The Perfect Rose

by Diane Greenwood

  Then the note arrived, Torie was thrown into an uncommon twitter. She had expected time to prepare. Words had to be rehearsed carefully. After all, it was a sticky situation to say no without insult and she could ill-afford to insult a Duke! A few days would have allowed her nerves to settle and the words to flow delicately. But tomorrow was a heather-feather away and she must know what to say and how to say it with tact.

  It did not help to know Rhionne McLairdin would be present. His watchful eyes and satirical demeanor would disconcert her thoughts if she were not careful. But the meeting would not be delayed so Torie did her best to prepare for the interview with the Duke. When she received the summons to come to the salon the next afternoon, she hastily drew breath and hurried down. It would not do to keep either man waiting. She stopped outside the salon to compose herself and check her appearance. The gray, dimity cotton gown she wore had seen enough days to make it's pattern almost indiscernible, but Torie had meant it to show her station as servant.

  The Duke would surely regret his hasty proposal. She'd braided her hair and looped it peasant fashion, around her head hoping to give a pristine appearance. Instead it lent a picture of classical, unflawed beauty which the Duke exclaimed on and brought a mere smile to Rhionne McLairdin's lips. Whether it was an admirable emotion or a satirical one, Torie could not tell.

  Torie looked about the room. Tea had been served and small talk was over. Torie could see Rhionne McLairdin was fully relaxed in complete repose, one leg resting on top of the other, as if audience to a play about to unfold. His usual impeccably tailored frock coat was absent, and only his immaculate white shirt, tucked into superbly fitted nankeen breeches, separated him from a country squire.

  It was odd Torie's gaze turned first to him, rather than the Duke who was the focal point of the whole meeting. Regretfully, she turned her attention to the younger man who was sitting stiffly. His ornate, brocaded, silver waistcoat and frothy laced shirt, accented with a cravat so intricately tied it made it impossible for the Duke to lower his chin, gave him a dandified appearance that made Torie feel downright shabby by comparison.

  Neither man indicated she was to sit and it was then that Torie noticed the Duke held in his lap a bundle of red velvet. There was a silver tray to his left, resting on a pedestal table. A brilliant flash caught her eye. The diamond necklace! Torie realized the gifts had already been relinquished to their rightful owner. The interview was near over and her presence had only just been requested! Her eyes narrowed as they swung back to Rhionne McLairdin. What pretty words had he used? His face gave away nothing as he reached for a delicately painted teacup. The sight of the miniscule vessel cradled in his long, tapered fingers brought Torie's humor back.

  The Duke cleared his throat. Torie curtsied slightly in his direction. “I see you have received the gifts. I apologize I was not here to return them. I was...” she hesitated ... “Detained."

  His lordship thought it prudent to explain. “I have informed Everett of the ludicrosity of your marrying him."

  "Say it is not so!” the young Duke expostulated.

  "I would not put it in the words milord uses, but...” Torie began.

  "Oh, come now...” Rhionne McLairdin interjected. “You are a governess; Everett is a Duke err.. almost a Duke or will be when he inherits the title. It is no minor difference in stations. It is ridiculous to say the least!"

  Torie found it vexing how he interfered in her life. She had a mind to accept the Duke's proposal, if only for a day to put Rhionne McLairdin in his place! If it were not such a cruel hoax towards the Duke, she would have seriously entertained the notion.

  The Duke rose to his feet, clutching the velvet gown. “I care not for what other's think. You are a goddess, not a governess! I want you for my wife!"

  "Everett, think man!” His lordship was growing bored with the whole frenetic episode. “Your father will not allow such a match, even if Miss Beauclaire loses her wits and agrees to it."

  "I care not, I tell you! We will run away. Elope and return married. When my father sees your beauty first-hand, he will succumb to it as I have!"

  "He will disinherit you is what he will do!” His lordship's sarcasm was thick.

  Torie ignored him as a necessary presence to act as chaperon. She addressed only the Duke. “I cannot marry you for many reasons, Your Grace. Those few mentioned are only the icing on a many layered cake. You must accept my refusal as a blessing, for you are young and will find another more suited to the title of Duchess. I beg humble forgiveness for any encouragement I have shown that would lead you to believe I could accept such gifts as you have generously bestowed on me. You will realize upon reflection, I cannot possibly accept such things under the circumstances, and it would please me if you would take them back."

  The Duke's handsome face wore a stricken expression as if he had received a mortal blow. He bowed stiffly. “I see you are beautiful inside as well as out. I would do anything for you. But you must do one thing for me."

  Torie could not imagine what he was about to request.

  "A beautiful woman should have many beautiful things. You should wear beautiful dresses every day of the week. It would honor me greatly if you would keep this dress and the brooch.” Seeing Torie's head shake in refusal he rushed on. “I beg of you! They were made especially for you and I cannot bear to think of another wearing them! I should like to think when you don them your thoughts will be of me, and there is always hope you will change your mind."

  Torie did not have the heart to refute his words. Under the circumstances what harm was there in keeping the two gifts? “All right. But not the necklace.” She took the red velvet bundle tentatively.

  "As you wish.” The Duke bowed and made his departure. His carriage was proud but his head was bent.

  Rhionne McLairdin rose to his feet and made a sound of disgust. “Miss Beauclaire, I trust this will bring the episode of the Duke to a close. Though, I do not think keeping the dress and brooch was wise. It does not exactly denote strict denial of feelings on your part, towards Everett."

  Torie did not see that it was any further business of his. “I think I made my feelings clear."

  "Maybe to yourself. But a man besotted gleans hope from even the smallest encouragement."

  Torie wondered if he spoke from experience. It was hard to imagine his lordship being besotted by anyone. She decided there was nothing to be gained by further dispute and excused herself.

  Chapter Five

  It was a relief the presents stopped and so did the flowers. Torie was more than a little pleased she had proved Rhionne McLairdin wrong and her handling of the situation had been effective.

  For the next week things were near idyllic. The boys were surprisingly attentive and cooperative. His lordship must have noticed this phenomenon as he asked for their presence at the dinner table, even on Sunday when he entertained church officials.

  As eleventh Lord of Lairdscroft, Rhionne Jaimeson McLairdin was expected to attend sermon whenever he was in residence. However, if due to unforeseen circumstances—and there must have been many, for Torie had not been told to have the children readied on Sunday for anything other than a canter through the woods with their father,—he was unable to attend, his presence would be counted by proxy, representative by a stout donation upon his hosting dinner for his devout, moral superiors.

  This table fare was much preferred by his lordship than attending service. There was some doubt that he was a religious man. But this speculation was unfounded. It was just that his beliefs stemmed from an open mind rather than a closed temple. He was a gracious host to the parsons, both elder and younger; one being readied to take over for his ailing father. He humored the priest that came from another village and drank too much from the vine. He even stomached the fire and brimstone sermons condemning sinners who did not seek atonement on a regular basis. This was his signal to contribute generously to the church fund. He was then blessed by the same vociferous holy man and snatched fr
om the gates of hell, all within the confines of five minutes. Then dinner was served and all conversation was mild and benevolent.

  It was on just such a Sunday that Torie received word she was to accompany the boys down for the soul-saving repast. The truth of the matter was, his lordship was feeling less tolerant and was hopeful the presence of the fairer sex would stifle the Vociferous One.

  Torie had readied the boys and had just finished wetting down Brodie's cowlick when she received the order in disguise of a polite request that she attend the function. It did not take much perusing of her wardrobe to decide on a suitable dress. She had only the white ball gown and the red velvet, compliments of the Duke. The white gown, freshly aired and smoothed, was too elegant for daytime and the red, while the color was hardly subdued enough for receiving church elders, was the obvious choice.

  Torie donned it hurriedly, thanking the Duke silently for his impeccable taste. The square-cut neckline was surely meant to be demure and Torie assumed it would be so on her. She was therefore shocked to find the tight-bodice was designed to accentuate not just a trim waist, but a small bosom. As Torie only possessed the first trait, her second asset burst forth lustily. This would never do!

  She bemoaned the fact as she smoothly coiled her hair atop her head, leaving curls to frame her face. She was torn between what to do when his lordship called for Brodie and Justin. Naturally the boys were nowhere to be found as Torie had sent them out while she readied herself.

  She heard the booted steps on the school room floor and hurried out to intercept her employer. The sight of his well-muscled thighs encased in black breeches and pastel pique waistcoat accented by a black frock coat that had no need for buckram padding to accentuate those wide shoulders, gave Torie pause for thought. Lest he think her gone daft she blinked herself back to the point at hand. “I'm sorry sir, the boys are not here. I will fetch them from the gardens.” Torie was aware of Rhionne McLairdin’ s gaze as he took in her ensemble. Out of curiosity she looked to his face.

  His eyes were not on the obvious but rather he frowned deeply as if contemplating. “I will fetch them myself, Miss Beauclaire.” He looked about to retreat but hesitated. “Must you wear that?"

  Torie found his disdain irksome. He did not bother with gentlemanly compliments; nor did he gaze lasciviously, but rather he made a noise much like a mother hen, clucking disapprovingly. She bit her tongue and smiled sweetly. “It's lovely. Besides, it's all I have."

  "Here, then.” From the depths of his coat pocket he withdrew a white, silk handkerchief. It was no use pretending she did not know his meaning. Blushing, she turned discreetly to tuck the handkerchief inside her neckline, creating a modest décolletage.

  When she turned about again he was still there and so was the frown. Torie glanced in the mirror that hung in the schoolroom for the boy's enjoyment and found no fault with the pious, elegant creature reflected. What was it about the dress that vexed him so?

  But she was not to be allowed to contemplate this as just at that moment Brodie came tearing into the room at full speed, his hair and clothes in disarray. “Torie, Justin pushed me down!"

  Justin appeared, sauntering at a more sedate pace. He did not contradict Brodie but rather politely nodded in greeting. “Hello, Father."

  Lord Lairdscroft was about to admonish both boys for their rowdy behavior when Torie shook her head. “If you'll allow, I will address the boys on this issue and will bring them down when Brodie is suitably presentable."

  His lordship bowed slightly and exited, hearing Torie's voice ringing in his ear. “Justin, why did you push Brodie?"

  "Torie, he tied my laces together while I was sitting in the maze so when I rose, I near to broke my neck!"

  His lordship's countenance broke into a grin as he descended the stairs to below, where the clergymen were just arriving. They were shepherded into the Long Drawing room so as not to deafen those poor souls who stood within twenty feet of their long-winded orations, and served refreshment of choice. There was the elder Parson Pickwick sipping tea who suffered from an ailment of the lungs. Nothing contagious; it was just when he gave a sermon and forgot to take breath between verses, he paid dearly by wheezing so heavily his son had to be on hand to take over the service.

  It soon became apparent the wheezing was becoming consumptive and the younger Mr. Pickwick, not really young but a mature man nearing forty, would soon be nominated as parson. The elder knew the inevitability of this and was resigned to his fate.

  The portly priest that came from the country hamlet of Chesterfield, had a reputation for worshiping Bacchus as well as the Father of Mankind and was already requesting claret, for medicinal purposes, mind you. No one was fooled by this token justification, as the man was healthy as a horse. This was supported by a florid complexion and bulbous red nose, as well as a booming laugh that sounded more like the braying of a donkey.

  To balance this off-kilter bouquet there was the bishop traveling from the city, with a fine retinue of followers, who abstained from all pleasures of the flesh and thereby guaranteed their own certain extinction. This somber man, of small frame, had a voice that belied his stature. He could hurl his words like lightning bolts and make you see your life as a miserable facade of sin. It was to this crowd Lord Lairdscroft hoped to present Torie and thus bring about a digestible dinner.

  It took Torie a little longer than expected to bring Brodie up to snuff. For one thing the scrape on his palm where he'd fallen required washing. For another, a grass stain on his sleeve marred the white crispness of his shirt. Torie had not the time to rush to the boys’ room and rifle through their jumbled wardrobes in search of an immaculate replacement. Instead, she instructed Brodie to wear his Sunday frock coat. It was formal, but it was fashionable to dress up children for any social occasion.

  And so, it was a slightly out of breath Torie that reached the drawing room with Brodie and Justin in tow. This position soon changed as the boys barged straight into the room, while Torie took a moment to collect her wits.

  The rowdy entrance of the boys drew the attention of the room's occupants. All eyes were still on the doorway when Torie stepped into view. There was a decided pause as all conversation ceased and even the imbibing priest had to set his glass down for a moment and shake his head, as if clearing it of a vision.

  Torie waited, feeling uncomfortably on display. It was his lordship that came to her rescue, by taking her arm in his own and leading her first to the younger parson.

  Torie found nothing remarkable about the younger Mr. Pickwick. He had a plain, sincere face that was honest, though his pale brown eyes were too closely set, giving the impression he was looking down his long, thin nose and scrutinizing you, even if it was just a simple greeting being exchanged. She suspected he would require spectacles in his dotage. His clothes matched the man, somber and unremarkable, loose fitting on his thin frame.

  But perhaps she was just being unkind she admonished herself. After all, he seemed a contented soul, happy with his lot in life. And who could begrudge a man that? No, it was to be envied. To make up for her unkind thoughts, Torie beamed a dazzling smile at the younger parson, who was dazzled himself.

  Jonathan Pickwick was not a frivolous man. Indeed, he'd long been known for his sensibility and quiet, if not drab demeanor. But when he laid eyes on Torie, his thoughts turned to flowery prose and tongue-tied nervousness. He feared he'd come across rather dull-witted, so he confined his words to a simple, ‘Good day’ when Lord Lairdscroft introduced him.

  The elder, slightly horse-faced Mr. Pickwick was not so afflicted by feminine beauty. This was owing to the fact he could not see clearly, as his eyes were affected by cataracts, to the point Torie was just a haze with a voice. A very becoming, husky voice that made even an elderly man straighten stooped shoulders and reply without a tremor to belie his age. “Miss Beauclaire. I'm enchanted to make your acquaintance. You must make our little service a ritual on Sundays."

  Torie could not very we
ll rebuke his lordship verbally, but the look she cast him spoke loudly enough. “I shall, now that I am aware of it."

  His lordship had the decency to clear his throat. “Yes, well ... I felt sure I had mentioned the Sunday service."

  Torie was about to break the rules of etiquette and challenge this when Brodie shrieked with laughter at Justin who was making faces. Clergymen and holy men alike frowned. The younger Mr. Pickwick stamped his foot impatiently with no tolerance towards the boys’ immature antics. Torie herself had to bite her lip to hide the smile that threatened to turn into a wayward giggle. This impulse was effectively quashed as with a snap of his fingers Rhionne McLairdin brought the boys to heel.

  The introductions continued. The rotund priest from Chesterfield, clad in a prickly, dark cassock with a cowl, brayed tipsily. “Boys will be boys. A firm slap now and then will make them into compliant adolescents."

  Torie took exception to this and would have responded but Rhionne McLairdin took up the task. “If anyone lays a hand on a child of mine, they will be minus a hand."

  Torie's brows rose at this and she squeezed his lordship's arm in support where she realized she was still holding firmly. The answering pat on her hand took her aback and she momentarily faltered.

  But his lordship continued smoothly; “Father Blandsford, may I present Miss Victoria Beauclaire, governess to my sons."

  Father Darwin Blandsford swallowed hastily. He could ill afford to incur the ire of the Lord of Lairdscroft. “I meant no disrespect milord. I simply was inferring—perhaps a woman, no matter how beautiful—and I am enchanted to make acquaintance with one such as yourself Miss Beauclaire, is not the best educator for two such energetic lads."

  Rhionne McLairdin seemed to be enjoying the carnose man's discomfiture. "Au contraire, Father. Miss Beauclaire is just the thing for two such boys. They are quite the scholars, now that she has tweaked their minds into serious study habits. Perhaps after we have supped, they will recite for you a verse from one of the classics."