Lovers and Ladies

by Jo Beverley

  That evening he had even attempted to explain his work, but she hadn’t understood much of it. It had been a relief when he’d turned to more everyday matters and told her of his difficulty in finding a good woman to cook and clean for him.

  His uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Islip, was apparently most unsatisfactory. Deirdre had eagerly offered to help. There had been no thought of romance in her head, just kindness and the reward of being useful to such a gifted man.

  Her first step had been to try to work out the problems between Pammie Islip and Howard, for Pammie was known to be a good worker. Deirdre persuaded them both to stick with the situation for a while, and encouraged Pammie not to sing or chatter when Howard was working. She began to make frequent visits to the cottage to see how matters were progressing and to give Pammie a chance to gossip.

  She came to value her visits to Foote’s Cottage very much indeed.

  Sometimes Howard was deep in his work, and so she did not disturb him. Sometimes however, if he was pondering matters in his head, he could be persuaded to take some exercise, thus allowing Pammie to sing as she scrubbed. Usually on these occasions Howard would talk to Deirdre of his work—not conversing, but thinking aloud. Deirdre did not mind. By listening to his musings, she began to understand a little more about his studies; enough to convince her that she was in the company of a genius. It made her feel so useful and important to take everyday cares from his shoulders, and then, of course, he asked her to marry him.

  The subject had arisen on one of the occasions when she’d persuaded him out for a walk. They had been walking through a field of playful lambs on a perfect spring day, walking in silence, for Howard had been lost in the numbers in his head.

  But then, perhaps he had not been working through equations, for he had suddenly said, “Do you know, I think we should marry.”

  Deirdre had been startled but thrilled. She had said something silly, like, “Oh, Howard!”

  “Good. You’re a very useful person to have around.” Then, disconcertingly, he returned to his calculations and did not mention the matter again.

  A few days later Deirdre reminded him of his words, but tentatively, thinking they might have been a fevered dream.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “What’s the matter? Have you changed your mind?”

  “No. But, Howard…if we are to marry, you must speak to my father.”

  He appeared more concerned with the search for a particular piece of paper than with her words. “Surely you can do that, Deirdre.”

  “Tell my father we want to marry?” she said blankly.

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “But he’ll want to speak to you about it.”

  “Why? You can tell him all the details. My income is just over a hundred pounds per annum and I own this cottage. I assume you have a portion, but if you want it tied up for your use and for any children, I don’t mind.”

  Deirdre was thrilled at this evidence that he wasn’t marrying her for her money, but protested again. “It’s not how these things are done, dearest…”

  “Forget it, then,” he said testily. “Where is Babbage’s letter? Has that damned woman been meddling in here again?”

  Deirdre was taken aback, but was definitely not about to forget it. She had finally found her destiny and life’s work; she was to be helpmeet to a modern Newton.

  That night she awkwardly informed her parents of the matter only to see the notion firmly squashed. Her father, she rather thought, would have gone along if Howard had come up to Missinger and stated his case. Her mother, however, was dead set against it.

  “I know you’ve been hovering about him, and I haven’t interfered, Deirdre. I judge you to have the sense not to go wrong. Marry him, though? He’s a lawyer’s son with a hundred a year.”

  “I love him, Mama.”

  “Nonsense. He’s just the first man to pay you any interest. Creeping around as you do in white and gray, no one even sees you. We’re off to London in a few weeks. With some nice bright clothes, and a bit of a push, we can do better than Mr. Dunstable.”

  Begging had not moved Lady Harby one inch, but so confident had she been of Deirdre’s coming success that Deirdre had been able to strike the fateful bargain—that if she returned from London unengaged, she could marry Howard.

  Even Howard had admitted it to be a clever plan, and everything had been in hand until Pammie Islip’s patience wore thin. Another opportunity presented, and so she gave her notice the very week before Deirdre was to leave for London.

  With so little time to find a replacement, and Lady Harby demanding Deirdre’s attention for other matters, Deirdre was forced to settle for Nan Copps, though she feared the woman would not do. Everyone knew Nan was a slovenly worker. As feared, Deirdre had returned from London to find Mrs. Copps had moved on to other pastures, muttering about unreasonable buggers.

  Howard had been scathing about the woman’s inadequacies and quite helpless to cope on his own. It was doubtless this domestic crisis that had muted his reaction to Deirdre’s mock betrothal; he was much more concerned about edible food and clean floors.

  It had been a blessing from heaven that Mrs. Leadbetter had been looking for a place, old Colonel Grieve having finally died. Mrs. Leadbetter had an excellent reputation for hard work, won prizes for her cooking, and was known far and wide for her taciturnity.

  Deirdre felt that at last she had accomplished her task. When she thought that in weeks she would be free of Don Juan and have won her mother’s consent to her marriage to Howard, she could not imagine how life could be sweeter. She sang as she walked down the village street, and waved cheerily at the blacksmith, who was taking a moment away from the heat of his forge. He grinned and touched his fore-lock.

  Foote’s Cottage was a square stone building fronting onto the main street of Missinger St. Mary, with a long garden in the back running down to the river. Bert Rawston took care of the garden, and it showed a riot of flowers, herbs, and productive vegetables. Deirdre was quite proud of talking Bert into doing the extra work, for he had a number of gardens in his care. Howard, she feared, scarcely noticed how lovely his garden was, for he was not an outdoors person. Perhaps she should point out to him that all the delicious fresh vegetables served up by Mrs. Leadbetter were the results of Bert’s skill.

  With Bert and Mrs. Leadbetter, and Jessie Cooper doing the laundry, Deirdre knew she had made Foote’s Cottage a perfect home. She looked forward to living there one day soon.

  There was a handsome green front door with a porch over it, but Deirdre went down the side path to slip in the back door. She snipped a spray of mint from the plant by the door, and bruised it between her fingers for the aroma.

  Sinewy Mrs. Leadbetter was in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Leadbetter. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “Aye, it is, milady,” said the woman sourly. “You’d think some folk would go out and enjoy it.”

  Oh dear. Deirdre took another fortifying sniff of the mint. “Mr. Dunstable does become caught up in his work, I’m afraid. Perhaps I can tempt him out for a walk.”

  “See if you can, if you please, milady. I’ve not been able to dust that room for three days.”

  Oh, poor Howard, thought Deirdre. He really must take better care of himself.

  She tiptoed through to the front parlor, which was now called his study, and found her beloved hunched over his desk. He was a tall man, but she feared his study posture would soon rob him of some of his height. He pushed his hand into his honey brown hair to hold it away from his eyes. His hair really did need to be cut, but it wasn’t a matter Deirdre could arrange for him. Not, at least, until they were married.

  In fact, she rather liked his hair long. It seemed dashing and piratical. She often thought of running her hands through it, and once or twice she had found the nerve to touch it.

  The hands holding his hair back and wielding a stubby pencil were broad, with spatulate fingers. They had a
lways impressed her as strong and practical, but now, disconcertingly, a vision of long brown fingers intruded; strong hands pulling her up to the top of the barrow…

  She coughed.

  Howard looked up with an angry scowl on his square-jawed face, but then it lightened. “Oh, hello, Deirdre. I thought you were that woman. I’m glad you’re here. I can’t seem to make her understand how I like my eggs.”

  She smiled and walked over to him. “Poor lamb. I’ll speak to her.”

  “I don’t think she’ll suit, you know. She doesn’t seem to pay attention to my wishes at all. Perhaps you should find someone else.”

  Deirdre kept her smile with an effort. “I’m not sure there is anyone you’d like better, love. Just be patient. Once I’ve disposed of Don Juan, we can be married and I’ll manage your life to perfection.”

  He rewarded her with a smile, one that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes in a very appealing way. “I know you will. Has he turned up yet?”

  “Yes, two days ago.”

  “How long do you think it will be before you can break the engagement?”

  “I don’t know. Unfortunately, it’s up to him to do something embarrassing.”

  “You could always go off somewhere with him and then cry rape.”

  Deirdre stared at him. “Howard, I could never do such a thing!”

  “Don’t see why not. Everyone would blame him, and you wouldn’t have to bother about your reputation because we’d get married. If I didn’t hold it against you, no one else would. I really can’t stand Mrs. Leadbetter much longer.”

  Deirdre was appalled by his plan, though touched by how much the poor lamb needed her. That was it, of course. This must all be so hard for him. And he frequently didn’t really think of the implications of his words unless they were to do with mathematics.

  “We’ll have to keep her on, even when we’re married, Howard,” she said. “But I’ll be here to manage her for you.”

  “I suppose that will have to do.”

  Deirdre sighed. It was terribly stuffy in the room, for he would not have the windows opened because of the noise from the street. No wonder he was out of sorts. There was also a film of dust on the woodwork that must offend Mrs. Leadbetter deeply.

  “It’s a lovely day, Howard,” she said brightly. “Wouldn’t you like to go for a walk?”

  He glanced out of the window, appearing surprised to see the sun. “Yes, I suppose. Let me just finish this…” He turned back to his papers.

  Deirdre sat quietly to wait, taking her needlework from her reticule. The baby’s gown again, one intended for her sister Susan’s next child. As she worked, she drank in the peaceful intimacy and imagined that she and Howard were already married, and that this work was intended for her own child. How lovely this would be.

  Or at least, it would be lovely on a cold winter’s evening, with a big fire roaring in the grate. Today really was too fine a day to waste indoors. Poor lamb. He worked too hard.

  Howard did look wonderful poring over his papers, though, a sunbeam touching his hair to gold. Deirdre wished she had a talent for portraiture. He was in shirtsleeves, as he usually was to work in warm weather, and wore no cravat. His hair was tousled and curled against his collar.

  Definitely piratical.

  She noted with concern that he was growing a little pudgy and round-shouldered from so much book-work. She must tempt him to more exercise. If only he would ride, but he had no taste for it. He didn’t shoot, or fish. Not that angling gave much exercise, but it would get him out in the fresh air. Cricket? No, she could not imagine it.

  He showed no sign of breaking from his work soon, and she wondered whether she dared remind him she was here.

  He was scribbling notes, and checking them against other sheets. She knew if she looked, they would be covered by incomprehensible squiggles. She had asked him once to explain them, but he had assured her it was impossible that she understand.

  She had always thought herself good at numbers until she’d met Howard. Numbers in Howard’s world were something far removed from anything she had learned in the schoolroom.

  He was constantly engaged in communication with three other mathematicians, in a kind of friendly rivalry, and he had presented his work to learned gatherings and written about it for publication. Most people in the area did not realize the caliber of person they had in their midst.

  Deirdre had certainly never dreamed of marriage with such a man.

  The ticking clock told her she had been sitting here for nearly an hour, with Howard showing no sign of leaving his work. Food might do the trick. She tiptoed out and helped Mrs. Leadbetter to make up a tea tray. As she did so, she tried to mediate on the eggs.

  “It’s more than a body can manage, milady,” the woman stated. “They must be boiled. Not a scrap of the white must be runny, and not a scrap of the yolk must be ’ard. How’s a body to tell? And besides, anyone who knows anything worth knowing knows that new eggs cook different from old. How’s a body to tell?”

  “Perhaps he would take them poached, Mrs. Leadbetter.”

  “Not ’im,” said the woman, with a marked lack of respect. “’As to be boiled. And toast with no scrap of black on it. How am I, all alone, to watch the eggs and ’old the toast, and never get a touch of black? Do you know, he won’t eat bread? He reckons the toasting makes it easier on the stomach. I don’t know where he gets all these notions.”

  Deirdre sighed as she picked up the tray. “Please do your best, Mrs. Leadbetter. Perhaps we can hire a girl to help you here.”

  As she made her way back to the study, Deirdre wondered whether it was true that toast was more digestible than bread. She was sure if Howard said so, it must be. How strange.

  She put the tray down on a table near his desk, braced for irritation. But when he looked up, he smiled. “Do I smell fresh scones? Lovely lady.”

  Deirdre wasn’t sure if he meant Mrs. Leadbetter or herself, and chose not to ask. She poured the tea as he liked it, with very little milk, and basked in his approval. “Please try to be more flexible about the eggs, Howard. Think of Mrs. Leadbetter’s baking. She wins awards every year for her pies.”

  He rubbed his nose and gave a disarming grin. “They are very good. I’ll try not to be a bear. It’s just that a satisfactory breakfast sets a man up for the day.”

  Deirdre smiled back, feeling mistily that everything was perfect after all. “When we’re married,” she promised, “I’ll cook your eggs myself.” She didn’t let the fact that she’d never boiled an egg in her life weigh with her at all.

  She received another approving smile and became happily lost in visions of serving him perfect eggs, and baking perfect cakes, and receiving perfect smiles…

  When Howard finished his tea, however, she found she still could not persuade him to a walk, and had to take her leave. Very daring, as she passed his seat, she leaned down and dropped a kiss on his cheek.

  He caught her hand. “You into this kissing business?”

  Deirdre went red. “Well, as we are engaged…”

  “I suppose.” He cupped the back of her head with his strong hand and pulled her down. His lips were hot and wetly parted, and the pressure on her neck hurt.

  He let her go, and grinned. “There. I don’t want you thinking I’m a cold fish, not with a Don Juan creeping around and pestering you. Off you go.”

  Deirdre left the cottage in a daze.

  He was jealous. That was wonderful.

  She hadn’t liked that kiss.

  That wasn’t wonderful.

  It had just been the position, she told herself. He hadn’t realized how awkwardly he had pulled her head down to his. Next time, hopefully, they would be in a better position. Standing, sitting, lying…

  Her mind strayed to the marriage bed and she felt distinctly uneasy. That, she told herself, was normal for an innocent young maiden. It was quite possible Howard was an innocent, too, which would account for his clumsiness. They would lea
rn about it all together.

  With that settled to her satisfaction, Deirdre went off to visit Anna, so that her excuse for absence would not be entirely spurious. She found that Anna had driven into Glastonbury with her mother, however, and so turned her steps home.

  What a shame she hadn’t been able to drag Howard away from his books and papers. It was a lovely day for a walk. The sky was clear, but a breeze cooled the air. Summer was at its best and flowers rioted everywhere, filling the air with perfume. Even the tang of the dung spread in a nearby field was a good country smell. Insects hummed about their business, and birds sang all around. Every one of God’s creations, including Deirdre, was happy to be alive.

  She strode over the fields toward the house, singing along with the birds, planning her happy future.

  Then she heard hoofbeats.

  She knew who it would be without looking, and turned with a shiver of unease.

  He was cantering toward her on the gray, a welcoming smile on his face. But then he kicked the horse to speed.

  In seconds, he was charging at her like a cavalry officer!

  With a gasp, Deirdre backed up a few steps, but she was in an open field. It would be ridiculous to run. He surely wouldn’t ride her down…

  Deirdre held her place, her heart in her mouth. He held the horse straight at her.

  At the last minute, he let go of his reins, swayed sideways, and scooped her up.

  She screamed as everything whirled around her, then she found herself perched in front of a laughing Don Juan as his horse cantered onward.

  She hit out at him. “You crazy fool! Who the devil do you think you are? The hero of a Minerva novel?”

  His teeth were wonderfully even and white as he laughed out loud, “I’m Don Juan! I’ve always wanted to do that. Of course, it would be even better if there’d been a dragon poised to devour you.”