Dukes and Devilry

by Felicia Greene

Isaac continued clipping and shaping the hedges as they proceeded along the line of topiary. After a short time—too short a time to view himself with any sort of pride—he also continued thinking about Agnes Hereford.

  The basic facts had been easy to collect, with little more than patience and an appreciative ear for gossip. All of Bath had been buzzing with the news of Henry Colborne’s unexpected marriage; a love-match with a penniless former acquaintance, Anne Hereford, who would bring a gaggle of sisters with her to Longwater. Isaac had assumed that the mysterious woman had been a wedding guest, but only when he had heard colourful descriptions of the Hereford girls—their dyspeptic father, their precarious situation, their slight oddness—had he connected the pale, blushing vision of beauty on the garden path with the youngest sister, Agnes.

  Isaac had a name; he had a family, and an understanding of who she was. He also had the new, heartbreaking knowledge that who she was, the sister-in-law of a duke, meant that she was forever out of his reach.

  Then had come the official presentation of Longwater to Anne, after she had become Anne Colborne, Duchess of Longwater. Isaac had watched her speak easily with the servants, wondering vaguely why the new lady of the house resembled a nameless youth whom he had seen help Susan weed on occasion… and then Agnes had entered the room, already blushing, and Isaac had almost sunk to his knees.

  ‘Isaac?’ Susan again, pointing at a branch. ‘Make sure to cut all that back.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Isaac nodded slowly, lost in memory.

  She had been as graceful as ever, as silent and shy and beautiful as ever, and she had recognised him. The look Agnes had given him was worse, in a way, than a sneer or silent indifference; it had given Isaac hope. He had known then, watching her leave the room with a focus that bordered on agony, that avoiding her would not be an option.

  So he had learned about her. He had found gardening tasks near where Anne and her sisters gathered; he had strained his ears to hear any snatch of conversation that concerned Agnes, what she liked, what she hated. He had talked to the Longwater cooks, effortlessly steering the conversation towards the foods that the youngest Hereford loved best; he had listened to the Longwater maids as they chattered in the kitchen after dinner had been cleared away, learning about Agnes’ gowns and scents and sleeping habits. He had even made a list of books that the maids had mentioned; he had sent for them, paying for them with his own wages, and had read them all. One of them, to his surprise, had been a book he already owned; Hattenby’s Language of Flowers.

  He shook his head as he cut savagely through the branch. Perhaps that could have been enough; the half-life of obsession, longing, secrecy. Of watching her from the shadows, never daring to make his presence felt. But then Agnes had begun to appear in the gardens alone… alone, and beautiful, and waiting.

  Had she been waiting for him? Isaac had never been sure; he had never wanted to assume. But after passing her innumerable times as he chopped wood, or planted seedlings, or returned fledglings to their nests, he had seen her watching him… and God help him, he had grown bold.

  Late one Wednesday morning, watching her sketch by the river, he had left a white rose at the foot of the cherry tree that bordered its banks. Fragile Beauty. He had agonised over the meaning in Hattonby, wondering if it was too forward, too presumptuous—but he had left it anyway, making sure she saw him do it. He had spent the rest of the day with his heart in his mouth, sure of being questioned, interrogated, dismissed from his position… and then, just before sunset, he had returned to the tree.

  A slim, dark-petalled iris had been waiting for him. Much Felt, Much Hidden; that was the meaning that Isaac had read in Hattonby that night, hardly believing that those were the words written.

  Ever since then, every Wednesday morning and evening, there had been an exchange of flowers. Isaac had learned to count on it as surely as he did the sunrise, or the swallows in summer; there would be a bloom there, either one already given or an entirely new flower, with a meaning that bound his heart to Agnes more thoroughly than ever. Constant Affection. Sweet Sorrow. I Dream of You…

  Oh, how he dreamed of her.

  ‘When we have finished the topiary, Isaac, we must attend to the blooming roses. I have seen some signs of powdery mildew on the Queen Catherine variety.’

  ‘I have already cut away the offending parts of the plant, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Then we will be able to move directly to the pinks, as well as some of the orange varieties. Oh—and the Radiant Beauties have finally flowered.’

  Isaac smiled; the fragrant white rose was one of his favourites. He had given it to Agnes twice; the meaning was evident, even without Hattonby as a guide. ‘That’s good news, ma’am.’

  Susan nodded; she almost never smiled, but her contentment was evident. ‘Good news indeed, and timely. I suppose we will need to pluck the blooms and keep the white petals, if Agnes is to be married soon.’

  He could not have heard correctly. Susan could not have spoken correctly. Isaac turned to her, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth, the clippers hanging heavy in his hands.

  ‘What?’ He blinked, coming back to himself. ‘I—I beg your pardon?’

  ‘We will need to pluck the blooms and keep the white petals, Isaac.’ Susan scowled. ‘Come, now. It is a simple task.’

  ‘Yes.’ Isaac tried to be patient, but it was killing him. ‘And… and why do we need them?’

  ‘Agnes.’ Susan rolled her eyes. ‘She is all-but married to the earl of Ashton—the man who left hoof-prints on the lovely lawn at the entrance to the wood. I cannot approve her choice of husband, given his cavalier attitude to Longwater’s greenery, but as usual I was not consulted.’ She began to walk forward again. ‘From what I can gather—and I know that I am a useless gatherer, but still—they have conducted a sort of clandestine courtship in these very gardens.’ Her voice dripped with contempt. ‘What a stupid way to use a garden.’

  Isaac stood stock-still, a dull roaring in his ears. He stood as if struck dumb, watching Susan begin to inspect the roses as his world crumbled to dust.

  It couldn’t be true, could it? But Susan never lied; Isaac didn’t think she could. How foolish he was being, hoping for a colossal misunderstanding rather than the far more likely explanation; an aristocratic girl playing love-games with a servant, before moving onto a gentleman who could keep her in the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed.

  It hadn’t meant anything, then. All of his carefully constructed dreams, all of his tentative, tender actions; they had all been useless fancies. His desire, his love, his constancy; all had been playthings for Agnes, a way of practising, before she met a man truly worthy of her affections.

  Is that why she had stolen into the gardens alone, dressed in her finery? Not waiting for him, but taunting him; tempting him with her body while her heart belonged to another man? Or worse—perhaps all their shared looks, their unspoken words, had been inventions on his part. Perhaps Agnes has simply been waiting for her real lover in the gardens, wondering why Isaac had passed by so very frequently.

  Perhaps the flowers had never been for him.

  He had expected more from Agnes. Or rather, he had hoped for more; he could never expect anything from a woman so above him in every respect. Even now, he could not feel anger towards her. Isaac stood up straighter, attempting to take up his work once more, but a sudden wave of acute, agonising sadness stilled his hands.

  He had kept every flower. Every peony, every harebell, every rose; he had held his face to their petals, imagining the delicacy with which they had been touched by Agnes. He had gently placed them between the pages of the Hattonby book, carefully pressing them, hoping they would outlast everything else he owned.

  ‘Isaac?’ Susan had turned back, looking at him with narrowed eyes. ‘You are being impossible today. Perhaps you should retire to your cottage, and return when you are ready to serve.’

  Better to leave. Better to leave, and walk a thousand miles
on bare and bloody feet, than push his unwanted affections onto Agnes. Better to live at the edge of the world, drunk on memory, than see the things he had imagined burn.

  ‘I will retire, ma’am—but I will not return.’ Isaac, placing the clippers gently on the ground, began walking away before he could see Susan’s reaction. ‘I will be leaving Longwater at first light.’

  The Longwater Estate, in all its bucolic magnificence, frequently held dances of all description. One of the most elegant dates on the calendar, its Spring Ball invited all of the most incorrigible gossips in the ton to don their most extravagant LeClerc gowns, drink as much champagne as was seemly, and stare in barely-concealed jealousy at the Hereford sisters; women who had inexplicably managed to find wealthy husbands without having wealth of their own.

  It was even whispered behind fans that the girls were not particularly charming; apart from Anne, who had more than demonstrated her fitness to be a duchess, the younger sisters were full of faults quite damaging to their sex. Lydia Balfour had managed to trap an earl, despite being horribly talkative, while Henrietta Westlake had succeeded in marrying Richard Westlake, the swashbuckling baron, despite glowering all the time as if ready to duel someone. Only Agnes Hereford, silent, blushing and generally overlooked, appeared to receive a fitting lack of attention… which is why, on the night of the Spring Ball, her first dance with the earl of Ashton was treated as news bordering on a natural disaster.

  ‘How on earth do they do it?’ Lady Midslope muttered to her companion, a rake of indeterminate age, as Agnes and the earl bowed and curtseyed to one another. ‘Do they even know one another?’

  ‘Apparently.’ The rake gave a disaffected sigh, looking at his shoes. ‘The gossip has been simply flying around Bath. It is certainly bold of him, requesting the first dance.’

  ‘But he is sure to be bored to death. The girl cannot string a sentence together.’ Lady Midslope scowled as she drank her champagne. ‘I have three daughters—how is it that they have no dances, while another conniving Hereford manages to bag an earl?’

  ‘Lord knows.’ The rake knew very well, but decided it would be inappropriate to explain. ‘And perhaps we are simply uncharitable. Perhaps the Hereford girls have hidden depths.’

  ‘They will have to.’ Lady Midslope watched Agnes, irritated at the pinkness of her skin. ‘Their shallows are not inviting in the slightest.’

  The earl of Ashton, much to Agnes’ annoyance, was a perfectly pleasant man. If he had been boastful, or cruel, or arrogant in the charmless way of so many titled men, she would have felt much more justified in hating him as much as he did. Alas, Charles Mountview was cheerful, polite and reasonably handsome… but he was not Isaac, not by any means, and so Agnes heartily wished that the earth would swallow him up.

  For the first time in her entire life, she thanked the Lord for her shyness. A more extroverted woman would have been expected to display some sign of recognition upon publicly meeting a man she had privately pledged her heart to—a brightness to the eyes, a smile that lingered—while Agnes, famously shy, could not be relied upon to display any form of positive reaction whatsoever.

  Timidity, she told herself as she was led onto the dance-floor, is a good thing. Thank goodness she would not be expected to acknowledge the earl in a particular manner; even with his hand in hers, his happy smile beaming only a little way away, Agnes felt nothing at all. It was as if she were being led to dance by a kitchen chair, or a comb; an object that inspired nothing but complete indifference.

  The music began. Agnes, feeling a blush already beginning at the base of her chest, felt the eager eyes of Anne, Lydia and Henrietta at her back. They moved, turned and clapped in their assigned places for a seemingly interminable amount of time, the room growing hotter and hotter by degrees, before the earl gamely attempted to make conversation.

  ‘I must say, Miss Hereford—when your sister communicated your eagerness to dance the first dance with me, I was somewhat surprised. After all, we have never previously conversed.’ He smiled wider; Agnes found herself faintly unnerved by the sheer number of teeth the man had. ‘But that does not mean that I am not most sincerely flattered.’

  Of course Anne said I was eager. She thinks that I want you to compromise me. Agnes nodded, smiling as she murmured something indistinct, hoping that it would be enough to appease him. Something that I would rather die than have happen.

  More whirls came, more claps, more complicated steps that graciously allowed Agnes a way of avoiding conversation. Charles, on the other hand, seemed as determined to speak to Agnes as Agnes was determined to avoid it.

  ‘This week spent hunting in your woodlands has been so marvellously restorative. I always feel so much more ready to face life’s slings and arrows after I’ve bagged a deer or two.’

  Agnes attempted to smile in response, but couldn’t help feeling rather sour. No man who felt the need to slay defenceless creatures could ever have her complete respect.

  Charles, of course, seemed undeterred by her lack of approval. ‘And from the little I have seen of the Longwater estate, its gardens are even more beautiful than popular rumour would suggest.’

  Agnes found herself nodding eagerly. Let them speak of the gardens; it was almost like speaking of Isaac, which was all she wanted to do to anyone who would listen without judgement. ‘Yes.’ Her blush rose higher as having spoken in so public a space. ‘They truly are exquisite.’

  ‘Quite! His Grace has created Arcadia—although I hear it is largely the work of his sister. Credit must be placed where credit is due.’ Charles gave a brisk, sanctimonious nod. ‘And the gardener chap. A biblical name, I think? David, perhaps? I’ve seen him pottering about as we’ve ridden through. A pity, really.’

  ‘Isaac. I—I believe his name is Isaac.’ She had finally spoken the name aloud; Agnes couldn’t prevent herself from smiling. ‘And why is it a pity?’

  ‘Well—the fact that he is leaving. Lady Colborne informed me as I arrived—she appears to be informing everyone, in quite a concerned fashion.’ The earl’s smile faded as he attempted to discreetly convey how odd he considered the behaviour of his hostess. ‘But I suppose one has those particular members of staff who made the world run a little more smoothly. One wonders how the gardens will fare after he has gone.’

  ‘But—but you are mistaken.’ Agnes realised she was gripping the earl’s hand; she softened her grip, even as her knees buckled slightly. ‘You must be mistaken.’

  ‘I… I am loathe to contradict a lady, but I believe I am correct. You could ask Lady Colborne yourself.’ The earl’s smile faded a little, before sliding back into its previous position. ‘Of course, if you wish to maintain your belief, I will support you to the very end.’

  Agnes knew she had to smile, even if she felt like screaming. She urged herself to become something else—wood, metal, thread—until the dance was over; she could not leave now, with the music still playing, without attracting comment. She could not faint either, or wail, or die, even if all of those options seemed infinitely preferable to spending another moment surrounded by ignorant, hateful faces.

  It couldn’t be true. Could it? Isaac wouldn’t leave on a whim—walk out of her life as silently as he had entered it. They had been building something together, something slow, secret, exquisite—and now it was over? Finished?

  Unless…

  Unless he had been informed of her courtship. Her eventual marriage, to the man she was currently dancing with. Susan talked of things that should not be discussed in public; why, she was telling all of the guests about the gardener’s giving of his notice. Perhaps she had told Isaac of the earl of Ashton, and his peculiar courtship with the youngest Hereford sister…

  Her eyes couldn’t fill with tears, not now; she couldn’t flee until the last notes of the melody sounded. As the musicians finally came to a close, the room erupting with applause, Agnes managed to perform the most perfunctory curtsey she had ever done in her life—and with the earl’s smile s
till burning her back, the curious faces of her sisters fading into the distance, she left the room as quickly as she possibly could.

  ‘Do you see?’ Lady Midslope fluttered her fan, concealing a roll of the eyes. ‘So terribly rustic. Even a dance has overwhelmed her.’

  It was ending. Everything was ending, in the most atrocious way imaginable, and it was all her fault.

  Agnes stumbled blindly over the lawns, the cheerful sounds of the ball a mockery to her ears. Her gown was heavy with mud, she was sure of it, and a light but definite rain was beginning to fall—but what did any of it matter? No-one would be looking for her; Anne, Lydia and Henrietta were more than used to her abruptly leaving balls, and would assume that she was hiding in either a corridor or her bedroom. She had briefly gone to her bedroom, she had to admit… but only to look at the flowers she had carefully pressed, the pieces of a rapport she had begun to cherish more than any other, and summon up the courage to do what she had to do.

  The rain was growing more and more insistent. Agnes, wishing she had retained the presence of mind to bring a cloak, stumbled down the weakly-lit path that led to where she knew Isaac lived.

  Why had she never been brave enough to take this path in daylight? Agnes sighed to herself as she shivered in the rain, trying to walk as quickly as she could despite the weight of her sodden gown. She had never taken this path because she had been frightened; frightened of Isaac, frightened of herself, frightened of what would happen if she ever went to him, just as she was doing now. Frightened of the whole world changing, and herself changing with it.

  But the world had changed, and for the worse, when she had done nothing at all—when she had tried to keep things secret. Now, in the depths of desperation, courage had to win the day; courage that was a step away from pure necessity.

  ‘Ah!’ Lightning split the sky; Agnes cried out, wincing as the rain grew heavier. This was no shower; it was a storm, a storm that could rip trees from their roots and send weaker plants flying who-knew-where. It was dangerous for a young women to be out in such weather alone; dangerous, and foolish, but as necessary as breathing if it meant getting to Isaac—