“No,” Annabella said shortly, and gritted her teeth. She had liked Caroline when they were in school and had become friends, for Caroline had a great deal of charm. But none of that charm showed now. She disliked the way she talked of Parsifal—Mr. Wentworth. Caroline was only a few years younger than her brother, she was sure, but she was far more immature.
Annabella focused her attention on the portrait. Perhaps there was some resemblance, but the man’s pale face was longer than Mr. Wentworth’s, more austere, and a fanatical light seemed to burn in his eyes. For all his sober garb, she suspected this man was as wild as any of his family, though perhaps in a different way. “No,” she repeated. “I think he looks more like the present Lord Grafton ... but not quite. His face is longer than Mr. Wentworth’s, and you must admit that Lord Grafton’s face is leaner than his brother’s.”
“I suppose you are right,” Caroline said. “Did you know the thirteenth earl’s brother is an ancestor of the Duke of Stratton? He is, you know. The brother married the eldest daughter of the duke, and it was their son who continued the line, after the duke’s only son and heir died. There has always been some disaffection between the Wentworth s and the Strattons since then, for the thirteenth earl was a supporter of Charles I, and the Strattons followed Cromwell.”
Annabella smiled slightly. “I think you know more about your family than you admit, Caroline.”
Caroline rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Oh, it is only because Mama insists, and because Parsifal taught me. I do not remember half of it, but I do remember this part of it, because the thirteenth earl was very dashing and romantic.” She moved on, in front of a blank spot on the wall above the mantelpiece. “He was here, but Mama wanted the painting cleaned and restored. I wish I could show you his portrait, for he was quite handsome, like Geoffrey I think. Oh, wait, I remember!”
She went to a glass case in which a number of miniatures were set upon shelves and opened it. “Here, I have been told it is not a perfect likeness, not as good as the portrait, but do you not think he looks quite dashing?”
Annabella took the miniature from Caroline and nearly gasped. She would almost have said it was her own Cavalier, except of course the Cavalier wore a mask, and she could not tell what all of his face looked like. The thirteenth earl’s coat was a different color, but it was cut in the same manner as the Cavalier’s, and his chin and well-formed lips were the same. His shoulders were broad, and there was the same sense of solidity and assurance in this miniature as there was in the Cavalier. Was her Cavalier a ghost? Surely not! She shivered.
“Are you feeling well, Bella?” Caroline asked.
Annabella started and looked at her friend’s concerned face. “Oh ... oh, I am quite well, thank you. Just a little chill. ! shall need to wear a shawl when I go out later, I am sure.”
Caroline nodded. “Parsifal is having repairs made to the chimney this week, and so we are not lighting as many fires as usual here. But come, there is more.”
Annabella scarce attended the rest of the tour, for her thoughts were wholly upon the Cavalier. No, he could not be a ghost, could he? She remembered the touch of his hand when they danced ... and the touch of his lips when they had kissed. No, certainly he was real. Although, she had never seen or been near a ghost... how could she know what one was like, if they were formless things, or could assume a shape quite solid seeming? After he had brought her mother to her room, he had disappeared without a sound ... or perhaps her attention had been so much upon her mother that she had not noticed.
“. . . ghost still haunts this house,” Caroline was saying.
Her words brought Annabella’s mind sharply to attention. “What? I am sorry, Caroline, but I am afraid my mind was wandering a little. What is this about a ghost?”
“Ah, I thought that would get your attention!” Caroline grinned. “Did I not tell you this gallery would be tedious? But the Cavalier’s ghost was my father’s favorite tale to tell. I remember it when I was a little girl. The Cavalier—that is what we call the thirteenth earl—was a spy. He did all manner of brave and dashing things during the civil war; I believe he saved dozens of people by hiding them in the walls of this house. And yes, there are priests’ holes, hidden cupboards, and false walls here.”
“But the ghost?”
Caroline’s smile grew wider, obviously enjoying the suspense so clearly in Annabella’s voice. “It was something my father told me. The Cavalier died mysteriously. It was thought that he was poisoned, but we are not sure about that, or who did it. Some suspect that it was his younger brother, for it’s said that he coveted both the title and the countess, but he had witnesses to his whereabouts near the time of the Cavalier’s death. The Royalists the thirteenth earl had hidden were found and executed, however. The countess ran away to Spain to save her child-to-be from possible harm—a boy, as it turned out. The child came back and successfully claimed the title once he was grown. But it is said that the ghost of the Cavalier haunts Wentworth Abbey, looking to avenge the wrong done to the Royalists he had hidden, the exile of his wife, and his own death.”
Annabella’s heart beat hard and fast, as if she had been running, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. “Heavens, what a story, Caroline!” she said and could hear her voice shake.
“But of course, I have never seen the ghost, and neither has anyone else. Well, some maids have claimed to have done so, but they are silly things, after all,” Caroline said, giving Annabella a sly look.
“You are making it all up!” Annabella said instantly, a little angered, for she remembered that look of Caroline’s as usually meaning she was up to some trick.
“No, it’s true!” replied Caroline. “You may ask Parsifal about the story, for he knows it. I was trying to see if you might believe there is a ghost, though.”
“Of course I don’t. There are no such things as ghosts.”
“Whistling in the dark, Bella?”
“No, I am not!” Annabella said crossly. “I was merely caught up in your story. You always were a good storyteller, Caroline, if you remember!”
“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” replied Caroline, gratified. “Do you think others might like the story as I told it?”
“No doubt,” Annabella said dryly. She glanced at the windows, at the sunlight streaming through slits in the closed drapes. “But, if I am to take my walk in the gardens before dinner, I should do it now.”
“You will become quite brown if you do.”
Annabella smiled. “Not I! I shall be careful to wear my bonnet.”
Caroline shrugged as they left the gallery. “As you wish!”
Annabella decided not to take a servant with her, for she wished to be alone with her thoughts. She did not feel she needed to worry about being abducted or assaulted by Sir Quentin, for it was daylight and there were many servants about the grounds. Any one of them would hear tier should she cry out.
She was glad she had decided to go out again. The sun was lower now in the sky, and though it was May and not yet summer, the air was still pleasantly warm. It suited her well. She wished to explore the walled gardens, which had a reputation of being quite beautiful, but which the duke had earlier declined to enter. As she walked in the direction of the gardens a servant had pointed out to her, Annabella closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She could already smell the flowers: early roses, lilacs, the scent of crushed grass beneath her feet. She hurried her steps toward the gardens, eager to see if the sight of the flowers would be as delightful as their scent. She could not see the gardens from her room in the house, for the walls of the garden were too high; it was as if they held some secret from her that she wished to discover.
The first garden she entered was small and wonderfully laid out, with a small Grecian gazebo in the middle of it, with classical statues surrounding it. The shrubberies were cut square and in ordered patterns; the whole was like an ancient place of worship, with a miniature temple. But there were no flowers here, except some morning glory
vines twining about two pillars of the gazebo, and silence.
A sudden scuttling sound broke the quiet of the garden, and Annabella looked swiftly around her. It sounded like the shuffling of feet upon gravel... but she could not be sure. She drew in a nervous breath.
“Is anyone there?” she called. No answer. She listened, but heard only the breeze through the trees, and that was all. She shook her head at herself. The attack upon her mother had affected her nerves more than she had thought. Now she would be hearing an enemy in every whisper of the wind, or see shadows behind every bush. What silliness! Really, it was probably some servant that Mr. Wentworth had ordered to patrol the grounds for her safety. But she could not help feeling a little nervous in the garden anyway. She left it quickly—she really wished to see flowers, after all. And, of course, there was no one around or about the Grecian garden when she left it.
A chunk, chunk, chunk sound of metal against earth came to her as she came closer to the next garden. No doubt one of the gardeners was within, digging a trench or some such. She hesitated. She wished to be alone, with not even a servant about. Yet, the scent of flowers was stronger here, and she was sure the roses and lilacs were within. She shrugged. She would try to ignore the servant, look at the flowers, and then find another garden with flowers she could enjoy by herself.
The digging sounds became louder as she approached the garden’s entrance. The smell of flowers became stronger: the musky perfume of lilies and the honey-scent of alyssum. Annabella quickened her steps, for the scents promised color and beauty.
She did not see him immediately, for her first vision was of the rich patches of color as she stepped through the garden door, and of the ornamental pond. But the sounds of the shovel thrust into the earth took her attention at last, and she gave a stifled gasp.
The man wore no shirt.
She should have averted her eyes, should not have stared. But she had never come so close to a man without his shirt before, and she could not look away. She remembered long ago when she was a little child, how her father had taught her to swim in the lake at a friend’s estate, and how his shirt had stuck to him when it was wet. His form had been an insignificant thing, compared to her childish delight in swimming.
But this was different. This man before her was different, so very different from herself, now she was grown. All she could see of him was his back; he wore breeches, thank goodness, and tall boots. But she could not help staring at him, at the way the muscles moved across his back as he dug into the earth.
He pushed the shovel into the dirt with his foot, pulled up a huge clod, and tossed it into a pile. It was a simple set of movements, nothing extraordinary. Yet, her eyes followed his motions as if a spell had been cast upon her, keeping her frozen where she stood and making her helpless so that she could only look and do nothing else.
The sun flickered off the slight sheen upon his skin, making him seem as if he were made of bronze instead of sun-browned flesh. He pushed the shovel, picked it up, and tossed the dirt. Each time he did so, she watched the slide of muscles beneath the breeches clinging to his trim thighs and buttocks, the bulge upon his arms when he pulled, and the ripple across his broad shoulders and back. For all it was common work, there was an odd elegance and rhythm about his movements, as if it were all a part of an ancient pagan dance.
She did not know how long she stood there, staring at him. But he stopped shoveling at last and raised his arms in a big stretch, like an enormous cat—a lion, thought Annabella, for his hair was long and mane-like around his head, having escaped the queue behind his neck. Then he turned and bent to pick up a potted bush, and she gasped again, loudly. This was no gardener, no servant at all.
Mr. Wentworth raised his head and stared at her. Their eyes met, and it seemed he, too, was frozen in place, for he stayed where he was, bent over the bush he had begun to lift. The bush left his hands, and Annabella heard a soft thunk as it fell back into the pot beneath it. Her face became hot with blushes, but still she could not look away from him. She saw his throat move in a large swallow, and suddenly he straightened and strode swiftly to another bush upon which a shirt was laid. He hastily pulled on the shirt, his movements awkward, as if he had lost all the former grace from his body.
He was covered, and Annabella was able to look away at last. The silence between them grew awkward, and she could stand it no longer.
“I am sorry—” she said, and her voice squeaked a little.
“I apologize—-” he said at the same time.
She glanced at his reddened face and felt more awkward than ever.
“No, I should not have—” she began.
“My fault—”
She gave a small, awkward laugh. “We seem to be talking at cross-purposes.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes.” Silence again, then: “I am sorry, Miss Smith, that you caught me in such ... undress. The work—it was very warm—”
“Of course, I—I understand—
“It is not something I do if I know anyone is about,” he said hurriedly. “And the servants know enough to leave me to work alone. I would not in the world have wanted to shock you so.” She glanced at him and saw a miserable expression cross his face. Her heart warmed at his concern for her sensibilities, and she went to him, laying her hand on his arm.
“No, no, Mr. Wentworth, you need not feel sorry. I know well it was not intentional, and I did not mind seeing you at all without—” She realized what she was saying and blushed furiously. “That is to say, I was not shocked, really, for I have seen on my travels field hands working—I mean, you are not a field hand, of course, but it is somewhat the same, only close up and not from a carriage—” Oh, heavens! She was babbling—why should he care what she might see from a carriage? What must he be thinking of her? “And you must not think I followed you, for I did not, and I am not at all in the habit of looking at gentlemen who do not have shirts—indeed not at all—Oh, heavens! What am I saying?” She could feel her face grow hot and pressed her hand to her cheek. “It is only something I have seen before, though not in a gentleman—which is not to say you are not a gentleman, for I know you are, of course ...”
He was looking at her, his head cocked to one side and a quizzical expression in his eyes.
“I am not explaining myself very well, am I?” she said, looking at him, and hoping desperately he would understand.
“Er, no,” he replied, and a dimple appeared briefly in his cheek.
A sudden bubble of laughter grew in her, and she burst into giggles. “Oh, heavens! I am sorry! I have made a mess of things, have I not?”
He grinned and went to the ornamental pond, where he scrubbed the dirt from his hands. “No, you have not made a mess of things, I assure you, Miss Smith. It is I who should apologize. I should have locked the door to the garden, which I usually do when we have guests and I am working. I forgot, and naturally you, wishing to view the gardens, came in.” He wiped his hands on a rag hung from another shrub, then took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “You are very kind, ma’am, for trying to take the blame from my shoulders.” He smiled widely at her.
Annabella gazed into his eyes, at the warm expression in them and felt, suddenly, that she could not look away. How sweet his smile was—and why did she not notice before that he had dimples? One did not usually think of gentlemen having dimples—or at least she never had before, but Mr. Wentworth had very pronounced ones in each cheek, just by the corners of his mouth. She would have thought dimples would have sat oddly in a face with such a firm jaw and stubborn chin, but they did not, not at all. Perhaps that was what made his smile so charming—when he did smile, that is. And oh, she would like to make him smile again!
He stared into her eyes, and his smile slowly faded, an intent expression replacing it. She felt as if he were going to take a step closer to her, but he drew in a sharp breath and released her hand. “Would you like a tour of the gardens, Miss Smith?” he asked.
“I ... y
es, of course, if you please, sir. Caroline has been telling me that you spend a great deal of time in your gardens.” She felt oddly disappointed, though why she should feel so, she did not know.
He nodded. “If you do not mind waiting, I shall show you once I plant this bush.” He picked up the bush he had dropped and removed it from its pot. “I hope I have not hurt it by dropping it.” He gently lowered it into the hole he had dug, carefully, like a mother laying her child into its cot, then tamped the soil firmly around the base of the plant. “There. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall wash quickly and change my clothes.” He gave her a wry smile and gestured at his soil-smudged clothes. “Even I know it would not do to escort you about in such dirt.”
He took a few steps away, then stopped and turned around. “I believe you should come with me back to the house, for your own safety. Indeed, you should not have come here without a servant. I do not know where Sir Quentin is staying at present, though I have already sent queries about, and have sent a message to the magistrate, Lord Laughton, informing him of the attack upon your mother. Until I know, I would feel more comfortable if you were escorted.”
Annabella frowned briefly. “Very well. I thought I need not, since there seemed to be many servants about the grounds.”
“True,” Mr. Wentworth replied. “But I believe your mother would worry if she knew, and I would not want her upset.”
“How thoughtful you are!” Annabella said and smiled at him. “I am ashamed I did not think of that.”
He stared at her again, then looked away, clearing his throat. “Shall we go?” he said and held out his arm. She placed her hand on it, and they left the garden.
Chapter 9
Mr. Wentworth was as good as his word: he was down again in less than half an hour. He was better dressed, for he now wore a blue coat and black waistcoat, and his neckcloth was neatly tied, but Annabella could see he dressed more for comfort than for style. He wore no jewelry except for one plain ring on his finger, and his coat was more loose in the shoulders than was fashionable. And yet, she almost regretted the change—not that she wished to see him without his shirt, of course! The very thought of it made her face grow warm again, the way she remembered his—No, it was just that the more casual, workmanlike style seemed to suit him somehow.
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