A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  “Stuff and nonsense.”

  She took his measure. “Perhaps so, but I believe Marchand is a trifle exhausted from worrying about your health and isn’t thinking clearly. Why don’t you walk about the chamber with me, for I’m very strong, you know, and I haven’t the least fear that you will fall.”

  She smiled down at him.

  “How do you do it?” he asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Manage me with such deftness as though you’ve been doing so for years?”

  She met his gaze and felt her stomach squeeze up into a tight knot. “I have been used to dealing with my sisters, I suppose, and early on I learned that nearly every conflict has a basis in something practical—not enough buttons, or dolls, or ribbons. In this case, not enough nurses for you. Come. Stand up, then. Let’s see this prowess of which you boast.”

  He planted his feet more than a foot apart and slowly rose up before her. He gained his height and the first thing that struck her was that he was several inches taller than she. He was right, she could look up at him. Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Oh, dear. He was just the right height.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, trying for an indifferent tone. “A little dizzy?”

  “Yes, but I suspect that has nothing to do with my illness.” He chuckled. “You are so much fun to tease—you blush like a schoolgirl.”

  “Only because you say the most outrageous things.” Now, how was it possible that she had been with him but a handful of minutes and already, as before, she found herself on easy terms with him? The question could not be answered rationally. “Let me see you walk.”

  He took a deep breath and began walking across the carpet, but when he rounded the end of the bed he took hold of a bedpost with his right arm and hugged it—hard. She went to him, looking quickly up at his face. His eyes were closed.

  “Good God, the room is spinning,” he murmured.

  “You must sit down at once.” She took his arm and led him to a wing chair near the wardrobe.

  He sat down with a thud, leaning his head against the tall back. “Perhaps Marchand was right, I may not be ready to move about just yet, but the thought of spending another second in that bed—”

  “I think you are doing the right thing. You just need to go very slowly. Rest here for a while, then try to walk again. I’m convinced you will do better next time.”

  She drew forward a footstool for his feet, but when he refused it, she sat down at his knee.

  “You are a great comfort to me,” he said, looking down at her. “I wish you had come to me long before now.”

  “It would not have been wise,” she said with a slight lift of her chin.

  “No, definitely not, more so now that I’ve seen exactly how tall you are.” He appeared charmingly disgruntled. “I’m beginning to understand why half the ladies of my acquaintance never appealed to me. Your height suits me exceedingly well.”

  She wondered if he was thinking the same thing, that if he were to hold her in his arms, she would be precisely the right fit for him.

  He continued. “The fact is, I’ve nearly driven Marchand to distraction. I know that. I might complain of his ministrations, but I make the worst patient in the world.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

  He looked down at her and chuckled. “You didn’t have to agree with such spirit.”

  She smiled up at him.

  “You’ve left off wearing your caps,” he stated. “I like your hair dressed in curls like that.”

  “Thank you.”

  He met her gaze and her heart began to dance all over again. She should leave now and fetch Marchand to tend to Ramsdell, only she didn’t want to. Besides, Marchand needed a respite from his labors. She rose and offered her arm. “Come. Let’s see if you can walk back to the bed.”

  “I’m not returning to bed.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you should, only that you walk with me and sit on the edge again—just for practice.”

  He obliged her and found that he was much steadier this time.

  “Just as I thought,” she said. “The dizziness appears to be a result of having lain prone for so many days. Are your legs trembling at all?”

  He shook his head. “Not a bit.” Even so, he sat down on the bed and remained there for several minutes, then, entirely without her aid, shuffled slowly back to the chair. “You were exactly right. I am only in want of a little practice. I am grateful to you.”

  When he sat down, she eyed him thoughtfully. “What if I had the chaise-longue brought back to your chamber, the one I slept in while I cared for you? You could rest there during the day with your legs supported for hours, if you wished, which would give you some relief from the bed. It also might serve to relieve Marchand of some of his worries.”

  He nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “Not a bit. I do, however, have one request.”

  “Whatever you ask, I shall do.”

  “Will you promise for the next three days not to move about without someone in the chamber? I can’t impress on you enough how much your servant fears you will injure yourself again by falling down.”

  He sighed. “If I must”—here he paused and met her gaze—“but only if you promise to visit me.”

  Her heart stopped.

  “Now, don’t look at me in that manner,” he said, a faint smile on his lips, “as though I have just grown horns.”

  “You know very well I do not view you as some sort of menace—just a rather disturbing force.”

  “I disturb you, then?” he queried, his voice having dropped a full tone.

  She shook her head at him. “You know very well you do, though I am persuaded it is just your height. In a day or so I shall have grown accustomed to a giant walking about Lady Brook and staring down at me.” When his eyes became lit with a familiar fire, which meant his next words would be enticing, she quickly added, “And now I must go to Marchand.”

  She turned and strode to the door.

  He called to her, leaning forward in his seat. “Pray do not neglect me, Miss Pamberley, or I vow you shall arrive one morning to find my valet’s corpse on the floor. I am depending on you.”

  He seemed so earnest, so hopelessly desperate that she couldn’t help but smile. “I always keep my promises. I shall be bringing Celeste with me in a short while, and together I’m sure we can contrive to alter your shirts to, er, Marchand’s satisfaction, if that is to your liking?”

  He slumped against the chair, obviously relieved. “Yes, indeed it is,” he breathed. “Thank you—for everything.”

  Constance left the chamber, her heart in turmoil. She was both ecstatic that she would be seeing more of Ramsdell, yet at the same time she knew she should avoid him entirely. She was horridly susceptible to him, even though he was an irascible patient. She enjoyed the playful rapport they shared, and his fiery gray eyes always seemed to set her pulse racing and her stomach tumbling about as though caught in a whirlwind.

  She took a deep breath as she closed the door behind her, summoning her courage and her discipline. Surely she could manage to spend a few minutes each day with Ramsdell without risking her heart’s comfort. Surely.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  Three mornings later, just past dawn, Constance stared at the numerous gowns scattered over her bed, thinking the collected lot resembled something of a rainbow. She was being ridiculous, of course, behaving like little more than a ninnyhammer about what gown she should wear for breakfast, for nuncheon, for tea, and for dinner. But Ramsdell’s presence in her home had disrupted everything, including her long held belief that what she wore no longer mattered, only that she should strive to appear prim and proper for the sake of bargaining with the tradesmen.

  Now, however, all she could think was that every lady with whom Ramsdell was acquainted undoubtedly wore the latest in Parisian fashions and beside them all she must appear like a count
ry dowd. A single glance at the various costumes before her confirmed this opinion.

  The worst of it was, no matter how often she strove within her breast to be sensible about Ramsdell, she failed. He had begged her to attend to him, and she had acquiesced, but the result had proven terrifying since the few minutes she had decided she would spend in his company that afternoon quickly became an hour, then two, and of such sweet companionship that her heart seemed to be in a perpetual state of heightened sensation.

  The same few minutes had been repeated later that evening, and several times over during the following two days. He would recline comfortably on the chaise-longue in his bedchamber, and she would sit in a chair adjacent to him.

  Her thoughts, subsequently, had become fixed on Ramsdell, on being with him, conversing with him, arguing with him, watching him, reading to him and with him, challenging him, and even defying him.

  That morning she had promised to bring his breakfast to him along with a copy of The Times, only she couldn’t decide what to wear. All her gowns were made high to the neck, designed to give her a stern aspect, except a pale pink frock that was made of a gauzy muslin and required a lacy betsy to become suitable for morning wear. The undermaid had already dressed her hair in a becoming crown of ringlets, which she knew pleased Ramsdell, but which gown should she wear?

  She chose the pink one, donning it quickly and carefully, and arranging the white lace over the swell of her breasts. She was ready to pronounce herself prepared to enter Ramsdell’s sick chamber, but she made the huge mistake of moving to the long mirror in order to make one last perusal of her entire ensemble.

  What she saw there startled her. It was as though the clock had been turned back. She saw the young, excited maiden who had thoroughly enjoyed her first London Season so many years before, a beautiful young woman, just as Ramsdell kept saying to her, whose color was considerably heightened. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, since the sudden fire in her heart had put a rosy glow on her complexion. She was astonished and distressed given the hopelessness of the situation.

  “The devil take it,” she said, shocking even herself at her unladylike choice of words.

  She quickly stripped off the pink confection and donned a modest amethyst gown of patterned silk, made high to the neck and trimmed with a small point lace about the cuff of each short puffed sleeve. She then slid one of the gowns from off her bed and draped it over the long mirror, afterward returning the remaining gowns to her wardrobe. If she lingered sadly over the pink muslin, it was for only a brief moment. She refused to dwell on the unfortunate nature of her circumstance with respect to Ramsdell’s prestigious rank. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her head high, and ordered her feet to take her about the day’s business.

  She made her way to the kitchens, and within a few minutes bore a tray, dressed with a deep red rose from the garden, and carried Ramsdell’s breakfast to his bedchamber, just as she had promised.

  When she entered his room, however, she suffered a shock, for he was neither reclining on the chaise-longue nor on his bed, but was standing, fully dressed, by the window. Even his coat sleeves sheathed both arms, though a sling still kept his left forearm supported.

  “Do but look at you,” she said, smiling. “I can see that I have brought you your breakfast to no purpose. Am I to understand that you wish to join the ladies and your cousin in the morning room?”

  He shook his head. “I had no such intention, only to show you the progress I have made, though I fully intend to go downstairs with you, but not until I have enjoyed the breakfast I knew you would bring me.”

  She felt her cheeks tingling with pleasure at his words. “Then, come,” she responded brightly. “Sit in the chair and I’ll serve you.”

  He crossed the room, and only then did she realize he was wearing his boots as well. “Your Wellingtons,” she said.

  He grinned. “I have been staring out at your exquisite roses for these past several days and hope you will join me in taking a turn about the garden this morning.” He sat down in the chair and watched her.

  “Of course I will,” she responded promptly, settling her tray on the bed. She drew forward a small cherry-wood table by the door and placed it in front of him. She then set the tray on the table and tucked a long linen napkin into the V of his waistcoat so that it flowed over his supported arm. She buttered his bread, she cut up his bacon, she broke up his apricot tartlet into manageable pieces, she poured his coffee, she served him.

  The conversation ran first to local events—she had it on good authority that Lady Bramshill of Henley Lodge was planning a ball in a fortnight’s time and that all the notables of the surrounding area would be in attendance.

  “You will go, of course,” he said.

  “Yes. Lady Bramshill is a fine young woman with lively matchmaking propensities, which serves to keep the country alive with every manner of speculation.”

  “Has she succeeded yet in her occupation as matchmaker?”

  “Of course. Since she began her campaign to see everyone properly paired, three weddings have ensued in less than two years—a quite adequate showing for a novice, don’t you think?”

  He smiled. “Undoubtedly.”

  “Would you attend were an invitation extended to you?” she asked. The query was an impulsive one, but once the words were out, she regretted them.

  When the thought had entered her mind, she was only thinking how pleasant it would be to have such a good friend at the assembly to keep her company, but once the words passed her lips, she realized how inappropriate they were. “No, forget I said that. I wasn’t thinking, Ramsdell, truly.”

  “I wish that I could oblige you.”

  “We both know it would be wholly inappropriate.”

  He nodded. “Very much so. Besides”—and here he tried for a lighter tone—“I suspect Charles and I will be gone by then, something I have little doubt you are desiring more than anything. It cannot have been easy to have had the care of two invalids in addition to all your usual responsibilities.”

  Constance blinked at him, considering what he had just said. She realized that though her life had seemed so crowded with her duties prior to Ramsdell’s inauspicious arrival at Lady Brook, she hadn’t felt even the slightest bit pinched for time. His presence seemed to have filled her with an abundance of energy that kept her moving briskly and happily throughout her usual regimen. The minutes passed like seconds. Besides, Alby had so completely immersed himself in her sisters’ chores that he had become more of a benefit to Lady Brook than a drain on her resources.

  “How odd,” she said, her lips parting slightly.

  “What?” he pressed, sliding a piece of tartlet into his mouth.

  “It’s silly, really. It’s just that except for the fatigue I felt while you were ill, I have never felt quite so alive as now.” She paused for a moment. He fixed his gaze on her as he took a sip of coffee. She continued. “I know what it is. I’ve just never had a friend like you before, someone I could talk to about everything. For instance, you seem to understand better than anyone how much I love Lady Brook because I’m involved in every aspect of her care and future development. I can see my own love of our lands reflected in your countenance when you speak of Aston Hall.”

  “Indeed.” He smiled and sipped his coffee.

  She nodded. “Your entire expression becomes quite animated when you speak of your ancestral lands.”

  He clattered his coffee cup on his saucer and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

  She was instantly distressed. “What have I done now? Have I said something I oughtn’t?”

  He nodded. “Yes. You have reminded me again why I’m going to miss you like the devil once I leave—which I am beginning to realize must be very soon.”

  Constance felt her throat constrict into a knot so tight, she felt as though she were being strangled. She looked away from him, rising to her feet and crossing the room to
the window. He wasn’t even gone and she was already missing him.

  She looked down at the rose garden, where she could see Celeste, Marianne, and Katherine busily cutting flowers for the house. Augusta was standing up on a bench and giving directions to Alby for the successful navigation of the maze. She jumped down and Alby emerged, running out of the maze. She watched Augusta check her pocket watch, then begin hopping up and down. She could hear her sister squeal—how unlike Augusta!

  Her sisters all paused in their labors, and she could hear them congratulating Alby on his navigation of the maze in a new record time.

  She smiled and turned back to Ramsdell, who was just rising from his chair. “Your cousin is trying to set a record for the maze—the fastest time through. Jaspar Vernham holds the record of fifty-eight seconds, but then, he was eighteen at the time.”

  “Who is Jaspar Vernham?” he asked, crossing the room to join her by the window.

  “He used to work in the stables, but he has since made his fortune in India.”

  “The one you were in love with when you were fifteen?” he queried. “Was that his name?”

  “Goodness! Do you actually remember all the absurd things I tell you?”

  His face grew somber suddenly. “That’s the rub, I suppose. Nothing you tell me seems absurd, or ridiculous.” She saw in his face a longing that reflected utterly the desire of her own heart. A faint despondency touched her spirits. He would leave soon, and with his departure he would take part of her heart away forever.

  He took a step toward her, his brow knit faintly, questioning.

  That particular question she did not want to answer.

  “Perhaps we ought to take that turn about the rose garden,” she suggested quietly.

  He straightened his shoulders. “Indeed,” he murmured, “that would be best.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ramsdell walked slowly beside Constance, his mind and heart torn as never before. He tried to tell himself that the powerful feelings he felt for Constance were strictly because of the artificial intimacy of their situation—he as patient, she as nurse. But the part of him that demanded truthfulness knew that when she spoke of never having had a friend like him before, she was saying something as equally profound about himself. He had never, never known such easy discourse as that which he enjoyed with her.