by Cari Hislop
“Have you been admiring my legs again Mrs Bowen?” Lily flushed bright pink as he smirked in amusement. “Perhaps I’ve been remiss in my duty to appease my wife’s natural appetites.” He danced several feet away and while giving her a lusty look he lifted the tails of his coat above his waist and struck a Grecian warrior pose that highlighted his legs. “Does this please you Cariadon? What about this one…?” He changed his pose. “What about a three quarter’s view? My legs from behind!” He looked over his shoulder at her and winked. “And now for the leg lift…” Lily nearly choked on her laughter as William’s face appeared over the top of her husband’s leg as it hung in the air defying gravity. Unaware of his nephew behind him, the beautiful man eyeing her with adoration struck another manly pose. “What do you think Beloved? Do I please you?”
“I think you’re going to embarrass Aunt Lily to death. The poor woman escaped one form of torture for another. You look like an ass!”
Mr Bowen flushed dark red as he dropped his tail coats and quickly resumed a more natural pose. “I was showing her my new trousers.”
“If you’d been wearing a dress I’d have thought you one of those French dancers, you know the ones that…”
“Yes thank you William, that’s very helpful. Eat your food!”
“I don’t know if I can eat after seeing your leg in the air like that. You looked like a dog about to mark his territory. Is there any bacon?”
Lily was wiping away tears of laughter as Mr Bowen returned to her chair and whispered, “In two years I’ll be able to exhibit my handsome limbs in the breakfast room without impudent interruption. I have something for you…I had it specially made.”
“You’re going to spoil me…”
“Twt lol! That’s a cartload of rubbish. I could buy you the moon and it wouldn’t spoil you. You’re married to the man with the most beautiful legs in the world…if that hasn’t spoiled you, nothing can. Besides, it cost less than that pair of scissors you picked out. His raised eyebrows emphasized the coded message.”
Lily glanced down the table to see William engrossed in his food and glanced back at her husband. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Too late!” He leaned over and draped his arm over the back of her chair and whispered in her ear, “She deserved it.”
“Two wrongs never make a right Mr Bowen.”
“Perhaps not, but she’ll never bother you again and I didn’t have to kill her…enough of that boring subject; did you enjoy my legs? Shall I display them for you regularly?”
Lily glanced again at her nephew who appeared to be staring the door waiting for Grace and blushed as she glanced back to Mr Bowen’s waiting lips. “If it’s no bother…that would be rather nice.”
“Good!” He leaned closer and paused so she could see the adoring gleam in his eye before taking possession of her lips.
Grace rolled her eyes. “Ugh! They’re not kissing again are they? I think I’m going to be sick.”
“That’s nothing; you didn’t see Uncle showing off his legs like some sort of deranged prostitute advertising his wares…”
Mr Bowen released her lips and turned to glare at the younger couple. “One more rude sneering comment in my hearing from either of you and you’ll be eating porridge for two weeks.” Grace gave him a nasty look and silently dished up her breakfast. “Where was I? Oh yes, your gift…” He took the brown paper wrapped sphere out of his pocket and placed it in her hands.
“It’s heavy.”
“Like my heart when you’re out of sight.” A faint gagging sound came from the other end of the table. “Are you choking on your eggs Miss Grace?”
“I was just clearing my throat Uncle Penryth.”
“Good! I thought for a moment there you were getting hungry for porridge. Open it!” Lily peeled off the paper until she was holding a clear glass orb containing a small white feather.
“Oh Mr Bowen…” Lily’s eyes filled with tears as she looked into adoring eyes that smoldered with pleasure at her obvious appreciation. “…you’ve given me one of your feathers…”
Grace leaned towards William and whispered, “I think Aunt Lily’s mind was affected when you cut off her hair. Do you think her hair is growing the wrong way? Why does she keep talking about feathers and swans?”
“It’s probably their code word for carnal knowledge. Uncle is probably giving her a visual reminder that he’ll need to visit her every morning or he’ll go mad…though frankly I think he’s a little late.”
“Why would they need a code word?”
“I’ve no idea. If my wife can’t call carnal knowledge something like…carnal knowledge she can marry some other idiot and leave me in peace.”
“But what if she’s already married to you and she starts referring to carnal knowledge as ‘booboo’, what would you do?”
“I’d drug her food with laudanum. She’d spend the rest of her life asleep so I wouldn’t have to kill her.”
“That makes sense, but why swans? Why not chickens or ducks?”
“They couldn’t use chickens or ducks as code words for carnal knowledge.”
“Why not?”
“Because they aren’t romantic; who could say, ‘Beloved you’re the prettiest duck I’ve ever had…’ without vomiting and who’d want to be called ‘Little chicken’? It brings to mind Sunday dinner after starving all morning at church or a barnyard covered in chicken poop. How could that be romantic?”
“You’re right, but what if her hair is growing the wrong way and fills her skull?”
“She’ll die and then Uncle Penryth won’t have anyone to wave his leg at…pick up your plate and follow me before they start…too late…avert your eyes!”
Epilogue 2
Early August 1718 at Mynyddowen, Mr Bowen’s estate in Wales
Grace entered the breakfast room and scowled on seeing William, his upper body hidden behind a newspaper. She’d been waking two hours early for months to avoid just such an occasion. She quietly filled her plate and slid into the chair without pulling it out. With luck she’d be gone before he finished reading. She chewed her bacon and eggs and rolled her eyes as he chuckled to himself as if she needed to be reminded every few seconds he was only a few feet away.
She glanced at the elegant masculine hands holding the paper; the large nosed ungainly lad of nineteen had transformed into a beautiful man. In a few weeks he’d be twenty-one and she’d never see him except if he came to visit. She’d be lucky to see him once a year if at all. Blinking back tears, she ate faster. He was going to leave Mynyddowen and she’d lose her only friend. He’d marry one of those stupid giggling girls who sneered at her for being a disgraced penniless bastard and she’d die of a broken heart. Her hope of escape evaporated as the paper was abruptly folded and thrown onto the table. She could feel him looking at her as she stared at her plate. It was best to steer the conversation onto neutral ground. “Where did Aunt and Uncle go? I heard the carriages leave first light.”
“Uncle Penryth is taking Aunt Lily and the brat on a surprise visit to the seaside. I would have told you days ago except I couldn’t find you. Uncle said they’d be back for my birthday.”
“They’ve left us alone for two weeks?”
William glanced at the footman standing inside the room. “We’re hardly alone.”
“Yes, but it seems odd that Uncle didn’t arrange a chaperone. People will talk.”
“Hopefully they’ll talk about why you haven’t talked to me in months. With luck they’ll solve the mystery and let me know before I go mad from curiosity.”
“I’ve talked to you.”
“‘Please pass me the oyster sauce.’ and ‘I don’t feel like playing the pianoforte.’ don’t qualify as talking in Wales.” The man rubbed his cheek as he always did when he was genuinely baffled. “What have I done? Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“Liar. If you’re not studiously avoiding me, you’re either practicing to become a professional hermit or avoiding unwanted suitors.”
“I have no suitors.”
“If you weren’t in hiding you’d have noticed the regular crowd of men eager to claim the title. Mr Stradling has been calling thrice a week. His face falls when he finds you’re absent from the drawing room. When he asks after you I always tell him you have consumption, but Aunt Lily spoils it by telling him you’re in perfect health. Mr Wynn casually drops by every other day to talk sheep and local beauties. When I mentioned in his hearing the other day that you hated sheep he looked visibly disturbed.”
“I don’t hate sheep.”
“I know, but Mr Wynn is one of those stupid fellows who need a sensible reason to give up on a pretty girl. Mr Price, that handsome scoundrel always smiling like a gate and filling up your dance card, he had the nerve to ask Uncle for your hand the other day. Uncle thought him a little too cheerful for you, but he asked me if there was any way you’d marry the man so he wouldn’t have to see him again…”
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s a relief. I told Uncle you hated the man. It’s frightening how well I know you. We’re like an old married couple…who never married.” It was his favorite taunt. Normally she’d calmly tell him to go marry a goat or some girl he loathed, but with his birthday looming she could no longer pretend one day he’d change his mind and repeat his offer of marriage. “What’s the matter Goosey-girl? Are you ill? Why aren’t you telling me to go marry Miss Parry?”
If she said the words she’d burst into tears and then he’d guess the truth. “I’m eating.”
“A mouthful has never stopped you before.” He waited for a return insult, but there was none forthcoming. She could see him out of the corner of her eyes sitting there with his hands behind his neck. He was now going to say the most irritating thing he could think of to get a response. “Thirteen days…” He stretched his arms and growled in contentment. “In thirteen days I’ll be my own man. No more threats of withheld allowances or gruel and water if I fail to live up to Uncle’s chivalrous code. I look forward to lifting my coat tails and farting at Cordelia Tudor without fear of starvation.”
“Are you sure you’re not turning twelve?”
“Oh good, you really are my silly goose, not some mindless doppelganger left by Uncle to make me think I was trusted with your person.” He paused hoping for another retort, but Grace could feel her throat constricting with tears. One more word and she’d flood her plate. “Does my face displease you?” She shook her head. “Then why won’t you look at it? Have I offended you?” She shook her head again. “Have I hurt your feelings?” She could only shake her head and hope he wouldn’t guess. “I must have done something to be treated like a leper. Are you in love with some shepherd too poor to put a roof over your head?” She shook her head and he sighed loudly as if relieved. “Do I stink? I would hope you’d tell me…”
“No…” Grace felt the storm burst from her heart and gush from her eyes. Jumping up from her chair she covered her face with her arm and ran for the door, but missed it by several feet and bumped into the wall. She was trapped and he was going to guess. She heard him dismiss the footman and then she felt his hand touch her back.
“Goose, you’re going to damage Aunt Lily’s hand painted wall paper and then Uncle will make you pay for it by going without new stockings forever. Why don’t you save your lovely legs humiliation and cry on my shoulder. I promise I won’t demand any sort of payment if it ruins my coat.” She tried to resist the chance to be held in his arms one last time, but the hand caressing her neck promised a priceless moment of happiness. Strong arms wrapped around her as she wiped her nose on his waistcoat. “Life’s been a cursed bore since you’ve become a hermitress, but your new skill could prove profitable. Once I’m twenty-one I can move into my house and make some much needed improvements. My garden will need something special; I think a little cave with an attractive hermitress near the fish pond would be just the thing. When I’m in a pensive mood I could amble out to visit her. It would certainly give the village gossips something to talk about. I haven’t told anyone else…I was hoping since you’ve been hiding away in a damp closet for two months you’d jump at the chance.”
Grace lifted her head and looked at him with horrified outrage. “You want to hire me to live in a cave?”
“Well you seem to like hiding and at least you wouldn’t have to live here and eat porridge. I’d have the kitchen send you a plate of food and something to drink three times a day and I’d make it a nice cave. I wouldn’t want you to become moldy and die.”
She hated dirt, but living in a cave would be heavenly if she could be near William. Of course he’d marry eventually and the evil woman would send her packing, but that might not happen for years. “It would have a fire?”
“It would have a fire with a marble surround; only the best for my hermitress.”
“I’d need a bed.”
“I’ll buy you a little bed of walnut. I promise the best layer of mattresses money can buy topped with the finest bed linen and eider down quilts and pillows.”
“It would have to have a floor, I hate the smell of dirt.”
“I think I could spend a few pounds putting in a proper oak floor. You’d have to sweep it yourself. There wouldn’t be any room for a maid, though as we’re such good friends I’d let you to send your dresses to my laundry. I wouldn’t want you to smell of unwashed linen. I hate that smell. It turns my stomach. Nothing but the best for my hermitress; your job would be to sit in my garden and ponder something noble.”
“Like what?”
“Like me.”
“You’re not noble.”
“My grandfather was an Earl.”
“My grandfather was a Duke”
“Well will you be my hermitress or not? You’ll have to ponder me…unless you can’t bear to think about me. I suppose you’ve been hermiting away in some corner of the house thinking of your old flame Lord Morley.”
“Why do you always bring him up? He was a big sheep turd. I’m glad I bit him.”
“So am I, but you didn’t think he was revolting when you thought he’d make you his countess.”
“I was a stupid child. Are you going to hold that against me for the rest of my life?”
“Well you did break my heart, even if I don’t remember.”
“At least I wasn’t the one who bed your uncle’s mistress and then attacked Aunt Lily with a penknife.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were stupid. Why else would you bed Lady Gillingham and then believe her lies about Aunt Lily’s hair casting a spell over Uncle? If the simpering Miss Gruffydd knew what you’ve done she wouldn’t be half so impressed with you.”
“She wouldn’t believe you; she thinks I’m a saint.”
“She’s an idiot!”
“True, but I find pretty idiots rather charming.”
Grace choked on a sob. “Are you going to marry her?”
“Probably not…she’d insist I sacked my hermitress. Why would I give up my goosey-girl for a young lady who laughs like a horse?”
“Because she has seventeen thousand pounds and good connections.”
“Pity she bores me. Will you be my hermitress or do I have to pay some other pretty wench to sit in my garden and think of me?”
“Isn’t a hermit supposed to think about Jean-Jacques Rousseau or something?”