Tying a piece of cheesecloth over the top, she studied its markings through the clear surface, the soft velvet of its wings as it batted gently against the surface, seeking escape.
"Soon," she whispered to it, before tucking the jar into her basket again. Her boots were already coated in mud from kneeling beside the marshy stream. The Miss Bartons had warned her about the hazards of its presence in the woods–not that she paid heed to them with any seriousness.
"It's quite dangerous there, Miss Marianne," Miss Catherine had reasoned, her hands fluttering with dismay. "You must be very careful if you walk there. Why, only last year, Mr. Greerson's youngest child had a fall on the rocks near the stream. It's much safer to walk upon the path leading to Mrs. Greerson's beehives–but, of course, I've always been quite afraid of water, for you never know what might happen if one should fall in ..."
"I shall be very careful," Marianne promised. "I was always careful on Colonel Miles's estate. And I shall be back before tea–only I must see a little of this splendid countryside around your little cottage, Miss Catherine."
It was this last honeyed persuasion which convinced Miss Catherine she need not fear. As for Miss Eliza, she was not aware of Marianne's absence since she had taken pains to visit a neighboring widow taken to her bed with a nervous complaint. Marianne's last glimpse of her was a figure bustling purposefully along the village road, bearing a basket of goose eggs and a crock of Mrs. Greerson's fine honey.
No interruptions to worry her. No possibility of being followed by the Miss Bartons on her afternoon's exploration. With this in mind, Marianne crossed the mossy stones, slick with green and grey slime from the water, craggy with nooks and crannies her fingers explored for hidden water bugs or snails.
Her net's end dangled in the water as she knelt there, fingers stained with mud as they encircled a bug gliding along the surface. Cupping it in her palm, she inspected it intently for a moment. Its wings glinted in the sunlight, transparent like panes of glass etched with pink and green. Its thread-like legs scampered across her skin as it scuttled forth, as if instinctively knowing the water lay below her hand.
"I've never seen a girl holding a water-fly." The sound of a man's voice startled her.
She turned to see a young man surveying her from a few feet away. Sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms which were thin and scratched from briars, lank hair cut short beneath a farmer's hat. A countenance not handsome behind a pair of glasses, but decidedly young and under development.
"Do you like them?" she asked, equally frank in her tone. As she spoke, the insect slipped forwards to the water. The boy grinned in reply.
"I do," he answered. She noticed his rod and fishing creel–not filled with fish, but with the branch of a plant on which a large cocoon was woven in a thick, white wad around the smaller twigs.
"What sort of nest is that?" she inquired, a smile beginning to grow on her own face as she rose. His eyes were fixed upon her face as she approached; he did not seem to notice the dampness of her skirts or muddy boots, turning his attention after a moment to the object in question.
"Oh, this? It is but a common cocoon," he answered. "No doubt a common caterpillar within–although I won't know for certain until I look at it more closely, with one of my books at hand."
"Then you are a naturalist?" said Marianne, eagerly. "Of sorts, anyway–do you study botany? Or–or is it insects, perhaps?"
He laughed, a sound which wavered with the uncertain tones of youth. "A little of each, I daresay," he answered, moving closer as he shifted his creel upon his shoulder. Within its open top, she could see other specimens–a jar of water with sediment floating on top, a caterpillar crawling on a twig, magnified behind the curve of glass.
"I come here often; but I have never seen a young lady here before–" with a glance at her net as he spoke, “–especially one armed for scientific exploration."
Marianne stiffened. "I have as much right to visit this place as any other person," she answered.
"Did I say you didn't?" He shifted his creel onto the ground as he crouched down at the water's edge.
"Do you see this movement at the bottom? That's the shell of a wasp–half-eaten by the fishes so that only a bit of the outer husk and wings remain. Under this stone is probably one of the culprits who would prefer a drowned insect, a young tadpole cluster or a freshwater crustacean of sorts."
"Really?" Marianne leaned forward, curious. "Do you–do you study them? Do you take them home as well?"
"Sometimes," he answered. "But I do not care for water life as much as wings and wasps and other things in flight. And of plants as well–for there's always something to be learned from dissecting one."
"Then you dissect them also?" Marianne's interest was growing by the minute.
"I keep notes upon all this, yes," he answered. "And sketches–although I should spend my time worrying about sums and Latin from Eton's lessons, as my father would say."
He pushed the rock in place again and reached for Marianne's hand. Placing something in her palm, a small, wet object.
"Look," he said. She drew it closer, seeing the shape of a small snail shell, spiraling outwards in a mottled brown like sandstone.
"It's beautiful," she said. "So small and delicate. How can something so small be alive–and live in something like this?"
"Smaller things live among us, miss," he answered. "As anyone who peers through a microscope knows."
"I have never seen anything beneath a microscope's lens," she answered. "It is not proper for a young lady, I suppose."
"I would let you," he said. "If you wanted to see, I should be glad to show you."
She gazed at him in surprise as a faint flush appeared on her cheeks. "I–I don't know," she answered. "That is, I should be glad to. Sometime."
The offer seemed unusual, coming from a stranger; for the first time, Marianne felt the impropriety of their conversation. The emotion was forgotten again, however, as the slimy head of a snail poked forth from the miniature shell.
"Look," she gasped. "It is still occupied." She held it closer to him, careful to move slowly so the small creature wouldn't retreat.
The young man adjusted his spectacles. "And so it is," he said, with a pleased smile. "I rather thought from its weight it might be. You may keep it if you like, but it would be best–"
She did not wait for him to finish as she slipped the shell onto the crevice of a wet stone again.
"I never keep anything for more than a bit," she answered. "Many a servant has been made unhappy by the discovery of something in a jar or a box, but I always let them go. I cannot bear to keep them trapped forever."
The sound of her voice seemed to distract him, for his hand brushed the sharp edge of a stone as she released the snail. The jagged line cut his finger open like the blade of a razor: a strip of red, a few drops forming crimson blossoms in the water as Marianne released a cry of dismay.
“It is all right,“ he said, withdrawing it from the water, “merely a small cut. No need for alarm on my account.”
Without hesitation, Marianne seized his hand. "Is it very deep?" she said, probing it gently with the hem of her handkerchief as she wiped the dirt from around the cut's edges.
The move seemed to surprise him greatly, as if the touch sent a strange vibration through his skin. If Marianne could have read his thoughts, she would have discovered that never before had a woman taken hold of his fingers with such warmth–even if it was only to bandage his hand, as her vigorous effort to tear her handkerchief into strips suggested.
“You need not–” he began.
“But you are bleeding!” she protested. “And will get an infection unless we bind it up straightaway.” She wrapped the pieces of fabric around his finger, tying it off just below the knuckle with a knot resembling a seaman’s hitch.
“There,” she said. Releasing his fingers as she bent to wash her own in the stream.
"I have never been obliged to anyone for medical att
ention, miss–" he hesitated, remembering with a faint laugh that he did not know her name. "I must ask for your name, miss, since conversing without it is rather difficult."
After drying her hands on her apron, she held out her right hand. "Marianne," she said.
"Nimbley–that is to say, Adam Nimbley," he answered, shaking her hand and removing his hat in the same instance. "I'm afraid I have been terribly rude until this moment–it was not proper to speak to you without an introduction. Even if you rendered me the aid of a physician."
She laughed. "I do not think an introduction was possible. And I saw nothing impolite in your presence, since you had as much right to be here as myself. Why should I find it rude that you spoke to me?"
"Indeed," he answered, with a faint laugh. "You are quite unlike the young ladies whom I have met over tea, Miss ... Marianne."
"Then you have paid me a great compliment," she answered, lifting her basket. "I would like to stay longer, but I must go. I have tea with the Miss Bartons and they should not like me to be late."
"The Miss Bartons," he repeated, softly. "Then I suppose I must bid you good day, Miss Marianne."
"I shall see you again," she answered. "If you come here often. For I should dearly love to see your next specimens."
It was his turn to appear surprised, although Marianne did not see it as she crossed the stream's rocks to the other side. "I should like that," he answered. "If the Miss Bartons would have no objection–"
"Oh, they won't mind my coming here," she answered. "They do not mind my wanderings so long as I give them no cause to worry or fear for my safety. They know everyone who lives about the countryside, so they shan't mind my acquaintance with you."
He lifted his creel and shouldered it. "Until we meet again," he said.
"Tomorrow afternoon," she answered. "When I shall come here again before tea."
"Have we met before?" he called after her. "In London? For I seem to recall you–" His words were paid no heed by Marianne, who pushed her way onwards through the trees in the direction of good Mr. Greerson's field. Behind her, Adam Nimbley watched for the second time as Marianne vanished in the distance.
For the second time, he continued on his own way, with only a final glance to be sure he could see no more of her.
*****
"Did you have a pleasurable walk, Miss Stuart?" inquired Miss Eliza over tea. Her glasses perched on the end of her nose made the kindly Eliza appear quite severe to her young guest, although the spectacles were merely present for the sake of needle work set aside only moments ago.
"Indeed," Marianne answered, politely. "The countryside is quite beautiful and I found the woods and stream delightful–ever so much nicer than the gardens of London."
Marianne's appearance at tea was not that of a girl romping through the countryside but a polite young lady dressed in a clean muslin gown. She had done her best to scrub the dirt from beneath her nails and removed every trace of twigs and leaves from her hair before descending from her room. Thus far, the Miss Bartons had not commented upon Marianne's lack of needle work or the unstylish, short dress she chose to wear earlier in the afternoon. But then, it was merely her first day as a guest.
"Oh, but there are such lovely sights in London," protested Miss Catherine. "You think so, do you not, Eliza? And Evering House is situated so charmingly in London–"
"It is not because of Evering House," said Marianne. "I simply do not care for London. Even you must be a little tired of society now and then, Miss Catherine, for it is such a bother–muslins and silks and leaving cards for Miss Such-and-such or Lady So-and-so." Her tone was playful, although she was quite serious in her opinions.
"You should not speak so," Miss Catherine protested, gently. "It would disappoint your good father to hear such words. And your sister Lady Easton, who is such a charming figure during the season in her fine gowns. Such a lovely match for Lord Easton, who was always so kind to us whenever we met."
Marianne, who, despite her love for Roger, had no desire to discuss her sister's fine gowns, choose another subject instead.
"I met a young man fishing upon Lord Cumbley's grounds while I was walking along the wooded path," she said. "He said his name was Nimbley. Is he related to one of the families in the village?"
"Nimbley?" repeated Eliza. "There is no family with that name living in this part of Kent...of course, there are more lately come here, I suppose. Some honest laborer who now has his own bit of property." She paused. "Are you sure the young man was–was a gentleman?"
"Quite certain," Marianne answered, "for he was polite and not at all forward when he spoke." Of his birth, she was not really certain, of course; but that did not matter in Marianne's estimation. Only that the acquaintance be an open one for the sake of her genteel friends, be it with a farmer's son or a laborer on the estates of the grand gentleman neighboring them.
"I believe I heard something of a family lately come as guests to his lordship's estate to shoot," ventured Miss Catherine. "Perhaps the young man is one of them. A very old family, quite respectable in every sense. Sir Edward would surely approve of any of his lordship's friends."
Perhaps Miss Catherine would have felt more concerned had she witnessed the friendliness of this afternoon's exchange. But her regard for Marianne–the fact that the young girl was not 'out' yet–comforted her more than the mention of a young man's name could trouble her.
"Indeed," said Marianne, taking a sip from her cup of tea. "I'm quite sure he would approve of them."
Chapter Three
The family who were guests of his lordship had no relation at all to Nimbley, but the Miss Bartons did not know this–at least until after Marianne's mention of the young man had escaped their thoughts. When Marianne departed the next afternoon on her walk with nothing but a little book in hand, only Miss Catherine offered to accompany her and this only as a courtesy, for she was anxious to finish painting a handsome pair of screens for her drawing room in London.
Marianne slipped through the trees bordering the wooded lane along good Mrs. Greerson's duck pond. Beneath the canopy of green and gold, her bonnet slipped free past her shoulders, dangling by its ribbons as she ran past the fallen log and the first damp stones along the creek.
Young Adam Nimbley saw her approach from where he was kneeling by a large mossy tree stump. His face betrayed fascination and surprise at the sight of the girl framed in bright sunlight, as if he had not expected her to return.
Marianne did not notice his surprise. "Hello," she said. "I hoped that I would find you here somewhere. I was quite eager to see your discoveries–see, I have brought my own little journal of specimens." She opened the volume's pages, displaying a sketch of a large green moth and a brown chrysalis below.
Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, he studied them. "Splendid," he said. "I think that specimen is also native to this county, for I have seen it once or twice. Perhaps we shall find one here."
"Really?" Marianne asked. "I should hope so–for they are my favorites. I like moths and butterflies ever so much more than the rest. Even beetles and the like." Laughing, she crouched down next to him, propping the open volume on a nearby rock.
“Is your finger quite well?” she asked him, glancing at the piece of fabric tied around his finger. “Is the wound healing or is there sign of contamination?”
The boldness of her question left him momentarily taken aback. “No, it is healing nicely,” he answered. “I thank you for your trouble–as you can see, I have changed the bandage, so I did indeed take your advice.”
She laughed. “Then I am pleased to hear it.” Her attention shifted from the bandaged finger to the possibility of specimens within the log, particularly a small shape moving amidst the spongy remains of its wood.
"What is this?" she asked, touching a glossy dark shell busy burrowing into the log's rotting surface.
"A common beetle," he answered her, teasingly. "I'm afraid you shall be much disappointed, Miss M
arianne–" he paused, as if made uncomfortable by these words.
"Please," he said, after a moment. "I really must know the rest of your name. For it is not proper for me to address you in such an informal manner...at least, I should prefer to address you properly."
"Stuart," Marianne answered. "It is Miss Stuart, if you insist upon propriety, Mr. Nimbley."
She extended her hand with this second introduction, her fingers closing warmly around his own despite the stains of dirt evident upon his palm. "I would curtsey, if you preferred, but it would force us both to rise to exchange a formal nod of greeting."
He relaxed. "It is something of a relief to know," he answered. "Given that we are not properly introduced, it is only right that I make an effort to pretend we are." When he withdrew his hand, she noticed a faint blush in his cheeks.
"Then I shall pretend that I have known you a great deal longer than a mere hour, that we might converse more companionably," she retorted. "For I dislike this silly notion that we are still strangers when we have conversed above twice upon interesting subjects."
His gaze was still fixed upon her despite the awkwardness evident in his posture and countenance. "I have seen you somewhere," he said, after a moment. "I am quite sure of it–in London, perhaps. Have you ever been there?"
"I live in London," she answered. "Though I have not been much in society." This, she stated proudly; for it was among Marianne's preferred accomplishments that her short age of acceptability at card parties and teas had largely avoided such events whenever possible.
"Nor have I," he confessed, cheeks reddening again. "I must have seen you by chance upon the streets. A mere glimpse or so."
"Perhaps so," she answered, then smiled playfully. "Then perhaps we have enough between us to satisfy we may have been introduced but merely forgot it. After all, if we are not in society, what matters an introduction?"
Love Among the Spices Page 2
