by Laura London
“They do,” said Lynden between bites. “But they’ve hardly the time today, what with the company they’ve got. Lord Melbrooke is staying tonight, but of course you know that already, as well as Mrs. Gilray and that horrid friend of Aunt’s, Lady Marchpane. She’s been here for three days already and”—here she paused to take another bite—“and I wish she’d go. Every time she passes one of us in the hall, she quizzes us on our Latin. Ugh! It’s fine for Rainey, but I got by with as little studying as possible, and when she nabs me, I’m at a loss.”
“It is too bad,” agreed Lorraine, brushing a crumb from her collar. “Aunt Eleanor doesn’t like Lady Marchpane much, either, but she is such a gossip, and Aunt Eleanor likes, of course, to have someone spread the news back in London that Lord Melbrooke is staying.”
Mrs. Helm clucked in disapproval. “I never did hold with your Step-aunt Eleanor making you girls fill your wee heads with that foreign tongue that nobody speaks no more. Not to mention those doings of the ancient gods which don’t bear repeating in modest company! But if kite flying you be at, then kite flying ye’d better do. It’s the kind of strengthy wind that bears moving about in! Just take care that kite don’t carry you to France!”
The twins blew around the corner of the red sandstone church like two crisp brown leaves. A gust set the old church bell in motion to send random peals ringing over the hills. Lorraine stopped to rest, leaning on the ancient Saxon cross, then followed her sister to the meadow behind the church. There was abundant space for kite-flying in the meadow and adjacent fallow field, but the gusty wind did the work for them. Lynden, to Lorraine’s excited exclamations, was hard put to let the string out rapidly enough; and after a heart-stopping violent dive toward the hard-frozen, stubbly ground, the kite receded into the cold gray sky, its green paper flapping as if in protest and the bright pink tail dancing beneath, trying to escape.
“Let out all the string, Lynden, I want to see it go!” shouted Lorraine.
“I’m doing it as fast as I can,” answered Lynden, laughing. “It wants to fly away!” The kite string whipped from the dowel in her hand with a pleasant hum. “It’s singing to us, Rainey,” she giggled. The kite grew small in the gray vault above their heads, where it danced and swirled like a green and pink pinwheel. “It’s pulling so hard,” said Lynden. “Isn’t it beautiful, like a comet?” Suddenly there was a strong blast of air; the kite string went rigid in her hand, then lax, and far above them the kite began a slow, forlorn descent, blowing away from them as it dropped, flapping loudly. The girls watched in openmouthed disappointment.
“What bad luck!” cried Lynden. “Our comet’s a falling star.”
“Lynnie, we’ll have to chase it. Remember Aunt Eleanor’s scarves in the tail!” said Lorraine, a hand covering her brow as she bent back to watch the kite’s erratic path. “Look, the wind’s shifted and the kite’s blowing toward the Hall!”
They ran after it, watching with dismay. As they ran, the kite floated and dipped lower to the ground. Their dismay turned to jubilation as the kite string caught on the spire of the church bell tower, causing the kite to lag in the breeze and come gently to rest, hanging upside down and undamaged against the red sandstone blocks.
The girls ran, puffing from the exercise, and had almost reached the church when another gust came and the kite took flight again, heading high above them down the tree-lined lane and toward the Hall.
“Lynden, I believe it will catch in the tree behind the house! Look, there it goes!” Lorraine pointed as the kite, after a swooping dive, came to rest in the crown of the lofty Scots pine which towered from the rear over Downpatrick Hall. The kite hung limp in the crown, a small apple-green splash of color against the blue-gray boughs.
“I think I can get to it from the attic,” exclaimed Lynden.
The girls entered the house through the side door, mounted the servant’s stairway, and clambered up three flights of wooden steps. The attic was nearly as cold as outside and smelled of old magazines and camphor. The sisters’ footsteps reverberated as they crossed the floor, moving between shipping trunks, a mahogany writing chair piled with age-yellowed landscape paintings, and a tailor’s dummy. A dim, sea-blue light slipped in through the octagonal stained-glass window at the rear wall. Lynden slid back a small bolt and pushed open the window.
“I see it,” she said excitedly, “not four feet away. It’s a peach; I’ll only have to step out on that limb and grab it!” She tugged off her mittens, tossing them on the hardwood attic floor, and then pulled at the frogs binding her cloak, and it joined the mittens. When she sat down on the cloak and began pulling off her boots, Lorraine ventured a protest.
“You’ll be cold, Lyn,” Lorraine said. “And the bark will scratch your feet.”
“I’ll only be out there for a minute,” replied Lynden, pulling off the other boot. “I can’t climb a tree with boots on. You’ve got to feel the way the branches take your weight.” She whipped off her bedraggled sash, held up her skirts to knee-length, and commanded Lorraine to tie the sash around her waist to secure them.
“Give it an extra knot, Lorraine. I don’t want my skirt to fall and trip me up.” Lynden, ready for the expedition, leaned out the window with one hand on the side sill and stretched out her other hand to lean on the trunk of the Scots pine. It felt cold and scaly against her palm. The crisp tang of pine surrounded her as she gave her full weight to the trunk, carefully bringing her feet to rest on the branch beneath her. The pine needles encompassed her like a stinging gray-green cloud, pricking her cold-numbed skin through her gown. The kite was resting against the deeply fissured black bark, its tail of scarves entwined around the branch above.
Letting go with one hand, Lynden leaned out to snatch it and missed. She tried again and missed again. Carefully repositioning her feet, she tested her balance, and, holding out one steadying hand, she made a quick successful snatch for the kite. Elated with victory, she pulled herself upright and felt for the branch she had been holding on to, but the sudden motion was too great for equilibrium and Lynden heard her sister’s quick cry of alarm as she fell backward.
Clutching the kite, Lynden grabbed for a purchase but managed only a lacerating handful of gummy resin and stripped needles. The thick stratified branches acted as a yielding, but prickly, cushion, which handed her down, rapidly but gently, until she was brought to a stop at the junction of three thick, piny branches. The tree swayed and bobbed from the shock as she found a handhold, lying on her back and reaching out. A heavy, scaly gray cone bounced after her, hitting her sharply in the forehead and landing saucily in her lap.
“Rainey?” called Lynden in a voice that shook slightly. “I’m alive. Barely. I’ve got the kite, so stay where you are. I think I’ll be able to get in through one of these rooms.”
Lorraine’s relieved reply was muffled by the soft squeak of an opening window.
Lord Melbrooke had been in his room, preparing rather unenthusiastically for dinner, when he heard an unlikely crash outside his window. He debated with himself for a moment, and then decided it warranted investigation. Clad in his dressing gown, he strolled to the window, flipped the bolt, and raised the pane. His interested gaze fell upon the shapeliest pair of legs he had seen since attaining manhood. He leaned his elbows on the sill, erasing a smile as his gaze traveled to the indignant face of the owner of the legs.
“You needn’t grin at me in that odious fashion,” said Lynden crossly. “I’m not always to be found like this, you know.”
“Are you not?” he replied. “It seems a pity.”
“Well, it may seem a pity to you, though I think that a very odd opinion, but it is not,” she snapped, “to me.” She wiggled to a sitting position. “You are the poet, aren’t you? It’s difficult to see with the light in back of you.”
“Well,” he said cautiously, “I am a poet. Have we been introduced?”
“No,” Lynden replied. “And we’re not likely to be because I’m probably going to die of
pneumonia from being up a tree in the cold.”
“Now that would really be a pity,” said Lord Melbrooke. “Which emboldens me to ask if there might perhaps be some way I could assist you?”
“Yes! I wish you would pull me out of this tree! But the needles may rub on your clothes and perhaps resin will get on the sleeves and you may not like it, because I’ve heard that London poets are excessively foppish!”
“Well,” he said in a chastened voice. “I will try to be, er, unfoppish for a moment and lift you in. Do you think it would inconvenience you to lean forward a little more?” He leaned out as she leaned toward him, and, placing his hands firmly on her sides, he plucked her from the tree branch and swung her effortlessly in through the window and set her on her feet.
The poet was housed in the best guest room that Downpatrick Hall could offer, appointed with Indian carpets and rosewood furniture from fine London warehouses. Inside the well-lit room, Lynden had her first opportunity for a close view of her rescuer. He was, as Peg had said, handsome as sin. His body was long and fluid. Because she was short, his tallness made him seem high above her; she had to bend back her head to meet his eyes. The soft lamplight shone full on his wheat-colored hair, setting off sharp amber sparks where it curled loosely against his wide forehead and temples. Below blond eyebrows were gray eyes—sensual, cool, and as sheer and subtle as lake mist. They were eyes that might have been intimidating if one failed to notice the softening humor shaped into his mouth. This afternoon when she had seen him from a distance, the self-confidence of Lord Melbrooke’s carriage had led Lynden to place his age over thirty. Close at hand, she could see that he was still in his late twenties. His attractive face contained a well-controlled sensitivity—friendly enough, but not terribly accessible.
Lord Melbrooke met her inquisitive glance with an appraising one of his own, and his lips bent in a slow smile, setting Lynden’s heart beating at something more than its usual pace.
He turned to shut the window and spoke. “I know that you might find this a little unconventional, but if you would allow me to introduce myself, I would tell you that I’m Lord Melbrooke, but I’m always pleased when my friends call me Justin.”
“If you want to introduce yourself as Lord Melbrooke, that suits me all right, because I knew it was your name anyway,” allowed Lynden handsomely. “But you needn’t think that I’m so unversed with social usage as to call you Justin, because I know it’s not the thing to call gentlemen by their first names unless they are relatives or close family friends.”
“A fair recitation,” said Lord Melbrooke, much impressed. The gray eyes twinkled. “Did your governess have you memorize many of these indispensable homilies?”
Lynden dimpled responsively. “She did, but I’m afraid it hasn’t done much good. Uncle Monroe says I’m incorrigible! I have a sister—in fact, a twin—but I am the naughtier twin,” she announced.
His lips quirked at one corner. “But how delightful. Forgive me if I seem vulgarly inquisitive, but you did say Uncle Monroe?”
“Oh, yes. I am Lynden Downpatrick. My sister, Lorraine, Mama, and I have lived here at the Hall since before Papa died and Uncle Monroe became our guardian.”
“I see,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Will I see you at dinner?”
“No, because we’re not allowed to dine in company, not being out yet. Perhaps we’ll be introduced into society this spring.”
“Indeed?” he said, polite but unencouraging. “Perhaps we’ll be able to meet, then, under more conventional circumstances.”
“Maybe,” Lynden said doubtfully. “But I’m not sure the thing will come off. You see, Mama ought to be our chaperone but her habits are sickly. Mama says she’s prone to a weakness of the heart, but Uncle Monroe says she has a weakness of the brain. And Aunt Eleanor says that she wouldn’t chaperone us to secure her soul a place in Heaven, because I’m too ill-behaved and my sister, Lorraine, is too pretty. You see…”
“Yes,” interrupted Lord Melbrooke. “I can see you have a great many trials. And I wouldn’t want to add to them in any way. Which is why I feel compelled to point out that your guardian might frown upon our meeting tête-à-tête.”
“If you want me to go, then you should say so, instead of engaging in a lot of odiously tactful hinting,” said Lynden with dignity. She turned quickly and would have marched from the room when she happened to glimpse herself in the long free-standing dressing mirror. She stopped, blushed, set her kite down in front of her, and began to fumble frantically with the tightly knotted sash that still held her skirts knee-length. The knot held firm. Lynden turned sheepishly toward Lord Melbrooke, her eyes wide with an unconscious appeal.
“Aunt will boil me in cabbage soup if she sees me like this… do you think that you might be able to unknot me?”
Lord Melbrooke walked to Lynden’s side, took her shoulders and gently turned her to face away from him. She felt the sash press slightly against her waist as his fingers probed the knot. In one hot, uncomfortable flash, it occurred to Lynden that Lord Melbrooke had been privileged to view more of her slim legs than any male since Dr. Brother had slapped her into the world seventeen years ago. She blushed furiously and twisted her head to observe Lord Melbrooke’s impassive countenance.
“I’ve only put my skirts up because I was compelled to climb into that tree, you know,” she explained in an anxious voice.
Melbrooke gave her a brief, reassuring smile before returning his attention to the knot. “The situation is plain to the humblest intelligence. Perhaps you could manage not to wiggle quite so much? Thank you. How did you come to be, er, compelled to enter the tree? A matter concerning that very handsome kite you are carrying, I apprehend?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lynden, brightening at his praise of her kite. “It broke loose from its cord and flew over the village, coming to rest in the old pine tree outside the window. I stepped onto the top branches from the attic window but lost my balance and took a tumble.”
“Which accounts for the scratches on your cheeks and legs,” commented Lord Melbrooke, pulling methodically at the knot.
“Yes,” said Lynden cheerfully. “I suppose I should have thanked you for bringing me in the window. I’m not usually so rag-mannered but, you see, I was cross from the fall.” A thought occurred to her. “When I think of it, perhaps you were embarrassed to be encountered in your dressing gown. Is it what they call a banyon? Aunt Eleanor’s lady’s maid says banyons are worn by all the fashionable gentlemen but if anyone mentions them to me I am to pretend that I don’t know what they are or no one will believe I am a maiden.”
Lord Melbrooke gave a swift choke of laughter which he discreetly turned into a cough. “Yes, this is a banyon. And I wasn’t embarrassed to have you encounter me in it because it covers me shoulder to foot and I perceive myself to be most modestly clad.”
Lynden giggled. “How much of you is covered is quite beside the point because ladies in ball gowns wear far less. It is the type of garment that you’re wearing that counts. Now, a banyon is boudoir clothing which makes it unacceptable. But perhaps you have different standards because Peg says you are a great rake.”
“A gross exaggeration, I assure you.”
“Well, I think so,” agreed Lynden, twisting again to face Lord Melbrooke and presenting him with a roguishly dimpled smile. “It seems to me that you could hardly be a very successful rake if you have this much trouble unknotting a lady’s sash!”
The chattering and footfalls of ladies passing in the hall created a commotion that prevented either Lynden or Lord Melbrooke from hearing the light triple rap on the door.
“I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” said Lord Melbrooke. “When you want your skirts up, you don’t take any half measures, do you? But don’t worry, I’ll have this off in a minute.”
Peg, having knocked on the door and gotten no response, lifted the ewer of Lord Melbrooke’s hot shaving water that she had set down, elbowed down the door handle, and shoved open the
door with her hip. Immediately her startled ears were assailed by Lord Melbrooke’s last unfortunate speech. For one horrified second Peg took in the apple-green kite lying unheeded by the bed, Lord Melbrooke in his bedroom dress, Lynden’s half-bare legs. To Peg’s shocked mind it looked as though Lord Melbrooke was attempting to embrace her dear mistress and Lynden, who had turned to see who had come in the door, was herself attempting to struggle out of his arms. Peg dropped the steaming ewer and gave a scream that would curdle milk. There was a loud crash and a flash flood of water spread out across the Indian carpets. Peg flew at Lord Melbrooke, shouting that no London rake was going to pull up the skirts of her Miss Lynden, be he poet or no!
Lord Melbrooke stared at Peg with interested surprise. Lynden gasped and took an involuntary step backward, tripping and falling across the bed.
Lady Eleanor Downpatrick, with her guest, Lady Marchpane, were the ladies passing in the hallway, and at Peg’s frantic shouts, they rushed to the doorway to see Lynden lying across the big guest bed, her skirts traveled up to her knees, her hair disheveled, and her face brightly flushed. Lord Melbrooke was holding at arm’s length an outraged Peg, who was attempting to attack him with a jagged piece of porcelain from the broken ewer. At the entrance of the ladies, Peg flung herself prostrate in the puddle, embracing Lady Eleanor’s knees and sobbed, “Oh, My Lady… I came in the room with Lord Melbrooke’s shaving water and found him trying to pull Miss Lynden’s skirts up!”
Lord Melbrooke turned to Lynden, who lay paralyzed on the bed. “We might,” he said slowly, “find this a little difficult to explain.”
Chapter Two
Lady Eleanor Downpatrick was the only child of an earl whose family tree was considerably more impressive than his list of disposable assets. The earl was a hard, self-consequential man. He placed the greatest value on aristocratic bloodlines, with wealth running a poor second. He presented his daughter to the ton in due form, announcing to the greater circle of his acquaintance that he would give his daughter in marriage only to a man who could match her in degree, promptly narrowing the field of suitors to earls or better. Eleanor was a handsome girl and several minor pretenders to her hand appeared over the years, only to be sent away disappointed by Papa. Eleanor was not two years short of thirty when it was borne in upon the earl that his daughter was well nigh in danger of becoming an ape-leader and that the servants had begun to call her an old maid. There was no high-degreed paragon in sight. Perhaps the lady’s attractions were not so great as her father had thought, either because of her shrewish disposition or her tiny dowry.
