The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Read online

  It was not something she'd ever thought much about, except when one of them ached and could only be soothed by clove oil or horehound root. But she followed the lady's example in this radical idea, as well as many others, including the removal of body hair— another custom strange to Meg, but routinely practiced by that good lady.

  "There is little point, my dear, in you having those long legs, if they be as hairy as a Russian sailor," she said firmly as she introduced her pupil to the application and swift removal of sticky beeswax paste.

  When Meg howled that she had not been warned of the sting hidden in that beeswax, Lady Kitty urged her to remember the famous beauties of myth — goddesses worshipped in the form of statues and oil paintings by the great masters.

  "Think of Venus and Aphrodite in Roman statues. Consider Furini's Andromeda, and the Three Graces, by Rubens. Not one of them, Meg, has the slightest hint of hair anywhere about themselves but the top of their head."

  And poor Meg who knew nothing of art and Roman statues, could only nod solemnly, lips clenched and tears of pain still smarting under her lashes, not wanting her mistress to think her completely ignorant. She'd never seen a Russian sailor either, but instinct told her she'd do better to emulate the looks of Aphrodite.

  As for that hair upon her head, Lady Kitty liked to wear her own coated, in the French fashion, with finely milled and sieved starch powder, which Meg learned to apply with small bellows while her mistress held a cone over her face. She tried it once on her own hair, but thought it simply made her look like a ghost from one of her own stories, so she never wore it again.

  "You have such pretty hair in any case, Meg," her mistress assured her. "It is one of your finest attributes, and a woman should always know her best features."

  Meg considered her looks quite nondescript— a fact for which she was grateful. It was hard enough being tall for her age and drawing notice that way, and the last thing she wanted was to be stared at for any other reason. If asked to describe herself, she would have said her hair was the color of jaundice and her eyes the mottled purplish green of two new bruises. There was not much else to be observed in her reflection, and she was generally too busy to study it for long.

  But Lady Kitty looked at her and saw a gleam of gold worth polishing under all the dirt. "You may not be the prettiest of girls at first glance, Meg, but there is something regal about you. In certain lights you can be quite fetching."

  No other soul had ever suggested Meg of the Long Legs was "fetching". Not in any light. Not even Jasper Wallop, who did have a habit of saying daft things sometimes, had dared suggest that the girl with whom he walked along the river bank was pretty. She'd always assumed he wanted to marry her for practical reasons, because she was strong, healthy, worked-hard, would keep a tidy house for him, and cook for his widower father and that herd of untamed younger brothers. She didn't think he really looked at her that often, or that hard. Nobody did. But now, when she examined her reflection, Meg was forced to ponder her appearance in new ways— not just to wipe a smudge of soot off her forehead or pick a fallen lash out of her eye. Even the scar left by Dame Glossop's patten began to fade. Or, at least, it was no longer the first thing she saw when she looked at herself.

  "You could be the offspring of a wayward nobleman," her mistress said, tapping one finger to her lips, eyes glittering with ideas. "There is a certain aristocratic demeanor about you, although until now I suspect it has been discouraged by your former employers."

  She thought of Mistress Cosgrove the schoolmaster's wife, talking about her as if she wasn't even in the room; of Dame Glossop's hard metal shoes stamping on her; of Dr. Woodruffe's slimy hands pawing at her and tearing her only frock.

  "To be honest, madam, there was not much about me that was ever encouraged."

  As Dame Glossop had once said to Meg, her life should have been snuffed out before she breathed her first, to save everybody the inconvenience and expense. But the unwanted girl was too determined to live. She had things to do.

  Now, with Kitty's teaching she learned to walk with pride and purpose, no longer thinking of herself as the girl who took up too much room in a house. The space was hers to take if she wanted it. Why shouldn't she have it? Nobody need know how she came into the world unwanted and abandoned to the parish charity. The good thing about having only one short name was that it could be easily changed, and when there were no relatives who cared to take ownership, no family history of any account, that too could be embroidered like the pattern on a colorful quilt. There was nothing in her life that had ever been set down on paper, as far as she knew. Indeed, most facts about oneself, according to Kitty Waddenhoe, were ideally kept fluid.

  "There are some things a lady should never tell, Meg. Her true age, what she will spend for a fine pair of shoes, what she is truly thinking, and where the bodies are buried."

  Meg assumed that "bodies", in this case, meant a lady's darkest secrets, but one could never tell for certain. Kitty, the swift-fingered survivor, had a disastrously romantic streak in her character, a tiny fault in her otherwise impervious rock. It kept her ever on the search for a new lover, even when she already had more than she could manage.

  "Men always let us down eventually," she said to Meg. "Better we prepare ourselves to cushion the blow with plenty of reserves. The more the merrier."

  While this lack of trust in the male animal led Kitty to believe that love would never endure forever, or even for very long, it did not prevent her from those slender moments of wistful happiness that came with the first flush of a new romance. For her, men— specifically the acquisition of a new one— was an addiction greater than her love for the best wine and fine silks. As she once confessed to her lady's maid, "I need to be falling in love, Meg. That is what keeps my heart beating. I am cursed to bear the cruelty."

  Unfortunately, once Lady Kitty's interest in her current amour began to fade and she looked for her next, desperate measures were often required to be rid of the lover who'd served his purpose. Men did not take kindly to being pushed aside, and most wanted back any gifts they'd given the lady during their passionate trysts. So if tears and swooning didn't help her case, Kitty resorted to the nearest heavy china vessel, usually a chamber pot cracked against the back of their head. It was the same manner with which she answered any man who dared accuse her of purloining their valuables— anybody she found bothersome. A dropped bracelet or ring would send them to their knees to retrieve it and that was, very likely, the last thing they remembered for some time after.

  Of course, had Lady Kitty not kept so many different gentlemen thinking they were the only love in her life, she might not have had need to break so much china or move around the country so often, but she was not a woman who could be told what might better preserve the sanctity of her nerves. As she had said, without falling in love regularly, she would shrivel away to nothing.

  Meg, called upon to dispose of the evidence, found that a man stunned was easiest dragged outside by his boots. But she always made certain to put a pillow, or some other soft item, under their head to aid a smooth course over bumpy cobbles. If there was enough time, she even slipped a packet of her headache powers into their coat pocket for when they woke later.

  She did not want any other harm attributed to her.

  "That streak of kindness will do you no favors, Meg," her mistress warned. Admiring her reflection in the looking glass as she painted her cheeks with large circles of vermilion rouge and applied another beauty spot to her bosom, all in preparation for stalking her next love, the lady added dourly, "A man would never do the same for you. Men are callous creatures who think only of one thing. Never give where you will get naught in return."

  "If men are so very bad, madam, why must you always keep several at hand?" She thought it would be easier on her back if she didn't have to pull that dead weight around when another man outstayed his welcome in Kitty's bed.

  "They are, alas, a necessary evil in this world. A woman must be see
n to need a man's protection, even when she does not. An independent female is considered dangerous and one who takes care of herself is still, in some parts of this world, in danger of being burned at the stake."

  "Or forced to wear a scold's bridle?"

  "Precisely."

  One day her mistress, with that tendency to make sudden decisions, particularly after an evening indulging in too much wine, decided that Meg ought to have a new name.

  "If we mean to pass you off as my companion, a lady of noble mystery, I think you need something far grander," she exclaimed, watching from her bed while Meg arranged freshly picked wildflowers in a vase. "From now on I shall call you Persephone, after the Goddess of Spring."

  It was a name that sounded odd on Meg's tongue, but she rehearsed it with as much diligence as she practiced all the things Kitty taught her, until it was no longer so strange and seemed to have been a part of her forever.

  The change of name was timely, for one day she read a pamphlet describing the crimes of a murderous scullery maid called Meg, who had escaped justice by vanishing into the night. It was a good thing folk seldom left Twytchel-on-the-Nene, she thought as she held the pamphlet to a candle flame and watched it turn to ashes. The chance of running into anybody who once knew her was slim. So there was much to be liked about people who stayed where they were put, after all. But she was not one of them.

  Changing her name was the final step in leaving behind, forever, that unwanted, scrawny, vengeful girl.

  At least, she hoped it was.

  Chapter Four

  Holbrooke Estate

  1780

  Josias Radcliffe dismounted at the top of the hill, took off his hat, wiped his sweating brow with one forearm and stood a while in still, silent contemplation of the view. Hat discarded to the ground, knuckles propped on his hips, he whistled a happy tune while his horse cropped away at the grass by his feet.

  The Holbrooke estate was a vast undertaking and it would be costly, but it was just the sort of project into which he'd longed to sink his teeth. Here he could really show his skills.As long as he was left in peace to get on with it.

  "This is my wife's mission," the Marquess of Holbrooke had informed him earlier that morning in a low, heavy voice. "You will confer with her on all points, of course."

  Then, while his lady wife was preoccupied complaining to the butler about a new maid she found incompetent, the marquess had drawn Josias farther down the long gallery. Once safely positioned at a good distance out of her hearing, he continued, "I am content to let my lady wife imagine she is in charge of this matter. For my peace. But kindly remember, Radcliffe, that the bill comes to me."

  "Of course, your lordship."

  As if casually bringing Josias's attention to a portrait on the wall, the marquess added in a low voice, "Make no move without consulting me first, whatever she insists. Nothing must be done without my agreement. I simply ask that you allow her to believe she has the final say."

  Josias had winced at this but said nothing. There were few things worse on a project than an interfering woman who thought she was in charge. Even worse, a husband who would let her think that, while secretly insisting it was not so, thus putting Josias and his men in the middle. He did not like the deceit and wondered why a man would marry a woman to whom he felt obliged to lie.

  But he could only nod and listen to the marquess, while staring at that portrait of a pompous-looking fellow in a long curly wig, silk breeches, thick, lacy cuffs hanging out of his coat sleeves and enormous rosettes on his shoes.

  Why was it, he'd wondered idly, that these rich fellows never had any taste? They always overdid it. Reminded him of big, old-fashioned galleons, built with too many fancy turrets— more consideration given to the appearance of grandeur rather than efficiency, speed and purpose. They were overloaded and top-heavy— couldn't move fast enough to get out of their own way and looked likely to capsize before they got safely out of the bay.

  "Oh, and....one further matter, Radcliffe." The marquess had paused and glanced uncomfortably over his shoulder, to be sure his wife was still busy at the other end of the gallery. And she was, her shrill upbraiding of the unfortunate butler echoing around the room and bouncing off the marble pillars. "My father's widow remains on the estate and resides in the dower house— the thatched farmhouse you may have seen at the edge of the park. She should not assert herself into this business, but the dowager marchioness can be...troublesome, when she has a mind to be. My lord father, God rest his soul, was rather smitten with his second wife and allowed her to have a hand in the running of the estate. It has become a challenge, since he died, to keep the lady out of these affairs in which she is used to meddling. She is...stubborn and relentless when she wants something done her way."

  Josias had smiled. "Sounds like most women, your lordship. Especially those of advanced years."

  But the marquess kept a humorless countenance. "Well, there you have it. You have been warned." That duty disposed of, he cleared his throat as a crisp tip-tap across the floorboards heralded his wife's fast approach. "When can you begin the work, Radcliffe?"

  "As soon as possible, your lordship. Well begun is half done."

  "Excellent. I have selected some laborers from the estate— able fellows— of whom you can make use. I presume you will provide a foreman to oversee their work?"

  "No. I will oversee it myself. I prefer to watch over every step of my design. It saves considerable coin and agony to get it right the first time. And I have a few good men of my own that I'll bring in. I'll have most of my own tools, but if I might put some of your farm equipment to use for clearing ground and digging? That would help."

  The marquess widened his eyes very slightly, also his nostrils. Although it was still not much of a change in his expression it was just enough to suggest a modicum of surprise at the younger man's confidence. Perhaps Josias only noticed and read it there because he'd seen that look before. Noblemen like Holbrooke seldom knew what to make of him. Accustomed to giving the commands when they hired a man, they expected a lot of forelock tugging, head bowing and "yes, m'lud", because in their eyes he was nothing more than a jumped-up gardener. So when Josias Radcliffe took charge with a very decided, confident approach, a casual, friendly manner and no reserve about telling them what he required or how he would manage the project, these cumbersome old galleons were cast somewhat adrift from their moorings.

  "I see. Then there are three tithe cottages currently unoccupied due to leaking roofs that need re-thatching. You and any additional workers are welcome to stay there. I will instruct my steward to show you the place and, of course, the farm equipment will be put at your disposal."

  "Thank you. My men will be grateful for the shelter, but I prefer to sleep out under the stars while the weather is fine."

  The marquess had stared. "Outdoors?"

  "It is most refreshing for the mind, body and soul." He stopped short of suggesting the other man might try it, for Holbrooke already looked at him as if he might be unhinged. Well, perhaps his lordship was right.

  Some folk had to have their comforts, but Josias, or Joss as his friends called him, had always preferred to make his own bed out in the air as often as possible. Felt as if he kept an eye on things that way. Sleeping in a wooden bed, on a horsehair mattress and closed off in a dark room, seemed to him unwise. Such an arrangement left a man vulnerable to intruders, fire, or any other calamity, trapped between four walls with limited opportunities for exit.

  As a boy he'd grown up crammed into one small loft with five brothers, which might explain the seeds of desire for fresh, uncluttered night air. A further six years in His Majesty's Navy, sleeping in a swaying hammock, crowded into a stinking "cabin" above a frequently flooded bilge, had increased his preference for clean space, plenty of good air and solid ground.

  "Of course, you must do as you wish, Radcliffe," the marquess had muttered, his expression dour. "My lady wife assures me that artistes, such as yourself, all have
their...foibles."

  And so, having probably convinced the marquess that he hired a worrisome eccentric, Joss had left the man and his wife that morning as they were going to their breakfast. Invited to join them, he politely declined, eager to ride out on that sunny morning and take another assessment of the estate. The first time he came to view the grounds it rained, which cut short his tour, and last night, when he arrived for dinner, it was too dark to see much.

  Now, standing on this hill and taking in the warm, slightly moist spring air, the scent of earth, promise and renewal all around him, he felt the sheer happiness of his life, how lucky he was to have discovered a talent for working with the land— and even luckier to be well paid for his skill.

  Despite a gentle breeze earlier today, the air had warmed thickly and now seemed to hang about him, heavy with scent. Beneath his feet the long, damp grass was still, the buttercups unruffled, the daisies poised and watchful. It seemed as if mother nature waited for something. Held her breath.

  With sweat pricking under his shirt, Joss removed his coat, slung it over the horse's rump and rolled up his sleeves. Better. He couldn't think when he was too constricted by clothes— stifled his imagination. But he had worn his best coat today when meeting the marquess. Had to make some effort, now he was a man of means.

  Joss resumed that cheerful whistle, picked up his hat and led the horse further onward, stopping occasionally to look down at the grand Elizabethan manor house in the distance with its octagonal fountain, stone benches and the labyrinth of privet hedge with a "secret" rose garden at its center. All very pretty but too ornate, too fussy, formal and old-fashioned. What he planned was to let nature wind her way right up to the house, to open up the vista from those gleaming windows with a collection of lawns, arbors and serpentine walks that were seamless and looked as if they'd been there since the beginning of time, not clipped, sculpted and forced into orderly shapes, trimmed within an inch of their lives. At Holbrooke, man had encroached upon nature and tried to tame it with prim and pompous topiaries. Josias Radcliffe would set all that should be wild free again to ramble and cavort.