The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  “You were drawn by the noise.” Val rose to his feet and greeted his newest guest. “Ellen FitzEngle, may I present to you Mr. Axel Belmont of Candlewick.”

  “Mrs. Fitz.” Belmont bowed over her hand, smiling openly. “We’re acquainted. I am a botanist, and Mrs. FitzEngle has the most impressive flower gardens in the shire.”

  “You flatter, Professor,” Ellen said, “but I’ll allow it. I came to see the massacre, or what surely sounded like one.”

  “You heard my sons,” Belmont concluded dryly. “As soon as we cut the pie, you’ll have the pleasure, or the burden, of meeting them.”

  “Won’t you join us?” Val gestured toward the hamper. “Mrs. Belmont sent a picnic as a peace offering in exchange for suffering the company of her familiars.”

  “How is your dear wife, Mr. Belmont?” Ellen asked, sinking onto a corner of the blanket.

  “Probably blissfully asleep as we speak. She will be eternally indebted to your neighbor here when I return without the boys.”

  Ellen smiled at Val. “You’re acquiring your own herd of boys. A sound strategy when the local variety could use some good influences. That looks like a delicious pie.”

  “Strawberries are good, no matter the setting,” Belmont rejoined. He drew Ellen into a conversation about her flowers, and Val was interested to see that while she conversed easily and knowledgeably about her craft, there was still a reserved quality in her speech and manners with Belmont. The professor was all that was gentlemanly, though he treated Ellen as an intellectual equal on matters pertaining to plants, but still, she would not be charmed past a certain point.

  And this pleased Val inordinately.

  Dayton galloped up, Phil beside him. “Did you see the springhouse? It is the keenest! You could practically live in there.”

  “Keenest isn’t a word,” Phil said. “It has pipes and conduits and baths and windows and all manner of accommodations—the springhouse, that is.”

  “And it’s spotless,” Day added, ignoring the grammar lesson. “You could eat off the floors in there. Hey! You cut the pie.” Belmont handed them each a slice, which—once they’d made hasty bows in Ellen’s direction—they took off with them, eating directly from their own hands, still jabbering about the springhouse.

  Ellen met Val’s gaze. “You do have an impressive springhouse. I confess I’ve made use of it myself.”

  “Impressive, how?”

  “Come.” Ellen rose to her feet unassisted, causing all three men to rise, as well. “I’ll show you. Gentlemen, you need not have gotten up. I know all too well that on the menu for every summer picnic worth the name, a nap follows dessert.”

  While Belmont and Darius exchanged a smile, Val offered his arm. He set off with Ellen in the direction of the springhouse, inordinately gratified that she would initiate this private ramble with him.

  A few minutes later, Val’s appreciative gaze traveled over the most elaborate springhouse he’d ever beheld. “This is fascinating. It’s as much laundry and bathhouse as springhouse, and I’ve never seen so much glazed yellow tile.”

  “Light keeps the moss and mould from growing,” Ellen said. “And what good is a laundry or a bathhouse that isn’t clean?”

  The structure itself was stone. Water entered it halfway up one wall, falling into a tiled conduit divided up into a holding pool, then several lower pools, the last of which exited the downstream end of the building near the floor. Pipes allowed the water to be diverted into and out of copper tubs, one of which sat in sturdy hinged brackets over a tiled fire pit.

  “So you heat water here and use this for the laundry tub,” Val said, pointing to one of two enormous copper tubs. “This other tub, without a fire under it, would be the bathing tub.”

  “Hence, my use of your facility.” As she spoke, Ellen’s gaze was focused on the blue fleur-de-lis pattern decorating a row of tiles at waist height. “I wash my clothes here and use the other tub on occasion, as well.”

  “You’re welcome to, of course.” Val glanced around at the pipes lest he be caught staring at her. “I suppose it’s you who’s kept the place so clean.”

  “I use the farm pond in warm weather,” Ellen said, coloring slightly, “but when it’s cold, this little springhouse is a godsend. I never dread laundry day.”

  “And you must not now.” Val shoved himself back to sit on the worktable beside the only door—the door he had left wide open in deference to the lady’s sensibilities. “What day is laundry day?”

  “Thursday or Friday. Wednesday is market; Sunday is services. Little market is Saturday, if need be.”

  “I ask, lest we attempt to use this facility on the same day. One wouldn’t want to intrude on a lady at her bath.”

  “Or a gentleman,” Ellen agreed, this blush more apparent.

  “I hadn’t considered the issue of our laundry. Working on the house, Darius and I will pile up a deal of dirty clothes.”

  “It will be no trouble to toss in a few more shirts and socks when I do my own,” Ellen suggested, still not meeting his eyes.

  “I will not allow you to do my laundry, Ellen.” Val shoved off the table and crossed the space to frown down at her.

  “I will not allow you to use my given name without permission,” she retorted, her gaze meeting his then dropping. His arched an eyebrow but held his ground, peering down at her.

  “Show me where this pond is,” he said abruptly, taking her hand and placing it on his forearm. “I love nothing at the end of a hot summer day so much as a good swim, and that will be equally true when I’m not playing… idling my days away indoors.”

  “I did not mean to bark at you,” Ellen said as they walked into the woods. “I am used to my solitude here.”

  “I have intruded,” Val guessed. “You hear us over here, like you did this morning. You heard the hammers and the sawing. The birds are quiet, and we are not. You sense movement beyond your woods, and it isn’t little beasts or even local boys. It’s change, and you can’t control it.”

  And what was he going on about, as if he could divine her thoughts?

  “And because I can control who calls me what, up to a point,” Ellen said with a slow smile, “you must ask permission to call me Ellen.”

  “My name is Valentine,” he said quietly. “I beg you to use it and ask your leave to adopt comparably informal address when private with you.”

  “Valentine,” she said, enunciating each syllable as they moved toward a break in the trees. “It’s a lovely name. It shall be my privilege to use it. And you must call me Ellen when we are not in the churchyard.”

  “Thank you,” Val said, releasing a breath. “So this is your pond?”

  “Yours, actually.” Ellen dropped his arm and hopped up on the dock that extended a good forty feet out over the pond. “I use it after dark, and the local boys use it whenever they please.”

  “A pond should be used.” Val stepped onto the boards, as well, watching Ellen move to the end of the dock, her features obscured by the floppy brim of her hat. While she surveyed the tranquil surface of the water, he sat about ten feet from her and started tugging off his boots.

  Ellen’s gaze lit on him where he sat. “You are going to soak your feet?”

  “And invite you to do likewise.” Val tugged off his second boot. “Ellen.”

  She surprised him by nimbly slipping off her shoes and taking a seat beside him. Their bodies did not touch, and yet Val caught a whiff of the lovely honeysuckle and lavender scent of her. She carefully hiked her skirts just a little and let her toes dangle in the water.

  “My feet are going to love this pond.” Val cuffed his breeches to just under the knees and slipped his feet into the cool water. “All of me will love it, in fact.”

  “You are a good swimmer? The far end is quite deep.”

  “I am a very good swimmer. You
?” He swirled his toes in the water, unabashedly letting her fix her gaze on his feet. They were big feet, of course, in keeping with the rest of him, and long, with high arches.

  “I am competent,” Ellen replied, “in a pond. I would not take on the ocean.”

  “Nor I. Who are these boys you despair of?”

  He distracted her with questions for about the next twenty minutes, regarding it as time well spent in his efforts to set her at ease. They were going to be neighbors at the very least, and a man was hardly a man if he didn’t take a little opportunity to appreciate a pair of bare, very pretty female feet.

  “You have guests,” Ellen reminded him. “I should not monopolize your time, Mr. Windham.”

  “Valentine. And they are uninvited guests.”

  “Good manners do not distinguish.” She lifted her feet from the water and looked around as if searching for her shoes.

  “Here.” Val took his feet out, as well, and spun to sit facing her, cross-legged. He pulled his shirt over his head and held it over his lap. “Give me your foot.”

  “My foot?” Ellen’s eyes were glued to the expanse of his chest. Val knew it was a chest that boasted an abundance of nicely arranged male muscle—mostly courtesy of years at the keyboard—and for a widow, it could hardly be considered a shocking sight.

  “I’ll dry you off.” Val gestured with his makeshift towel, holding her gaze as if to imply he exposed himself like this to women every day, when in fact, he was by nature fairly modest. Cautiously, she leaned back on her hands and extended a foot toward him.

  He seized the foot gently and buffed it with the linen shirt. He dried first one foot then the other, then tarried over his own feet before finally putting the somewhat damp shirt back on.

  “Shall we?” Val had put his boots on and risen to extend a hand down to her. He’d left her no choice but to accept that hand and allow him to assist her to her feet. She didn’t protest when he kept hold of her hand as he led her off the dock.

  A year ago, Ellen had taken him by the hand to show him the wood, a casual gesture on her part—Val was sure of it. She could hardly object that he was turning the tables now, lacing his fingers through hers and setting a sedate pace back toward the house.

  “Belmont’s boys will be staying for a while,” he said as they gained the shade of the woods. “They’re good boys, but I think the professor wants to test out being separated from them before he must send them to university.”

  “I’m ten years away from my parents’ house, and I still miss them both desperately. But I’m also relieved they’re gone in another sense.”

  “Relieved?” Val stopped walking to peer at her. “Was there illness?”

  “My father was quite a bit older than my mother,” she replied, frowning down at some ferns trying to encroach on the path. “He was probably failing, but I was a child, and his death seemed sudden to me. My mother wasn’t young when I was born, so I was their treasured miracle.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “And were you somebody’s treasured miracle?” Ellen asked, bending to tug at the ferns.

  “I was one of ten such miracles,” Val said. “But I do not doubt my parents’ regard for me.” He fell silent on that thought, a little disconcerted to realize it was the truth. He had never doubted their regard for him, though he’d also never felt he had their understanding. He was pondering this realization when Ellen shifted her hand so her fingers gripped his arm near the elbow, which was probably prudent. They would soon be out of the trees, and he had no desire to rush his fences.

  Though what fences those would be, he would have to puzzle out later.

  Three

  “Thank you for showing me the pond,” Val said as they approached the picnic blanket.

  “My pleasure. It appears the fairies have been here, casting the post-picnic sleeping spell on your companions.”

  “We’re not asleep.” Darius opened his eyes and sat up. “Well, Belmont might be, but he had two helpings of cobbler, so allowances must be made. It’s too quiet. Where do you think the savages have got off to?”

  Belmont sat up and yawned. “They’ll be putting up their tent. It’s a sturdy business, that tent. If they use some of the lumber I brought to build a proper platform, it will keep them snug and dry and out of your hair.”

  “Savages with their own accommodations,” Val remarked. “Decent of you.”

  “My brother Matthew and I put a tent to good use on many a summer night,” Belmont said. “You might want to help the boys pick out a spot for a tree house, as well, but I’d set them to clearing all these damned saplings, were I you. Then Mrs. Fitz here can draft them as assistant gardeners. Pardon the language, Mrs. Fitz.”

  Val arched a brow at Ellen. “Gardeners?”

  “Good heavens, Windham.” Belmont got to his feet. “You can’t be thinking your work is limited to the house? If you’re to have a proper manor, you need to landscape it. The jungle will just take over again, if you don’t. The oaks need to be pruned so they don’t continue to litter your roof with acorns and leaves. You’ll want flowers near the house, an herb garden for your kitchen, a medicinal garden, a vegetable garden near your home farm.”

  Val scrubbed a hand over his face. “So many gardens as all that?”

  “And ornamental gardens, as well,” Belmont went on blithely. “Some scent gardens, cutting gardens for early spring through fall, color gardens. As it’s already nigh summer, you’d best get busy, or you’ll waste the entire season. You’ll take pity on him, won’t you, Mrs. Fitz? You can’t expect a city boy like Windham to comprehend the task involved.”

  “I suppose,” Darius spoke up as he got to his feet, “the boys could be set to work turning beds and transplanting seedlings. One should think the offspring of a botanist might have a few skills in that regard.”

  “They’ve both spent long hours with me in the conservatory and the propagation house,” Belmont assured them. “And I’ll be happy to send over seedlings, as will my wife. We’ve all manner of new varieties gleaned from her estates in Kent.” Belmont speared Val with a look. “If you’re to keep my savages here with you, I promise I’ll come back with a wagonload of seeds and sprouts for you and Mrs. FitzEngle.”

  Well done, Val wanted to shout, because the look of longing that crossed Ellen’s face let him know her assistance had just been bribed right into his lap. “Such generosity will be much appreciated, Professor.”

  “Well, I’m off then.” Belmont dusted off his breeches. “The leader is Nelson, and the off gelding is Wellie.”

  “Gelding?” Val asked.

  “I’m loaning you my wagon and team,” Belmont explained. “If all else fails, you can slaughter the horses and feed them to my sons. The boys can also ride these two, though we didn’t pack saddles for them. Their gaits are smooth enough, provided you don’t try to canter—or trot very far. My hay is in, and this is not my best pair, though they’re good fellows.”

  “Most generous of you,” Darius cut in, shooting Val a to-hell-with-your-pride look. “A wagon and team will save us a great deal of time and logistical complications, and the stables, at least, are sound and in good repair.”

  “Well, that’s settled,” Belmont looked around, his gaze traveling in the direction of noise most likely made by his children. “I will deliver a few paternal words of guidance, not because they will be heeded, but because Abby will expect it of me.”

  “I’ll see to your horse,” Darius volunteered.

  Val started after Belmont, only to find Ellen’s hand on his arm.

  “Leave them some privacy,” she suggested. “Good-byes are hard enough without an audience.”

  “And young men have surprising reserves of dignity.”

  “I was more concerned for their father,” Ellen rejoined, smiling. “Perhaps you might suggest a visit to Candlewick in the n
ear future?”

  “I’d like to see the place. Belmont claimed it was in bad shape when he took it on.”

  “And I am sure Mrs. Belmont would like to see the boys,” Ellen said. “But if we’re to keep them busy, you must tell me what exactly you’d like them to accomplish.”

  They created a list, starting with the vegetable garden and including the transplanting of some young fruit trees from Ellen’s back yard to Valentine’s home farm. That property began with the meadow boasting the farm pond and ran along the lane toward more buildings and pastures in the direction of town. As he tried not to blatantly admire the curve of Ellen’s FitzEngle’s lips or the way her neck joined her shoulders, Val instead heard the melody of her voice.

  It would take woodwinds—strong, supple, and light, with low strings for balance—to convey the grace of that voice. Or possibly just the piano alone, a quiet, lyrical adagio.

  He pulled his thoughts back to the conversation. “Who works the home farm?” he asked as they watched Darius leading Belmont’s gelding from the stables.

  “The Bragdolls. Or they work the land. The vegetable gardens, chicken coop, dairy, and so forth are not used. The manor has been unoccupied since before the previous Baron Roxbury owned the place.”

  “I am not inclined to set all that to rights just yet. Your surplus is adequate for my present needs, and I won’t be hiring staff for months.” Assuming he even kept ownership of the place.

  “Get in as big a plot of vegetables as you can, anyway,” Ellen said. “Children can weed it for you cheaply, and you can sell the excess, if any there is. And if you hire staff even as late as next spring, you’ll still need a cellar full of food to feed them until next summer.”

  “Establishing a working manor with home farm is decidedly more complicated than I’d envisioned.”

  “You thought simply to restore the house,” Ellen reminded him. “That is a substantial project in itself.”

  Val shrugged self-consciously. “I liked the place when first I saw it. I still like it, and I like all the ideas I have for restoring it to health.” It reminded him in a curious way of creating… music. Part craft, part art; part discovery, part invention.