by Valerie King
Chapter Three
“Miss Piper is here?” Sir Roger asked of one of his footmen. He let the heavy head of the sledgehammer slide to the stone floor next to his foot. He was in the dungeon, heading up several superfluous partial walls erected sometime in the sixteen hundreds, which his architect had deemed ready to be dismantled. There was only one way to achieve the desired result, and whenever he had the chance to engage in a piece of challenging physical labor, he did so—not quite the usual activity for a gentleman, a circumstance which in this moment caused him to smile broadly.
“Bring Miss Piper to me,” he commanded.
“Sir?” his footman asked, his eyes startled like a rabbit caught in a box trap.
“You heard correctly. Bring her here. See to it at once.”
“Very good, sir.” The servant turned and fairly ran back up the spiraling stone staircase.
Sir Roger once more picked up the sledgehammer and began swinging at the remaining stones of the wall. He laughed aloud, thinking his entire experience in Chilchester Valley thus far would undoubtedly be worth every trial merely to see the expression on Miss Piper’s face once she arrived in the dungeons. He could not imagine what her thoughts might be once his man began leading her into the bowels of the castle.
~ ~ ~
A few minutes later, Madeline descended the spiraling stone steps quite slowly, her hand touching the cold wall for balance. She wondered if the footman had gone mad to have directed her into the dungeons, for she could not imagine that Sir Roger would have actually insisted she meet him here. It was dangerous, dirty, and not in the least how she had expected to be received.
In the distance, she could hear the steady sounds of a hammer smashing at stone and could even taste the resulting dust on her tongue. Clearly a laborer was at work, so why had she been brought here? For one thing, she could think of no rational reason why Sir Roger would be in the vicinity of so much dirt and for another, why he would ever have exposed her to such wretched conditions.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she glanced in the direction of the steady, rhythmic pounding and saw only a lone workman toiling with a large hammer, steadily swinging at a pile of rubble which might have at one time been a wall. He wore a white kerchief tied over his nose and mouth and the dust roiled about him, visible from the light of two lanterns hung on the wall behind him.
Just as she thought. She had been led here by an imbecile. She rolled her eyes, thinking Sir Roger had hired a complete nodcock for a servant. Then her eyes began to see more clearly in the dusty gloom, and all at once she realized that the tall workman was none other than Sir Roger himself.
She could not credit it was true and blinked several times in order to make certain her vision was not deceiving her. To say she was shocked did not even begin to express all that she felt in this moment. Sir Roger Mathieson was hefting a sledgehammer over his head and again and again driving it against the stone of a partially demolished wall. But why? She could not understand what he meant by doing such low work or why, in particular, he had summoned her to witness it.
Somehow it seemed in perfect keeping with her general view of the Scotsman, and disgust surmounted her stunned sensibilities. She very nearly turned on her heel in that moment, forgetting what she had achieved only the day before in securing the invitation to Wistfield on his behalf and relinquishing any desire or claim to his hand in marriage. She might have left instantly had he not, in that moment, caught sight of her and called to her.
“Come, hither, Miss Piper,” he said, pulling the kerchief below his chin. “Though, I can see by your disdainful countenance that I have offended you, I promise you that what I am engaged in is but a little honest labor, hardly a crime.”
She saw an answering contempt in his eyes already reflected in the sarcastic mode of his speech and she felt her temper, as always in his presence, prickle the very roots of her hair. In this moment she utterly detested Sir Roger Mathieson. Indeed, she despised everything about him and wished him to the devil. “I have no intention of speaking with you in this environment. Have you no decency at all? You are not even properly clothed.”
“I am wearing a shirt and breeches, and if you were lifting this sledgehammer time and again believe me, you’d strip down to your shift as quick as the cat could lick her ear.”
She sucked in her breath, her anger reaching new heights. “How dare you,” she said hotly. “Of all the vile, wretched men on earth, without the smallest degree of sensibility or understanding, you are quite the worst.”
She suddenly wished she were a man, that she might challenge him to a bout of fisticuffs, and by the sudden flaring of his nostrils thought he was in that moment of a similar mind. Suddenly, he tossed aside the heavy hammer as though it had been a dry stick, whisked away the kerchief from about his neck, and began marching toward her.
She began backing up uneasily at his approach and felt a measure of panic slide through her. At the same time, her gaze was caught by his thin, linen shirt, soaked with sweat and open halfway down his chest. She could see a soft mat of black hairs covering his sun-bronzed skin.
She felt very dizzy suddenly and short of breath. Even in a state of relative undress, he was remarkably handsome. His face, though partially covered in stone dust, had a chiseled appearance, with strong lines slanting across his cheeks and jaw. His blue eyes blazed with fire, and she felt oddly as though she was seeing a vision from another time and place, a fierce clansman descending on her in a state of Celtic wrath. She understood now why Emperor Hadrian had built a wall across the breadth of northern England in an attempt to keep the Scottish Picts from razing English towns, villages, and farms.
She lifted her hands as though to protect herself, to ward him off, but he advanced on her steadily nonetheless. She knew an instinct to turn and run, but she could not seem to get her feet moving properly.
“What are you so afraid of?” he barked, laughter and anger mingling in his expression. “Most of the men on earth dress in this manner to do their work and are proud of it. If you are to be my wife, you will see me in less than this in a few weeks’ time, eh? Or did you come here to tell me your mission is utterly hopeless and Madeline Piper of Fairlight Manor in the parish of snobbish little Chilchester has quit before she has even begun?”
She was not certain which of his words startled her more, that he spoke of his worldly experiences, which reminded her of how little she knew beyond her own small society, or that in his venomous counterattack he had just made it clear how very little he thought of her, of her abilities, even of her persistence. She knew her mouth had fallen agape, but she could not draw it shut—just like Pelworthy Castle’s drawbridge, which she knew to be rusted permanently open.
“Just as I thought,” he sneered, turning his back on her, and dismissing her with a flip of hand. “Return to your flowery bedchamber and pen your tidy letters to your aunts and cousins and friends, practice your pianoforte, paint in your watercolors and whatever else you do with your time. I have work to do here.”
She gave herself a shake, her intention of leaving having been dismissed entirely. Did he think to be rid of her so quickly, so easily? Then he knew very little of her. He might be a beast of a man, but she at least could show him what it was to be civilized. Besides, she knew her worth, even if he did not. She watched in silence as he returned to his station and retrieved the sledgehammer. He began whacking at the stone with a vengeance, his kerchief still in a small heap on the floor. Whatever he thought of her, there was one thing she could see they shared in common—she set up his back as easily, as quickly, and as thoroughly as he set up hers.
Somehow this realization calmed her, and her thoughts fell into order. She began walking toward him, watching the dust from his labors rise and swirl before the two lanterns.
She drew her own kerchief from her reticule and held it to her mouth.
When she had reached his side and he, deigning to notice her approach, had lowered his sledgeh
ammer, she said, “I hope we might be able to set aside our quite substantial differences of opinion for a moment to discuss a matter of business. Will you at least speak with me for a few minutes?”
He paused for a long moment before finally nodding, his expression grim.
“I came to tell you that I was able to procure an invitation for you as well as for Lord Anthony to Mrs. Crawley’s soiree tomorrow night.”
At that, he frowned heavily. “You did what?”
She drew in a deep breath. “I gave your requirements a great deal of consideration yesterday and felt that the best course would be to apply first to Squire Crawley for his help and support, since he has great influence in Chilchester. Naturally, I did not relate the particulars to him and as a gentleman, he did not press me for information. He mentioned that he felt our neighborhood was not quite up to snuff and in the end, despite what proved his wife’s fervent opposition to your presence in her home, agreed to the scheme.” she could not help but smile a little. After all, she had slain her first dragon in the form of Mrs. Crawley and in this moment, with Sir Roger’s mouth unhandsomely agape, she felt a very nice measure of victory. “Do you mean to say nothing?”
“I—we—Lord Anthony and I are to attend Wistfield tomorrow night? Have I heard you correctly?”
“Yes. I am certain a written invitation will be forthcoming shortly. Mrs. Crawley, whatever her reservations, would not be backward in such an attention.”
He sneered his disbelief.
At that, Madeline straightened her shoulders as the dust settled a little more on the surrounding stones. “She may not approve of what her husband has agreed to, but she will do what is proper, since his assent has been given.
“I suppose I will have to trust you in this.”
At that, he tilted his head slightly and leaned on his sledgehammer. “Had you shown me this much courtesy, Miss Piper, any time before the present, I vow I should have tumbled violently in love with you. I will not pretend that I am not astonished at what you have already accomplished.”
“Did you think me without resources?” she inquired, sensing the depth of his ill opinion of her.
“Yes, I believe I did. If that is all, I shall return to hammering at my stones.”
He started to lift the sledgehammer again, but she caught his arm. “I have not finished. There is more.” Here, her heart began pounding loudly in her chest and she wondered just how he would accept her forthcoming confessions and requests. “I fear I have told a whisker or two in order to support my sudden shift in position where you are concerned, and I was wondering if it would be possible for us, once we are wed, to give a ball at Pelworthy sometime during Michaelmas to which we would invite the Earl of Selsfield. Naturally, for the present, you would be giving the ball, since our betrothal is to remain a secret for a time, but it would be quite helpful if you happened to drop a hint or two tomorrow evening.” These words, which she spoke with considerable assurance, nearly made her swoon. They were full of certainty of their marriage and of his acquiescence to what was a quite presumptuous request. She rather thought he would laugh at the absurdity of it all rather than confirm they would one day be husband and wife.
“Good God,” he murmured, losing hold of the hammer completely. The handle landed with a loud thump on the stone floor. “Have I heard you correctly? A ball at Michaelmas to which Lord Anthony’s father is to be invited?”
“And his wife, siblings, whatever you desire—or did you think that once we were wed, I should not desire to offer an appropriate number of entertainments to our friends and family? After all, I will be the mistress of Pelworthy Castle and Lady Mathieson as well. Much will be expected of both of us.”
For the first time in her acquaintance with him, he seemed truly confounded. “I had not thought,” he stammered, “but I suppose a Christmas ball will do. As for Lord Selsfield, I suppose he would be willing to attend, but that can be settled at a later date.”
“And Lord Anthony? Would he be willing to join you at Wistfield tomorrow night?”
“Yes, of course, unless he has a previous engagement of which I am not aware. He is as fond of society as I am.”
“I trust he will, for I daresay there will be more than one hopeful lady present tomorrow night who will want to make his acquaintance. There has always been a great deal of curiosity fixed on him in general. Will you do this for me, then? I know it is grievously presumptuous on my part but if it were known that there would be a ball, it would do quite well, for instance, in softening the lacerated sensibilities of Mrs. Crawley.”
“I fear I do not give a fig for Mrs. Crawley’s sensibilities.”
“But you would wish your wife to be comfortable, would you not, Sir Roger?”
At that, he once more seemed stunned and answered with a mere nod of his head.
“Then may I consider the matter settled?”
“Yes,” he responded, although it appeared he had been struck by his own sledgehammer.
Finally, she smiled. “Then I thank you, Sir Roger.” She wondered if there was anything else she needed to discuss with him, but nothing came to mind. “I know that we have had our difficulties, but I hope we will do better.”
“I, too,” he responded quietly.
She had meant to bid him good day but instead she found herself caught by his thoughtful, if slightly perplexed, stare. After a moment, though she really did not know precisely how much time had passed, a slow smile overcame his features. A dizziness invaded her senses, though she could not quite understand the source of it. With a start, however, she realized she had felt the same way when he had kissed her atop the curtain wall. She became aware yet again of his sun-bronzed chest and the powerful muscles beneath his shirt which allowed him to heft the oversized hammer as though it was a feather. She knew the strangest impulse to remain standing where she was forever, or certainly for the next few minutes, in hopes that she might be able to watch him raise the hammer overhead once more and bring it slamming against the stone.
“Is there something more?” he inquired softly, taking a small step toward her. His smile grew broader still.
She shook her head. ‘”No,” she murmured, hoarsely. “I suppose I should leave you to your labors.”
At that he grinned, gave her a knowing look which caused a blush to rise on her cheeks, then turned to retrieve the hammer.
Once more, she held the kerchief to her mouth and began slowly backing away. She watched the hammer rise and fall, the sound almost deafening in the underground chamber. How strong must a man be to heft such a weighty tool? she wondered. Goodness, very strong, indeed.
Finally, she gave herself a shake and turned on her heel. Perhaps there was something to admire in a gentleman’s physical prowess. However, he never should have had the servant bring her to the dungeons in the first place. That had been rude beyond permission.
She straightened her shoulders, content in her principles. However, that did not in the least prevent her from taking one last glance at Sir Roger before she began her ascent, a circumstance that caused her to feel dizzy all over again.
~ ~ ~
Saturday morning, Madeline had been gathering raspberries for over an hour in a particularly pretty tangle of wild vines to the south of Fairlight when one of the servants sought her out, quite red-faced and out of breath.
“What is it, James?” she inquired. She thought with horror that some accident had befallen her father. “Is Mr. Piper well? Grandmama? My sisters??
He was gasping for breath. “S-sorry, miss. Everyone is well.” He gasped another deep lung full of air and continued haltingly, “The house, miss, is overrun, I fear.’
“Mice?” she asked, startled anew.
“Nay, miss. Gentry.”
She stared at him and understood immediately what had happened. “Worse yet, I see.”
The servant, a man in his thirties and quite quick-witted, burst out laughing, then immediately schooled his countenance and murmured an apolo
gy.
Madeline began trudging back to the house, ordering her thoughts and practicing her speeches yet again. When she reached the drawing room, she was not surprised to find no less than ten personages of some influence, if not rank, present in her home and glaring at her with no small degree of disapprobation.
Her father, she noted, sat in the wing chair nearest a decanter of sherry and though it was not yet eleven, was sipping happily, a broad smile on his lips. She realized that he was delighting in all this nonsense and felt suspicious suddenly, though of what she could not precisely say.
Her sisters each bore a different expression. Charity appeared as though made of stone, Prudence regarded her with compassion, and Hope’s eyes were dancing.
The delegation of the local gentry was led by no less a personage than Albinia Rockingham, her daughter, Julia, and her son, Harris. The latter was one of Madeline’s most ardent suitors. Presently, he stood beside his parent, his features stormy, as usual. Of all the young gentleman of her acquaintance, none was so opposed to Sir Roger’s presence in the valley as Harris.
The usual contingent flanked Mrs. Rockingham on both sides—their hostess for tonight’s soiree, Mrs. Crawley; her stodgy son, James; and her two daughters, Mary and Cressida. Only Randolph was lacking, but since he was of a rebellious nature and thought most of Chilchester society ridiculous in the extreme, it was not to be expected that he would join his family on such a call as this.
In addition to the Crawleys, Captain Richard Bladen, Pamela Spight, and John Calvert had arrived to add their voices of dissent. The last personage present, however, was the only one to truly unnerve Madeline. Sylvester Gilbert was present and, as heir to Viscount Lord Cottingford, every word of today’s conversation would be related to Lady Cottingford, whose prestigious harvest ball was the very reason she had kicked up such a dust in the first place.
“Good morning,” she called out cheerfully as she entered the drawing room, fortifying her nerves by turning away from Mr. Gilbert. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting but I was picking raspberries in the southern pastures. To what do I owe the honor of such an unexpected, yet of course welcome, visit?” She smiled hopefully, but there was such a dreadful quiet permeating the entire chamber that her heart began pounding in her chest. This was not at all propitious.
