The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

by Jayne Fresina

  "I have advised my lord husband, many times, that he should curb his stepmother's antics," the shrill marchioness continued, "but he turns a blind eye, avoiding the confrontation. His father doted on that woman and indulged all manner of behavior. Now her servants dare not mutter a word of complaint, because they fear her temper and ending up in that garden— for she likes to tell everybody that's where she puts her enemies. And they believe every word from her lips. She seems to cast a spell on men who should know better. But will any of them be told? No. Nobody listens when I say that woman is most certainly no country curate's daughter, whatever story she tells of her past. Nobody believes me when I tell them of that woman's dangerously liberated disposition and its adverse effect on certain impressionable young minds."

  "Oh, I believe you, madam," he muttered, readying his axe for another strike. "Dangerously liberated." Wandering about in plain gowns, old hats and stained pinafores, for instance, lurking in wait for innocent red-blooded men to think her lovely. And within reach. He swung his axe. "Something ought to be done about it."

  The marchioness looked very pleased that he agreed with her. But then, suffering the sun's glare in her eyes, she was obliged to shout at her maid to stand still with the parasol. Thus the inconvenience of her mother-in-law was forgotten, supplanted temporarily by other irritations.

  He was puzzled as to why "Persey" hid from him now, skulking about in the bushes. She had not struck him as the sort of woman to be fearful of much. Or bashful.

  But as he worked by the lake one day, she finally came out into the open, floating into his side vision in a rowboat with another lady and a gentleman— who rowed as if he'd never handled an oar in his life and made far more splash than he did forward motion. In fact, the boat turned in circles, while the two ladies in it laughed hysterically at the efforts of their hapless escort.

  Lady Honoria, perched on a stone bench to watch Joss trim reeds that day— supposedly convinced it was the most scintillating thing she'd ever seen— immediately jumped up and waved to the distant group. "There is mama!"

  He paused his work only briefly, to mutter that he hoped they wouldn't scare the ducks, while making so much noise. Apparently they had no useful purpose to occupy their time. Typical of their class.

  "That is Lord Chelmsworth with her, and his sister Lady Flora Hartnell. They are friends of mama. In fact, I believe Lord Chelmsworth is very fond of mama and hopes she might marry him one day. He comes here with his sister all the time now when he is in the country. And mama likes him. She's always exclaiming at how very handsome he is and what a perfect gentleman. Of course, he's also very rich and not pompous about it, which helps his case enormously. Now she is out of mourning, I suppose she might encourage him."

  Joss swore under his breath, for he'd just cut his hand.

  "But she has promised me that she won't leave Holbrooke until I am married, so the poor fellow waits in vain. My brother says Chelmsworth is like a sad puppy pining for a treat from the hand of his neglectful mistress. Minty says it's thoroughly disgusting that she should have suitors at her age and that if it wasn't for his money, mama would think him rather wet."

  "Certainly looks as if he's getting wet today." He quickly tore a piece of his sleeve and wrapped it around his hand. Too busy watching the people on the lake, Lady Honoria had not noticed his accident.

  "Oh," she exclaimed suddenly. "Oh, dear. It seems as if they might be stuck, Master Radcliffe. What can we do?"

  So then, of course, he had to look again. Sure enough, the boat appeared to be trapped amid the thick weeds at the center of the lake, and the ladies were, in between bouts of that uncontrollable laughter, playfully castigating the gentleman who had now lost both his oars.

  Naturally they expected some poor servant to get them out of trouble. Then they could wait a while. Teach them a lesson.

  * * * *

  Up until that moment, it had been a perfect day to be out on the lake, with sun that was warm but not too bright, just a very slight breeze to ruffle the glassy water, and a shining blue sky devoid of cloud.

  For the first time in several days, Persey was not hidden behind a hedge with her old opera glasses to see what the gardener was up to; she had decided, instead, to save her skirts from thorny branches and enjoy the company of Francis, Lord Chelmsworth and his widowed elder sister, Lady Flora Hartnell, her dearest friend for the last eight years. Together the two ladies had shared misadventures that had made her former husband laugh— and caused poor Albert to roll his eyes. The current marchioness made no secret of her disdain for Lady Flora, but this, naturally, did not curtail the friendship at all and such a visit could always be counted upon to bring Persey out of a glum mood, taking her mind off the latest battle with her daughter-in-law.

  "We heard about Minty's plans for the estate," Flora had exclaimed, dashing into her parlor that afternoon and embracing her as if they came to rescue their friend from imprisonment in the Tower of London. "I immediately knew you'd be in distress and I said to Francis, we must go to her at once!"

  "That was very good of you, Flora."

  But her brother had interrupted. "Don't believe a word from my sister's lips. She only wants to purloin a glimpse of the infamous Radcliffe."

  Although Flora fiercely denied this, as soon as they were on the lake and her brother pointed out the distant figure at work in the reeds, she craned her head about desperately to get a better look and finally insisted he turn the boat around before they could drift too far away. "That's him, isn't it? Is it? Is it Radcliffe? Oh, it must be for there, beside him, I see Lady Honoria. I heard he takes the job into his own hands and wields his own tools, but I hadn't realized he was so very... capable. Nor his tools quite so large."

  Persey groaned. "Why is it that everybody has heard of this wretched man but me?"

  "Because you do not follow fashion and keep to your own little society. You ought to get out more. Now you are no longer in mourning, there is no excuse."

  "I don't agree," Francis exclaimed. "I believe Persey's little society is the best there is and she needs nobody else. Particularly since her small, exclusive circle includes us. Obviously she is a woman of discerning tastes." He smiled at her, as he pulled back on the oars and the unaccustomed exercise caused a gleam of perspiration across his brow. "Why should she follow fashion when she can lead instead?"

  "Oh, do be quiet, Francis," his sister replied. "Persey and I are far more interested in the delightfully capable Radcliffe than we are in your opinions."

  "I can assure you I have no interest in that man, Flora. Why should I?"

  "Because you're not dead."

  "But I am old enough to have perfect control over my sensibilities. And he is more years my junior than I care to think about."

  But Flora, deaf to this protest, nudged Persey's arm, "Is it true that he works outdoors sometimes in a state of undress? I hear the Bainbridge maids swooned with clockwork regularity, while he was there, and the housekeeper could get nothing done because they were all creeping off to watch him work every day. Hiding behind hedges and such."

  Persey felt her cheeks glowing and ducked her chin, tucking her face further out of sight under the frayed, moth-bitten brim of her bonnet. "I really wouldn't know about that."

  "Do you pretend that you're not in the least curious?" Flora persisted.

  "Exactly so. Why should I be?"

  "Why should you not? What's the matter with you? You're not succumbing to a fever, are you?"

  Leaning away from her friend's questing hand as it reached for her forehead, Persey laughed. "I am not sixteen, Flora, and neither are you. Men are no mystery to me, and they all have the same parts, dressed or undressed."

  Francis muttered apologetically from the other end of the boat, "Of course you are much wiser, Persey, and would not have your head turned by every handsome scoundrel, as my sister does."

  "Nonsense, brother! Our dear friend Persey merely pretends she is above appreciating such a man's attr
ibutes, and you hold her in such high esteem that she can do no wrong in your eyes. To you, Persey is an angel, unsullied by the sin of lust. But I know her better. For one thing, I'm a woman and I know how devious our minds can be. Oh, don't blush, brother, you know I say these things to you, because I am your sister and entitled."

  Soon after this, Francis's efforts became even more of a struggle when, in a flustered temper, he broke an oar. It snapped in two as he attempted to free it from some stubborn weeds, and the little rowboat was reduced to turning in circles, the second oar gradually weighed down with thick green weeds in much the same way as the first. The two women did their best to advise him, but their attempts to help row with bonnets and hands only made the situation worse. When the second oar escaped his grip and sank somewhere amid the weeds, Persey could do nothing but laugh at Francis's aghast expression, and his sister joined in.

  "Glad I am you find this amusing," poor Chelmsworth exclaimed, looking down at his drenched thighs. "Now we're stuck. Ha ha! Yes, isn't it delightful? Jolly good fun." He tore off his gloves to show what he insisted were the beginnings of two blisters on his palms.

  But the angle of his sad, perplexed eyebrows only made Persey laugh harder. There was something about dear Francis's eyebrows that sent her into peals of tender laughter. Of course, she always had a soft spot for a gentleman in need. She only wished Honoria would take note of Lord Chelmsworth's fine features and feel a desire to look after him, but despite Persey's subtle attempts to recommend the fellow to her stepdaughter, so far the girl had shown no particular interest. And now, the young lady was completely enthralled by the gardener, who had distracted her so that she could see nobody else in her line of sight. Apparently his bad habits had not yet shown themselves to put her off. It was impossible, of course, that he had none.

  When Francis reminded the two ladies that their predicament would not be quite so funny once they had run out of champagne— a tragedy likely soon to befall— Flora began shouting for help at once, waving to the people on the lake side.

  * * * *

  "Master Radcliffe, what shall we do?" cried Lady Honoria. "They will all be drowned!"

  Joss paused his work to look up again. "That's a trifle dramatic, madam. It's not sinking."

  "But they are stuck."

  "Is there no other boat?" he muttered, not sounding very interested. "If not, it seems as if your mama and her guests might have to swim. If they are in a fit state to do so."

  But when Lady Honoria assured him there was no other boat and she didn't know if any of the folk could swim, he saw he'd have to do something.

  "I daresay they'll soon be hungry if they're not rescued," he said with a sigh. "Can't have that, can we?"

  So he took off his boots, grabbed a coiled rope from the back of a cart, and headed into the water.

  * * * *

  Shading her eyes from the sun, Lady Flora Hartnell reported that the man coming to their rescue still had his shirt on.

  "Thank heavens for that," her brother murmured sourly.

  "I am rather disappointed," she added, glancing at Persey, "even if other people are being strangely reticent to admit the same."

  He had soon reached the foundering boat and, while treading water, tossed one end of a rope to Francis, advising him to secure it tightly around the boat hook.

  Flora nudged her yet again with a pointy elbow. "Persey, do introduce us."

  Josias Radcliffe held the side of the row boat while Lord Chelmsworth tied the rope. He looked up at them both with the sun in his face, blinking droplets of water from his eyelashes. Persey suffered a stitch in her side as if she'd just run half a mile in unladylike speed.

  "Good afternoon to you, madam," he said.

  He was barely out of breath, despite the exertion. She could hardly help but notice. And while wet he was even more agreeable to look at. One's eyes lingered unless one found the wherewithal to rip them mercilessly away.

  "This is the new gardener hired by Lord Holbrooke," Persey managed finally.

  Her friend eagerly clambered across the boat, leaning forward, causing the little vessel to rock violently amid the weeds. "I'm Lady Flora Hartnell."

  "Joss Radcliffe, madam. I hope your bonnet isn't ruined."

  "Oh, I was using it to try and row us along," Flora exclaimed breathlessly, laughing and flapping like an addled butterfly. "But you're quite soaked, Master Radcliffe. Your shirt..."

  "Good thing the sun is out to dry me. Like your hat, I'll recover."

  "Nevertheless, it is good of you to save us, sir." Flora clutched both hands to her bosom as if entreating for her life to be spared. "To put yourself at such terrible risk to save us."

  Persey looked on in amusement at her friend's dramatic performance, for truly the only thing at risk was their supply of champagne.

  "You're not saved yet, madam," he replied, passing up to them the flat half of the broken oar. "Use this. Your ladyship."

  When Persey reached for the oar, her fingers briefly touched his wet knuckles. It jolted the beat of her heart like a hiccup. He blinked and looked up at her, a very slight smile tugging on his lips, but not allowed free rein. Today, he curbed that natural exuberance she'd encountered in the labyrinth. There, of course, it had been different. They had been different.

  "Master Radcliffe! You've cut your hand," she murmured.

  "Ah, 'tis naught." His palm was wrapped in a piece of torn linen. Now that his hand was out of the water, blood seeped through to color the makeshift bandage. "Just my own carelessness."

  "Should you not wear gloves while cutting the reeds?"

  "I was momentarily distracted and acted without thought." He paused, gave her a bit of a grin and then looked down, wincing as if the sun was too bright in his face. "Such imprudence seems to happen a lot around here. To me."

  "You've gone to a vast deal of trouble for us, Master Radcliffe," Flora gushed again.

  "Not at all. Even we gardeners can be gentlemen, from time to time." That said, he tested the knot in the rope and pushed himself back in the water, towing them slowly along with the other end of the rope around his arm as he floated on his back, using only his free arm and his legs to swim.

  "Gracious," Flora purred softly, fanning herself with the wet bonnet. "He really does take matters into his own hands."

  "Flora, darling," Persey whispered, "put your tongue back in. You look like a thirsty spaniel that's just chased a barouche and four around the park."

  He'd hurt his hand. Who would look after it for him?

  She gripped the broken end of the oar and rowed as best she could to help lessen his burden.

  At this point, Francis, not wanting to be outdone, stripped off his coat, tugged off his boots with such violence that he almost toppled backward out of the boat, and dived in to help pull on the rope. Sadly he was not a strong swimmer and probably caused more hindrance than assistance, but Persey, still rowing, looked over at the bank side to be sure Honoria was watching, and she was. Her hands clasped, the young girl bounced excitedly on her feet, as if she observed a horse race. It was, however, clear which stallion was her favorite. Chelmsworth's efforts were futile in more ways than one.

  He soon lagged, struggling to keep up with Radcliffe, his hands slipping from the rope. But fortunately they did not have to swim too far. Once they reached the shallower edge of the lake, they could both put down their feet and tug the boat the rest of the way into the reeds, whereupon Francis collapsed in a wheezing, coughing fit.

  Radcliffe helped Lady Flora out first, offering her a firm hand, which she accepted with gushing gratitude, skipping to dry land with another laugh. Persey hung back, looking to make her own way out of the boat, but before she could take a bold step, he had grabbed her around the waist.

  "What—?"

  He scooped her into the air, carried her through the reeds and bulrushes, and lowered her very slowly to the grassy bank. She breathed in the warm scent of his sun-burned skin, and the perspiration in his hair. She
felt the firm, steady grip of his fingers and her own quickened heart beat, thumping recklessly under her skin.

  "How gallant of you, Master Radcliffe," Flora exclaimed, stepping over her brother, who sprawled in the reeds like an upturned turtle. "We are certainly in your debt."

  "Think nothing of it, madam." Radcliffe looked at Persey, eyes narrowed, waiting. His hands had not yet left her waist. Time seemed to have slowed to a halt, everything stuck as if caught in an invisible spider web. A soft breeze ruffled the bulrushes and the long grass against her skirt. And for one, dreadful moment she thought he meant to kiss her again. The slightest touch between them ignited a wayward flame of anticipation that twisted and danced through her body.

  Good lord, he could drag a rowboat with two women in it half way across a lake. Even with a cut palm. What could he do to just one woman?

  He still terrified her. At least, she thought that was the reason for her pounding heartbeat. Before any wicked idea might occur to this powerfully dangerous fellow, she moved his fingers away by pretending to brush herself down.

  "Take your hands off me! What do you think you're doing?" she whispered, a little more harshly than she meant to sound.

  Now he'd left his blood on her gown, at her waist.

  "Sorry, your ladyship," he said, his voice low, his eyes narrowed. "I forgot my place and now I've made you all... dirty."

  "You must be mindful of that hand, Master Radcliffe," she said, trying somehow to take away the sting of her previous words. "Bathing it in vinegar tea will save against infection. I suppose you know what to do?"

  Yes, she thought, her throat dry, he would know what to do. He was capable.

  Then, catching sight of Francis flailing about in the reeds again, she hastily called to her stepdaughter, "Lady Honoria, you will remember Lord Chelmsworth, I think."

  But Honoria was too busy admiring the damp and upright Master Radcliffe instead. "Hmmm."

  So Persey hurried over to help Francis up. "Lord Chelmsworth, you have met my stepdaughter, Lady Honoria Foyle, of course."