by Shana Galen
The water was to his...
Nash frowned. Singing?
“I met a young girl there with her face as a rose
And her skin was as fair as the lily that grows
I says, My fair maid, why ramble you so
Can you tell me where the bonny black hare do go”
Her voice was clear and sweet, but Nash knew this song and it was anything but sweet. He tried again to wrest his foot from the mud, but he all but lost his balance and only righted himself at the last moment from falling backward and landing arse-first in the mud.
“The answer she gave me, O, the answer was no
But under me apron they say it do go
And if you’ll not deceive me, I vow and declare
We’ll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare”
The voice was closer now, the song sung lustily and without any self-consciousness. She obviously did not realize she was not alone. Nash tried to clear his throat as her voice came closer, but she was singing too loudly to hear.
“I laid this girl down with her face to the sky
I took out me ramrod, me bullets likewise
Saying, Wrap your legs round me, dig in with your heels
For the closer we get, O, the better it feels”
Nash was still now, wanting to hear the rest of the song. He’d heard the bawdy song many times in one tavern or another, but never sung with such abandon or enthusiasm. Indeed, on that last line, she had belted out, “For the closer we get, O, the better it feels.”
“The birds, they were singing in the bushes and trees
And the song that they sang was”
“Oh!”
Her singing had ended abruptly, and Nash realized she’d seen him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Nay, it was more of a demand. As though she owned this garden, and he were the one encroaching. Nash tried to stand up straight and turn his face toward the sound of her voice. She was on the other side of the brook, as near he could calculate, possibly on the other side of the footbridge.
“I think the better question, miss, is what you are doing on my land and how quickly you can leave. Unless you fancy a charge of trespassing, that is.”
Two
Prudence Howard stared at the man standing by the side of the brook, sunk to the ankles in thick mud. He had wild black hair that swept over his forehead and covered one eye. The visible eye was a lovely blue. If she had been feeling poetic—and she was almost always feeling poetic—she would have called it the blue of the sky before a storm. Or perhaps she thought of storms because his handsome face held a rather stormy expression at the moment.
“Good afternoon,” she called, hoping to see him smile. He was obviously a gentleman. His clothing was of fine quality, though somewhat ill-fitting, as if he had lost weight recently. Her eyes traveled over the rest of him, noting that he was pale as well as thin. Perhaps he had recently been ill.
“Good afternoon?” He scowled, obviously not appreciating her perusal of him. Admittedly, her behavior was rude. Mr. Higginbotham was always chastising her to be less forward and more demure.
Her eyes landed on his mud-covered ankles again and his ebony walking stick, also mired in mud. “Do you need some assistance?” she asked.
“Assistance?” he all but exploded. “I do not need assistance. What I need is for you to get off my land. I will have you charged with trespassing and fined accordingly.”
Oh, my. What a temper! Pru started across the footbridge, wondering how she could assist him and manage not to get stuck herself. “Don’t be silly,” she said as she walked.
He jolted as though something had bit him. Were there snakes in the mud? She dearly hoped not. She had an affinity for all of God’s creatures, but she did wish God had been less creative when it came to snakes and spiders.
“Silly?” he asked, sounding as though he were in pain now.
“Yes. How can anyone trespass here?” She laughed. “It’s nature and beauty, and no one can own nature or beauty.”
He was tracking her movements, though not really looking at her directly. She imagined she looked quite a fright. She was one to speak of beauty when she had always been as plain as the day was long.
“I have news for you, miss. Someone can and does own this part of nature and beauty. And that someone is me.”
She reached the other end of the footbridge and looked down at the slippery bank beneath. “Oh, you must be the Earl of...” She couldn’t remember which earl it was. “The earl who owns that lovely but dilapidated old house.”
“Wentmore.”
“Yes. It’s simply criminal how you have allowed it to languish in such a decrepit state. But also romantic.” She sighed. “On a moonlit night, the place looks almost haunted but also lonely and forlorn. Was that how you wanted it to appear? Are you a reader of gothic novels? Mr. Higginbotham disapproves mightily of gothic novels, but I confess I cannot read enough of them.”
He stared at her with that one stormy blue eye. “Who are you?” he demanded.
She gave a sweeping curtsy. “Miss Prudence Howard, at your service. And you are the Earl of...Butter?”
“My father is the Earl of Beaufort.”
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” She gave another sweeping curtsy, but he still did not smile.
“I am not a lord. I’m a younger brother, simply Mister Pope.”
“I see. And you live at Wentmore?”
“I do, and this is my garden.”
“Well, I must commend you on it, sir. I have never seen such a wild and unruly place. I quite adore it. I can see we must be kindred spirits as Mr. Higginbotham often says disruption and disorder follow me wherever I go. But I do so enjoy a mess and a jumble. It makes life more adventurous; don’t you think?”
“No.”
“But it does! Because when everything is a jumble you never know what you will find. Perhaps you will lift a pot and find a hat you haven’t worn in a week or move a stack of books and discover your favorite brooch had been hiding just there. Oh, but I see you scowling and imagine you must envision this mess is one of filth. Not at all. I am very clean. I daresay I dust and sweep as much as the next person, but I have never subscribed to the notion that everything has a place and a place for everything. Why must everything—”
“Miss Howard, was it?” he interrupted.
“Yes. Have I gone on too long?”
“Yes. Is there any chance you might go on about your way at some point before dark?”
She looked up at the sky. Through the canopy of multi-colored leaves, she could still see patches of blue. She judged it not even half past two. Plenty of time before dark. She elected not to point this out, though, as she did not think he would appreciate the observation. Mr. Higginbotham often told her that she should control her tongue and not chatter so much.
“I will, of course, be happy to go on about my way as I have wandered quite a distance from Milcroft.” This was not intentional, of course. She had only intended to take a brief stroll and enjoy the mild weather and sunshine. But as usual, her intentions somehow went awry and she’d ended up miles from home, conversing with the son of an earl. “But I cannot leave you stranded here.”
“I am not stranded.”
She glanced down at the mud. “Are you certain?”
There was that scowl again. She wondered if he had practiced it in the mirror. It was quite effective. “Of course, I am certain.”
“From where I stand, you seem rather stuck. I could—”
“I said I do not need assistance.”
She crossed her arms. “All right then.”
“Good. Then go on your way.”
“Not just yet,” she said. “I want to see how you go about extricating yourself. Purely for educational purposes,” she added quickly when she saw the storm clouds forming on his face again. “I myself have been stuck any number of times after a heavy rain, and I freely admit I could use an effective method of escap
e.”
The earl’s son pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose as though it pained him. “Miss Howard, I would rather not do this in front of an audience.”
He wouldn’t say such a thing if he was confident in his ability to navigate the muck without falling face first. Men were so confounding. Why would he not just allow her to help him? She supposed it was an issue of pride, in which case, she had to turn the tables so he could protect that pride.
“Sir, I have a confession to make,” she said, trying to sound as helpless as possible. His brow lowered, and she realized she might have overdone it just a tad. “I cannot find my way out of your garden. I am quite lost and need you to help guide me.” She managed to keep from laughing as she spoke and hoped he did not see the way her lips curved. The idea of being lost in this place was ludicrous. She had only arrived in Milcroft two months ago, but she had been here half a dozen times. Even if she had been lost, she would not have minded. She would have enjoyed the adventure of finding her way out.
The earl’s son stood still for a long moment, obviously thinking about what she’d said. “Fine. I’ll help you. Just give me a moment.” He looked toward the brook and then away, twisting his body and seeming to gauge his footing. Pru had an idea of how he might extract himself, but how to offer it?
“Sir, I would feel so much better if you were here beside me,” she said. “Could you hold out your walking stick? I can grasp one end and pull you this way.”
His lips thinned. He was clearly suspicious of her suggestion. But she was glad to see he was no fool. He lifted the walking stick and turned it, so the muddy end was in his hands. So he hadn’t just been born a gentleman, but he had a sense of chivalry as well. He held the top of the stick—the end with the pewter handle—out to her. It was just to the right of where she stood, and she had to adjust her location to grasp it. “I have you,” she said. “Now I shall pull.”
She did just that, pulling him toward her as he lifted his feet and moved through the muck to the firmer ground. At one point her hands slid and she thought she might lose her grip, thus causing her to go flying into the mud beside him. Fortunately enough she managed to hold on as he reached the slight slope at the edge of the bank. He’d have to pull harder to make it up the slope and she compensated by digging her heels in and leaning back.
Too late, she realized the man had anticipated having to exert more effort to climb up the slope, and being a gentleman, had not wanted to disturb her footing. He had actually lessened his pull on the stick. Which meant when she pulled harder, he came tumbling forward and crashed into her, sending them both sprawling on the leaf-strewn ground.
For just a moment Pru lay still, the breath knocked out of her and her head ringing a bit from being jounced on the ground. Then she realized her breath hadn’t been knocked out at all, but the earl’s son was lying on top of her and squishing the air out of her lungs. He swore, and she had a sudden image of what the two of them must look like. She probably had leaves in her hair and dirt on her nose, and he was covered to the knee in mud and trying to find a way to push off her. Oh, dear. If Mr. Higginbotham were to see her now, he would deliver a fiery sermon, indeed.
The whole situation struck her as amusing, and she giggled.
“You find this humorous?” the earl’s son said in that gruff tone of his.
For some reason the fact that he took it all so seriously only made everything seem even funnier, and she started laughing.
“Stop that at once!” Mr. Pope ordered, finally managing to wriggle off her.
Well, Pru never could obey an order. She had an allergy to authority, her father always said, and she only laughed harder. Try as she might to quell her guffaws, they only grew. “I’m sorry,” she said between laughs. “I don’t know why I should find this so amusing.”
“Neither do I.” He struggled to his feet and then reached down, feeling for his walking stick. It was on the other side of her, so she handed it to him. He held out a hand, and she quelled her chuckles long enough to take it and allow him to assist her to her feet. He looked quite disreputable now. His black hair had leaves in it and fell so that it almost obscured both of his blue eyes. His clothing was rumpled and dirty, and what must have been once-lovely boots were ruined by the mud.
“I should see you home,” he began, but Pru interrupted.
“No, that’s not necessary.” And then she wished she had not spoken because she sensed he had been about to give an excuse as to why he couldn’t see her home, and she was curious to hear it.
He grunted and looked about. “I find I am all turned around. If you could point me in the direction of Wentmore, I should be obliged.”
He was rattled, and she understood completely. She was a bit churned up inside herself after that unexpected tumble. Still, that didn’t explain what she did next. Perhaps it was his stiff demeanor, so out of place in a garden while covered with dirt. She grasped his shoulders and bodily turned him to face the path leading back to the estate. He stiffened at her touch and seemed happy to step away when she said, “This way.”
“You’ll be able to find your own way home?”
“Oh, quite,” she said, waving her hand. She knew a shortcut through the brush to the village road. She only took it when she had stayed later than she should as the thick underbrush snagged her skirts, but that wouldn’t matter today. Her skirts were already a lost cause. She watched Mr. Pope start away and then turned and scampered back the way she had come. A glance over her shoulder showed her he was intent on his path and not watching her. A little while later, she was well on her way and safely out of his hearing. With a deep breath, she returned to her song.
“The birds they were singing in the bushes and trees.
The song that they sang was, O she's easy to please.
I felt her heart quiver and I knew what I'd done.
Says I, Have you had enough of my old sporting gun?"
“But of course she hasn’t had enough of his sporting gun,” Pru said to herself. Then hummed a bit as she couldn’t remember the way the next verse began. So she sang again, “I felt her heart quiver and I knew what I'd done.”
Her own heart had quivered when Mr. Pope had landed on top of her. Perhaps that was why she’d been unable to stop laughing. He’d smelled clean, and the weight of him, when he’d stopped crushing her, was pleasant enough. She supposed it was a good thing she was plain and all but invisible to most men, else she might be as much a wanton as the wench in the song.
Ah, and that reminded her of the next verse.
“Oh, the answer she gave me, her answer was, Nay.
It's not often, young sportsman, that you come this way.
But if your powder is good and your bullets play fair,
Why don't you keeping firing at the bonny black hare?"
Pru emerged from the garden by degrees. First the trees thinned, then the flowering bushes receded, and finally the green graduated to yellow and brown as she started toward the road leading to Milcroft. She didn’t know why the garden should hold on to the green of summer when the rest of the world had succumbed to the colors of autumn. Perhaps it was some sort of enchantment.
Oh, but she could weave a vastly entertaining story about fairy queens and enchantments, but then she would grow lost in her thoughts and be late for supper. She might be late anyway. And so she lifted her skirts and ran most of the way back to the village.
When she reached the vicarage, she slowed, and tucked the loose pieces of her hair behind her ears. She could hear Mrs. Blimkin at work by the clank of pots and pans. Pru glanced at the sky and figured supper was still being prepared and not being put away. With Mrs. Blimkin busy in the kitchen, it would be better to enter through the main door, though that meant Pru risked being spotted by the vicar. But perhaps he was in his small library, hard at work on the sermon he was to give tomorrow. Or he might be dozing by the fire. If she was quiet, she might be able to sneak upstairs, wash and change, and no one would be the wis
er.
Pru was quiet. She was exceedingly quiet, but Mr. Higginbotham had been waiting for her, and was ready with a lecture and a preview of the sermon he would give the next morning.
SHE RECOGNIZED THE sermon Sunday when she sat in the first pew, her head facing forward, her gaze never wavering from her guardian as he preached about the Fires of Hell and Eternal Damnation. Pru did not think God would damn her for enjoying a garden he himself had created, and she did wonder if God really valued cleanliness as much as the vicar seemed to believe. She hadn’t argued these points, of course. Her own parents were also deeply religious. In fact, they had left several months ago on a mission trip to the Far East. Having grown up with parents who had given her a similar version of Mr. Higginbotham’s sermon many times, Pru had learned not to argue.
Her questions and comments would only be deemed heretical, and then she would be given an even longer lecture. By the age of eight, Pru had realized there was no common sense to be had in religion. She might try to look at the whole thing logically and reasonably, but this only seemed the path to more trouble. Better for everyone if she thought of religion as little as possible.
And so she gave every appearance of listening to Mr. Higginbotham intently, but in reality she was hoping he would shut up so that the congregation could sing the next song and she could look about again. She had never before seen Mr. Pope in church, but that did not mean he would not attend this morning.
She had given surreptitious glances to her right during an earlier hymn, and during the next hymn she intended to give surreptitious glances to her left. Finally, the signing commenced, and Pru stood, her muscles cramped from being forced to remain so still for so long. She looked about under the guise of being moved by the song, but she saw no one new or interesting.
At the end of the service, she was eager to return to the vicarage and change out of her itchy Sunday dress and into one of her more comfortable day dresses, but the vicar informed her they were to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Dawson and would need to walk there directly.
