I truly am sorry for all you went through because of my own neglect.”
“I realize now it wasn’t all your fault.”
“It was my responsibility.” He took her hand and turned it over, palm up. He ran his hand over hers. “I never dreamed a wife of mine would ever have to work so hard as to form calluses.”
Mallory drew her hand back and hid it in the folds of her dress. “It’s in the past, John.”
“Aye. It’s in the past.” But neither believed it.
They stood side by side, lost in their own thoughts. Mallory discovered she actually liked him. He was more easygoing than Hal and therefore a more tolerant companion. Hal could never admit he’d been wrong—not even once in his life. It was a quality that irritated her.
She started walking and John fell in step beside her.
Neither touched the other.
At the stone gateposts leading to Cardiff Hall, John said, “We need to ensure that our stories are the same.”
“I’m Mrs. Dawson, you are Mr. Dawson.”
John brought his brows together in an expression of great concentration. “Good. I think we’re ready to fool anyone now.”
Mallory smiled up at him, pleased he understood her dry humor. Hal didn’t always understand her small jokes and often answered her literally.
John led them through the gates. Huge, ancient oaks lined the dirt drive, creating a canopy of boughs overhead. “Where did we last work?”
“In East Anglia?” she offered. “We can pretend you are a soldier home from the war and I am the patient wife who waited seven years for you.”
He chuckled. “Fair enough. That will be our story, then. It’s always good to weave a touch of the truth into a lie. Makes it more believable.”
“And do you lie often?”
“Obviously not as often as you do,” he shot back, and she laughed.
They followed a bend in the drive and came upon the house. Cardiff Hall was a lovely, sprawling country manor, two stories high, surrounded by lush, blooming flowerbeds. Roses climbed the brick around the heavy oak front door. Trellises of sweet peas separated beds of daisies, roses, and lilies.
John began tying his neck cloth. “Are you ready?” he asked her.
Mallory nodded with an assurance she was far from feeling. John took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Should we go to the servant’s entrance?” he asked. “I’ve never been one so I don’t know how one goes about it.”
Mallory shook her head. “You use the servant’s entrance after you’ve been hired.”
“Well, then,” he said, “let’s raise the curtain on the second act of our little farce. Come.” He led her to the front step and rang the bell.
A second later, the door was opened by a tall, slim woman in dark clothes, a white apron, and an unwelcoming face beneath her mob cap. “Yes?” she asked abruptly, and then her expression softened, color coming to her cheeks, as the full impact of John’s handsome appearance registered.
“My name is John Dawson,” John said, with just the right touch of courteous respect. He pulled from his pocket the letter Peterson had penned. “My wife and I are here to see Lord Woodruff.”
She drew back with a frown. “Lord Woodruff doesn’t like unexpected visitors,” she told him, and made no move to let them in.
“He’ll like us,” John said, putting his foot in the door to prevent her from closing it.
“I don’t think so,” the woman said. “I’ve been with him going on five years now, and I’ve never seen him happy to receive guests.”
“This letter is from the Duke of Tyndale’s son,” John said, with more steel in his voice. “He’s acting on his father’s behalf.”
The woman whispered, “Tyndale,” her eyes widening in surprise, and she held the door open. “Perhaps you’d best come in and wait while I deliver the letter to Lord Woodruff.”
“Perhaps,” John echoed softly. He and Mallory entered the huge foyer. It was a welcoming room done up in green and rose. Family portraits and gilt-framed mirrors lined the walls. A staircase and three rooms led off the foyer. A huge, carved walnut table stood in the middle of the room for guests’ hats and the like. At the moment it boasted a dramatic arrangement of flowers.
John handed the letter to the woman, who said, “I’m Mrs. Irongate, Lord Woodruff’s housekeeper.” She fluffed the edges of her mob cap with her fingers, a girlish gesture Mallory was certain was for John’s benefit. “I don’t mean to appear rude, but Lord Woodruff is a touch funny about guests.” She leaned toward John and confided in a low voice, “He’s artistic, you know.”
“Yes, we’ve heard,” John answered.
Satisfied, Mrs. Irongate bustled over to the closed door on the far right of the foyer. “Stay here,” she ordered, before rapping three times on the door, waiting a beat, and then rapping a fourth time.
“What the devil do you want, Mrs. Irongate?” a man’s voice boomed from beyond the door.
Mrs. Irongate flashed them an apologetic smile, turned the handle, and went in, shutting the door behind her. They heard the sound of muffled shouting followed by Mrs. Irongate’s calm, unruffled voice. Mallory moved closer to John. “What is it he does again?”
“Peterson said he is a poet. A bad one.”
A second later, the do
or opened and Mrs. Irongate said, “Lord Woodruff will see you now.” She batted her eyelashes at John as he entered, his hand protectively on Mallory’s elbow.
Lord Woodruff’s study was a stark contrast to the neat, tidy appearance of the rest of the house. It was obviously a man’s room, with leather chairs and walls lined from floor to ceiling with books. A huge desk placed before a large window dominated the room.
There all semblance of order ended. The room looked as if it had been ransacked. Balls of wadded paper littered the floor so that Mallory and John had to kick them out of the way as they crossed to the desk. Books spilled from the shelves and covered every available surface. Many were open and stacked one on top of the other. On the desk, the piles of open books were six to seven deep. Lord Woodruff sat behind the desk, a huge stack of blank paper before him. He held Major Peterson’s letter.
Lord Woodruff looked like a bird—a raven, to be exact—with a great hooked nose, a balding pate he covered with hair combed from the back of his head to the front, and black, burning eyes. He stood up. “How am I supposed to work with all these interruptions?”
He came around the desk and marched over to a tray of liquor set on a side table. He wore an overlong purple robe, black breeches and socks, and slippers. A yellow silk scarf was wrapped around his neck, the ends trailing down his back.
“You’re from Tyndale, you say?” he asked, as if not expecting an answer. He shot them a malevolent glance as he poured a generous drink from one of the decanters. “I don’t give a damn for Tyndale. I have only one goal in my life, and that is to finish my book.” He honed his black gaze on John. “Do you realize how difficult it is to write a book?”
“No, sir,” John replied respectfully, “but I imagine it is a prodigious feat.”
“Prodigious?” Lord Woodruff raised an eyebrow. “Prodigious. I’d forgotten that word.” He drained his glass in one gulp and crossed to the desk. “I have to remember it,” he whispered. Tossing Major Peterson’s letter to the floor, he picked up a pen, dipped it in ink, and began scribbling. He muttered as he wrote, his pen scratching back and forth across the page.
Mallory looked to John, who shrugged. They stood before Lord Woodruff’s desk for a good three minutes before John cleared his throat.
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