The Perfect Rose

by Diane Greenwood

  Torie eyes opened incredulously. “Nonsense!"

  Rhionne was drawn into the depths of green. Uncharacteristically he had to shake himself back to the debate at hand. “Is it? There is a closed carriage, with its shutters drawn, waiting yonder beyond that copse of trees; with a rather shady looking fellow acting as coachman, I might add."

  For a brief moment Torie's mouth hung open in unladylike fashion. She swung her head around, craning for a view through the thick copse of tall, Scots pine. She thought she could make out a glimmer of gold braiding and certainly from somewhere came the jangle of harness.

  She was not allowed to ponder further as the boys came galloping past, whooping and hollering like wild banshees. For once his lordship did not call them to heel but rather smiled indulgently as they led the way back to Lairdscroft.

  Torie's little mare's ambling walk was quickly over-taken by Rhionne's spry mount, resulting in her reaching the stables a few minutes behind the other's. Not to be thought a poor sport, she gingerly unhooked her foot from the side stirrup and swung it over the pommel meaning to jump down lithely. To her chagrin every muscle in her body protested and she could not stifle the slight mewl as she hung suspended in motion, neither able to regain her seat, nor make a graceful leap. Instead she tumbled forward head-over heels. Her breath was knocked from her body as she hit a hard surface. Not the unforgiving ground, but a more yielding exterior.

  A pair of strong arms encircled her, not unlike bands of steel. They could not have been more welcome. Torie gazed up into Rhionne McLairdin's face with grateful wonder. How had he come to be at her side so quickly? For a moment their eyes locked and Torie could not contain the shiver that traveled from her head to her toes. It was not the chill of cold but rather a flash of white-hot lightening, making her tingle in places she never knew could tingle.

  The boys’ laughter broke the odd spell and the rigid bands became pliant arms, setting Torie on her feet. The bemused expression on Rhionne's face was dissembled into an indifferent mask as he solicitously inquired; “Are you able to walk?"

  Torie muttered almost unintelligibly. “I ... yes, of course.” She could feel her cheeks burning floridly and to make matters worse she could not regain her composure.

  "Perhaps you should retire to your room for a rest. I'll tend to the boys until supper when I'll send a maid to summon you."

  Torie bowed her head in acquiescence. Perhaps a rest was what she needed.

  His lordship watched her retreating figure enter the house. He stroked his chin reflectively. The developments of the day only strengthened his resolve towards Torie's future. Tomorrow would tell.

  * * * *

  On Sunday morning Torie woke up bone-weary and sleep muddled. She vaguely remembered the supper of last night as a subdued affair. The boys had been unusually quiet and Rhionne was seemingly preoccupied, only making desultory conversation. Torie had been relieved when it was over and she could retire to a hot bath and bed.

  When the maid brought her morning chocolate and drew open the blinds, Torie noticed the sun through the window was slanted across her coverlet. It was warm for early morning. The maid waited while Torie drank her chocolate. This was unusual and Torie wondered if she were keeping the servant from chores. Torie had barely replaced the delicate, bone china cup on it's matching saucer before the maid swooped down on it and whisked it away. It occurred to Torie that perhaps the maid was running behind or ... “Eldga, what time is it?"

  The maid halted and swung around in mid-stride. “Why it be near eleven, Miss Torie."

  Near eleven? Good heavens! Church was beginning soon. Torie swung her legs off the bed and winced as her stiff muscles protested. She ignored the discomfort and made a harried dash to the wardrobe, pulling out what had once been a vibrant buttercup yellow frock, but was now a mere faded shadow of its former glory. As a last minute detail she hastily glanced in the mirror, twisting her hair up and fastening it with pins. There was no time to bemoan its waywardness.

  The boys! It would require a miracle to make them presentable in such short time! They would have been up for hours, getting into who knew what mischief. And not clean mischief. She would stake her life on this certainty. She could excuse them, but she hated to break the routine. After all, until Torie's arrival Rhionne McLairdin had not sent the boys’ to Sunday service and she doubted if it would take much pleading on the boys’ part to cancel this new regiment. Torie hastened to the boys’ room. Not surprisingly it was empty. She arrived down the stairs, out of breath and a trifle dizzy.

  A feather could have knocked her over! There like little soldiers, stood Justin and Brodie—immaculate except for Brodie's stubborn cowlick sticking up—in their best suits. When Justin saw Torie was unable to talk he took over. “The dogcart is waiting, Torie."

  Speechless, Torie allowed him to take her arm and lead her out and help her into the cart. Brodie clamored in like a scampering puppy, banging his knee on the wooden frame. “Oops. Good thing father is not here. He told us this morning we were not to roughhouse and spoil our clothes."

  "Yes.” Justin verified. “We sat in the parlor waiting for you. Father said we were to let you sleep. I only hoped you wouldn't sleep much longer as my collar is chaffing."

  Torie shook off her bemused haze. “Your father dressed you?"

  "Aye. I mean yes.” Justin was quick to correct the hated slang used by commoners and Americans. “But it was not so bad. He saw that my cuffs are getting short and my collar tight, so I'm to have new clothes."

  Torie smiled. “You are growing by leaps and bounds. It will bankrupt your father to keep you well suited for the next ten years."

  Brodie looked worried. “Really? Father will be poor and it will be our fault?"

  Justin laughed and rolled his eyes in a pantomime of disgust. “You're such a baby, Brodie. Torie's pulling a lark. When you get older you'll learn the difference."

  "I am not a baby!” Brodie stuck out his bottom lip and pinched Justin, who yelled and kicked him in the shin. Torie separated them, no easy feat in the snug cart, and muted glares prevailed for the rest of the drive to the church.

  The service was lengthy. The elder Mr. Pickwick was replaced early and still the Bible passages were quoted and translated. Even to the devout Torie it seemed a bit drawn out. She had no way of knowing the younger Mr. Pickwick was applying all his religious skill to keep her within his humble temple. She had become his sun and when he was away from her, he could only think of when he would be blessed with her presence once more.

  Finally, his verbosity exhausted and his kerchief damp from swathing his heated forehead, Mr. Pickwick had little choice but to give in and close the service. He hastened to the doorway to bid his parishioners Godspeed. As the trio from Lairdscroft exited, the anxious parson almost blocked their path. “Miss Beauclaire, may I say how lovely you look today?"

  Torie in her subdued gown, much too warm for the long service in the stuffy church, felt anything but. She smiled graciously. “Your service was enlightening, if not thorough."

  "You inspire me.” The parson's florid countenance grew even redder.

  Torie grew fearful he was succumbing to heatstroke. His heavy tweeds were not conducive to the heat anymore than a fur mantle.

  Justin with insight beyond his years and with a gesture so like his father's took Torie's arm impatiently. “We should go. We are holding up the rest of the congregation. I dare-say they crave fresh air."

  Indeed, at that very instant a woman from the village swooned and it was necessary for Torie and the boys to make way for the man carrying her prostrate form. Justin steered Torie to the dogcart. “Hurry Torie, before Pickwick chases after the cart like a village cur."

  "Master Justin, what an unkind thing to say! He is simply passionate about his faith.” But Torie could not help the laughter that threatened to bubble forth.

  "That's not all he's passionate about. He's balmy about you and I don't like it!"

  Torie smiled, despite
her intention to take Justin in hand and make him see the error of ill thoughts towards a man of the church. “My young protector, you have nothing to worry about. I will not leave my two favorite pupils for a suitor. Even if my heart was captured, your father would never allow it."

  Brodie, not fully understanding this exchange, bounced up and down on the well-padded seat. “Why don't you marry father? Then you would never have to leave!"

  Torie found herself coloring. “It's not as simple as that. Your father is a man of position and he must marry as such. Besides, he does not seem to relish the thought of matrimony. Nay, I believe he is content to live out his remaining years as a bull-headed bachelor.” Torie wished she could retract the adjective. Little ears had a habit of translating into little mouths. If his lordship should get wind of this, there would be the devil to pay and Tories wages could not begin to give the devil his due.

  As the dogcart rolled to a stop on the front cobbles Torie could not help but notice his lordship's horse tied to the mounting block. It was early as yet for him to return from his rounds. The boys scampered down around her as the footman assisted her to alight. “Justin, Brodie! Do not disappear, you young scamps. Your father is about. He may want you to accompany him today."

  But on entrance to the house, it was Torie who was summoned to the study. She tried to smooth the creases from her gown but it was futile. The long sermon combined with the stuffy, humid air of the church had imprinted wrinkles indelibly into the crisp fabric. Feeling like a wilted lily she had little choice but to enter the study with as much dignity as she could muster.

  Rhionne McLairdin was not intent on paperwork. He was watching the door. It was odd to see him preoccupied so. He looked up as Torie entered. In the same instant his wrinkled brow cleared. “Torie ... uh, Miss Beauclaire. You were detained? A problem with the cart? You really should request the carriage."

  Torie shook her head in denial. “The drive is so short and the carriage so stately for the little church. The cart suits well enough. I'm sorry, I did not know you were waiting for our return. The sermon was excessive.” His lordship did not offer her a chair. Torie could only ascertain this was to be a short interview.

  "Ah, the young Mr. Pickwick I presume was at his most eloquent. I hope you found his theological meandering stirring?"

  It was strange but Torie could find no disdain in Rhionne's features, but rather he seemed pleased by the cause of Torie's delay. “Somewhat enlightening if not lengthy. The boy's have only to change and they will be ready to ride out with you."

  His lordship's long, tapered fingers made a careless gesture. “That is of small consequence. My motive for summoning you was of a more personal nature."

  Torie's eyes widened. Surely he was not going to bring up the embarrassing episode with Everett Gaunlin?

  "Don't look so startled. I do not bite."

  The frown he exhibited ironically made Torie more at ease than the ‘cat that swallowed the canary’ smile of moments earlier. Curious, she remained silent.

  "I have reconsidered my actions of earlier. Perhaps I was amiss on chastising you for entertaining the good parson the Sunday past. He is a man of good fortitude and I cast a blight on his character by suggesting he compromised your virtue."

  Torie was astounded. His lordship was admitting to a wrong? Surely the heat was playing tricks on her mind.

  He went on. “Therefore to give my apology merit, I would invite you to Sunday dinner. The crowd will be light as the bishop has returned to his own diocese. I trust this meets with your approval?"

  Torie's shock wore off and she smothered a yawn. Yesterday's exertion and the day's heat had caught up with her. She would like nothing better than to bow out of the ritual Sunday meal and retire early, but she did not want to appear ungracious or worse, unforgiving in the face of his lordship's unprecedented apology. “I will attend as you wish."

  "Excellent.” His eyes raked over her as if seeing her clearly for the first time since she'd entered the room. “That gown is not one of your newer acquisitions. I would suggest something more spirited for dinner. That will be all, Torie."

  He did not use the formal title but that did little to appease Torie as she gritted her teeth over the abrupt dismissal. For an apology, it left much to be desired. And Torie had a growing sense of foreboding that she could only shrug off. She would have to begin preparation for dinner if she was to appear ‘more spirited’ as Rhionne McLairdin phrased it.

  She rested while the maid brought water for her afternoon ablution. She chose her dress carefully, deciding on a fitted waist, candy caned striped gown, trimmed with blonde lace; so delicate it looked to tear at the merest touch. The tight bodice effect was achieved through tiny seed pearl fastenings down the back. Torie could reach the top two but the others were too awkward. With a flash of spirit Torie swept her hair up and pinned it at a rakish angle. The pins held it en masse, letting a few curls escape capriciously.

  Torie felt the draft on her back as she descended the stairs. Her recently acquired white kid gloves and matching slippers had been a frivolous expenditure. One she justified with the reasoning they were tremendously in vogue and would compliment all her gowns. The delicate footwear made the slightest of swishing sounds as she walked causing her to tiptoe to the study. She was relying on part luck and part common sense that Rhionne had not continued his ride and was within. Time was short and that tipped the scales in her favor. She would show him spirit indeed!

  With little compunction Torie swept into the room, hoping to catch her employer off guard. The initial reaction she received was admiration as Rhionne calmly looked up from a sheaf of papers and ran an appraising eye over her. “That's more like it."

  Torie smiled sweetly. “I'm afraid I am unable to fasten the remaining buttons.” Demurely she presented her back. Smooth skin was plainly visible between the intricate fastenings. She had the satisfaction of feeling his hands waver for a moment as they rested against her shoulder blades; then they became steady as he deftly fastened the tiny pearls. Towards the broader middle of her back it was necessary for him to pull the gaping material together to fasten it. Rhionne touched bare skin in his quest. Torie wiggled.

  His lordship grew irritated. “Stand still.” His voice was gruff.

  "I can't help it; your hands are like ice!"

  "Then you should have had a maid do the chore."

  "They were all occupied. I would think at your age you would have had some vast experience at this sort of thing,” Torie replied saucily.

  "That is something you should have no knowledge of, you impudent girl!” Torie swung about. The material came loose from Rhionne's hands, causing his hand to dip low to try and retrieve it. His hand touched the small of Torie's back but she did not flinch and neither did he remove the hand. Torie's breath caught in her throat. “I take it back, your hands are not cold but rather quite warm."

  The hand flexed in what might have been a caress. Torie looked up into dark blue eyes. “My lord...” Rhionne's lips silenced her meager protest. The hand on her back pressed and Torie felt as pliant as molded clay as she was propelled forward, against the solid form that was Rhionne McLairdin.

  Torie caught the whiff of leather and the sweetish odor of horse, but rather than offensive it lingered redolently, as did the masculine scent of Rhionne. She'd been kissed before but never like this! Warm lips traveled over hers as if they had every right. She wanted to protest; indeed her upbringing demanded it! On opening her mouth under his, no words came out. But his lordship took the action as encouragement and deepened the kiss, till Torie was literally hanging limp against him with only his arms supporting her.

  There was a discreet knock. But rather then flinging her away, Rhionne kept her imprisoned. It was all Torie could do to break the bands that were his arms and gain freedom. It would never do to be caught in such a compromising situation with the master of the house! The servants would talk like chattering starlings and Torie would be branded a scarlet woma
n.

  Rhionne seemed amused, though his cheeks were ruddy. “Enter,” he called.

  Torie hastily turned her back so the servant could not see her face. If his lordship were in high color over the episode, she could only imagine what her light peaches and cream complexion would betray.

  The footman's voice was droll and unobservant. “My lord, there is dust on the road. The guests are enroute."

  "Thank you. I fear time has gotten away from me. I left my horse tied at the post. See it is put away. That will be all.” The bowing servant left, closing the door discreetly. Rhionne turned to where Torie's back presented itself. Let's finish what we started, shall we?"

  Torie gasped. The audacity! But the touch on her back was deft as he fastened the errant seed pearls.

  Gently he pushed her forward when he was done. “There now. I must go change for the meal. I will instruct Nanny Ada to bring the boys down. Would you do the honors and greet the guests, my dear?” He took her silence for assent and was fully out the door before turning. “May I remind you, you should not play with fire as you lack the skill not to be singed."

  He was gone, leaving Torie still standing with her back to the door. So much for her teaching him a lesson! She smoothed her gown and patted her hair, trying futilely to tame its unruly tresses. These methodical motions calmed Torie's nerves measurably. She was able quite credibly to greet the two Pickwicks and usher them into the Long Drawing room.

  The younger parson was so bold as to take Torie's hand and remark; “You are in high color. The sultry summer air agrees with you."

  Torie's fingertips went to her cheeks in what appeared to be maiden modesty over the compliment. However, it was more prideful worry that someone might guess the secret of her florid countenance.

  She was saved from further contemplation by the arrival of Father Darwin Blandsford of Chesterfield. Without the dour Bishop Eiffel to curb his idol worship of Bacchus, the carnose priest had reverted back to his grape mistress. He swayed precariously, his sheer bulk in its cassock making it a hazard if he should lose consciousness. The hand Parson Pickwick had held in reverence moments before was now seized and crushed by the priest. Torie winced.