Saving Juliette

by Gayle Eden

  “Apologies, milord, I did not realize—”

  “'Tis nothing. Perhaps you should read to her when it storms. Her favorite story….”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He pulled the covers up and stood, gazing at the child, feeling the woman come to stand beside him, tying her robe belt.

  “Poor thing.” The woman said. “The Baron did his best, but between his illness and grief, his sometimes absentmindedness when he got into his reading and studying, I’m afraid the little miss has been alone much.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Yes. It was all right, I suppose, as we lived in a smaller town and everyone, the farmers, shopkeepers, they all knew her and looked out for her. The Baron would be appalled, ashamed at himself, when one of them brought her home, having found her rambling—or sometimes looking through their cottage windows, watching their family at meals. We tried, the servants, but there was only three of us and well…”

  “She’ll be fine here. Tell my mother of these tendencies to ramble about.”

  “I will, my Lord.”

  He turned and headed out, pausing as the woman called to him again.

  “Yes.” Monty looked over his shoulder.

  The woman smiled. “She likes you. Trusts you. That’s why she went to your rooms.”

  He nodded and glanced at the child, then went to his rooms.

  Monty sat another hour by the window, replaying the conversations with his parents, and his final decision to finish his studies and travel to Egypt. It would mean he would be gone a few years, and that did not please them. Yet they had not raised him to be content with just title and fortune, or to live the life of privileged heir on the town.

  His father understood the pitfalls for idle young Lords in society, wasting themselves at nothing, having no thought to anything save their self-indulgent whims. He told Monty yes, to make something more of himself. As a member of the royal society, having a great interest in sciences, civilizations and cultures, he knew the diaries Monty would keep, the company he would join—two renowned archeologist—would produce something worthwhile.

  Many of Monty’s friends, his closest chum Demetrius, (Deme) Willingham, Marquis of Feildon, would be doing the usual tour, returning to England as expected—to meet no expectation save for getting heirs and playing the role society would dictate for them. Although Deme’s family was recognized as eccentric and wild, so he may be the exception. Most would turn to drowning out boredom with gaming, women and drink, and set to hunting a well-blooded bride to provide the next crop of heirs.

  It was not that Monty did not have that expectation hanging over him too. It was that his father wanted him to experience some of his own dreams before he did what was expected of him by everyone else. He wanted that too. For a while, he wanted to do what interested him. Because as grim as the thought was, someday he would be duke, and his father’s shoes, his character, his persona was such, that no man could exactly mirror it. Oh, his parents wanted him to be a unique individual, still, he was born into the aristocracy, and that would eventually override everything else in his life.

  * * * *

  Eight years later.

  The Marquis of Wolford’s return to England, and subsequent arrival at his parent’s estate, was cause for a celebration. Albeit, only the coveted invites the duchess sent out to local gentry (for many had yet to go up to London for the social season) went out, with the brief note that the picnic/gathering was to be held on the east lawn of Chadwick Manor.

  Monty arrived early enough to have that private reunion with his beloved parents—hiding his shock at the passing of eight years on them, little realizing his own change—not just maturity, but the swarth of his skin and the long length of his wavy hair making him look more like a native of those distant lands. Having lost his valet two years ago to fever, Monty had brought with him, Jahi, who served as such for a while. Jahi—he’d found in Cairo, a city of more Europeans than locals, where diplomats and the elite had built opera houses, hosted balls and did much the same as in London and France, save they had a surplus of near slaves in the poorest of the native population.

  Jahi came into his life as a young local, orphaned, doing menial jobs in the posh households, but desiring to learn English, and have a more formal education. Monty hired him. They exchanged knowledge and taught each other much, and though Jahi served as secretary, often dictating and translating, both of them were always armed and used those weapons, to protect themselves, each other, and the artifacts Monty brought home to the museum. Monty spent more time out of civilization than in it, so there came a time when friendship was the core of their relationship. Despite publication of numerous books and articles in the Marquis name, translated into a dozen languages, his father knew there had always been a dedication to Jahi-for his invaluable input as a native Egyptian.

  They were in England now, so both men were ushered to chambers and handed over to servants, who would sheer Monty’s hair to a nape length, making the natural waves return—sun streaked though it was now. He dressed in snug black trousers, crisp white shirt, and black jacket. Monty forewent a neck cloth. He was at his parent’s country home and intended to be as relaxed as possible. All too soon, he would have to truss himself up for the social season.

  Jahi, he later encountered before they joined his parents in the study for a pre-gathering drink.

  Eyeing his friend’s wine Hessians, brown close-fitting trousers, the white shirt, and jacket, the Marquis smiled asking, “Are you so anxious to be an Englishman now?”

  “I look handsome.” Jahi smoothed his hair, cut to the shoulders, appearing blue black; and his deep brown eyes were twinkling. “You live in a Palace, my noble friend.”

  “Estate. My father’s.” Monty grunted. “He owns a few of these.”

  “As do you?”

  “A few.”

  Monty walked over and opened several of the tall windows, looking out over lands he spent his boyhood rambling, and had missed. Truly—as interesting as life abroad and the studies had been, he had been wretchedly homesick at times.

  Pulling a cheroot from his inside pocket, Jahi offered him one, and they lit them, whilst the Egyptian’s eyes were going over the manicured lands, neat hedges, gardens, further afield, to the woodlands and winding road, the lakes and such. A mist hovered in spots, near the bogs and water. The deep green of the land gave a vivid contrast to the blue skis.

  Monty propped his boot sole on the ledge, leaning to look down, able to see servants setting up long tables, scurrying, to prepare everything for the guests, and celebration.

  “What—who is that?”

  Monty heard something like awe in Jahi’s voice and followed his gesture as he pointed to the woods. Lips pulling into a smile, Monty saw, filtered by trees, the figure of a rider on horseback—a large high stepper—obviously being pushed full out through the woodland paths. Details were not visible, but the sun occasionally striking a banner of red/blond hair gave him some idea.

  “Juliette, I would guess.”

  “Your father’s ward?”

  “Yes, she’d be…sixteen by now, I think. Come, it looks as if she is heading to the back and servant’s entrance, we’ll reach the second floor in time for me to make introductions.”

  They crushed out the cheroots, and Monty, thinking how he would tease Juliette, for he was certain she was not only in trousers, but late in preparing for his welcome home party, led Jahi down to the second landing, then leaning against the balcony rail that overlooked the lower floors. His eyes were on the servant’s stairs, hearing her rather breathless voice and a clatter on the stairs—the mature voice, of a young woman that replaced those childish tones in his memory.

  “I am not running, Meg. No, I shan’t be late, I promise.”

  Both men were watching as the discreet door at the end opened and she burst through to the hall, obviously having been running. There was a smile on her flushed face, a few twigs in her hair—that looked like a wil
d spiral cape to her waist, and her mannish clothing was sweat stained.

  Not attending and heading for her rooms, Juliette was almost upon them before she halted her quick stride abruptly, and blinked at them.

  Any teasing Monty prepared died on his lips. It took a whole moment of Jahi elbowing him, before spoke at all. He was completely unprepared for the young woman Juliette had become, in spite of her clothing and state. That much was at least familiar. However, this Juliette was fully curved—evident in a damp white shirt with sweat damp camisole beneath. Long of legs, curvy hips, generously built. Juliette’s face lacked the ivory flawlessness of English debs. It was freckled and lightly tanned, at that moment flushed. Her eyes, slightly tilted, were not just the hazel he remembered, but amber with green flecks. Her straight nose, rose pink lips, and a face of angles that was not beautiful, but interesting.

  He heard Jahi sigh and elbow him again. The moment Monty spoke and made introductions, he reminded himself that Jahi was twenty and two, younger than himself, closer to her age, certainly—and though fascinated by the French and English flowers he had seen in Cairo, he had likely never met one like Juliette.

  “The Honorable Juliette palmer, Juliette, this is a friend of mine, Jahi.”

  He watched Juliette’s eyes jerk from his face and Move to Jahi as she self-consciously tried to smooth her hair. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Monty did not have to look to know Jahi had a white, handsome, smile on his face. He bowed and murmured, “The pleasure Is all mine, Juliette.”

  Her eyes back on his, Juliette muttered, “I—I was—I must get ready to—if you will excuse me.”

  Monty delayed her attempt to rush off with humor, “Welcome me home?” His brow arched.

  She swallowed and while he was taking in her features, that wild hair, and trying not to drop his eyes to the obvious rise and fall of her full breasts, Monty began to read the young woman as he had once read the child…

  However, she said, “Welcome home, my Lord.”

  “Thank you. Juliette”

  For a moment, their eyes locked. Monty saw a flash of something intriguing before she murmured an apology and took off toward her rooms.

  His eyes slightly narrowed, Monty visually followed that half walk, run.

  “Interesting young woman.”

  “Yes.” Monty glanced at his friend.

  Jahi’s handsome face was smiling, his brown eyes twinkling, “I like her better than the other’s I have met.”

  Grunting, Monty led him below, where they shortly joined his parents. He could tell before the guests began arriving and his parents left to greet them, that Jahi was waiting to see when and if Juliette would appear.

  The Marquis was in his own muse too, sifting through various emotions that had registered on that face before she had taken off. Of course, his own surprise, because somewhere in his mind he held such a deep affection for that little girl who crept into his rooms during a storm. He had mused often over the years on the trust and attachment she had rendered to him. He remembered Juliette’s upset and the parting words she’d had then, and he was touched deeply by the distress on her face.

  She had clung to him, as the coach was ready to depart, piled high with his baggage. She had cried, “But who will save from wild beasts, and storms and falling out of oak trees?”

  He had said something to the effect that she had promised not to run off by herself or climb trees, and that she was to go to the duchess if she was frightened. Her father had died the night before, and when word came, she had run off again. He’d found her in the woods, sitting up in a tree, crying her heart out. Monty had coaxed her down and neither the duchess nor the duke could get her from his arms—so instead of resting for his long journey and sea voyage, he had spent the night with a finally sleeping child in his arms. Distressed every time he tried to lay her down, Juliette would whimper and cling to him tighter.

  He had extracted himself that morning and gotten ready, cowardly hoping to escape before she awoke—but she had made it down before the coach pulled out and such a scene had unfolded.

  Monty recalled his father sympathetically trying to talk to her, assure her, and his mother offering everything from sweets to a pony, so upset were they, but he had finally set her down from him and held her by the shoulders, his eyes going over that pitiful face.

  “I must go, Juliette, and you must be very brave and strong, and take care of my parent’s for me. Can you do that?”

  She had wiped her nose and nodded.

  “Good girl. Now, mind them and do your lessons and schooling, so that when I come back, you will have reason to be proud. To make your papa proud too.”

  She had nodded to everything he had said in the next bit. He had kissed her flushed brow and gotten in the coach. After talking a bit to his parents, a last kiss from his mother and handshake from his father, he’d looked at the little wild-haired girl, barefoot and in her nightgown still, hair a tangle.

  She had said with her face drawn in lines meant to mask every emotion, “You won’t come back! My mama did not. My papa did not. There is never going to be anyone who saves me. I don’t care.” Her lips quivered. “I just won’t care anymore.”

  “Juliette!” he had called out, along with his mother, when she headed for the woods.

  His father stepped up to the coach. “Go. She will be all right.” Those kind eyes assured. “She’s still adjusting and grieving. Soon as her lessons start and your mother begins her training—then the ladies academy and tutors, all will be well.”

  “Write me of her.” Monty requested, having never bonded with a child before, nor frankly, noticed them, since his own academics, schooling, training, had been consuming. However, the scamp got into his heart awfully fast. “And assure her I am well, sir.”

  “I shall.” His father promised. “You worry about yourself, my boy. Stay well and safe. Send us word as often as you can. Your mother will win little Juliette over, and knowing our Mary, she will someday arrange a fine match for her. The child is not much for looks, but has a sharp, shrewd, intellect. In any case, she will be fine.”

  Soon he had been wrapped up in his new life, the adventure, mental and physical demands, and the acclimation to another culture. Time went swiftly. It was at camp some nights that homesickness would descend, and he would think of her, but even aware of the passage of years, he’d carried that child image in his mind.

  Juliette—was no longer that child.

  When she appeared at the gathering, Juliette wore a fashionable gown of yellow and white silk, her hair done up, with most of it save a few spirals down her back, was hidden by a summer hat with ribbons. White half boots graced her feet, and though there was no masking her generous form, she appeared the contained and well-trained young lady; eyes mostly down, gloved hands together, as sat herself by the duchess’s side.

  Nevertheless, the Marquis noticed that she did not join the younger set, nor participate in their amusement and games. Monty mentally arched his brow and scowled at the same time, seeing many of them whispering, obviously looking toward Juliette. Juliette herself showed no animation, no emotion at all. She nodded when the duchess leaned to speak to her, but otherwise did not participate at all.

  For all the lofty strictness of his parents, he did not believe that Lady Mary had trained her to be a complete shell, which was what she appeared in comparison to the young women and men her age, who were strolling the paths, playing croquet and such. Aside from that, this was not the young woman riding hell for leather through the woods this morning either.

  Monty thought he heard one of the girls whisper “stupid cow” and he shot her such a look of venom, she slunk back behind the others and avoided him the rest of the day.

  Jahi said to him after they had eaten, mingled, and were walking the gardens to smoke and enjoy a brandy, “Tell me about Juliette?”

  Monty was sure he already had, but filled in what he knew about her parents and how she came to the duke’s ho
use. He murmured, “Over the years mother or father mentioned her, but it was only in passing.”

  “Well,” Jahi said sitting on a bench. “I could see the scamp of a child this morning, but not at this party. I understand and observed that you English train your young ladies to be seen and not heard, but the others seem to manage some amusement and apparent friendships, where she is—”

  “Yes.” Wolford grunted.

  “Intriguing.”

  Monty eyed that handsome face—exceptionally handsome actually, a young man with lean honed body, and intelligence. It did not matter if he wore native cotton trousers and shirts, sandals, or English garb, the foreign in Jahi only enhanced the exotic. In addition, he was a full-grown man, one who enjoyed females.

  Monty had put his own sexual needs secondary to his work, and was one of the few who had not keep an Egyptian mistress, nor taken one on their long excursions in the desert—though some, being of other persuasions, made use of their male body servants for such appetites. Nevertheless, when not in the field, they were based in Cairo, and neither man was a monk. It had been a very young and streetwise Jahi who directed him to the cleaner, better, brothels. Since those were often open and without walls, he and Jahi had satisfied their basic urges openly. Monty had been often approached and harassed by females in the streets. He assumed it was because they knew he was a rich European. Jahi on the other hand, simply attracted them from twelve and up, shy eyed and bold. Even married ones were drawn to his striking sensuality.

  Given that he had been the novice in that land, and Jahi, a sharp and savvy young man, Monty had never taken that (master) servant attitude towards Jahi. The man had better instincts than he did. Nevertheless, here in England, it was a different world.

  He heard himself murmur, “It is likely she will make her debut this season. She will be on the marriage mart. My mother is expert for guiding her through that, and knows the best families—everyone who is anyone in society. It is the reason the season exists, for nobility, gentry, and aristocracy, to pair up their offspring.”