by Valerie King
“You are looking well, Madeline,” her friend commented, once more turning the subject. “I like this mode of arranging your curls very much. It suits you quite well, I think.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Oh, do but look. Sir Roger is staring at you.”
Madeline turned and found that he was indeed watching her. He smiled slowly, bowed, and then resumed his duties with an anxious eight-year-old who was bouncing up and down at his side, clearly anxious to begin the next race.
“He seems smitten with you,” Georgiana murmured. “I know if he looked at me in that manner, I should believe myself to be an object.”
“You are mistaken. He is merely as surprised by my hair as you were. He has never seen me without my braids.”
~ ~ ~
Sir Roger slung his arm about the boy’s neck and gave him a push. The other teams had lined up, and now he must make another dash for the finish line. A sizable group had gathered about their silly game, a circumstance which pleased him. He concluded that not all of Chilchester society was comprised of prosy old bores. Even Madeline had left off her braids, and this was for him a most hopeful turn of events.
When he had caught sight of her standing beside Lady Bladen, he had at first not recognized the young woman whose blond hair was caught up in a riot of lovely curls atop her head, curls that danced about in the soft breeze. He had even wondered who she might be until she smiled. He could not credit he was looking at Madeline Piper, Madeline of the braids, his secret betrothed.
He had found himself stunned, a powerful feeling which took strong hold of his chest. How different, softer, more appealing she had appeared.
The race began and he slung the ankles of the boy, young Arthur Spight, urging him on with firm encouragements. The child inched forward until he gained his balance and understood his strength, after which he plunged ahead with remarkable speed. Sir Roger kept pace steadily, and before long the pair of them crossed the finish line and won the race. The child rose up, jumping in circles and crying out his victory.
“Well done, Master Spight!” Sir Roger shouted.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, then jumped in a few more circles.
Sir Roger glanced toward the terrace, but the ladies were gone.
“A dog,” Lord Anthony cried suddenly.
Sir Roger turned around and saw his white-faced friend staring hard in the direction of the tents. On the lap of Mrs. Rockingham sat her favorite pet, a small dog by the name of Peaches, with rather long fur and a pink ribbon supporting a topknot. He could scarcely restrain a smile, but watched in some interest as Cressida Crawley approached Lord Anthony and took his arm. “There, there,” the sweet young miss murmured. “’Tis only Peaches, and she is perfectly harmless, I assure you.”
Sir Roger watched Lord Anthony emit a deep sigh. “I shan’t have a moment’s peace this afternoon.”
Later, after the children had drifted away to other amusements, Sir Roger took the opportunity to approach his hostess. She was seated in throne-like splendor beneath a fine canopied tent. Her ladies-in-waiting in the form of Mrs. Spight, Mrs. Crawley, and twin spinsters, the Misses Lamby, who resided in the nearby village of Romsbury, were grouped about her, each sipping ratafia. Peaches was asleep on her lap.
“I wished to thank you for your kind invitation,” he said, addressing Mrs. Rockingham. “You have my eternal gratitude.”
Mrs. Rockingham offered a cold smile. “You may speak as politely as you wish, Sir Roger, but it will take a great deal more to win my respect and a true place in Chilchester society. I have heard you have many acquaintances in London but even the riffraff can inveigle their way into the finest houses, or so I understand. I never could abide the place myself. I only request that you behave the gentleman while on my property. And then we shall see.”
“I would not dream of expecting more than this from you,” he said softly while offering a bow.
Her expression appeared arrested. “Indeed?” was her frosty reply.
He gave no response, however. Instead, he addressed an entirely new subject. “I have been given to understand that your family were at one time the owners of Pelworthy.”
“You were not misinformed.”
“I wish to ask you, then, if you would be interested in forming a historical society for the castle. My architects have in their possession at least a score of documents by which they have been making the necessary repairs to the castle, and I thought—” He got no further.
Mrs. Rockingham leaned forward on her pillows and pierced him with her direct stare. “Is this so? You have been consulting former plans and documents before refurbishing Pelworthy?”
“Of course.”
“Of course? How easily you speak these words. There is no, ‘of course’ about it. I must say I am utterly astonished.”
“You supposed, ma’am, that I was being arbitrary in the renovations? I see no purpose in that. What changes I have made, such as removing a portion of the gaol in order to create a proper place to store my French wines, have all been a result of study and careful consideration.”
She petted her sleeping dog and fanned herself. “Nevertheless, you have bereft me of speech, so you have. Well, this is something. A historical society for the castle?”
He could see she was intrigued by the notion, but he could only imagine the nature of the conflicts now waging a fine battle in her massive bosom. “Yes,” he continued, “I suppose I am hoping to unearth more documents by means of your influence. Would you have any particular interest in such a project, or do I presume too much?”
“Of course you presume too much,” she said. “I am a very busy woman. However, I should like a day or so to ponder the matter. I shall send you a note Monday or Tuesday giving you my answer. But should I agree to it, I promise you the sacrifice will be very great.”
“I have no doubt of it, ma’am,” he bowed and moved away. He meant to seek out Madeline, for she was but ten yards from him. At that moment, however, Arthur Spight rushed up to him and asked if he would be so kind as to row a boat for himself and his younger sister, Sophy.
“I should be delighted.”
Madeline watched him go, feeling greatly relieved. He was, in her opinion, conducting himself with both generosity and kindness. He seemed to have engaged Mrs. Rockingham in conversation without once offending her, a circumstance which would be useful in smoothing the path for introducing him to Lady Hambledon.
By the time Mrs. Rockingham was preparing to serve the picnic dinner to her guests, Madeline still had not exchanged even two words with Sir Roger, nor had she had the opportunity to make the introductions to Lady Hambledon. There had been so many activities in which all the guests participated, including a display of horsemanship from a traveling troupe who had at one time performed at Astley Amphitheatre in London, that she had been separated from him completely.
She did, however, chance to speak with Lady Hambledon briefly and mentioned that she hoped to present Sir Roger to her. Lady Hambledon was a petite woman with brown hair graying but only slightly, gentle brown eyes, and a sweet disposition. For all her kindness, however, she was very strict in her principles, so that when Madeline addressed her concerning Sir Roger, her smile grew quite reserved.
“I have heard you were attempting to introduce him to Chilchester society. I could only wonder why, when I have known you in the past to be quite set against it.”
She explained that given the castle’s proximity to Chilchester and Sir Roger’s evident intention of settling permanently in the valley, that the only proper thing to do was to extend every courtesy and hospitality to him. “After all,” she said, “he was knighted by George III some nine years past for extraordinary services to the crown. It seemed a small thing, in light of such royal patronage, to open the societal gates of our neighborhood.”
Lady Hambledon frowned heavily “I believe you may have taken too much upon yourself, Miss Piper.”
“I have no doubt of
that whatsoever,” she had responded sincerely.
“Well, thus far I am quite impressed with your achievements. First, Mrs. Crawley is to host a Christmas ball at Pelworthy and now, if I have understood correctly, Mrs. Rockingham is to create a historical society for the castle itself. Commendable efforts, indeed.”
“A historical society?” she inquired, surprised.
“You have not heard? It is all Albinia can speak of. I must say, Sir Roger certainly knew precisely what to say to his hostess to win her favor, although I can’t help but feel he might come to regret his overture, since she is already speaking of conducting private tours of the castle herself.”
At that, Madeline could not help but smile. She gave Sir Roger a great deal of credit in having laid the woman’s feathers with so noble an offering but she could not conceive of two people more likely to cast a rub in one another’s way than Sir Roger and Mrs. Rockingham. However, if it was truly his wish to enter Chilchester society, then he might as well become accustomed to the exigencies of it sooner than later. She could only wonder if he would in the end regret his having purchased Pelworthy and forced the issue of his acceptance in the region.
When Lady Hambledon moved away to join her husband for the alfresco repast she searched out Georgiana and sat down to table with her. The meal was a fine blend of roast beef and chicken, pigeon pies, boiled leg of lamb, and a haunch of venison, every manner of summer’s ripest vegetables, pickles, salad, mince pies, orange pudding, and a very fine plum cake. Champagne was served all around, as well as lemonade for the children.
If Madeline thought Harris, Mr. Calvert, and Captain Bladen were all drinking a trifle too heavily she said nothing. Though they frequently cast darkling glances at Sir Roger, at least she had nothing to feel ashamed of in his conduct. He was behaving admirably, just as he ought. Presently, he sat between Cressida and Randolph Crawley, both of whom were laughing more often than not in his company. Yes, she was greatly pleased indeed.
After the excellent meal, she rose from the table and, without knowing from which direction he had come, Sir Roger was suddenly upon her. “Come,” he said, offering his arm. “Have you solved the maze yet?”
She took his arm readily. “Of course. When I was nine.”
“Excellent. Then I rely upon you to direct me to the center. I have tried three times and have become lost on each occasion. One of the children had to lead me out.”
Madeline smiled up at him and moved happily by his side in the direction of the maze.
“You look quite beautiful today, Madeline,” he whispered, leaning close to her.
“Thank you,” she returned, her heart picking up its cadence. His breath had brushed her cheek and a spattering of gooseflesh was rippling down her side.
“You should leave off wearing braids entirely. They give you a somewhat austere appearance, which I am increasingly persuaded does not comprise even a jot of your true temperament.”
“Did you think me austere heretofore?” she asked, dismayed. She had never viewed herself in this manner, but it would seem many others did—her father, for one.
“Yes, of course. But then I have held the same opinion of nearly everyone in the valley. However, because of this delightful picnic and the soiree at Wistfield Hall a sennight past, I must say I have a much nearer view of my neighbors. Some I believe I could grow quite fond of.”
She could not help but smile. “Like Arthur Spight?”
“Yes. He is a good lad, if a trifle demanding. I understand his father perished some time ago. I should think his uncle would do well to involve himself more readily in his life.”
Madeline thought of John Calvert and frowned slightly. She had never given this aspect of his temper a great deal of thought, but it now occurred to her that she rarely saw him evince even the smallest interest in his nieces and nephew, even though they resided beneath his roof. “I believe you may be right in that.”
By this time, they had reached the maze and would have crossed the remaining four or five feet to the entrance, but they were stopped by Lord Anthony, who came rushing around the corner in a state of panic. Little Peaches followed hard on his heels, yipping for all she was worth. Madeline wished she might have been more polite, but the sight of a grown man in obvious terror of a dog smaller than a rabbit was more than she could bear. She burst into a peal of laughter.
“Anthony, you could fit that dog in your pocket,” Sir Roger called to his quickly retreating back.
“The beast already ate my pocket,” he said as he ran in the direction of the house.
“Your friend seems to be suffering from a terror of dogs, or am I mistaken?”
Sir Roger nodded. “I believe they sense his fear and attack regardless of the benignity of their object. I cannot seem to persuade Anthony that he is not in the least in danger.” He then glanced up at the tall, clipped yew hedges that formed the structure for the maze. “Shall we?”
“Indeed, yes. It has been several years since I attempted to reach the center. Now that I think on it, I begin to wonder if I will get us lost as well.”
She led the way, but his voice, whispered against her bare neck, sent another shivering of gooseflesh down her side. “I should not mind becoming lost for a pleasant hour or two.”
She glanced back at him and saw the warm, interested light in his eye. For the slightest moment she knew an instinct to turn around and suggest they try the swings at the far end of the grounds, but when he smiled and her heart picked up its cadence a little more, her feet moved further into the opening. A few steps more, and she made her choice of right or left. This much she knew: the solution was to the right.
For the next several minutes, however, she made mistake after mistake. Sir Roger teased her mercilessly, joking with her time and again so that she was more often than not laughing heartily and begging him not to be so provoking. He would tease her a little more, she would laugh, her heart would grow easier than it had in years, so that in the end she found herself hoping she would never solve the maze, that she might be trapped in its twistings and turnings forever with Sir Roger by her side. An odd thought, indeed, except that she had not been so content in a very long time.
At last some half hour later, since it covered no less than a half-acre, Madeline led him into the center of the maze.
“This is quite lovely, but it cannot be. Is it Roman?”
Madeline smiled, looking up at the tower. “Yes, it is.”
“Why was I not told of it? I vow had I known I should have attacked the maze first.” He began walking about the perimeter of the tower, touching the weathered stones.
“Imagine how many centuries have passed since this structure was laid.”
“It is extraordinary.”
Madeline began walking slowly in the opposite direction around the crumbled remnants of the tower, her hand sliding over the stones. She tried to sense just how many hands had worked together, laying one stone after another. Once more, however, Sir Roger was upon her, only this time he did not speak but rather slid his arm about her waist and pulled her close. She planted her hands on his chest. Her heart was now thrumming with fear. She should not let him hold her thus, even if they were all but betrothed. It was very wrong, and what if someone should discover her so scandalously in his arms?
There were no sounds nearby to indicate the imminent arrival of other guests, and even the sounds of general revelry were dimmed by the distance of the various games and activities from the center of the maze. Oddly, she felt as though she was a hundred miles from everything that was familiar to her.
“Will you permit a kiss, Madeline? I will not trespass your mouth without your permission.”
Her gaze fell to his lips, and she felt as though a spell were descending on her, robbing her of the will to speak, to stand, certainly to refuse him.
“Of course you may kiss me,” she whispered. “We are to be husband and wife.”
At that he grinned. “You are so certain of success, then?”
he asked, his voice low. “You are confident that you will be able to get the required invitations to Lady Cottingford’s harvest ball?”
“I must,” she responded, her gaze drifting to his eyes, to the sculpted line of his cheek, to his lips again, which were still smiling.
“You still desire my fortune,” he stated.
Her arm stole suddenly about his neck. “I don’t give a fig for your fortune. I merely wish to keep my sisters from falling into disgrace. Is that so wrong?”
His arm drew her closer still. “It is quite noble, only I wish that you did not feel you were sacrificing yourself in our union.”
His lips were but a breath away. “Kiss me and make me forget, then,” she returned, unable to comprehend how she had come to speak to him so boldly.
He bruised her mouth, so forceful was the kiss he pressed on her. She could not breathe, she could not think, her feet lost all sense of being connected to the earth. Tears darted to her eyes. She did not understand in the least what was happening to her, or why she was not at all appalled by how closely he held her or how his tongue had begun to explore her mouth in the most sensuous of ways.
She was stunned by the sensation, ripples of gooseflesh flowing over her in wave after wave of the most intense pleasure. Both her arms were now clasped firmly about his neck, and she felt the entire length of him, so closely was he pressed to her.
When we are married, she thought, he will kiss me thus every day.
How pleasant that thought was. Minutes passed, and the kiss continued on and on. His hands kneaded her back and her waist, her fingers slid through his hair. She found her breath coming in little gasps, for she still could not breathe at all properly.
He drew back, whispering, “Do you think a Roman soldier once kissed a British maid here beside this tower?”
