Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘An adventure?’ Lady Chiltern’s cry of pure disbelief almost sent the wet sparrows flying from the roof. ‘I spend a night weeping, prostrate, practically in hysterics for the disappearance of my poor child, sending all the poor sleepless Chiltern villagers to comb the fields and streets in the middle of a rainstorm, and the first letter she sends to us talks about adventure? I’ll wring her neck!’

  ‘Mother, as I’ve told you innumerable times since yesterday morning, Iris was in no real danger from the start. I was in far more danger of developing a chill, after that horrible walk home.’ Daisy placed Iris’s letter on the table, avoiding the warning glance of Cora Seabrooke, her former governess. ‘All she did was fall into a flower cart and get trundled off to someone’s house. I fail to see why becoming a parcel for a day is worthy of all this commotion.’

  ‘Daisy, treat your mother’s nerves with a little more courtesy.’ Cora’s firm tone and kind eyes had Daisy feeling suitably chastened. ‘At least now we know that Iris is safe, and being looked after.’

  ‘Yes, but by who?’ Lady Chiltern’s normally placid features showed intense weariness after a sleepless night. ‘Who on earth is this Simon Harker?’

  ‘I’ve had business dealings with Harker in the past.’ Cora’s husband, James Ashcroft, spoke reassuringly to Lady Chiltern. ‘In trade, but doing marvellously well at it. The man’s a safe pair of hands, in every respect. Iris will probably find him terribly dull, but at least she’ll be dull in safety and comfort.’

  ‘I considered you a safe pair of hands, James Ashcroft, before you stole away with my governess.’ Lady Chiltern directed a sharp, half-jesting look at Cora, who blushed very prettily. ‘A pair of hands is never safe, unless they belong to a nun of indeterminate years. But as my alternative to trusting your judgement is another bout of complete hysterics, for the moment I’ll choose trust.’

  ‘Simon Harker isn’t the only man she mentioned in the letter, though.’ Daisy said it casually, with only a hint of slyness. ‘There is the chef Laurence, who spent hours yesterday teaching her how to make whorls and frills in sugar-paste.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. That’s all we need.’ Lady Chiltern briefly held a hand to her brow. ‘We’ll arrive to find her betrothed with a ring of marchpane.’

  ‘... If I may, my lady.’ The low, measured tones of Carstairs the butler washed over the group, bringing a sense of relative calm. ‘If the Laurence at the Harker household is the Laurence I used to work with on Lady Henley’s estate, then Iris is in no danger whatsoever.’

  ‘Why? Is he married?’ Lady Chiltern looked up, her eyes piteous. ‘Was he in some sort of terrible accident?’

  ‘No.’ The butler’s face had acquired a curiously careful expression. ‘But in this case, my judgement can be trusted as well as that of his Grace. Iris is in absolutely no danger from Laurence.’

  There was a moment of slightly confused silence. Daisy looked at the suddenly guarded faces of the older people in the room, wondering what on earth she had missed, before turning back to the letter with a small shake of her head.

  ‘In any case, she seems unharmed and happy. And the letter is written on terribly nice paper, from a Royal Crescent address.’ She shrugged. ‘If Iris were the practical type, and didn’t want to move to a ruined castle to marry a one-eyed man with a crow or something similar, I would say she has managed to engineer a most convenient mishap.’

  ‘At least now we have a residence. An address to tell to the driver.’ Lady Chiltern half-rose, rearranging her skirts. ‘Come. We must prepare to leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘Mother, I think that’s a somewhat overly dramatic view of things.’ Daisy held up the letter, trying to look appeasing. ‘The rain has left the roads near-impassable, especially today. She’s in a safe, appropriately moneyed place surrounded by people who either don’t interest her, or aren’t interested in her at all. No doubt there’s a veritable army of practical maidservants who will protect her from anything unseemly. And we have the spring dance, with all of the village expecting your presence… she can survive another night. Especially if I send her a very long letter now, telling her of our plans, and pass it to that indefatigable messenger boy who seems capable of swimming to Bath if pressed.’

  ‘Daisy, you are heartless.’ Lady Chiltern regarded her daughter with a mixture of love and annoyance. ‘How can you be so cool when discussing your sister?’

  ‘I am not being cool. I am being practical—she is unharmed, safe and seemingly very content!’ Daisy waved the letter for emphasis. ‘What I don’t want to do is make us all travel half a day in horrid weather, missing an event which we have been planning for months, in order to make an enormous mountain out of a very forgettable molehill.’

  ‘I…’ Lady Chiltern looked appealingly at Cora, who smiled, and then at Ashcroft. ‘Am I making sense, or are these merely the ramblings of a woman who has neither slept nor eaten in an ungodly amount of time?’

  ‘You are not rambling in the least. These are entirely normal things to think after a night of such fear.’ Cora spoke delicately, looking with real tenderness at Lady Chiltern. ‘But I must say Daisy’s argument has logic. Those who attend the spring dance do rather count on a Chiltern presence—it could very well be viewed as a snub if you do not attend. That might make finding workers at harvest-time quite difficult.’

  ‘My wife is, as always, correct.’ Ashcroft looked at his wife with quiet pride, smiling as she smiled back. ‘Besides, Harker’s in trade—and he’s never shown an interest in searching for a wife above his station. Perhaps he’ll title-hunt for his daughter, but not for himself. He’ll want to consolidate his wealth first.’ He looked comfortingly at Lady Chiltern. ‘I’ve never seen him look higher than a baronet’s sister. The daughter of a duke is more likely to annoy him than attract him.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose. And if he shows any sign of going against past conduct, I can always show him our bills. He’ll pack Iris off like a parcel.’ Lady Chiltern sighed. ‘Cooler heads than mine have spoken, I suppose. But before the cock crows tomorrow, rain or no rain, Daisy, you and I are making our way to Bath.’

  ‘Let us travel with you.’ Cora smiled. ‘We could make a gay moment of it, despite the rain.’

  ‘It will not be gay at all. The only joy will be berating my foolish, nonsensical child.’ Lady Chiltern smiled weakly. ‘But I thank you for your kindness all the same. Now—let’s go to breakfast. I intend to eat a considerable amount of buns before the rain manages to dampen my very soul.’

  As Daisy left the room, followed by Cora and Ashcroft, Lady Chiltern sat wearily back in her chair. Turning her head slightly, she looked at Carstairs for a moment that carried a surprising amount of unspoken weight.

  ‘She will be quite safe, there, won’t she?’ She stared at Carstairs, her voice growing softer. ‘I worry about Iris so very much. She’s not like Daisy—she makes these worlds of her own, and gets so terribly sad when the real world intrudes.’

  ‘The world needs people who can imagine better worlds. Iris will be treasured wherever she goes—in a flower cart or not.’ Carstairs spoke gravely. ‘But if you need me to travel to Bath and bring her back now, my lady, you know that I will. You have only to ask.’

  ‘Oh, Carstairs, I really couldn’t ask you to—’

  ‘You could.’ There was a rawness to the butler’s words, only half-hidden under the smooth polish of his training. ‘You know you could.’

  There was a moment of hushed, breathless silence. A silence that carried so many low, unspoken words; a silence that Lady Chiltern longed to fill, even for a moment, if only she could find a way to say the things that were knotted tight around her heart. But as her lips parted, her body trembling with tension from a sleepless night, Carstairs bowed with a deliberately blank face.

  ‘I will make you a little chamomile tea, my lady. You need it, after a night of such emotion. Excuse my previous words—they were out of character.’

  ‘You are, of cou
rse, excused.’ Lady Chiltern tried not to let disappointment enter her voice. ‘And… and thank you, for thinking of the chamomile tea.’

  ‘My job, my lady. Nothing but my job.’

  As Carstairs left, Lady Chiltern tried to speak briskly to herself.

  He said it himself. Nothing but his job.

  Simon Harker rarely allowed himself the luxury of dreaming. His mind preserved every grain of creativity it could for the working day ahead; inspiration was often required in the high-stakes, cut-throat world of speculation. But to his extreme annoyance, he woke earlier than normal with one name hovering on his lips.

  Had he ever actually dreamed of a woman before? Erotic fantasises, yes—but they were always performed by a half-waking mind. Women had been in his sleeping mind before, but never as principal characters. Apparently all his brain had been waiting for was Iris Chiltern, irritating as she was.

  She’d been in an ivory robe; a robe from a painting he’d seen long ago, of a biblical woman he couldn’t remember. Perhaps Mary Magdalene, although he couldn’t be sure. An ivory robe, with rose petals staining her bare feet a lush, uninhibited pink, her mouth curled in a soft, intimate smile as she’d slipped away from his outstretched hands…

  Had he caught her? He looked down at his cock, stiff as a board beneath the blankets, and sighed. It appeared not.

  After an extremely cold and thorough wash, complete with vigorous soaping and determinedly frigid thoughts, he dressed and made his way downstairs. There were ever-so-many things to do; masses of letters to write, acres of papers to sign, a veritable avalanche of small things to note and evaluate before the arrival of his guests the following day... and he never normally ate breakfast, preferring to have his valet bring him a cup of coffee at ten o’clock.

  So why, exactly, was he walking to the kitchen? Why was he walking quickly, as if there was something terribly important to do?

  With a determinedly grim look designed to scare even the most forward of domestic servants, he strode into the bustling kitchen. The chaos of the morning was infinitely worse than the relative calm of the previous night; steam and shouting filled the room, as his staff commenced the final stage of preparations for the food that was to be served at the ball. Simon ducked to avoid a haunch of venison, pausing to scowl at a man pouring an immoderate measure of lemon into the punch—all the while looking for the person that he had absolutely no business searching out at such an early hour.

  There she was. Iris Chiltern, happily tucked away in the corner of the room, gently pressing what looked like sugar almonds into small, oval-shaped cakes. Next to her Laurence was manfully beating down dough in a large bowl; for an instant, even knowing the proclivities of his pastry cook, Simon was violently jealous of his proximity to their visitor.

  As Iris looked up, a twinge of tension shadowing her features, the jealousy vanished. Now Simon struggled with the mixture of conflicting emotions he’d felt since the end of his dream; annoyance, arousal, and deep confusion as to how to reconcile the two.

  ‘Good morning.’ He bowed curtly to Iris, who immediately stopped what she was doing. ‘I see you are still pretending to be equipped for this sort of work.’

  ‘A most impolite good morning.’ Iris frowned; Simon tried not to look shamefaced. ‘If you must know, it appears I am most well-equipped to make almond cakes. One hundred of them, in fact. Laurence complimented me most lavishly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say lavishly, my lady. You pressed far too hard on the first few.’ Laurence lifted a large dishcloth, revealing row after row of cakes that Simon had to admit looked appetising in the extreme. ‘But you got the knack after the seventh or eighth. And it turned out to be a lovely idea, adding a little lavender syrup to some of them.’

  ‘Yes. I was pleased with the result.’ Iris smiled, her tone slightly needling. ‘Perhaps my knowledge of herbs comes from all the time I spent in the woods, cuddling rabbits and serving bluebell tea.’

  ‘How fortunate for you that you were able to spend so much time in the woods.’ Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘I, like so many others, was forced to work for a living from an early age.’

  ‘How curious that you don’t consider one’s emotional cultivation as work. It is the greatest labour that women perform.’ Iris’s eyes flashed. ‘And when men do not undertake such work, the results are depressingly evident.’

  ‘Emotional cultivation is of little use when handling money, Miss Chiltern.’

  ‘Of that, I have no doubt.’ Iris folded her arms. ‘But money very often comes attached to people.’

  ‘Not all people, Miss Chiltern, are so infernally—’

  ‘—Sir?’ Laurence’s tone was apologetic as he interrupted, but his eyes had a glint of mischief that Simon didn’t entirely trust. ‘If I could be so presumptuous as to ask, perhaps our guest would like to take a brief turn around the kitchen garden? The rain may have battered things about a bit, but it’s a change of scenery.’ He smiled at Iris, who shyly nodded her head in agreement. ‘And this particular bit of baking requires a little more strength than my lady is capable of.’

  Simon looked doubtfully out of the half-open door. The rain had stopped for a moment, yes—but it was hardly sunny splendour out there. He looked back at Laurence, who looked almost comically humble as he vigorously punched down the dough.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’ve become the head of social graces here at the manor, Laurence.’ Simon looked at Iris, trying to erase his memory of the dream he’d had. ‘Perhaps Miss Chiltern wishes to stay indoors.’

  ‘Sir, with the greatest of respect, I don’t need people in here who aren’t working. You are both… talking.’ He looked at Iris, whose expression was one of badly concealed embarrassment. ‘And words, as prettily spoken as they are, cannot be fed to guests tomorrow night.’

  ‘... I see.’ Simon wondered how he’d managed to acquire a member of his staff so very free with his opinions. How annoying that he baked far too well to be disciplined. ‘Then I will take my words to greener pastures. ‘Miss Chiltern—would you care to look at the garden?’

  ‘I… Yes.’ Iris nodded, traces of embarrassment still in her face. For a brief, exquisite moment, Simon wondered if he had featured in her dreams. ‘Of course.’

  It wasn’t a very big garden. It wasn’t even a particularly grand garden; Simon had chosen productivity over looks, as he did with most things he owned. But as he watched Iris’s gaze grow rapt, her lips parting in a gasp, the fifth-largest kitchen garden on the King’s Row suddenly became a bower of delight.

  How does she do it? Simon watched her as she stepped onto the paved path, half-smiling despite himself. It had to be in her gaze, the quality of her look; while he normally looked at things to appraise their material value, Iris Chiltern looked at them with a glowing admiration for everything they already were.

  He wanted her to look at everything like that. Everything he owned, from his hat to his horses. And if he were honest with himself—which he didn’t want to be, not with the weak patches of sunlight making a halo around Iris’s curls—he rather wanted to be looked at in that way himself.

  ‘It’s hardly Eden.’ He didn’t know why he had to dampen her light; perhaps he was afraid of being blinded. ‘But it gives what it ought; food and ointments. At least it does later in the season, when the first buds start flowering.’

  ‘But it’s wildly romantic. All of the birds in winter, the bees and butterflies in summer… just think of the scent!’ Iris twirled, clearly ecstatic. ‘It’s a glorious garden. If you were any sort of novelistic hero, you would lounge in it and glower whenever dusk came.’

  ‘It’s productive. It feeds half my staff and provides medicine for the other half.’ Simon looked at her askance, watching the way the light turned her curls into a mass of glittering copper. ‘And I think we’ve established that I am the very opposite of a novelistic hero.’

  ‘... Correct.’ Iris stopped twirling, her face falling a little. ‘Entirely correct.’

&n
bsp; ‘The exact opposite.’ Simon continued, edging closer to a question he hadn’t even known he wanted to ask. ‘And given your expertise in this arena, Miss Chiltern… why am I the exact opposite?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Iris paused, looking at him properly. ‘You… you wish to know in what respects you differ from the hero one finds in novels?’

  ‘You persist in telling me how different I am from them.’ Simon fought the urge to shrug, although it came very naturally. ‘It would certainly take me too much time to read about all of these specimens myself, in order to note my defects. Perhaps you could save me some weeks of reading, and inform me yourself?’

  ‘I… I wouldn’t say defects. Just differences. Large differences.’ Iris spoke more quietly now, her gaze clouding over with caution. ‘Please don’t think that I mean to insult you.’

  ‘There is no question of insult.’ Simon smiled, relieved as he saw a little of the old freedom come back into her face. ‘It’s all in jest, no? Enlighten me.’

  ‘... Alright.’ Iris bent down, gracefully picking up a windblown rose that had fallen to the path. Holding it casually between her fingers, stroking the petals as Simon watched, she spoke. ‘The heroes of novels, Mr. Harker, especially the novels that I enjoy reading, are always pale. This is due to their habit of wandering through their grounds at dusk, bemoaning lost loves. They also have dark hair and even darker eyes, usually due to a mysterious ancestor who bestowed their colouring upon them. It’s clear you cannot match these physical characteristics.’

  ‘No, and I’m glad of it.’ Simon attempted to keep his voice light, even as he fought a sudden, savagely irrational envy of every pale-complexioned, dark-haired man in Bath. ‘Successful men rarely mope. And sun on one’s skin means you have a lot of land to survey.’

  ‘Well, that’s the other difference. Novelistic heroes always have family money, or no family money, or a crumbling family pile that eats all of their family money. They are never in trade.’ Iris dreamily plucked a petal from the rose; Simon watched it fall to the ground. ‘They always just… have money. In unexplainable and often very murky ways. Or they’re secret smugglers. Or highwaymen.’