Rather than continue that conversation, she opened her basket and got to work. She had brought a large bottle of vinegar water, a pot of something she called "my special salve" and some clean rags with which to bandage his hand anew after it was cleaned. As she went about this task with somber intensity, Joss said nothing. It felt too strange to be tended in this manner. He very much doubted other gardeners ever received such attention from a dowager marchioness— her own fair hands, washing and administering medicine to his wound.
Aware that it might seem to his men as if he stood about idle, he shouted that they could let the horses rest in the shade and take a pause for luncheon.
"I hope I shan't be accused of getting in the way of your wicked works," she muttered.
"I won't tell if you won't. Besides, I'm sure I'm in your way as much as you are in mine. Your busy social appointments will decline while you're keeping an eye on me, won't they?"
Suddenly she said, "Since you raise the subject, sir, I did not invite you to cards yesterday because—"
"I am merely the gardener? I know. Do you mean to rub that into my wound too?"
"No. But because I already had all the men I required for the evening."
"Indeed. I suppose 'tis a fortunate thing you know when you've got enough," he muttered wryly. "I thought perhaps you over-indulged in men too." Followed by an "Ouch, damn you!" as she poured more vinegar water over his cleaned wound. At least he'd made the butler smile.
"I only required three gentlemen for dinner and cards, because there were three ladies. If I invited you, it would have upset the numbers, you see. One should always have even numbers at the table."
Joss cleared his throat, forcing himself to pay attention, although with her bare hands on him it was a mighty challenge. "I'm sure you don't need to explain yourself, your seating arrangements, or your gentlemen callers to me, your ladyship."
"Is that so?" She arched an eyebrow. "It seemed to be causing an itch, like a flea in your breeches."
He scowled down at his hand, watching her wrap it in fresh clean linen.
"I wanted to explain," she continued, "because it was good of you to rescue us yesterday, and I'm afraid I looked ungrateful after the event. Honoria is rather upset with me because I didn't invite you. She made that clear last night."
He laughed curtly. "So the young lady guilted you into this explanation today?"
Again he chanced to see a little smile cross the butler's lips.
"If you wish to think of it that way, you can, Radcliffe. I see it amuses you." Having tied his hand with a new bandage, she briefly examined her handiwork. "That's better." She wiped her own hands on a towel, which was then returned to Shawcross. "I'll change the dressing again tomorrow." Pulling on her gloves, she looked over at the trees. "I hope you know what you're doing, young man."
"Does anybody ever really know what they're doing? Most of the time it's luck, isn't it? A person just has to look as if they know. Tell a good story the right way and everybody will believe it, is that not so, your ladyship?"
She looked odd for a moment, as if she just swallowed something that was either too salty or too sweet. He watched her calmly and then glanced down at his bandaged hand.
"I hope you know what you're doing too," he muttered, holding up his bandaged hand. "I'd like to keep this appendage. It's one of my most useful."
"You needn't worry. I am a competent herbalist."
"Wouldn't be practicing witchcraft on me, would you?" He was already enthralled by her in a way he hadn't thought possible before.
"So you have been listening to my stepson's wife. I thought you didn't need her counsel."
"She's not the only one who thinks you're dangerous. I think I've been warned by everybody I've met on this estate."
When she smiled suddenly his hand stopped hurting, and other parts began. "Yes, I like to preserve my reputation. I find it keeps things interesting, makes people wonder. And holds fools at bay."
"Doesn't keep me at bay."
"You're no fool." She sighed, looking away. "You're just young."
Well, he supposed that meant he had improved in her opinion. Very slightly. For now, he'd take that much progress.
Joss did not know what he'd done to help his case. With women he never knew these things or how their minds worked. That's why, when it came to his feelings or lack of them, he was honest. It was the only thing he could be.
* * * *
Soon after this, Honoria appeared, half bounding, half strolling across the park to visit her stepmother as she did every day, and stopping, as was her new habit, to see what Radcliffe was up to. Lately she had spent more time watching and drooling after the gardener than she did visiting Persey, and even when she was at the lodge, she generally wanted to talk only about him. Much to Persey's frustration.
It had, naturally, been her hope that the girl would soon be enamored with one of the gentlemen she invited to dine with them, and Persey's favorite was Chelmsworth, whom she considered a perfect match for Honoria. Thornby was a close second. He might not be the handsomest of prospects, and he was older than Chelmsworth, but he was a clever fellow and, of course, he had that wonderful glasshouse full of exotic plants and flowers.
Unlike Albert, Persey had tried to be more subtle in her matchmaking— to present her stepdaughter with a casual buffet, rather than a stern choice of two dishes, both as unappetizing as a compulsory nursery meal set out by a strict nanny, who regarded the healthy movement of one's bowels with greater concern than the taste of the food itself.
But sadly it seemed she'd been too nonchalant. It had not escaped her notice that Francis Chelmsworth paid her more attention than he did to Honoria, and when even Radcliffe had noticed it there was no further pretending she didn't. As for Thornby, his determination to be the last man standing yesterday evening had shown her that his interests were also turned in her direction. Only young Butterfield, her third male guest yesterday, paid marked attention to Honoria. Alas, he had already undone himself in the young lady's opinion by slurping his soup and snorting when he laughed. Honoria called him Butterfoon.
"Mama! You are up early today," Honoria exclaimed, quickening her steps as she saw Persey and Radcliffe together.
"For pity's sake, it is not that early," Persey muttered.
"Well, I thought that as you imbibed so much wine last night, trying to keep up with Lady Flora, that you would have a terrible headache this morning. You know how it never does you any good to try, that you'll never out drink her, but you are so stubborn and cannot resist the competition."
Radcliffe gave a low chuckle and tugged on his earlobe. "Out of the mouths of babes."
She ignored that and said sharply to her stepdaughter, "Lord Thornby sent you a gift this morning, Honoria. A pineapple from his hothouse. Was that not a pleasant thought of his?"
"Oh, lord," Honoria yawned and patted her lips. "Thornby and his precious glasshouse. If he mentioned it once more last night, I might have had to go there just to throw my shoe through it."
"Honoria!"
"It is surely impolite to bore a woman to sobs with only one topic of conversation for so many hours."
"Nevertheless you will write a note of thanks to Lord Thornby."
"Won't that encourage him to send more fruit? Because I really don't want any."
Radcliffe had turned away, pretending to watch his men, but she knew he was listening, greatly amused by this exchange. She saw his shoulders quiver.
"You should have invited Master Radcliffe to dinner, mama," Honoria added, with a sly glance at the man. "He would have much more interesting conversation to share."
Radcliffe looked over his shoulder. "Oh, I don't have any good conversation. I'm just the gardener. I'm a man of action rather than talk. A beast of burden. An ox, as your mama says."
"I have already explained to Master Radcliffe," Persey said firmly, "that the other three gentlemen had previously accepted the invitation and a fourth man would have upset the
arrangement."
"Pooh."
"Honoria!"
"When I host my own dinner parties I shall not care about silly things like matching numbers. If there are more men than ladies, all the better!"
"When you are mistress of your own home, then you may do as you please, but for now you will be polite and send thank you notes when you are presented with a gift. You can write one at the lodge."
Thus she steered her stepdaughter away from Radcliffe and left him to get on with his work. She knew he watched them retreat, for his gaze caressed her spine and the back of her neck like the heat of a long-awaited sun.
"What were you talking to Master Radcliffe about, mama? I saw you smiling, yet I thought you didn't like him."
Smiling? She hadn't realized. "I told you, Honoria, I explained to him about last night's card party."
"You apologized to him?"
"I...explained my reasons for not inviting him and that is all."
"Then you do like him or you would never have bothered."
"I'm sure I have no opinion of Master Radcliffe, one way or the other. He's the gardener, Honoria, and hired by Minty. I have naught to do with it."
But when she caught a glance at Honoria, the girl was smirking in a very self-satisfied manner.
Persey had no choice but to admit that Radcliffe's plans for the estate did not sound so very bad, after all. But she had still better keep an eye on him. A man who didn't set his plans in ink might be apt to change them. And, as he'd said, she didn't know what he might get up to while she slept late, "dreaming of lord knows what."
Good thing he didn't know what she dreamed about and she had every intention of keeping him in ignorance. That was generally the best way to keep a man.
* * * *
Later that afternoon, she and Honoria, with the help of Shawcross, carried Lord Thornby's fruit down to the village in three baskets. There they walked to each cottage, distributing pineapples and peaches. Of course, it was necessary to explain what was to be done with pineapples as very few villagers had ever seen one.
Persey discovered that Minty's infamous garden designer was already the main topic of gossip in the village. He and his men had drunk at the local tavern occasionally, and half the women suddenly found it necessary to sit outside in their best frocks and ribbons, in case he might walk by.
"I would advise caution," Persey told them, "the man is a wayfarer and as soon as he's done his work and collected his money, he'll be gone without looking back. I'm sure he'll take what he can while he's here." It was the closest she could come to the suggestion that they lock up their innocent daughters.
But she heard that he had not been seen flirting with anybody. There was a general disappointment felt, because of it. Apparently Radcliffe, while acknowledged to be a fair and honest master, also reined his men in under fairly strict rules when it came to their dealings with the women of the village. As a consequence there were, so far, no tales of seduction, broken hearts or torn petticoats to report.
"See, mama," Honoria was eager to point out. "He is quite the gentleman after all."
Persey shifted the basket to her other arm. "But he surely cannot compare with a man like Lord Chelmsworth, Honoria. Francis Chelmsworth is a gentleman in every sense of the word. He has an estate, responsibilities."
"Yes, mama, but he's a bit of a drip. You must admit."
"He simply needs a young lady to look after him."
"What makes you think Master Radcliffe doesn't need looking after, mama?"
Just look at him, she mused. He took care of himself. There was nothing any woman could do for him. Not for long, in any case. Only until he grew bored and restless. Perhaps that was why Radcliffe scared her a little. He was too capable.
Although he had let her tend his hand, that was a small thing and healing before she even touched it. Meanwhile, she began to feel an infection inside her own body. Until Josias Radcliffe came around that corner and swept her off her feet, Persey hadn't been aware of anything missing from her life, anything wanting. Now a new neediness ate away at her insides like a beastly, selfish, hungry creature.
But all she said out loud was, "Radcliffe is too caught up in his work, Honoria. Did he not say he has had little time for women? It seems this is still the case."
"You mean, because he has no interest in the village girls? Because he does not look at them?"
"That is a sign of the man's devotion to his work."
"Nothing amiss with that, is there?"
"Not at all. But I fear it does not bode well for romance, Honoria."
They walked on a while with Shawcross following.
Then suddenly Honoria said, "He may not be interested in them, mama. But there is one woman he looks at. And he looks at her a very great deal."
"Oh?"
"You, of course."
"Honoria, I can assure you that if he looks at me it is only because he fears what I might do to him. He knows well what I think of his reason for being here."
After a moment, her stepdaughter muttered, "I do not think he fears what you might do to him, mama. He looks as if you've already done it and it's too late to save himself."
Well, the girl was only eighteen. What did she know of men and the way they looked at anybody? He could just as soon be thinking about his dinner— which was, in Persey's experience, most often the case with men— and Honoria would leap to that same fanciful conclusion.
Of course, her stepdaughter was not the only speculating female walking the grounds of Holbrooke these days. Lady Flora Hartnell, who was most certainly not eighteen— even if she liked to pretend she was— had just as many ideas about the gardener.
A frequent guest at the lodge ever since Persey moved there, Flora visited even more often that spring, taking advantage of the fine weather to travel the considerable distance of ten miles from her brother's manor, borrowing his carriage even when he had business elsewhere, or guests at home, and could not accompany her.
"Did you not have to entertain your great-aunt from Hertfordshire too?" Persey asked when Flora arrived unexpectedly one morning.
"Good gracious, no! The old dear thinks me a scandalous woman, a lost cause, but she adores Francis. Better he face her alone." She paused in the hallway of Persey's cottage only long enough to assess her reflection in the looking glass and adjust her hair, before she wanted to go out again. "Let's go for a ramble, shall we? While the rain holds off."
Flora had never been a great walker before this. If there was a horse and carriage at hand she would rather use that to travel, even just a few hundred yards, and really a comfortable chair set down anywhere— indoors or out— was to her a siren's call, especially if there was the promise of champagne too. So a "ramble", during which she might perspire, ruin her shoes and spill the contents of her glass, was not something for which Flora generally volunteered herself. Nor had she previously shown much enthusiasm for mud, but she encountered a vast amount of it in her pursuit of Radcliffe sightings that spring. Lady Flora Hartnell also learned rather more than she ever wanted to know about horticulture, for Persey, determined to use her friend's new passion for good, enhanced their walks with plenty of worthwhile educational lectures on that subject.
It was amusing to see her friend getting red-faced, mud-stained and out of breath for a young man who barely even seemed to notice her and was merely polite in reply to her attempts at flirting. It was less amusing however when Flora took to teasing Persey about the way he reacted to her presence.
"Well," exclaimed the exhausted woman, as she fell backward into a parlor chair, collapsing like a stabbed sack of flour. "It's plain to see he has eyes for only you, Persey. What are you going to do about it?"
"For me?"
"It's obvious, darling. Poor Francis will be devastated, but I wouldn't blame you for taking the opportunity."
"He's the gardener, Flora. Minty's gardener."
Her friend leaned forward, chin in hand, elbow on the table. "I do believe he'd
much rather be digging and planting his seed in your garden."
Persey shook her head, trying not to laugh. "My priority is Honoria and her future. She needs me on her side, the voice of reason. I haven't time for anything else."
"Well, I hope you get Lady Honoria settled soon, because your garden is overdue for tending."
"I tend my own garden, thank you very much."
"Don't we all? But it's not quite the same as having someone else do it for you, is it, darling?"
Chapter Fourteen
To Persey's surprise, when she returned to the lodge one afternoon after visiting the county hospital she found Albert waiting for her. In the two years since she'd moved into the dower house, her stepson had never visited. He was always too busy with other matters. On that day, however, he had a moment to spare and he came directly to the point.
"My lady wife thinks Honoria spends too much time here with you at the dower house."
Quick anger choked in her throat. "Does she indeed? Why, may I ask, should Lady Honoria not be welcomed in the home of her stepmother?"
"Araminta believes you to be a bad influence. She says you set an inappropriate example to a young lady, by being so casual with the gentlemen who come here to dine."
"The gentlemen who come here are friends— most of them old and dear friends who knew your father as well. Many of them contribute to the village school and help me raise funds for the county hospital. I fail to see how their company might corrupt Honoria."
"It is your company, not theirs, Persephone, that my lady wife suspects of leading that girl in an unsuitable direction." He strode to the open window and looked out, hands clasped behind his back. "Araminta fears that my sister will never make a suitable match, because she has been encouraged— by you— to favor desire over duty."
"Albert, if you ask Honoria, I'm sure she will tell you that I have advised her to be practical, not merely to rely on a romantic notion. It is possible to find a balance. I wouldn't want her to marry just for a physical attraction, any more than I would want her to wed purely for money, property and titles."
"Nevertheless, Honoria is greatly influenced by you in so many ways. She has become stubborn, quarrelsome and refuses to pay any heed to my wife."
The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Page 16