A few more days. With luck, he would be up and able to ride . . . good Lord, Pegasus! What had happened to Pegasus?
The door opened and he blurted out, “Miss Gillian, has anyone found my horse? Pegasus is black with a white blaze down his nose and two front socks. Has anyone found him?”
“Don’t know, young man. I should think Phaedra would be the one to ask.” Mr. Gillian, carrying a board under one arm and holding a velvet sack in his free hand, entered.
Hardcastle, who had half raised himself, slumped back on the pillow. “Mr. Gillian, sir, how are you?”
“I am fine, Mr. Lawrence. You see, I remembered,” the man said proudly. “I remembered that you play chess, and that I promised you—or you promised me, I don’t remember which—a match. I always keep my promises, though I don’t often expect others to keep theirs—though most people generally do, quite surprisingly—but if you don’t feel up to this, you must tell me to go straight to the devil.”
Hardcastle blinked, speechless in the face of such a muddled discourse. “I would be honored to play you, sir, but I was asking—”
Phaedra reentered with the luncheon tray at the same moment. “Papa, his name is Hardcastle, not Lawrence; it was my misunderstanding of his unconscious murmurings that led to the confusion.”
“Oh. All right, Mr. Hardcastle. Any relation to the Earl of Hardcastle?”
“Papa, he is the Earl of Hardcastle.”
“Oh. My, that was quite the monumental misunderstanding, eh, Phaedra, my dear? A real live earl in our home. How novel. Anyway, chess?”
And with that simple exchange the confusion was handled. What admirable people, Hardcastle thought, as Phaedra gave him his lunch and Mr. Gillian set up the chess board on the side table nearby. The father and daughter kept up a constant conversation, their relationship relaxed and cordial, affectionate, even. What a difference from his own with his long-deceased father. The third earl was a miserly curmudgeon who begrudged every shilling spent on his heir’s education and maintenance. And he was a dastardly cheat, besides. It did not bear thinking about.
As he ate, relishing the full flavor of the beef broth and the sharp cheese and fragrant bread, Hardcastle listened. The father and daughter had moved from talk of some village folk who required their aid and were now talking, oddly enough, about a theological point of some contention. Finally, Miss Gillian said, “Papa, we have spoken of this before. I defer, of course, to your greater knowledge, though it seems to me that Mr. Proctor is wrong in this case. If you feel you must consult the Codex to settle your difference of opinion, then of course you must go to London.”
“Pet, I cannot go to London.” The retired vicar cocked his head to one side and eyed his daughter. “You may think me abysmally ignorant of our finances, but I do know we have not the wherewithal to afford that luxury. We could not even pay the stage, much less a hotel and meals.”
“Papa!” Phaedra threw her patient an agonized look.
“What?” He looked over at Hardcastle, then back at his daughter. “You are chary of discussing financial matters in front of our guest?” He peered at the earl. “My lord, does this disturb you in the slightest?”
Trying to stifle a grin, Hardcastle confessed that it did not bother him at all.
“There, you see?” Mr. Gillian said in triumph. “He does not care that we are poor. Or at least it does not affect his opinion of us.”
“Papa!” Phaedra groaned and put her hands over her eyes.
“Pet! May I remind you that pride is one of the deadly sins. Humility in the face of God and others is essential.”
Hardcastle caught the gleam of a wicked twinkle in the older man’s eyes and realized he was roasting his daughter, quite deliberately teasing her. Knowledge dawned in him that the father and daughter could never do anything that would make the other not love him or her. Their bond was close and fast, stronger than the foundation of the Tower of London, and would survive even the grave. It humbled him and entranced him and saddened him. What must that be like? How would it feel to know you were loved, so greatly, so adamantly, that you could never fall from grace?
Avoiding Hardcastle’s eyes, Phaedra said, “Papa, it is not pride, but not everyone must know of our finances.”
“My dear,” he rejoined mildly, “anyone looking around our abode would know in a moment of our circumstances. Many would be able to reckon down to a farthing our worth, and some have; no doubt, the worthy Miss Peckenham is among them. Being poor is not a sin.”
“I know, Papa,” she said. “I know it is not.”
But she did mind, Hardcastle thought, watching her go about her business, folding some clean but shabby towels by the washbasin. She would like pretty things, maybe, and to not have to work so hard. For she did work. Her day seemed to be taken up constantly with duties, large and small. She baked. The bread he ate was made with her own small but strong hands. He had gathered from Mrs. Lovett, who was garrulous even with a patient who could not speak much, that Miss Gillian cooked and sewed and superintended the maid in her duties; she made candles and soap and wine and preserves, prepared baskets for the poor, visited the elderly and sick, grew herbs in a small garden outside of the garden—in other words, she was unrelievedly good and kind and perfect. Irritatingly perfect.
He bit back his irritation, which seemed to arise from some small pit of shame within himself that he was adding to her burden of daily duties, without even offering his own staff to relieve her. Somehow, some way, he would make it up to her. He never, ever stayed indebted to anyone, even paying his tailor on time, much to the poor man’s chagrin. It would have been a badge of honor to be able to say that the impeccably clad Earl of Hardcastle owed Taylor & Sons for the clothes upon his back.
To change the direction of his thoughts, he went back to his original concern. As Phaedra cleared away the remains of the lunch he had just eaten and helped her father move the small table to the bedside for chess, he remembered his earlier concern and said, “I have just realized that no one has said anything about my horse. It has been some days—four, is it?—since I was beaten. Has anyone seen Pegasus? He is a black stallion with a white blaze and two white front socks.”
“I wondered about that,” Phaedra said, straightening. “The Simondson boys, who work for Squire Daintry, say that a beautiful stallion has been sighted roaming free. For a reward I think they could be persuaded to capture it.”
Groaning inwardly as he imagined two country bumpkins trying to capture his spirited and willful stallion, he said, “I suppose, if they will be careful. Pegasus is used to only the best care. He is stubborn and strong, and will not stand for rough treatment. I will give a reward, and pay generously for the care and treatment of him while I am laid low.”
“I will relay the message exactly. Dick Simondson is a wonder with horses, and with the word ‘generously’ involved, I think I can assure you Pegasus will have all but a feather bed to sleep on at night.” Phaedra chuckled, glanced at the two men, and shook her head as Mr. Gillian moved a chair to sit by the chess table. “I will see you two gentlemen later. Enjoy your game; Mrs. Lovett and I have laundry to take care of.”
Chapter Seven
Rakehell. Rogue. Debaucher. Libertine.
Rake.
Standing near the old apple tree in the laundry yard beside the cottage, Phaedra bent over a washtub and scrubbed, feeling a slow flush that only had a little to do with the manual labor of laundry mount her neck and face. Deborah Daintry’s words floated through her mind: “able to seduce a girl with just a glance,” “shockingly loose-fish,” “famous as a rake of the highest order.” Pausing to swipe at a loose curl that insisted on dangling down on her sweaty neck, Phaedra gazed up at the bedroom window where the object of her thoughts was ensconced.
The Earl of Hardcastle. Lord above, what was an earl doing in her bedroom? In her bedroom! And not only an earl, but an earl with a reputation, if Deborah could be believed, as an infamous gamester and shocking libertine.
The afternoon sun, warm on a spring day, beat down on her and she wiped her hands on her apron, deciding to take a break for a moment under the gnarled apple tree in the cottage yard. Mrs. Lovett had had to leave; Susan had some sort of accident at Mrs. Jones’s and needed her mother, and so the laundry was left entirely to Phaedra, Sally being engaged in butter churning at that moment. Phaedra slumped down on the seat under the tree and gazed down at her wrinkled, puckered hands with a frown. They were becoming quite callused, no matter how much mutton grease she used on them. Deborah Daintry’s were white and soft, and her complexion was as pale and pretty as a lily. It was not fair.
And that kind of thinking made her an ungrateful wretch. She had so much when others had so little. Not fair? How could she think that, while she had a home and a father who loved her, and food to eat and decent clothes to wear? And more, she had her health, and her mind, and unshakable faith. What else could a woman want?
Love?
It had occurred to her over the years that even beyond society’s expectation of a lady in her class, she would like to marry. It would suit her disposition to have a husband and family. She would have liked Deborah’s opportunity to gaze about her and choose a gentleman she could love, a man who would share her burdens and with whom she could have children. But wishing for what was never to be was an exercise in futility, and would only lead to dissatisfaction with her lot in life.
She leaned back with her head against the gnarled trunk and gazed up into the green leafy heights, admiring how the midday sun sparkled through as leaves and the last faded petals of the apple blossoms danced in the breeze. Her father had always said that destiny was a higher power at work in one’s life, but she had never truly felt a higher power at work. She did what she did—helped others, was industrious in her home—because it was her life, and she knew that the gratitude of others did not motivate her. She wanted to make a difference. She wanted, after she was gone, for people to say that Miss Phaedra Gillian, village spinster of Ainstoun, lived a quiet life, but made a difference.
“Hssst!”
Phaedra glanced around at the hiss to find Miss Peckenham crouched low by the old stone wall that enclosed the cottage yard. “What are you doing, Miss Peck—”
“Shhh!” Miss Peckenham, her eye on the house, bustled through the ancient gate and scrambled over to where Phaedra sat. She grasped Phaedra’s hands and said, “My dear, it is not too late, I hope and pray. You must leave at once. Come stay with me. I will protect you.”
Caught between laughter and alarm, Phaedra pulled Miss Peckenham to a seat beside her and said, “What is wrong? Why must I leave?”
“I have just heard from my girl, Flossie, who had it from Miss Daintry’s maid, Ellen, that your, er—houseguest is the Earl of Hardcastle, the present one!”
Perplexed, Phaedra waited for more. When it didn’t come from Miss Peckenham, who was casting shifty glances at the cottage, she said, “Why should I leave?”
Miss Peckenham, her beady eyes wide, pulled herself upright. “My dear, you are in danger! He is a libertine, a gambler, a-a-a fornicator!”
The last word was said with revulsion, but Phaedra thought she detected more than a hint of excitement in the quivering woman’s demeanor. “He is my patient, at present,” she said firmly. She looked down at her faded blue gown and work-worn hands and pushed back a strand of hair that had strayed from her severe bun. “And really, Miss Peckenham, even if he were healthy and able to move on his own—which he is not, I assure you—what danger am I in? Look at me!” She held her hands up and away from her body. “I am the spinster daughter of a vicar, and I do much of my own scrubbing and cooking and—and—well, really! What temptation do I present to an earl? An earl who is no doubt sought by the most beautiful women in England, women much more accomplished and intelligent and . . .” Cataloguing her various failings was depressing, and Phaedra faded to a halt and folded her hands in her lap. She cast a glance up at the bedroom window and sighed. What she said was too true.
But Miss Peckenham gave her a dark look and said, “My dear, it only proves that you know nothing of the ways of the nobility that you should think that being plain or poor some protection. Why even I—” She stopped and swallowed, visibly shuddering.
“What is it, ma’am? Please, tell me. Are you all right? Shall I get you some water?” Phaedra took the woman’s gloved hands in her own and felt them trembling. Whatever the cause, Miss Peckenham was moved by some powerful emotion.
“I have never told a soul this, my dear, and I must ask you to promise . . . no, to swear on your poor mother’s grave, that you will never tell a soul!”
“Ma’am, you must know I would never make such an oath,” Phaedra said quietly, truly concerned for the older lady’s well-being now. “My mother’s grave is sacred and I will not sully it with oaths. But you have known me from my cradle and know I do not gossip. There is much a vicar’s daughter learns that is not for general conversation.”
“I know I can trust you, child.” Miss Peckenham, tears in her eyes, reached up and patted Phaedra’s cheek, the first time she had ever indulged in such a gesture. “So much like your mother!” she murmured. “She was so very good to me. I will tell you a story. It is a tale of a young and very plain girl, a governess in a good household. She was naïve, yes, but intelligent and modest. There came a visitor, a very great man, an earl. He was a drunkard and a gambler, and—and a lout, but the governess did not know that, and—well, she became entangled in a very awkward position with the rakish earl. When they were d-d-discovered, she was dismissed with no reference.” The last words were said in a rush with a great whoosh of air.
Her mind struggling to grasp the concept of a young Miss Peckenham in the lascivious grasp of an ardent aristocrat, Phaedra said, “I had no idea! I am so sorry.”
The lady struggled to regain her composure, and then said, “And that is why you must leave right now, this minute, with me!”
Phaedra shook her head and stared, puzzled, at the woman. “What? Why?”
“The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know,” she said in a whisper. She waggled her eyebrows and motioned with her eyes toward the upstairs room where Hardcastle was ensconced.
“Oh, you mean—Miss Peckenham, please do not concern yourself. The situations are so different! To begin, the earl is not his . . . I assume you speak of his father?” When the other woman nodded, she went on. “And I am not a girl friendless and alone among the nobility, as you must have been. I am in the home of my father, and he will protect me. And too, the earl is injured, barely able to move. Until he is well again, he has a place here. He offered to have himself removed, but I do not think it is in his best interest.”
Phaedra wondered if that last was quite honest. Why did she not want him to summon his staff and remove himself from the Gillian cottage? What she had told Hardcastle was quite accurate; she did feel that he was there for some reason, and had felt that from the first moment she had seen him on the roadway, helpless and bloody. But still— She gave Miss Peckenham’s gloved hands a squeeze and released them. “And you were blameless in your dismissal. Even if folks in Ainstoun were to find out, no one would hold you to blame, I am sure.” Nor care about something that had happened in the last century, for goodness sakes, Phaedra thought, but did not say. Looking at the woman today it was hard to imagine the former Earl of Hardcastle overcome with lust for Miss Peckenham, but who understood the nobility? She did not in the least doubt the veracity of Miss Peckenham’s story. The older woman had been reluctant to tell it and so fearful of it getting out.
Miss Peckenham looked doubtful and still extracted a promise from Phaedra to come to her if she needed advice. Phaedra was touched by the sign from a woman many dismissed as a busybody, that she cared for a girl wholly unconnected to her by birth. It was a lesson not to dismiss anyone in life, for a fast friend was a valuable commodity; who knew when she might need Miss Peckenham’s help?
The for
mer governess stood, composed herself, and with one last, long glare at the cottage, bade Phaedra farewell. There was no avoiding it, she had to go back to her labor. As she scrubbed linens and wrung them out, she thought about Miss Peckenham’s story. How clear and unfaded it still remained in her memory, though it must have happened at least twenty or even more years before. Though she had not elaborated on her story, it seemed to Phaedra that there was an element of force involved in the earl’s violation of the young Miss Peckenham. How frightened she must have been, and then to have been let go! For a girl alone in the world and with no one else to care for her, with only her own hard work as her saving grace, it must have seemed like the end of everything for her.
Was the present earl like his father, or even worse, as Deborah had intimated? Was he a debauched reveler, a seducer, Satan in human form, as Miss Peckenham would no doubt name him? Or was he what he seemed, well-intentioned and good-natured? She had always been used to judge people by their actions, not by what others thought of them, but how much did she really know of his actions? She had only seen him in his present state, injured, unconscious most of the time, weak as a lamb.
Looking up at the window, Phaedra shivered at the light breeze that danced over her bare, wet arms. Was he a different man than the one he appeared to be to her? What was he, really?
• • •
Expecting to beat the vicar easily, Hardcastle had been puzzled and a little peeved to find himself checkmated within a couple of dozen moves. It must be the pain fogging his brain, he thought. Or the distraction of thinking about a fair-haired angel who was in his thoughts far too much.
He moved his bishop, intent on positioning to capture the queen, and was startled when Mr. Gillian crowed, “Got you again, young fella! Check and mate.”
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