Scandalous Innocent

by Juliet Landon

  Without the unsettling presence of Sir Leo close at hand, Phoebe would have stood a better chance of enjoying the rest of the afternoon and evening; being acquainted with most of the company, she found it easy to get to know the others. The Duchess’s two young daughters were there, Elizabeth and Katherine Tollemache, old enough at seventeen and fifteen to take their place amongst the guests, but not old enough to disguise their infatuation with Sir Leo. Wherever he went, whoever he spoke to, their eyes followed him like spaniels’.

  After dinner they all strolled out into the sunny gardens to admire the parterres, the fragrant orangery and aviary, the fountain-garden and the statues that surrounded the great house on all sides. The north avenue led to the river where the Duke’s barge was moored ready for journeys to London, with steps down to the water’s edge where swans reached for the scraps they had taken. Then on through the meadow they strolled, splitting off into twos and threes towards the viewing platforms at either end of the Melancholy Walk, and the banqueting house where they were to partake of the sweets and delicacies that completed the meal.

  Lord Salisport, a young gallant who appeared to sprout bunches of fluttering ribbons and bows from every seam like a tree in blossom, had known Phoebe for several years, on and off, but could not be called one of nature’s more perceptive individuals except in the latest modes, of which he missed nothing that would add to his personal finery. Supposing that her unresponsiveness was no more than an affectation, he threw a knowing wink at his friend, Sir Geoffrey Mawes, a like-minded fop who, although a pleasant enough fellow, would have accepted anyone’s offer of entertainment at the drop of a hat. Especially when he too felt that Mistress Laker was not as flirtatious as he remembered her being some years ago.

  At ease in their undemanding company, Phoebe thought nothing of climbing up to the new viewing platform behind Lord Salisport, wishing to see along the river as much as he apparently did. But when she found herself enclosed by both men with none of the other ladies to accompany them, she became first impatient and then angered by the men’s familiar hands on her waist, their expressions disturbingly impertinent. She turned to go, but could find no way round them.

  ‘C’mon, Phoebe,’ whispered Lord Salisport, touching the end of one dark ringlet. ‘It’s not like you to be so standoffish. Is it because Hawkynne is here? Eh?’

  Pushing hard against his lace-covered coat, Phoebe frowned and tried to lean away from his leering face, but she was held rigid by the boned stays inside her bodice, and with Sir Geoffrey close behind her she was trapped between them, their closeness both oppressive and dangerous. She tried to twist away from pawing hands, jabbing hard with her elbows. ‘Stop…stop!’ she shouted. ‘This is insulting behaviour. This is not what I came here for.’

  The small viewing platform was suddenly crowded with yet another body that cut out the light from the doorway, and although she was not prone to hysterics, the sense of imminent threat and loss of control sent messages to every part of her body, making her lash out wildly in all directions. Frantic and swamped with fear, she kicked like a mule at everything she could reach and, for a few brief seconds, there was pandemonium when her fingers managed to reach one of the men’s wigs.

  ‘His Grace the Duke and his Duchess are on their way here, my lords.’

  The deep voice was coloured by a soft Scottish lilt that made the announcement sound more like a reprimand than an invitation to leave, and all at once the attentions of the two men were redirected to themselves, to the straightening of wigs and the adjusting of lace cravats. Fending off Phoebe’s fists, their hands dropped away, prinking and pulling at coats, and then without a word they disappeared through the door and down the wooden steps.

  Phoebe felt her face go into a kind of spasm as she tried to regain control, her gasps saying more than words about the distress she was suffering. She realised Sir Leo was watching her and, once again, found herself caring what he must be thinking, and hating herself for caring. Of all people, why must it be him?

  He glanced towards the two departing figures, then back at her, but came no closer. ‘Did they harm ye?’ he said, softly.

  Placing a hand to her forehead, she felt the dampness there. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘The Duchess is not here yet. There’s no great hurry.’

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed. ‘Oh, my cuff!’ she whispered. ‘The lace…’tis torn. Oh!’

  ‘Here, let me see. Lift your arm. Hold still.’

  Obediently, she held her arm up while he tucked the loose piece between two pins. Her arms were mottled with an angry pink and her breathing would not settle. ‘I suppose you think I asked for it, don’t you?’ she said, firing up at his silence. ‘Well, I didn’t. I came up here to see…to look…oh, why should I care what you think? You’ll think the worst, won’t you? You always did.’

  ‘You’d hardly be so upset if you’d asked for it, would you? I’m not blind, lass. I can see what happened. I was following.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Huh! Those two are as daft as balm-cakes, that’s why. I could see how hard they tried over dinner, and they don’t take women anywhere to look at the view.’

  ‘So I suppose I should have known that,’ she replied sharply.

  ‘Hush, lass. Calm down. Do you want to put your lace collar straight before we go? It might be best.’

  Glancing from shoulder to shoulder, she tried, but without a mirror could not be sure it was level. ‘Is that it?’ she said. ‘I can’t see.’

  He smiled, and without asking permission reached out to hitch up one side by a fraction and then, as if he’d done this kind of thing a dozen times, tied the ribbon that held her sleeve to her bodice at the shoulder. ‘I don’t know how you managed to clout either of them with your arms pinioned to your sides by this lot,’ he said. ‘It’s a wonder you didn’t burst a seam. There. Ready now?’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No charge,’ he said with a smile.

  He went first, helping her down the steps and strolling with her by his side along the river bank, neither of them speaking. But nor did he have the slightest notion that Phoebe could still feel the warm touch of his fingers upon her shoulder where he’d adjusted her collar. And he had called her lass, as if he didn’t care whether she hated him or not.

  Chapter Two

  Their unhurried walk gave Phoebe time to notice that they both wore green, the colour of hope. How inappropriate, she thought. Sir Leo’s green was that of pine forests with patterns of acanthus leaves woven into the brocade. It must have cost him a fortune, with its clusters of satin ribbons and gold buttons. She noticed also that he did not wear the long vest that was the latest fashion, but a short jacket that showed a lot of white linen shirt around his middle, and more shirt showed where his buttons were undone, still more below the short jacket sleeves. Her eyes were drawn to one hand showing beneath the lace cuff, its thumb idly hooked into the gold-and-green sword-sash slung across him. No man would be correctly attired without his sword.

  She had heard of his prowess with the rapier long before she saw him for the first time. Such men were a breed apart and confident to the point of arrogance, especially a Scot whose arrogance would have been fed to him with his mother’s milk. Soon after his notorioius duel with Sir Piers Kelloway and the events that followed, Phoebe had started taking daily lessons from one of England’s best fencing masters, an Italian by birth, Signor Luigi Verdi. Not that she expected to use her new skills in combat, but one never knew these days; anyway, she was by no means the only woman to enjoy the art for its own sake. A recent mode was for younger women to dress up in men’s clothing occasionally, and Phoebe found it both gratifying and liberating to adopt a masculine persona for an hour each morning with only her fencing master to see. They had laughed at the suggestion that now she would be able to fight her own duels but rather that, she thought, than waste someone else’s life. Too many lives had been lost for no good reason
.

  Her own gown was of sea-green silk shot with turquoise, the neckline, full sleeves and tight bodice bound with braids of pink and gold that accentuated her peachy skin and glossy black curls. The silk swished seductively as she moved and, as she paused to lift the hem of her skirt higher, so too did he wait politely until she had gathered it, though he did not offer her his arm.

  For the rest of the afternoon he stayed close by her, and others noticed that she made no objections. ‘D’ye see that then, Duchess?’ said the Duke of Lauderdale. ‘He’s sticking to her like a leech and she’s nae making too much fuss aboot it.’

  ‘Yes John, I do see. Could he have been annoyed that I put her between Salisport and Mawes at the table, I wonder?’

  ‘Ach, I think he’s keener on her than she is on him, mind.’

  The Duchess smiled. ‘I would not be too sure about that, John.’

  ‘Wishful thinking,’ he said, walking away. ‘He’s got some ground to make up if he wants to get anywhere with your Mistress Laker.’

  But Phoebe was unexpectedly relieved to have the unsolicited guardianship of Sir Leo after what had happened earlier, for it had not pleased her at all to be fumbled and pawed over like a common street-walker. It brought home to her quite forcibly that perhaps they were not the only ones to so regard her. And while she could still feel humiliated that it was Sir Leo who had found her in that situation, she realised that if he had believed she was enjoying herself, presumably he would not have interfered. She was also relieved that he had not reported the incident to the Duke, who would certainly have asked the men to leave, spoiling the party.

  The dainty repast in the small two-storey banqueting house by the river passed pleasantly in nibbling and drinking, in word-games and singing after which they strolled back to the bowling green for a game until suppertime. Phoebe made an effort to encourage the two young daughters of her hostess and to make them her partners in the games, knowing only too well the inexplicable pain of a love that will come to nothing. The Duchess’s plans for her daughters would not include her husband’s secretary.

  Except for Phoebe, the guests departed in a fleet of coaches lit by the torches of the running link-men, leaving Ham House to unloose its stays and relax into the peace of the night. Phoebe’s yellow bedroom became a haven where her last thoughts were of the excuses she could use to make an early return home. Mrs Overshott’s condition had worsened? That would be the most plausible, except that she had nothing more than a head cold, and no one had come from Mortlake with such a message.

  By morning, her decisions were veering like a weather-vane in a gale between staying in the same house as a man she had made a point of hating for the past three years and galloping off home on an excuse that was as transparent as the June sky. It was, after all, the first time she had spent so long in his company, and her first impressions bore little resemblance to these more recent ones when he appeared to be less objectionable and more at ease. She decided to give it another day. For the Duchess’s sake, she told herself.

  They went riding round the estate after breakfast, even the Duchess who would usually have kept to her rooms until mid-day. For much of the time, Phoebe was content to maintain a noticeable reserve towards Sir Leo while Elizabeth and Katherine accompanied him and, to her relief, he seemed content to have it so, leaving her to converse with the Duke and Duchess, her ladies, the chaplain and the estate steward. Showing the two young ladies some basic haute ecole moves, Sir Leo made them more in love with him than ever. But Phoebe refused to join in the laughing lessons, penalising herself, wondering whether this self-inflicted emptiness was the reason why hate had found a secure place in her heart. Perhaps, as he’d said, it was time matters were put straight between them, just for the record. The weather-vane veered again. No, she would find an excuse to leave early. She did not want a confrontation that would surely bring back all those grievous memories. She did not want another dose of this man’s scorn, even though he’d said he didn’t dislike her. To dislike, he would have to think deeply about the reasons, and, judging by his laughter with Elizabeth and her sister, she herself was not deeply in his thoughts. She would have to go. To spend more time in his company would be unbearable.

  She watched how he rode his massive dapple-grey Andalusian stallion so effortlessly, straight-backed and graceful, his hands light on the reins, his signals imperceptible. She saw how his hand stroked softly down the curve of the horse’s neck and she turned her head away, her mouth dry, her heart behaving very strangely. Yes, she would have to return home.

  Dinner with the Lauderdales was taken at two o’clock, and although the exercise had given them appetites, Phoebe could eat only sparingly while her emotions were so unsettled. Her forced attempts at lightness were difficult to maintain with Sir Leo sitting opposite. It was a family affair, taken in the new dining room with the Duchess’s sister joining them for once—a dear lady in her forties who was usually unwell and kept to her rooms. Fortunately, due to the gossip that surrounded all the King’s ministers, Phoebe had heard about the Duke’s unorthodox table manners, which, while not disturbing his wife in any way, caused some restrained amusement elsewhere, especially amongst his stepdaughters. The two-pronged fork with the ivory handle, which the Duchess had introduced to Ham House, he used to scratch his head—through his wig—and for picking his teeth rather than for eating. The Duke’s knowledge of etiquette might not be of the best, Phoebe thought, but his devoted manner towards his second wife was something she herself would not have grumbled at from the man she loved. The Duke was also a brilliant scholar, with one of the sharpest minds at Court, fluent in several languages, some of them ancient.

  She was too well bred to exclude Sir Leo entirely from her contributions to the conversation, but the experience still left her feeling hypocritcal and annoyed by her own inability to move on.

  After the meal, she went to her room to rest, but soon exchanged that bolt-hole for a different one in the garden where no one would find her. Passing through a doorway in the mellow brick wall, she came to the vegetable garden, a huge walled place filled with green textures, earthy aromas and the zesty tang of oranges from the open doors of the Orangery behind her. The long room was lit and warmed by a row of windows, the space almost filled by regiments of square boxes from which sprouted the slender stems of orange and lemon trees and not a weed could be seen. A seat had been set at the far end, a perfect place for her to sit and reflect upon her intentions.

  A gardener entered, doffed his hat, and went out again. Every now and then, one of them would pass the windows and disappear, so when another man entered, she kept her eyes closed to breathe in the warm moist perfume and to savour the peace. A slight sound close at hand made her open them, to be confronted by the very person she’d hoped to avoid, Sir Leo Hawkynne, perched on the edge of an orange box with his long booted legs stretched out across the only escape route.

  The problem, she thought, with those wide-brimmed hats was that the wearer’s eyes were in shadow and, although Sir Leo had one side saucily cocked and plumed, his shaded face was difficult for her to read. ‘No,’ she said, as if the word had been waiting on the tip of her tongue. ‘Go away. I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘That’s too bad, mistress, because you’re going to have to. It’s the only way.’

  ‘The only way to what? I owe you no explanation, Sir Leo.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  Swinging her feet down to the stone slabs, she stood up to go. ‘If you will kindly move your legs, sir?’

  ‘Mistress Laker,’ he said, not moving an inch, ‘it’s been three long years now. D’ye really want to carry your hate around for so long? It’s weighing you down.’

  ‘What does it matter to you?’ she argued, looking through the bleary glass of the window. ‘Please move.’

  ‘No, I’m not moving. Sit down again, if you please.’

  ‘I warn you, I shall scream.’

  ‘Then I’d better give you something to
scream about.’

  ‘Is that a threat? If so…’

  ‘An offer to assist you, that’s all. Like my offer to confront these demons of yours. It cannot go on, lass.’ He still had not moved, but now he lifted his head to look at her, showing her the steely determination etched upon every line of his face, his eyes like two dark splinters, watching her. She stood no chance of evading him.

  The talk of hate and demons, however, immediately triggered a hot spring of emotion within her, bringing it from its deep well to tighten her throat and lungs, tearing her apart with conflicts she was unable to name. ‘It will go on!’ she cried. ‘It will. What’s done cannot be undone. Even you cannot unsay that insult. Even you cannot bring a man back to life.’

  ‘I’m not talking about bringing him back to life, but you cannot lay Sir Piers’s death at my door, mistress. He took his own life for reasons that had more to do with you than with me. He’s not the first man to die of love and he’ll not be the last. ‘Tis a powerful thing.’

  ‘There was no love on my part,’ she replied, rounding on him like a wildcat. ‘There was nothing between us. Nothing whatever. What he did was as a result of the duel. The shame of it.’

  ‘Rubbish! You know better than that. A wee cut on the arm is no great shame. Not worth taking your life for.’

  ‘But losing a duel is, sir, as you well know.’ She sat down on the bench amidst a susurration of silk, her back posing an inflexible barrier, the emotions she had tried so hard to suppress surging forwards again, as raw now as they had been at the time. What Sir Piers had done was not a direct result of the duel, and well she knew it. It was a direct result of his own impetuosity, his sureness of the medieval code where a lady accepted the love of the man who had put his life at her disposal. Except that she had never wanted him to, had tried to stop him, had not promised him anything. His wound had stopped the fight. Sir Piers lost face, but believed Phoebe would take pity on him, tend his wound, act the mother-lover-wife that he desired.