The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

by Jayne Fresina

  He hoped the residents of the estate were prepared for the havoc he meant to bring, he mused with a smile.

  Half an hour later he had started back toward the house when he encountered a lad leading a plow horse to the stables. Joss asked the boy to take his horse too, so that he might enjoy a stroll around the labyrinth.

  Sweat shone on the lad's forehead as he looked up. "Aye, sir. Are you the man what's 'ere to dig the place up and make a mess of it?"

  "No. I'm the man who's going to make this place beautiful, as nature intended. Who told you otherwise?"

  "Lady 'Olbrooke. The old one, I mean, not the new one. She jus' told me."

  Ah, the old lady he'd been warned about. The meddler. He laughed. "Well, I can assure you she is mistaken."

  The boy looked doubtful, as if such an occurrence, in his short lifetime, was unknown.

  Laughing again, Joss set his hat down on the lad's head. "Here, that will save you from the sun's heat. I'll collect it later with my coat. See that you take care of them. They're my very best, and I can't afford to lose either. Don't let anybody steal them. I entrust you with a great responsibility, young lad."

  Now the boy wavered between loyalty to his elderly mistress and pride at being assigned this tremendous undertaking.

  Joss tipped the boy a coin. "What's your name?"

  "Davy, sir."

  "I might have work for you while I'm here, if you'd care to earn a few more shillings, Davy, to carry messages back and forth between me and my men as we work around the estate."

  The boy looked at his coin. "I might, sir. As long as it don't get me in trouble with Lady 'Olbrooke."

  "The old one?"

  "Aye, sir. I wouldn't want to make 'er cross, sir."

  "You leave that to me. I'll sort her ladyship out."

  Davy scratched his nose and then shoved the hat back on his head because it had fallen down over his eyes. "She ain't one for bein' sorted."

  "Well, she's never met me." All meddlesome old crones required was something else to keep them busy, something to make them feel useful.

  Suddenly the boy tipped his head on one side and squinted, holding the hat in place with his hand on the crown. "You ain't goin' to try and charm the lady, are you, sir?"

  "Charm?"

  "Aye, you know...flatter the ol' lady and bring 'er gifts to beg a boon. She ain't one for that neither, and you'll get short shrift for your time."

  He chuckled. "I appreciate the advice, Davy. I'll bear it in mind."

  The boy sniffed loudly and took the horse's reins from his hand. "Just thought I ought to warn you, sire. Wouldn't want you to end up buried in the secret garden too," he pointed down the hill toward the house, "feedin' the roses, like them other fellers what she said disagreed with 'er."

  Joss watched the boy walk off with the horses, not entirely sure whether to believe him or not. It was uttered so frankly, as if everybody knew what happened to opponents of the dowager marchioness.

  He tugged open the knot of his stock and used one end of it to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Must have walked farther than he realized. His shirt was sticking to his back, and it would be a relief to get into the shade. The garden at the center of the distant labyrinth looked as if it had some shady lattice arches under which he could cool down. So he walked on toward the house, arms swinging, that whistle on his lips again, hardly sparing another thought for the boy's warning.

  * * * *

  Her trug was full of tulips and lilac, the fragrance softly pleasing under her nose as she walked along through the dew-dampened grass at a hearty pace. On any normal day the scents of the cutting garden would be soothing and conciliatory enough to make her forget Minty's insults— for a while at least— but today nothing was likely to calm her temper.

  "Garden designer, indeed!" she murmured under her breath, ripping off one gauntlet to scratch a finger under her bonnet where the heat had begun to bother her. "Of all the foolish ideas and ways to waste money."

  She could maintain the gardens perfectly well with the assistance of Beamish and Quigley, two elderly, but obliging fellows, who were always happy to help Persey and never argued with her about anything. Together, they had managed the grounds for eight years— since she first came to Holbrooke as the new marchioness— and nobody ever had any complaints. But now here came Minty and her ideas for "improvement".

  No doubt the plans would be hideous, ostentatious, utterly unsuited to Holbrooke. The former marquess would turn in his grave.

  Araminta had married Albert just a year before the old marquess died. For the first twelve months of her marriage, she had waited patiently, simpering quietly in a corner, never inserting an opinion, acting the part of a docile, well-bred wife. But the moment her father-in-law breathed his last and Albert inherited the title and the estate, she stepped up to make herself heard. The difference was remarkable and there was seldom a day now, when her voice did not rise loud enough to be recognized in any corner of the house, and even— if the windows were open— outside the house. For the two years of her widowhood, Persey had suffered that determined and unsubtle prodding and poking, as Minty tried pushing her off to the very edges of consideration. But this attempt to take her greatest pleasure out of her hands was almost more than she could bear. Her temper was not to be trifled with, especially when it came to the well-being of those things and people that she loved.

  Persephone Foyle, Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke, was not a woman who took injury lying down, or in any other pose. No more so now than during the other incarnations of her life. If anything, the older she got, the more obstreperous she became. As dear Minty would discover. As would this "garden designer".

  Walking along at this angry pace, she felt her old straw hat shifting back and forth, irritating her further, making the itch worse. It had been her favorite hat for seventeen years— how the time flew— but most folk would have burned it by now. The crown had lost its shape from being pulled off and pushed back so many times, and the straw stuck out in rough bristles, the brim peppered with mouse nibbles and moth holes that allowed sunlight to filter through. Sometimes Persey liked to pretend she kept the "unsightly" hat merely to annoy Minty, but in her heart she knew there was more to it than that. The hat, wilted as it was, held a lot of memories for her and she was a sentimental soul, whether she liked to believe it or not.

  But that itch would drive her to distraction.

  Finally she stopped, tore the hat off her head, folded it and stuffed it into the pocket of her grubby pinafore. She wouldn't be surprised to find that Minty had sabotaged her hat to make it itch. Wouldn't put any sly trick past that woman; she was an evil genius.

  Persey turned the corner from the cutting garden in some haste and collided directly with a sweaty, scruffily attired fellow travelling just as swiftly in the other direction. He wore no hat or coat, and his boots were coated in mud.

  But it was his forearms she noticed first, perhaps because of their proximity when the stranger closed them around her waist in a wildly improper embrace. And swept her off her feet.

  Chapter Five

  With no warning before they collided, and both moving at a fair pace until the moment of impact, they were caught in a vortex, his strong grip closed tightly around her. It was almost like being spun in a dance— a very rowdy May day dance where everybody had too much cider.

  Persey could have sworn her heartbeat stopped completely for those few seconds as she swung through the air with the stranger's arms around her.

  "Pardon me, ma'am," he wheezed, setting her down again on the grass.

  Thick, muscular and browned by frequent exposure to sun, his limbs had taken possession of her for those few, startled seconds, and she was not at all sure whether it was the force of the strike, the sudden sensation of being airborne and flung about, or the powerful grip of one arm— which remained around her waist for several pulse beats longer than its partner— that caused her to stumble a second time.

  The
ir equilibrium regained, he took a step back, finally releasing her.

  Persey sheltered her eyes from the sun with one hand to get a better look at her assailant. His hands were well-used, the fingernails dark with grime. A black marking circled his wrist as if it were drawn upon the skin with ink. His chest and shoulders were broad, barely contained by a sweat-dampened, linen shirt and a simple flannel waistcoat. Above that came a thick neck and a face unshaven, but young. Dark hair, tied back in a simple tail. Brown eyes with a touch of reserved caution in the way they assessed her.

  Persey prided herself on knowing the name of every worker on the estate, and always took time to learn about their families, maintaining a lively interest in births, weddings, and courtships. And she had certainly never laid eyes on this one before. But he must be a laborer who had worked long hours in the outdoors. In the next moment, it occurred to her that since his face was unfamiliar, he must be one of the new men brought in by that over-paid, pretentious idiot who fancied himself a "garden designer". Albert had mentioned she might see some of his workers about the place.

  "Pardon me, ma'am," he said again, this time with a quick bow.

  "You should look where you go, young man," she chided, quickly checking that she had lost no flowers from her trug. A few were crushed, but most had survived. Like her.

  "Well, so should you, I reckon." He smiled. "I'd say it was your fault as much as mine, wouldn't you?"

  She stared up at him. Apparently he didn't know who she was. But then, she reasoned, how could he? She wore no jewelry, just a simple, midnight blue muslin gown with a stained pinafore over it — her usual attire when working in the garden. Perhaps it was a good thing if he mistook her for one of the household staff. This could be her chance to find out a little more about her new enemy by way of interrogating one of his minions.

  So rather than make comment on his impudent remark, she swung her flower-filled trug against her hip, blinked her lashes and said, "Where might you be going in such haste?"

  His eyes looked confused for a moment as he tilted his head to one side, studying her face, and then he gave a bit of a smile as he scratched one shoulder, before resting his knuckles on his hips. "To find the secret garden hidden yonder beyond all these hedges. I hear its well-tended." He glanced at her worn leather gauntlets. "Would you be one of the maids responsible?"

  "I... do tend the garden, sir."

  "Perhaps you'd be good enough to show me to it then? Since you know your way around the maze."

  "You have an interest in gardens?"

  With one hand he brought the loose end of his neck-cloth to his brow and mopped up the sweat that glistened there. "Aye. I have an interest." A slow grin bent his lips, a little apprehensively, she thought. "Especially if you show me. I wouldn't want to get lost, would I?"

  Biting her lip, she considered. "I suppose I might spare a minute or two."

  "Or half an hour." His gaze swept her with more heat than the sun, but then he quickly looked away, as if he felt burned. "I don't like to rush my way around a garden. I prefer to take my time. Don't like to miss anything."

  She raised a hand to her neck, where a lock of loose hair stuck to her perspiring skin. "I have my duties to tend for the mistress."

  His eyes returned for a longer look, their curiosity following the trail of her fingers. "I promise I won't keep you too long." Then he smiled. It began cautiously, unassuming, even a little quizzical, but once that smile reached full strength, it felt as if the sun dazzled her. Although his voice was calm and steady, his body rippled and pulsed with dangerous vitality beneath that shirt and waistcoat. And as he stood before her with his feet apart, head cocked, the sun shining on his hair, the Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke was suddenly aware of a long dormant, now reawakened ... feistiness.

  Persey hadn't blushed in front of a man since she was eighteen. She had forgotten what that felt like, until now. Tread with caution, she warned herself. "You're a new face."

  "Just arrived." He reached over their heads, his fingers toying with a leaf from the arbor, very casual, as if he thought she would be accustomed to so much masculinity in a state of bold undress. Close enough to touch. The proximity raised her temperature another ten degrees, but he didn't seem bothered by it.

  "You must work for that fancy garden designer." She took a step back.

  His lip quirked. "Fancy?" He stepped toward her again. "What does that mean?"

  "I hear he plans to dig the place up and ruin everything that generations have built, change the place so it doesn't look like itself anymore, and all in the interests of vanity and fashion."

  A soft laugh tumbled out of his mouth, and surprise lifted his brows. "Word gets about. I just saw a stable lad who said, more or less, the same."

  "'Tis true, is it not?"

  "Who told you that? The meddlesome old goat from the dower house?"

  Persey caught her breath and looked down at her trug again while she composed her face."Don't fret that I'll tell. A stable lad already informed me of the rumors she's planting about my... " He paused and when she looked up he scratched irritably at the side of his neck. "...My master. And we were warned by the marquess." He shrugged his wide shoulders. "Old folk just don't like change. But Radcliffe will manage her. He doesn't stand for nonsense when it gets in the way of his vision."

  "How will he do that then?" she enquired nonchalantly. "How will he manage her?"

  "You'll see." He gestured with his hand for her to lead on. "Aren't you going to show me this hidden garden? We'd best get on if you can't spare me much of your time."

  So she turned and walked ahead of him, crossing to the gravel path, glad of the chance to hide her expression. Meddlesome old goat, indeed!

  * * * *

  Well, this was a delightful surprise, he thought, watching the enticing sway of her walk as she led him under the bowers of greenery and through a sun-dappled tunnel. He hadn't been thinking about women at all. Working too hard, building his name and his future, Joss rarely had a chance to let his mind stray in that direction.

  But there she was, popping up in his path like the first spring snowdrop, gladdening his sight after a long winter. One look at her, one hand against her back, one breath of her scent, had reminded him that this was the time to come out of hibernation. It was the time for skipping lambs, wildly frolicking rabbits in the meadows, and birds frantically gathering sticks for their nests. He began to feel a little of that urgent spirit himself. Perhaps it had something to do with the delightful press of her body forced against his when he put his arms around her. He'd have to be a dead man not to appreciate those warm curves, not to feel a quickening.

  "What's your name?" he called to her, lengthening his stride to catch up. She was a fast walker, or else she had long legs under that gown

  "Why do you want to know? You won't be here long enough to get much use out of it, young fellow. Not if the dowager marchioness gets her way."

  He chuckled softly. "Planning on being rid of us, is she? Inciting the staff to rebellion against the newcomers already? She must distrust every man before she's even met him."

  "Her ladyship, my mistress, cares greatly for the grounds of the estate and won't see them brought to ruin. She will defend Holbrooke with everything she has."

  He could have told her that he was that "fancy" garden designer her mistress so despised, but then, in fear of upsetting the old lady, she would run off and leave him there. Joss really wanted to find this secret garden. And he wanted her to show him through the maze. Those well-worn leather gauntlets, the grass and mud-stained, torn pinafore, and the much-abused hat all told of a woman who spent much of her time in the garden— that she was comfortable there and knew her way around. He recognized a fellow enthusiast when he saw one.

  But if she knew who he was, she would probably get him lost in the maze deliberately, for there was a hot spark of mischief in her gaze and those lips had a habit of turning up at one corner in a semi-smirk that suggested a reluctance to
smile and an impatience to bite.

  "Tradition is important in a place like Holbrooke," she added. "My mistress keeps the grounds as her husband liked them and as his father and grandfather had them before that."

  "The old lady can stop gnashing her teeth," he exclaimed. "Radcliffe has no evil intentions toward the place. Sounds to me as if the lady likes to make a storm in a tea cup. Perhaps she does not have enough to do with her time. In which case, we'll have to find something to keep her busy and out of Radcliffe's way."

  She looked askance. "Such as?"

  "Embroidery? Jam-making? What do old ladies like to do, when they're not poking their nose into other folk's business? If she plans to make trouble for Radcliffe, she'll soon find he can make just as much for her."

  "I wouldn't advise anybody to cross her ladyship, young man."

  "Yes, I suppose she's a formidable old crone, but Radcliffe can be equally difficult."

  "I do not know that anybody would describe the dowager marchioness as a crone."

  "Not to her face, I'm sure. But since I set foot on the estate everybody has warned me about her. It's clear she's a wretched old curmudgeon and they all know it."

  "You're awfully free with your words and opinions, young man. I might tell her what you just said."

  "Don't care if you do. She's a spent force. What can she do to me? I'm no wide-eyed stable lad to be frightened with tales of corpses in the rose garden. Neither is Radcliffe."

  The woman quickened her pace between the hedges, and he hurried after her again. Perhaps he'd gone too far in the things he said of the old dowager, but he never could abide an interfering woman— of any age— and if her words had already set this interesting creature against him, then he truly had cause to be angry.