The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Page 18

  "There you are. Finally," he would say, hiding his smile. "Dormiglione."

  It further annoyed her that the dog was soon following him about as if he was the master. On more than one occasion she emerged from the house to find Captain Fartleberries laid contentedly in the shade of a tree, watching Massimo and only greeting her with a lazy wag, not even bothering to get up.

  "I cannot 'elp it if your dog loves me," he said with a shrug. "Massimo 'as this effect on women and beasts alike."

  "Have you been feeding him treats when my back is turned?"

  "Certainly I 'ave not!" he protested.

  "I shall know if he gets any fatter."

  "Any fatter and the creature will roll." Maxim looked at the happily panting beast and winked. The dog wagged its stump rapidly in reply and then keeled onto one side, offering that plump belly for a good scratch.

  There was much pruning of the vines to be done, but it was still too soon— better to wait for later in the winter when the leaves were all gone and the plants dormant. So for now Maxim tidied the rows and mounded soil and straw around the base of the vines. Looking ahead to spring he also set up braziers in the vineyard, ready for burning garden waste and keeping off the late frosts.

  Meanwhile, in the orchard they cut back dead branches and cleared the ground of remaining fallen fruit. The last of the apples and pears were pulped and pressed into cider and perry. There were vegetables that needed to be got up off the ground and stored before winter too. With so much work on their hands the days passed quickly.

  They ate meals in the kitchen, where food was prepared by Martha Grey, a kindly old woman who fussed around Flora as if it she was her own daughter. The long trestle table in the great hall was not used, his mistress clearly preferring the warmth and informality of the kitchen. To keep both fires lit, of course, would call for more wood to be chopped and they were short handed.

  As the weather cooled and the days grew shorter they worked ever harder in the condensed hours of daylight to prepare the land and the small farm for winter.

  In his spare moments, he drew up a plan to show her what needed to be done each season in the vineyard. "Just in case I cannot be 'ere."

  "Why? Where are you going?" She looked up at him, wide-eyed suddenly, as if it had not occurred to her that he couldn't stay forever.

  He shrugged loosely. "Sometimes a man does not know what might 'appen."

  "I hope you're not the unreliable sort that will up and leave without warning one day."

  At least now she saw his worth, he mused. It was the closest he might ever get to having her admit she needed him. Even if it was only for a bunch of grapes. "I will stay, mistress, as long as you need me. Unless I am struck down by the reaper who is grim."

  Her eyes glimmered with dubious amusement. "I've never met anybody less likely to be struck down. You have far too much..." Averting her gaze she abandoned the thought in mid air.

  As she rested her hands on the table and leaned forward to study the plan, he slyly admired her profile. She wore her hair pinned up today, her neck exposed, but for a few curling tendrils of copper and bronze. There was a light scent of violets, which he drank in greedily, moving closer, pretending he needed to point out something on the paper. The graceful arch of her bare neck seemed as sensual suddenly as a naked thigh, and his fingertips itched for the chance to stray slowly over the curve of skin. Then for his tongue and lips to follow. Inch by inch.

  "What is this word?" she was saying, pointing to the paper.

  "Violets."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He scratched his beard and coughed. "Your fragrance."

  She took a step to one side and looked at him. "I distill it myself. Is it too strong? Your eyes look...misty. Cloudy."

  "No, no. Very...nice." That was the best he could do at that moment. He wished she would come back again and stand close, but now she remained a few feet away.

  "What is this word?" she repeated. "Calyptra?"

  So he forced himself back to the present and explained, "The Calyptra is a fused cap of petals on the vine in spring. Once it opens and falls, the pollen is liberated and the plant fertilized so that the flower can begin its transformation to the berry."

  "But we are a long way from that."

  "Yes. We are all the way back...here." He took her hand from the plan, lightly holding it, as if it was quite a natural thing to do, and moved her pointing finger along the paper. "Here is winter, when pruning must happen. But not too soon. In the spring, the soil warms, pushing water and minerals up through the roots to be expelled through the cuts made in the plant. Then buds form with shoots that sprout leaves, and these produce energy to quicken the growth. But if the buds break too soon, there is a risk of frost damage."

  She nodded, her gaze on their joined hands. "Yes, I see."

  "The grapevine is a tender plant. More tender than it looks."

  "Hmm." She did not look up.

  "It requires nurture and encouragement to flourish. Like a child."

  "Yes."

  "It demands patience."

  "Uh huh."

  "Love," he murmured. "It needs love."

  Finally she took her hand from his and looked up. "Are you saying I'm not capable of delivering these requirements, because I am not a mother?"

  "This I did not say." How on earth did she surmise that to be his meaning? Women. Let one word slip out and they could make an entire paragraph of nonsense from it.

  "Because there is nobody more patient and nurturing than I," she exclaimed.

  Hmm. Seemed to have touched a sore point. "And loving? You know about love, eh?"

  "I do. I know what it is." She turned back to the paper, her voice softer. "I've been waiting for it long enough."

  Waiting for it. So she had not yet found it. Ah. Hope.

  Then she added, "And you, Massimo? What about you and love? Is there a special woman in your life?"

  "There is," he replied.

  "Oh." Now he had her full attention again, but she moved around the table, putting greater distance between them. "In Italy?"

  "No."

  "Where is she then?"

  "'Ere."

  "Here?"

  "That's why I came. To find this woman."

  A warm brush of color dusted her cheeks. "Well, I hope the work here at Darnley does not keep you from her."

  He smiled. "She is patient. She assures me of it. For Massimo she will wait, of course." He reached across the table as if to take her hand again. He saw her lips part, heard her breath escape in a startled gasp as his arm brushed her sleeve. But he took two ratafia biscuits from the plate sitting there, stuffed one into his mouth and went back outside to get on with his work.

  * * * *

  "Oh, Martha, look at this gown!" Flora stood before her mirror in a frock that was once her best, and stared forlornly at her reflection. It was some time since she'd had cause to wear the garment and now that she finally looked at it again, there were visible wine and soup stains, as well as pulled threads and a drooping hem. In places, the silk had also been nibbled on by moths, or mice while kept folded in her trunk. Turning this way and that to examine the damage, she groaned. "Like me it has truly seen better days."

  She was unfashionably tanned by the sun, and Great Aunt Bridget— if she could see them— would be horrified at the rough state of her protégée's hands.

  "What a shame, my lady," said Martha. "Such a pretty thing it is, too."

  "Yes, I have a lot of pretty things, but they are no use to me now."

  "You remind me of the dowager duchess, madam. The old one, I mean, madam. The current duke's grandmama."

  "You knew her well?"

  "Aye, madam. She was my first mistress when I came here as a young girl to work in the kitchen. Such a kind lady she were to me. Never had a harsh word and always put me at my ease. Talked to me as if I were just like her. Made me feel at home."

  Flora watched as the old lady ran her hands over the skir
t of her lovely gold silk and rose velvet gown. Martha always seemed happier and more talkative when her husband was away at market, as he was that day. Her shoulders went down, her spine straightened and even the songs she sung in the kitchen were a little less sad.

  "She sounds like a wonderful lady, Martha."

  "She was. And you are very like her, madam, in some ways. She did not care what other folk thought of her either. Gave up wearing all her pretty things after the duke died. Folk used to say she was a bit mad too."

  "Oh, is that what folk say about me? That I'm mad?"

  Martha blushed, realizing her slip. "I do not heed what they say, madam. For sure I do not."

  "You can tell them that I prefer the term eccentric. If they must talk of me at all."

  "I wish they would not. 'Tis not kindly."

  "It is human nature, Martha. People have to talk about something. As a very wise woman once said, I care not what they say about me, as long as it isn't true."

  Who had said that? She couldn't recall.

  Martha seemed confused rather than amused or comforted by this statement. Hastily changing the subject back to the dress, she said, "Perhaps we can cut it up and use the material for something, madam. Pillow covers, basket liners, lavender bags, or some such."

  "Excellent idea. To be sure we can put it to some use."

  A sudden shout in the yard, drew them both to the window of her chamber and Flora was pleased, at first, to see her brother Francis. But then she recognized the other man in his company. "Oh, good lord. Georgie Tarleton. What does he want?"

  Descending the carriage, the gentleman looked up and waved to her with his hat. "What ho, Lady Flora, you minx! Here I find you, still buried away in the countryside. Your brother and I were certain you would be done with all this by now and ready for some excitement again, so here we come to enliven the proceedings."

  Under no circumstances must they see "Massimo", she thought anxiously. Tarleton would very likely recognize his old friend at once, blurt it out, and the game would be over. So she hurried down to apprehend them, not bothering to change out of her once-fine frock and keen to be rid of her guests as soon as politely possible.

  * * * *

  Maxim had recognized that voice. He came around the side of the barn and stopped when he saw Flora dashing across the yard to greet her visitors. Backing up a few steps, he watched in growing anger as that idle rake, Tarleton, kissed her hand, flattered her oafishly and made a great and stupid fuss over the length and discomfort of their journey.

  "I would not have believed you took up residence in such a place, had I not come all this way and seen it for myself. My poor, dear woman, what can have driven you out here to the back of beyond?"

  "Georgie, how... lovely to see you. And Francis!" She embraced her brother with warmth, turning him, as she did so, toward the great hall. "But I do wish you had written first. I am so very busy and we're not prepared for guests. I have very few staff and we live simply."

  "I wanted to surprise you, sis—"

  "I remember that gown," Tarleton exclaimed, talking loudly over her brother's reply. "It was always one of my favorites. Such a charming color. You wore it at the Grosvenor's ball last year, the last time we danced together. But, Lady Flora, where are your shoes?"

  Laughing, she explained, "You caught me as I sorted through my old things to see what might be used for the parish charity. This dress is no use to me now."

  "If you think that, m'dear, it seems I have come at the right moment to save you. I cannot have you throwing away your ball gowns. It will not be borne!"

  She was looking around the yard, acting guilty, Maxim thought. Then she herded both men indoors.

  So Tarleton was still sniffing about her skirts, was he? Well, Massimo would put a stop to that.

  * * * *

  "What brings you all the way out here, Georgie?" Flora asked, throwing another log on the fire. "I did not think you liked to travel and we—I am so far from town." In other words she thought she was safe here, away from the gropers, gossips and pushers. Apparently nowhere was far enough.

  "I think you know why I came." He strode across the hall, shaking a finger at her, as if she were a child to be reprimanded. "I gave you time to reconsider my request and surely by now you have done so. Living out here alone, by all reports working like a farm-hand. The novelty, I said to myself, must have worn off by now."

  It took her a moment to understand, but after he had blundered on a little more in his usual way, enjoying the sound of his own voice, she realized that by "request" he meant his marriage proposal, delivered before she last left London. Although she had given him her answer already, he apparently imagined she'd have a different one for him now, after thinking it for a few months.

  "Oh, Georgie, I sincerely hope that is not the only reason you took this long journey. You'll be disappointed."

  "But surely this is a phase," her persisted cheerily. "Like that of hiring a hermit to wander about one's grounds and designing Roman ruins for the lawn. It is a folly. A masquerade. 'Tis becoming something of a fashion in France, I hear, for fine ladies of the aristocracy to play at peasantry."

  "This is not a hobby, George. Not for me."

  "What else could it possibly be for the daughter of an earl?"

  "A way of life. A true, satisfying, useful existence."

  He pouted, jowls drooping like the pulled hem of her skirt. But within the next breath he was beaming again. "You saucy minx! How you do tease."

  Realizing she wasted her energy, and having far less of that to waste these days, she finally shrugged. "Even old ladies must have some entertainment, George, and teasing you has always been one of mine."

  Although she made a jest of it, she was truly annoyed. Her brother she was pleased to see, but Tarleton's noise she could well do without. There was a time when she found him amusing, but she'd outgrown him, she knew now with certainty He was tiring at best, obnoxious at worst.

  She was also wary of giving him any encouragement because she did not want to make an even greater enemy of Harriet Seton. That feud was something else she had outgrown, but her happiness was clearly still an irritation to Harriet, who took every opportunity to spread gossip and wicked speculation.

  Almost immediately George wanted a bath to scrub off the "filth of country travel" and she had to explain to him the difficulties with so few spare hands to heat and carry water. "If I want a bath I have to prepare it for myself," she said. "Martha and her husband are too old to manage great pails of water. But we have a stream that runs through the property, just beyond the orchard. You are welcome to bathe there."

  He drew back in horror. "In a stream? But it will be cold."

  "It is not too bad when the sun has been on it all day. The water is not deep. Just take care not to fall and scrape your knees on the stones beneath." Her hired hand managed in the stream, she thought with a sigh, feeling her face heat up at the memory of seeing him through the apple boughs. Quite by chance, of course. And there was considerably more of "Massimo" than there was of George Tarleton— all of it firm, well-exercised. Taut. Rampant, one might say.

  But George shook his head violently and decided he would make do with a "light wash of the essentials" with a basin of warm water. Flora longed to ask him what he meant by "essentials", because she really did not think there was anything about him that could be described as such, but she kept that to herself and asked Grey to show her guest to the scullery. While he was gone, Francis suggested a tour of the house and grounds, and she was glad to show off. Especially glad to do so without Tarleton interrupting and being his usual loud, garrulous self.

  It was months since her brother had seen the place and he was impressed by the changes.

  "I'm proud of you, sister," he remarked as she showed him the well-stocked barn and the cider press. "You've done well here. And all alone."

  "Not quite all alone," she admitted sheepishly.

  "Oh?"

  "I have hired an
Italian to help me with the vineyard."

  "An Italian? Where is he?"

  "Out. I expect. Working in the field. Somewhere. He's very busy." She grabbed an apple from the pile and rubbed it on her once-best gown. "Joss Radcliffe found him for me. He's an expert in viticulture. Works very hard."

  Her brother looked at her oddly.

  She took a large bite from the apple and chewed.

  After a moment he said, "No word from the duke then?"

  Oops. That chunk was a little too large and swallowed so fast it now headed down the wrong pipe. Almost choking, she replied huskily. "I've had no letter. Why?"

  "I just wondered what he would think of all this. It would surprise him to see how hard you've worked here."

  "I daresay we could surprise each other these days."

  Francis walked around the press, admiring it as if he knew anything about cider-making. "I worried, when you first came here, that you might do something to make him angry, after all he's done for us."

  "Done for us?" She coughed on another bite and swallowed painfully, eyes smarting. "What do you mean, Francis? What has Malgrave done for us?"

  Reluctantly he replied, "When I was a young man he offered me assistance on several occasions, steered me from bad investments and pointed me to better, found me a reliable bank, advised me on the purchase of horses, carriages....and other matters a young man ought to know about...you know, that sort of thing." Hands behind his back he was off again on another stroll around the barn.

  Her shock passed into something warmer, a cautious curiosity. "No, Francis. I do not know the sort of thing you might have to discuss with the Duke of Malgrave. Enlighten me further, if you please." Hmm...but did she really want to know? The answer was a resounding yes.

  "I would not wish to corrupt you, Flora. It is the business of men."

  "Unless you desire me to fetch the blunderbuss and aim it at your large head, I suggest you proceed with the corrupting."