A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1)

by Andrea Pickens

  Philp only gave an enigmatic smile and continued to make a number of marks on the length of hickory with a piece of chalk.

  However the slender figure seated in the shadows of the workroom gave an undisguised snort of derision. “Perhaps the gentleman has no more brains than a monkey, Mr. Philp, if he has so little faith in your knowledge and expertise.” The words were spoken just loudly enough for Marquand to hear them. “As you have often said, even a monkey may be taught to strike a golf ball. But to be a real player he must be willing to listen and learn. And trust that his teacher knows what he is talking about.”

  “Derry,” warned Philp in a low voice as Ellington stifled a chuckle.

  A faint flush rose to the Viscount’s cheeks. “Who is the brat?”

  “Don’t take offense, sir,” murmured Philp as he straightened and began to measure the width of Marquand’s palm and the length of his fingers with a piece of narrow canvas tape. “The lad may have a sharp tongue”—he directed another pointed look at Derrien— “but he possesses a knowledge of the game that is equally well-honed. He’s going to serve as your caddie these coming weeks.”

  “The devil he will! If you think I’m going to allow some impudent—”

  “Ahem.” Ellington cleared his throat with deliberate loudness, causing the Viscount to bite off the rest of his retort. “Mr. Philp does come highly recommended, Adrian, and we are quite fortunate to have his help. I think we may trust his judgment in matters of golf.” Marquand fixed Derrien with an icy glare but remained silent. Her look of disdain was much more obvious, however a sign from Philp to bring over a bundle of unfinished clubs forestalled any further comment from her lips as well.

  “And though you may chafe at the delay, my lord, a set of clubs tailored to your stance and height will greatly add to your chances of performing well. After all, you wouldn’t attempt to ride to the hounds in a pair of boots several sizes too large, or a saddle whose girth was too tight around your hunter, would you now?”

  The Viscount acknowledged the sense of Philp’s words with a curt nod. “Your pardon, Mr. Philp. I did not mean to imply I doubted your expertise, and I shall try to refrain from questioning your methods,” he said rather stiffly.

  “One of my men will finish up a number of these to your specifications by morning, sir,” continued Philp, picking out a selection of scrapers, middle spoons, and cuttys from Derrien’s arms. “In the meantime, if you return here this afternoon at two, I shall take you out back of the shop and we may begin working on the rudiments of the stance and swing.”

  Despite the assurances he had just uttered, Marquand couldn’t refrain from another sharp question. “Why not out on the course? I am anxious to see what a real fairway—or whatever the deuce it is called—is like.”

  Philp smiled. “In good time, my lord, in good time. When you see the sort of exercises I have in mind, you will not object in the least to our first lesson taking place in a more private venue.”

  Marquand took his snugly tailored jacket back from Ellington and slipped it back over his fine linen shirt.

  “Oh, and it would be best to wear a loose-fitting shirt, with only a Belcher neckerchief, as well as a shorter jacket, sir. You are going to be . . . exerting yourself more than you might think.”

  “More likely he’s used to starched shirtpoints that come up past the ears and a cravat that requires half the Royal Navy to tie in a knot.” Derrien snickered from behind Philp’s back.

  The Viscount pretended not to hear the remark, though in truth it took a concerted effort to stop himself from informing the impertinent little urchin that he had never in his life dressed as such a ridiculous poppinjay.

  Ellington’s hand on his shoulder quickly propelled him toward the door, ensuring that he could have no second thoughts about remaining silent. “Er, thank you, Mr. Philp. I shall have his lordship back here promptly at two.”

  It took a discreet elbow to Marquand’s ribs to elicit a civil good-bye from him as well. Once they had reached the street, he turned and regarded his friend with a look of bemused surprise. “What has got into you lately,

  Adrian? I don’t believe I’ve seen you display your pique like that in all the years I’ve known you. Lord, you are usually the very picture of control, and not at all given to any show of emotion. But since we left London, I vow, you have been most unlike your regular self.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “No, no, don’t apologize.” His lips quirked upward. “Actually, I’m not sure it’s a bad thing at all. You know, your work fairly blossoms with exuberance and life, and yet, if you don’t mind me saying, in public you choose to appear a . . . rather dry stick, though I know you are not.” Ellington hesitated for a moment and slanted a look of concern at his friend. “There is nothing wrong with allowing an occasional curse to shoot forth. A laugh or two might serve to lighten your spirits as well.”

  Marquand clamped his curly-brimmed beaver more firmly on his dark locks. “Hmmph! It’s hardly a laughing matter. My entire future is riding on a damnable game of golf! Not to speak of the other undertaking I must finish while I am here.” He shook his head. “However you’re right about losing my temper back there. It’s absurd to let some muddy-faced urchin with a tongue as loose as that floppy tweed cap on his head get under my skin.” He walked on for a few more steps before another snort escaped his lips. “Hmmph! The notion that a pipsqueak of a lad could teach me anything . . His words trailed off into an unintelligible grumble that went on until they turned the corner. Suddenly the Viscount stopped in his tracks. “This Mr. Philp seems to have some decidedly odd ideas. You do not think he is truly out to make a monkey of me?” he demanded.

  Ellington pursed his lips. “I cannot think Bowmont would suggest him if he was. Jamie wants to see Hertford beaten nearly as badly as you do, and it’s clear he thinks very highly of Mr. Philp. No, I believe we may trust this man.” He slanted a sideways glance at Marquand’s frowning face. “Adrian, I also believe that you are going to have to get used to a number of odd notions here in Scotland, if you wish to have any hope of securing your future ... happiness.”

  The Viscount’s expression darkened to match the low clouds scudding in from the sea. “I shall do my best, you may count on it.” Under his breath he added, “But that doesn’t mean I shall like it in the least.”

  That evening a weary Marquand couldn’t help but wonder if his best was going to be anywhere near good enough. Easing his lanky frame into the overstuffed chair by the banked fire in the library, he rubbed absently at his aching shoulder while contemplating the lunacy of embarking on such a cork-brained quest. Not only had he looked like a monkey for the past several hours, but he had felt like the verriest of fools. Why, he must have appeared a complete cawker, with his ungainly movements and precarious balance.

  He winced on recalling his more awkward cuts at the little ball lying on the turf. Good Lord, he had actually missed it outright on several occasions, and it wasn’t even moving! It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up on his rump, for he had nearly lost his footing on a number of swings. How his friends would have whooped with laughter to see one of London’s leading Corinthians stripped down to his shirtsleeves, flailing furiously at a perverse little sphere of stitched leather that refused to budge from the stubbly grass.

  But worse than merely looking like an idiot was the disquieting feeling that perhaps he was not up to meeting the challenge, both physical and mental. Excelling at such sporting endeavors as riding, boxing, shooting, and cricket had always been easy for him, so he supposed he had taken it for granted that he would learn golf with little difficulty. The past afternoon had been a rude awakening. He had been awful. Truly awful. That the game looked so maddeningly simple only exacerbated his sense of frustration.

  Hell’s teeth. What was he going to do?

  If things didn’t improve rapidly, he might as well slink home with his proverbial tail between his legs, for ignominious defeat, and with it the loss of his beloved
Woolsey Hall, seemed inevitable. With a bitter grimace, he raked a hand through his still-damp locks, then rose a bit stiffly and went to pour himself a generous glass of the local spirits. As the heat of the whiskey rolled over his tongue, he couldn’t help but feel in danger of being drowned by a fear far deeper than failure.

  Was he a coward as well? A number of Ellington’s recent words echoed in his ears. Much as he wished to deny it, his friend’s sharp observations had begun to chop away at the carefully constructed walls that guarded his true feelings. He had always prided himself on the ability to keep all emotions locked safely away, but perhaps, as Ellington hinted, he had only created a prison rather than a place of refuge. His hands came up to rub at his temples and he found the fiery brew was having little effect on the cold knot that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

  With all the precision of a skilled architect, he had drafted a plan for his future, sketching in the exact measurements of its main components with an eye to making an impregnable structure. His bride-to-be could not fit in more perfectly, and yet somehow, as his friend forced him to stand back and scrutinize the whole, the proportions of what he had wrought were looking slightly out of kilter. He shook his head, as if a slight jiggling could serve to straighten everything back to its proper place. But still, he could not seem to erase the feeling that the foundations were not as sturdy as he imagined. Perhaps the uncharacteristic moodiness that had colored his behavior since their departure from London had as much to do with his own flawed choices as those of his father, and he was just too afraid to admit it.

  A muscle of his jaw twitched ever so slightly. Surely his engagement had been fashioned with a steady hand? Miss Dunster was the perfect material for a wife—cool and lovely as the finest marble, and just as unlikely as that substance to display any sudden shifts from her proper place. Yet Ellington’s gentle criticisms had given him pause to think.

  He, of all people, knew the difference between a work where all the angles were correct, resulting in a perfect hard-edged beauty that all might admire, and a creation that stirred a more . . . passionate response. One was craft, the other art. Would he truly be satisfied with mere correctness in his personal life, something which he would never settle for in his professional affairs? He couldn’t help but recall his reaction to kissing his intended. Even then, he hadn’t been able to repress a vague notion that despite all his meticulous planning, some crucial element had been left out that would doom his marriage to being no more than mediocre.

  The thought was chilling.

  His eyes strayed to the decanter on the sideboard, and for the first time he could remember, he felt a twinge of understanding for those whose inner demons drove them to drown self-doubt in a deluge of drink. He felt a rather strong temptation himself to drain the entire contents, but a glance at the clock on the mantel reminded him that tomorrow promised to be as long—and no doubt as trying—as the past afternoon. Honor bound him to give his best effort in meeting any challenge. And as he was not quite ready to hoist the white flag over his ramparts, he put aside his glass and rose with some stiffness, then took himself off to his desk. He still had a great deal to do before he could allow himself the luxury of some sleep.

  “You must remember to shift your weight to your right foot when you take the club back, sir, and then fire through, as if you were throwing a rock toward that patch of gorse.” Philp took the club from Marquand’s hands and dropped a ball from his pocket onto the grass. The hickory shaft came back and then forward in one fluid motion, sending the small leather orb in a soaring arc through the light fog. “Like that.” He dropped another ball at the Viscount’s feet. “Try again.”

  Jaw clenched, Marquand took up his stance.

  “Lord, try not to grip the club as if you were going to smash someone over the head with it,” came a low snicker from behind his back.

  Marquand restrained the urge to do exactly that to the speaker.

  “Ahem!” The caution from Philp was clear.

  “But he doesn’t seem to be attending to anything you tell him,” protested Derrien, shifting the group of clubs from one arm to another.

  The older man fixed her with a stem look. “That’s hardly fair la—lad. You know very well golf is not something that is learned in a day. His lordship is progressing quite nicely.”

  She ducked her head in mute contrition. He was right, of course, she allowed to herself, but it was irritating in the extreme to watch the stiff-rumped English lord approach the ball as if it were something he could hammer into submission—no doubt that was what he was used to! Still, she must remember that much as she disliked him, his upcoming opponent was an infinitely worse sort. Her attempts at advice should, as Philp had just hinted, be couched in a more positive manner. After all, she had promised her mentor that she would do her best to help.

  Philp had turned back to the Viscount. “Now, sir, go ahead.”

  Marquand set his feet once again, then drew the long shaft back in the sweeping motion he had been taught, goaded by Derrien’s caustic reminder to keep his hands well relaxed. The club paused for a fraction at the top of the swing, then started down, gathering speed as it descended toward the ball. The head of the long spoon made clean contact, and with a sweet thwock, the feath-erie flew up into the damp morning air, landing in the middle of the fairway not far from Philp’s drive.

  “Well struck, sir!” exclaimed his teacher.

  “Good shot,” allowed Derrien, though she couldn’t help but add under her breath, “It’s about time you got the hang of it.”

  A slow smile lit up Marquand’s face. “So that’s how it’s done,” he murmured to himself, unable to mask the note of elation in his voice. “Lord, it seemed so effortless. I hardly felt any impact at all, and look at how far a distance the ball traveled.”

  Derrien had to admit with a grudging sniff that when the Viscount unbent enough to show aught but a look of icy hauteur upon his rigid features, he could appear almost attractive. That is, if one favored tall, broad-shouldered gentlemen of title with no apparent skills other than the ability to shuffle a deck of cards or knot an intricate cravat. Which, of course, she most certainly did not.

  Philp also chose to indulge in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, going so far as to clap Marquand on the shoulder. “We’ll make a golfer of you yet, my lord.” The Viscount’s smile broadened, revealing a boyish enthusiasm Derrien wouldn’t have guessed possible. He further surprised her by breaking into a most unlordly trot in his haste to reach his ball. “The middle spoon,” he called, waving at her with undisguised impatience. “Stop dawdling, lad.” He nearly snatched the club out from under her arm as she approached. “What say you, seventy yards to the flag?”

  Derrien squinted to make out the flutter of bright cloth through the mist. “Nay, the distance is deceiving in this weather. It’s more like eighty.” She stood quite still for a moment, gauging the feel of the swirling breeze. “And another ten for the wind.” Her hand reached out and pulled the middle spoon from his grasp. “You’ll need the heavier club.”

  “The devil I will.” Marquand ignored the proffered handle. “Give me the middle spoon.”

  She clamped the club in question even more firmly under her arm. “You’ll hit what I tell you to hit.” There was a deliberate pause before she added, “sir.” Even a half-wit could not have mistaken the sneer in her tone.

  Philp hastily interposed himself between the two of them to ensure that the next swing of a club was not directed at Derrien’s head. “What’s the trouble here?” Marquand pointed a long elegant finger at his scowling caddie. “This impudent little wretch won’t give me the deuced club I asked for.”

  “Of course I won’t, Mr. Philp, because it isn’t the right shot to attempt.” Her chin jutted out with a defiant tilt.

  “You said I was to try and teach him something about the game, but if he insists on being a total gudgeon . . Her words trailed off, but not without a decided snort of contempt.

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nbsp; “Hmmmm.” The older man looked from lord to lad, then slowly removed the pipe from his pocket and took his time in tamping down the fragrant tobacco. Several puffs of smoke curled up into the gusting breeze before he spoke. “How far do you hit a middle spoon, my lord?”

  “You just saw. It was eighty yards at least.”

  “Aye, and a bonny shot it was. The best you’ve struck so far.” He paused for a fraction. “How often could you do it again, sir? Nine times in ten? Seven in ten? Or perhaps only two in ten?”

  Marquand’s lips compressed, and much to his chagrin he felt a tinge of color creeping to his cheeks.

  “Now, do you know what lies in front of the green? Or behind it?”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” interrupted Derrien. “He didn’t know enough to ask.” She turned a look of withering scorn on the Viscount. “There is a sharp gully cutting in front of the hole, while behind it, the ground rolls off in a gentle incline. If you hit your ball short, it will take several strokes to recover, while there is little penalty for hitting it long. It’s quite simple, really. One way you give yourself a chance to win the hole, while the other—”

  “Thank you, Derry. I believe you’ve made the point sufficiently clear.” Philp slowly let out another ring of smoke and watched it drift toward the waves breaking upon the strand. “Golf is a mental game as well as a physical one, Lord Marquand. Especially match play. Think of it this way—you will soon be going into battle against a tough opponent. You would do well to consider yourself a Wellington of sorts. You must weigh risk, understand your own capabilities—and those of your foe— in order to devise a strategy that will give you the best chance of success.”

  A muscle twitched in the Viscount’s jaw. He was sorely tempted to use Philp’s advice to justify an immediate retreat to his residence, and then back to London. If he could be outwitted and outmaneuvered by a mere schoolboy, surely he had no chance up against a canny veteran like Hertford. He drew in a long breath, feeling the master’s appraising eyes on him. But it was the veiled look of triumph in the caddie’s eyes that decided his course of action. Why, it was just what the imp expected of him, to explode in a fit of pointless pique or quit the field in a huff.