"Yes. I remember those days, Shawcross. Just."
Chapter Twelve
London
1768 - 1772
Lady Thomas Pye caused a small scandal by attending her husband's funeral that spring, but she was no stranger to raised eyebrows by then, for Pye had led an unconventional life to its fullest, and she refused to stay at home if it meant leaving him to the questionable services of those four inebriated men who came to transport him to the graveyard. She had washed and dressed his body, without help from anybody; she had wept heartily while nobody watched; she had pawned her jewelry to purchase a Superfine shroud, an elm coffin and an outer shell of lead with a plate inscription and cherubim handles, and had sat vigil by his corpse every night for a week. Having gone through all this, she was not so incautious as to leave the dignity of his final journey and comfortable interment to chance.
There was also the possibility of robbers overtaking the funeral procession, as often happened, so she felt it necessary, not only to attend, but also to carry about her person a primed and loaded flintlock musket from Pye's collection.
Ladies of the upper classes were not meant to show too much grief in public and she had cried her tears by then in any case, so she led the cortege with pride, the musket held before her in readiness. Nobody dared get in her way, not even the duns who hovered, looking to collect the debts her husband owed.
They waited until the next day before they came calling.
Very soon it was necessary for Lady Pye to make a hasty exit from London. Her dead husband's father no longer sent any allowance, and gave up the lease on the house, having no concern for what might happen to his son's widow. A stray cat might have been of more account to the duke than Persephone's fate. As a consequence, once most of Pye's debts were paid, she had only pennies on which to live. But she was not disheartened. Makeshift Meg had been in much the same position before and managed. She would do so again.
Her sleight of hand skills, acquired from those earlier days in the company of Kitty Waddenhoe, were quickly put to use again, along with her colorful storytelling. She also used Pye's card tricks to win at the tables, charming her admirers out of a few sovereigns while feigning surprise at her sheer "beginner's luck".
Lady Pye, a genteel noblewoman in reduced straits, led a busy life, one spent constantly on the move, thinking of her next meal, but frequently going without it if she found somebody who needed it more.
When the widower Marquess of Holbrooke first showed her attention, she thought him nothing more than a kind, gentle fellow. Persey had met Jebediah in London while she was married to Pye. At that time he had appeared to be much the same as any other nobleman, rather cool and distant. But, four years later, when she saw him again, the marquess could not hide his dismay at finding her circumstances so changed. Angered by her former father-in-law's neglect, he immediately sought to help her in any way that he could, proving that beneath a stern exterior, the Marquess of Holbrooke possessed a compassionate nature, a surprising lack of pretentiousness, and a warm sense of justice.
For all her ambitions and despite that vast, well-exercised imagination, Persey could never have envisioned she might rise so high. Always, in the back of her mind, lurked the fear of being discovered for who she truly was— Long-Legged Meg who told stories, scrubbed floors and, according to rumor, wrecked vengeance on those who harmed her. But four years after the death of Pye and twelve since she left Twytchel-on-the-Nene, she was suddenly married to a marquess. This was no time to be faint of heart. This was a performance into which she must put her all.
She had been given a wondrous opportunity to do good things in the world— things she could not have done as plain Meg— and she must make the most of it.
* * * *
She heard Jebediah arguing with his son. Of course, they waited until she was out of the room, but their voices still carried beyond the door.
"What do you know of that woman, sir? Where has she come from? She has no family, it seems."
"All the more reason why we should provide her with one, Albert."
"I have heard at least three different versions of her childhood and at this point I do not know whether she has royal Scot's blood or is descended from Transylvanian goat herders."
"She does tell a very good story, does she not? Most entertaining."
"She married you for your money and for status."
"And why not? Would you rather live in poverty, or have a fine house, warm clothes and food in your belly? Yet you imagine she ought to give up that chance out of a misplaced sense of pride? You're a bigger fool than you look."
"I am no fool, sir. I do not come unhinged with laughter at one of her stories, or encourage her in those silly hoaxes she so enjoys playing upon innocent folk."
"No, Albert, you do not. And I feel sorry that you never had much silliness in your life. I am just discovering the exuberance of it myself. Does wonders for a fellow."
"You cannot see the ridiculousness of a fellow your age acting thus. What will people think to see you marrying such a woman of doubtful pedigree?"
"The beauty of being an old man, my son, is that I have no need to concern myself with what others think."
"I suppose she has captivated you with her feminine wiles."
"Yes, thank heavens! I feared I was beyond all that and ready only for my grave," Jebediah had laughed heartily. "She has given me my second wind."
Persey could well imagine Albert's dignified disgusted face.
"Still," the marquess had added wryly, "somebody in this house ought to be tupping and since you're reticent to find a wife, it might as well be your old father, eh?"
Not that there was very much "tupping" going on, but Jebediah did like to tease his son. It was another thing he had in common with his second wife— an appreciation for the comically absurd.
Lady Honoria Foyle was less of a trial to win over. At first, of course, she was warned by Albert to be distrustful of their father's new, young wife, and so— having always looked up to her brother— she hovered in the shadows, keeping out of Persey's way. But Honoria was a sweet, quiet girl, who had very much missed her mother. Indeed, female companionship of any sort had been absent in that house for some time. She could not help being curious about her stepmother.
Persey let the girl make her own slow progress and did not try to force a friendship. She waited patiently, leaving little gifts for Honoria around the house to encourage her out of hiding— a small bottle of perfume water, distilled with lavender; a kerchief newly sewed with her initial; a favorite frock neatly mended; a plate of sugared nuts or a glass of raspberry cordial, all made in the kitchens with Persey's own hands.
Once Honoria was assured that Persey meant to take nobody's place, but to forge her own; that she was a woman who had her own opinions and was brave enough to speak them aloud; that she could teach Honoria new ways to dress her hair and make perfumes; that she could show her card tricks and was willing to spend long hours playing games that had always bored everybody else— well, the seedlings of dour suspicion planted by Albert, nurtured no further, eventually withered and died away.
Persey's talent for storytelling also helped seal her friendship with Honoria, who, while she was supposed to be reading from her prayer book, or some other innocuous tome meant for the instruction of young ladies, listened eagerly instead, to her stepmama's yarns of lurid, stomach-churning horror.
Life at Holbrooke was delightful and serene. Her dear husband made certain she could want for nothing and even Albert, in time, came to see her as a necessary evil, when he could no longer deny how much happier she made his father.
But her pleasure in this new life was bittersweet. Always, in the back of her mind, there remained a fear that she was not entitled to any of this. That somebody, one day, might take it all from her, no matter how hard she worked to belong, no matter how much good she tried to achieve.
From Lady Kitty she had learned that one was better off moving from place
to place, never setting down roots for too long. What danger did she court by making her home there? That remained to be seen, but she could not leave while she had somebody there who needed her. This, she had discovered, was a difference between herself and Kitty. While her former mistress cared mostly for herself, Persey despite the instinct for self-preservation which carried her though her youth, had grown into womanhood finding the greatest satisfaction by helping other folk. She liked to repair, replant, prune and trim, so that those she tended could thrive anew and grow their best blooms. Perhaps, in some way, she could make up for the errors in her youth.
And here she had that garden of which she'd always dreamed. She had achieved the goal she'd set for herself so long ago.
As Lady Holbrooke, she took on many charitable missions around the county and delighted in any way she could lessen the hardships of others. After all, she had been lucky in her own life, and she firmly believed that good fortune could be felt to most advantage when it was shared.
In her early years, with no one to look after her, she had done what she must to survive. Now she saw to it that others who were put upon and down-trodden need not resort to the same desperate measures, for they had somebody on their side.
* * * *
When Albert brought Araminta to Holbrooke, Persey did her best to welcome the young woman and planned many ways to put her at ease, but soon discovered that her stepson's wife required no such help. Araminta looked about her with scheming, calculating eye, assessing all that would "one day" be hers, and it was clear that she needed no encouragement to feel at home. But in those early days she retained the outward appearance of humility. At least, it was enough to deceive the Foyles; not good enough to pull the fleece over Persey's eyes, however. She had lived and worked among actresses— even taken to the stage herself— and would never be fooled by an amateur.
Jebediah was simply glad his very particular son had finally found a woman he deemed good enough to marry, for he'd begun to worry that Albert would never provide an heir to keep Holbrooke in the family, and that had been the most important thing on his mind for some years. With Albert safely wed, he could finally rest from his worries at last and enjoy his final months with his own lively, amusing young wife at his side.
When the marquess fell ill, Persey nursed him diligently, to bring what comfort she could. Finally Albert was obliged to admit, out loud, that his father's choice of a second wife had not been all bad.
In a rare weak moment at his father's bedside, Albert had cleared his throat suddenly and announced with stiff awkwardness, "It is well that you are here, Persephone. My lord father takes much comfort from your presence, I think."
Shocked, she had thanked him for that. "I do what I can for him. Your father has done so much for me."
When Jebediah died, much of the light in that house went with him, and not just because of the black cloth that covered all the mirrors. Without his laughter to cheer the hallways, Holbrooke was a somber place. Albert was not one for jokes and tricks, and unlike his father he had never had the opportunity to learn their efficacy. His stepmother was a force of nature that alarmed his somber world and left him unsettled, but since she had provided a benefit to his father, his conscience would not let him shut her out. He treated her presence as he would an inconvenient, mischievous ghost— something that occasionally caused him a fright, or moved things out of place, but which he could do nothing about.
Persey threw her energies into caring for the poor of the village, setting up a school for young boys and girls, organizing funds for a county hospital, and providing her own herbal salves for the various aches and pains of the villagers. In the evenings, to keep the loneliness of widowhood at bay, and for an excuse to light as many candles as she could and fill the house with merry music, Persey hosted those gatherings of her dearest friends, delighting in their company for as long as they would stay. Finally she tended her gardens and her stepdaughter, watching them both flourish under her loving eye. All considered, her life was very full and she'd had little time to think about herself or to worry that she might be missing out.
Until now.
"The gardener seems to have taken a liking to you, madam," Shawcross pointed out. "Could this happenstance not be used to your advantage?"
Perhaps she'd been too quick to judge Minty's hired gardener. After all, it was not his fault that her stepson's wife insisted on waging this war and chasing her out of the gardens she loved. He was an unwitting accomplice, merely there to do his job.
Josias Radcliffe's willingness to befriend her, despite the threats and warnings, showed him to be a man of considerable courage and independent spirit. A man not easily swayed or manipulated, even by the one who paid his fee.
Eh, it's only money.
What sane man ever said that? She'd never met anybody quite like him, and although she believed in seizing an opportunity, she didn't know exactly where to get hold of this one.
Chapter Thirteen
Holbrooke Estate
1780
Even before he looked over his shoulder, he knew she was coming. As if joined as one, the gazes and attention of the three men standing before him in the noonday sun had wandered to whatever headed toward them over his shoulder, and Joss sensed that, for all the good his commands did, he might have started reciting poetry instead of instructions. The three workers quickly doffed their hats and seemed to grow a few inches taller, as smiles stretched across their weathered faces.
"Master Radcliffe," she called out. "I must see you at once."
Aha, so he had flushed her out. His "design" had succeeded in poking her out from behind the overgrown herbaceous border and he could stop stalking her too in that shameful fashion, at night in his tree.
Slowly he turned to watch as she approached. Shawcross, carrying a lidded wicker picnic basket, was close on her heels. She wore that shabby hat again. He rather liked her in it, he mused. It looked as if it had survived a few fights, wasn't all ribbons and silk flowers, and had clearly seen better days, but she kept it— clearly relied upon it. The hat was, like her, unique.
At least she had on matching footwear now, sturdy walking boots that marched through the grass with great purpose.
"Uh oh," one of the men behind him muttered. "'Ere comes trouble."
Hastily he sent his workers off to get on with the removing of a tree and then waited for her, knuckles on his hips. "My fallen angel! This is a...pleasant surprise." He eyed the basket. "Have you brought me luncheon? You know the way to a man's heart, I suppose, and now you mean to get around me by feeding me up like a boar for the slaughter. Keep me fat and happy, and on your side, and then suddenly the axe will fall."
"No, I have not brought food, you scoundrel," she snapped. Looking beyond him at the uprooted tree and the wooden cart upon which it was being loaded, she railed at him, "How could you? I protest most strongly. These trees are decades old at least and this avenue has provided shade for—"
"I'm simply moving some of the trees, madam, to make the line less regimented and to open up the view across the park. Growing here they are crowded too closely together. They need space and air."
Still she glowered at him. Stubborn and distrusting.
"The trees are not harmed, madam, I promise you." Joss gave the signal and his men began leading the plow-horses forward, pulling the cart and its heavy burden carefully along to its new home a hundred yards on. Since she still looked doubtful, he explained further. "The articulation of light and shade is an important part of my design, Lady Holbrooke. See there?" He pointed to where other men worked by the lake again. "The water is being made to flow this way, in a serpentine stream with gradual stone steps downward to make a waterfall. It will wend its way through the trees in a leisurely manner, now that there is space to make it so."
"Well, I—"
"Over there—" He took her by the shoulders and turned her to look. "I shall remove that unsightly fence and dig a ha-ha, an unseen trench to separate the law
ns and keep grazing sheep from venturing too near the house."
"I know what a ha-ha is!"
"And there, on the westerly hill, surrounded by young sycamores and some of the mature trees from here, will stand the temple that Min— the marchioness— is so keen to have. If she agrees, although she has yet to make up her mind. Perhaps you can picture it as she cannot, with the sunset behind it. I have no plans drawn up." He grinned slyly. "I keep them in my head so they cannot be stolen."
"Why did you pretend those horrifying designs were meant for Holbrooke then?"
He squinted down at her. "We cannot begin again until the slate is clear. If we're to be true friends, I first had to repay you for that trick you pulled on me."
"What trick?" She frowned.
He leaned over to whisper, "Your little masquerade as a humble maid. The kiss I'm not to mention."
"For something not to be mentioned, you mention it excessively, sir."
He laughed. "So now we're even at least, your ladyship. We can begin again. I hope? No more misapprehension on either side."
She blinked, evidently considering. Finally she gestured for Shawcross to open the basket. "Give me your hand, Master Radcliffe. No— the injured one! What would I want with the other?"
"I don't know. Perhaps you wanted to hold it. The first step in seduction, so that you will take all power over me and pull my strings like those of a marionette."
"What nonsense you speak."
"I've been warned by the marquess and his wife. Not that I needed their counsel." He gave a hard exhale and shook his head. "Women can't seem to keep their hands off me. Always looking for any excuse. Even you might want to grab a hold of me, one day."
"To stop you running across the street after your hoop in front of a coach and four perhaps?"
"You really are perturbed by my age, aren't you?"
"Nothing about you perturbs me, Master Radcliffe."
He leaned closer. "What nonsense you speak."
The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Page 15