by Juliana Gray
“Humor me.”
Abigail sighed. “There was a misunderstanding as I was helping the maids turn out the rooms. An altercation. I suppose it all started with the cheese . . .”
“The cheese!”
“As I said,” Abigail hurried on, rising to her feet, “all very tedious. And now if you’ll excuse me, the two of you, I’ve a great deal to do this afternoon. Quite . . . quite essential sorts of things.” She bolted for the door.
“Wait a moment! Abigail!” But her sister’s pale skirts had already disappeared around the corner of the doorway. She watched the empty space for a moment or two, the plain whitewashed plaster walls of the hall, not a shadow to be seen. “What on earth was that?” she asked.
Signorina Morini made another shrug of her sturdy shoulders, going on with her bean-sorting as though nothing at all had happened. “Is a mystery. The young girls, they are full of mystery.”
“She isn’t so very young,” Alexandra said darkly. “Twenty-three. A spinster, almost. She ought to know better. I suppose it’s because Mama died before she came out, you know. I arranged things for her, of course, but it isn’t at all the same. I had my own life to look after, my husband and household.” She looked up at Signorina Morini, who sat calmly with her beans, nodding in sympathy. “I tried,” she insisted. “I really did. But I’m not her mother—I’m not really motherly at all, particularly not to my own sister.”
Signorina Morini nodded again. “Perhaps you will help me a little with the beans?”
Alexandra reached for the great pile of beans and began sifting through, setting aside the flawed ones on their hill of shame.
“Of course you try,” the housekeeper said. She addressed her words to the beans before her, with the bright red pattern of her headscarf standing out in relief against the white walls of the kitchen. “Is a very hard thing, you teach a young girl to be a woman. Is more hard when you are also young.”
“I ought to have been more responsible, when I had the chance. The resources.” Alexandra watched the beans blur before her. It was quick work, she discovered. The mountain of unsorted beans began to diminish appreciably, and the piles of good and bad beans built up into respectable mounds. How reassuring it was, to watch the steady progress being made atop the smoothly worn wood of the kitchen table, beans being put in their proper places. Alexandra began to feel an odd sense of accomplishment, the way she used to feel when the pile of unwritten thank-you notes on her London desktop gradually transferred itself to the pile of neat sealed envelopes, ready for franking and delivery.
Except that bean-sorting actually served a useful purpose.
“I ought to have paid more attention,” she went on. “But Abigail’s always been such an independent little thing, studying and exploring and all that. She didn’t seem to want a husband. And so I . . . I didn’t bother as I ought. And now look.”
“The lady Abigail is a beautiful girl,” said Signorina Morini. “A good girl, a clever girl. Of this girl, you are much proud.”
“Oh, she’s marvelous, of course. Far prettier than I am, if anyone bothers to notice. But she isn’t a girl anymore, is she? That’s the trouble. She can’t go on like this.”
She heard her own words with bewilderment. What was she saying? Revealing all this to a domestic servant, as if she were a trusted relative! But there was something so warm, so companionable about sitting at this table with the rounded figure of Signorina Morini, and her dark hair curling from her red headscarf, and all the lovely kitchen smells surrounding them: bread baking and broth simmering and, somewhere, the faint scent of ripening cheese.
Besides, the woman probably couldn’t understand a word in three.
“Why she cannot?” asked Signorina Morini. She gestured with her hand to the window, which overlooked the kitchen garden and, beyond it, the hillside covered in the pale green of early spring. “She is happy, no? There is much to do here. If she wants love, she will find it.”
“Love is hardly the point,” Alexandra said. “She hasn’t any fortune. She’ll need a husband, and before she loses any more of her youth. I ought not to have brought her here. Another year wasted.”
Another shrug. “If she is wanting a husband, she marry the duke.”
Alexandra laughed. “Marry the duke! I do hate to disillusion you, signorina, but it’s quite out of the question. For one thing, he’s not the marrying sort. For another, she’s just opened a thundercloud of goose down over his head.”
The signorina smiled her wise smile. “Is perfect. The so-high duke, he never has a woman give him the feathers before.”
“No,” Alexandra said, giggling, which was something she never did. “I’m quite sure he hasn’t.”
“He fall in love with her,” Signorina Morini predicted, with a confident tilt of her head. “I am sure of it.”
Alexandra, not nearly so sure, didn’t reply. Her nimble fingers slid the last few beans in their proper places. “There. All done.”
“Grazie, signora,” said Signorina Morini, rising from the table. “You have give me much help. The beans, they will be all ready for the dinner.”
“Dinner,” Alexandra repeated.
She found, to her surprise, that she was looking forward to it.
EIGHT
Wallingford’s fist came down on the dining room table, giving the plates a satisfying rattle. “Look here, Burke. Haven’t you heard a word of this?”
Finn looked down and adjusted his plate. “I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve a problem with the battery to sort out, and all this ranting of yours isn’t a bit of help. Penhallow, my good man, may I trouble you for the olives?”
“Eh what?” Lord Roland’s blank face turned in his direction. “Olives, you said?”
“Olives, sir. To your left. Yes, that’s the one. Good chap.”
Wallingford’s fist rattled the table again. “Burke, you insufferable sod . . .”
“Really, Your Grace!” exclaimed Lady Somerton.
“. . . I beg your pardon, Lady Somerton, but the man deserves it. It’s his own miserable hide I’m attempting to protect.” Wallingford reached for his wineglass and tossed down an impressive slug of raw Chianti, though not without shooting Finn a glare that threatened to start his hair on fire.
“My hide is in no danger whatsoever, I assure you,” Finn said.
“His Grace,” said Lady Morley, setting her knife and fork atop her empty plate, “thinks I mean to seduce you, in order to win this silly wager of yours.”
Abigail’s voice broke in from the other end of the table. “But that’s absurd. If you seduced Mr. Burke, successfully I mean, the wager would technically be a draw, wouldn’t it?”
All heads swiveled in Miss Harewood’s direction. She bore the scrutiny with admirable composure, looking from face to face as if searching for a perfectly reasonable answer to her perfectly reasonable question.
“Yes,” said Finn at last, in a grave voice. “Yes, I believe it would.”
Miss Harewood turned to the duke. “You see? You may put your mind entirely at ease on the subject of seduction, Your Grace. No reasonable person would contemplate such a scheme. Two advertisements in the Times! It wouldn’t do.”
Wallingford’s face took on an unholy shade of crimson.
“Dear me, Wallingford,” said Lady Morley. “You really must endeavor to calm your nerves. I fear you will bring on an apoplexy. Have you any medical training, Mr. Burke?”
“Only a few rudiments, I regret to say,” Finn answered, popping an olive into his mouth. “Hardly enough to loosen his cravat.”
“I am happy,” Wallingford said, in icy tones, “to be the source of such endless amusement. But you”—he turned to Finn, and pointed one broad finger at his chest—“and you”—another finger, this time at Lord Roland—“have no idea at all what these women have in contemplation. From the moment of our arrival last month, they’ve been scheming and harassing us, in order to make our lives here so hellish as to drive us away entirely
, and leave them the castle to themselves. Do not, Lady Morley, be so insulting as to deny it.”
Lady Morley shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I should be very happy to see the last of you, Wallingford. I make no attempt to hide the fact.”
Only Wallingford. Finn popped another olive into his mouth. The tart saltiness spread pleasurably over his tongue. Either she was trying to make the duke jealous, for reasons of her own, or else . . . But his mind sheared away from that speculation. If Lady Morley meant to attach any man in the room, it would undoubtedly be the Duke of Wallingford. Anything less would be a comedown from her current social position, and Alexandra, Lady Morley never came down.
Wallingford’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, then, Lady Morley. I should like to propose an amendment to our wager. To increase the stakes, as it were.”
“Oh, good God,” said Finn. “Haven’t you a better use of your time, Wallingford? Reading some of that vast collection in the library, perhaps? It is what we’re here for, after all.”
“He’s welcome to join our literary discussion in the salon,” said Lady Morley. “We should be pleased to hear an additional perspective, although I would suggest bringing an umbrella, in case of inclement weather.”
“No, damn it all! I beg your pardon, Lady Somerton.”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
Wallingford leaned forward and pressed his right forefinger into the yellowed linen tablecloth. “My proposal is this: that the forfeit, in addition to Burke’s excellent suggestion of an advertisement in the Times, should include an immediate removal of the offending party from the castle.” He sat back again, with a look of immense satisfaction.
Lord Roland gave a low whistle. “Hard terms, old man. Are you quite sure? What if it’s us that’s given the old heave-ho?”
“You are, I admit, the weakest link in the chain,” the duke said dryly, “but I believe I may rely upon Lady Somerton’s honor, if nothing else.”
“Really, Your Grace,” whispered Lady Somerton. Her face had lost its color, looking pale and drawn even in the warm glow from the dozen or so candles in their polished brass holders.
Lady Morley replied briskly. “This is beyond absurd, Wallingford, all this talk of conspiracies and whatnot. I assure you, I haven’t the slightest intention of seducing poor Burke, and I daresay he has even less desire to be seduced. This is all about this business of the feathers this morning, isn’t it? You’re trying to have your revenge on us . . .”
“If I’m wrong, Lady Morley, you should have no reason at all to object to the increased stakes.” Wallingford reached for the bottle of Chianti and refilled his glass with great care. “Isn’t that so?”
Lady Morley cast a glance at her cousin, eyebrows furrowed. An expression of inquiry, or was it apology? Finn frowned, idling his thumb around the stem of his wineglass, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“Of course I shouldn’t object,” Lady Morley said at last. “Other than a sense of . . . of the absurdity of it all.”
Finn drew his eyes away from the terrified expression on Lady Somerton’s face and cleared his throat. “Really, Wallingford. It’s hardly necessary. I don’t see any reason why we can’t continue to muddle on as we are. A tuft of goose down, here and there, doesn’t much signify. And I’m fairly confident I can resist Lady Morley’s charms, however determined her attempts on my virtue.” He managed, with enormous self-control, to avoid looking at her reaction.
Wallingford leaned back in his chair and surveyed the table, composure restored, the picture of a self-satisfied English duke. “None of you, then, not one of you has the fortitude to meet my offer? Lady Morley? Your competitive spirit can’t be tempted?”
She shook her head. “You always were an ass, Wallingford,” she said, very softly. She held her full lips in a ghost of a smile, but her eyes were hard and calculating, and Finn had the uncanny impression that she was stalling for time, that she was thinking over a great many things in her mind.
“Why not?”
Finn started and turned in Miss Harewood’s direction. She sat there as ingenuous as ever, her plate clear, her knife and fork crossed correctly atop the white porcelain. She really was a pretty girl, after all. Those delicate bones might be overshadowed by her sister’s striking features, but they held a certain grace, a certain well-balanced symmetry, a certain whimsical charm. Especially now, with her hair drawn back from her face, and the candlelight dancing against her cheekbones: She was like the fairy version of her beautiful sister. “Why not?” She looked Wallingford directly in the eye. “I can’t speak for your side, Your Grace, but we three are simply going about our business, studying and learning just as we intended. If it amuses you to turn this into a game, to raise the stakes, consider the wager accepted.” She shrugged and looked at her sister. “It means nothing to us, after all. Does it, Alex?”
“No. No, of course not,” Lady Morley said. “Very well. We accept your stakes, Wallingford. Though it hardly matters, as your suspicions are entirely wrongheaded. In fact, your head itself seemed to be wrongheaded at the moment, and I suggest you turn away from your wild speculations and put it firmly to work as you intended in the first place. We’re on Aristophanes ourselves, just now, and my dear Abigail has already reviewed it twice in the original Greek. I’m certain she would have some useful insights for you. Perhaps she can assist you with your alphas and omegas.”
By God, she’s a thoroughbred, Finn thought, admiring the elegant angle of her jaw, the long, sinuous column of her neck, the look of defiance in her rich brown eyes. Her hair, like her sister’s, was drawn back from her face, the shining chestnut kept in check by a dozen or more hairpins at the back of her neck. He imagined himself pulling out those hairpins, one by one, until the thick mass tumbled about her shoulders and down her neck. He imagined plunging his hands into those curls, burying his face in them.
His fingers clenched around the wineglass.
“My alphas and omegas are quite in order, I assure you, Lady Morley.” Wallingford sounded deeply pleased with himself. “And now, ladies, if you’ll pardon the unpardonable.” With an elegant flourish, he dabbed his face with his napkin and folded it next to his plate, before rising and tilting his body in a polite bow. “I must excuse myself, and leave you to the far more appealing company of my fellow scholars.”
He left the room in long strides, shutting the door behind him with a decisive sound that echoed about the table.
“Now why do I have the distinct feeling,” Lady Morley murmured, “he’s just played us all for fools?”
* * *
Lady Morley arrived at his workshop at precisely ten o’clock the next morning, just as Finn had stepped outside to relieve himself against an olive tree.
Her voice wafted through the open back door of the cottage. “Mr. Burke! Are you there?” A crash and a clattering noise, and then: “Dear me.”
Hell and damnation. Finn stuffed himself back in his trousers and fumbled with the buttons. “Don’t move!” he shouted, a whole host of possibilities racing through his brain, nearly overwhelming the mixture of dread and anticipation that had preoccupied him all morning at the possibility of her presence.
“I shan’t,” she replied faintly, and an instant later he ducked through the doorway to see her standing motionless next to the automobile on its blocks, wearing the same blue frock as yesterday, only with a dainty white apron tied improbably about her waist. An assortment of wrenches scattered across the floor before her.
He heaved a relieved sigh. She had only turned over a toolbox.
“It’s nothing, Lady Morley. Only a few tools.” He bent down and began picking them up, one by one.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” she said, bending down next to him. “I seem to have a dreadful effect on you. If I weren’t so impossibly selfish, I’d turn around this instant and leave you in peace.” She tossed a wrench back in the toolbox and reached for another just as Finn grasped the handle himself. Her fingers closed a
round his for an instant, lean and firm, sending a jolt of sensation down his arm. “Oh! I . . . your pardon . . .” She snatched her hand back, nearly oversetting herself.
“Not at all.” His knuckles burned. He dropped the last wrench back in the box and straightened next to her. “So you’ve come,” he said, unnecessarily.
“Yes, I’ve come.” Her eyes dropped downward for an instant to the fastening of his trousers.
He felt his face begin to flush. No doubt he’d left a button undone, or a corner of his shirt sticking through some gap in the placket.
Or worse.
He turned hastily to his worktable, where his mechanic’s smock lay slung across the sand-smoothed wood surface, and thrust himself into it, not daring to look downward at whatever it was that had captured Lady Morley’s attention. Phineas Burke, he reminded himself, did not care for such trivialities. Phineas Burke had far weightier, far more substantial, far more consequential things to think about than the correctness, or lack thereof, of his clothing. He tied the strings of his smock with slow deliberation, savoring the sturdy workmanlike strength of the material under his fingers, and gathered to his mind the phrases he had worked out in his mind the night before. Just in case, he’d told himself, she had the temerity to present herself the following day.
“I do hope you understand, Lady Morley, that you’re not in one of your damned salons.” He turned around, smock fastened securely to form a shield of grime against her encroaching femininity. “This is a workshop.”
She cast her eyes modestly to the ground. “I quite understand.”
“Moreover, it’s my workshop. I’ve a great deal of work to do, and I can’t be bothered with appeasing feminine sensibilities.”
“Of course not.”
“My language will be indelicate, from time to time.”
She waved her hand. “Profane at will, I assure you, Mr. Burke.”
“I shall give orders and expect them to be obeyed.”
