by Anne Gracie
Lady Breckenridge arched a brow. “I did not realize Venetians could keep gardens. Surely all that water . . .”
Curses! She’d forgotten about the canals. “Not in the house, no—of course we cannot have gardens around the house, as the English do. But we had gardens and orchards in our”—she groped for a solution to her rash statement—“in our country properties.”
“Properties?”
“Yes,” Damaris said airily, hoping she wouldn’t ask for further details. “Does Breckenridge have orchards?”
When they returned to the house an hour later, Lady Breckenridge handed Damaris over to Freddy with an air of relief, saying, “I have shown Miss Chance the domestic parts of the house and the gardens. She is interested in herbs. And orchards. And”—she shuddered eloquently as she glided away—“bees.”
Freddy watched her go, then whistled softly. “Round one to Miss Chance. My mother looks almost crushed. What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, I promise you,” Damaris said. “On the contrary, she has spent the last two hours squashing my pretensions in the most relentless, elegant fashion.”
“Really?” His eyes danced. “Your pretensions look remarkably unsquashed to me. Quite delightfully perky, in fact.”
Seeing the direction of his gaze she pulled her shawl across her bosom. “Those,” she said with what she hoped was quelling dignity, “are not pretensions.”
“No? Really? What are they, then? Please explain.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at his wicked, mock-schoolboy eagerness. “You, Mr. Monkton-Coombes, are a shocking flirt.”
He gave her a wounded look. “Nonsense! I’m a very good flirt, some would even say excellent, though modesty prevents me from saying so.”
She laughed. “It will serve you right when I jilt you. Nobody will wonder at it at all.”
“They won’t, will they?” He heaved a doleful sigh, but Damaris wasn’t deceived; his eyes still danced, blue as the sun on the sea.
Chapter Fourteen
“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”
—JANE AUSTEN, JANE AUSTEN’S LETTERS
There would be just three for luncheon, the butler informed them while they were waiting for Lord Breckenridge to arrive. Lady Breckenridge had retired to her bedchamber with a severe headache and had ordered her luncheon brought up on a tray.
“Oh, dear, I probably gave her that headache,” Damaris admitted to Freddy after the butler had left. “I feel terrible now.”
“Nonsense. My mother’s headaches are legendary. They come on whenever she fails to get her way. If she were truly ill, she wouldn’t have ordered any luncheon at all, let alone on a tray.”
Lord Breckenridge entered. He gave Damaris a sharp look. “Heard you asked to be shown the gardens, Miss Chance—the kitchen gardens.”
“Yes, my lord; it was very interesting. I have an interest in growing things.”
“Your only job is to grow an heir for Breckenridge,” he grumbled as he seated himself. As the butler served luncheon, the older man eyed Damaris thoughtfully. It was quite rude of him to stare, but she refused to be put out of countenance by him.
“Heard you also found the orchards worth looking at.”
She broke open a bread roll and buttered it. “I did.”
“The beehives too.”
“Yes, I have contemplated keeping bees myself.” She picked up her spoon and started on her soup.
His hairy gray brows snapped together. “Yourself?”
She looked up from her soup in faint surprise at his tone and said coolly, “I have a fondness for honey.” She glanced at the butler. “Please tell the cook this soup is delicious.”
Lord Breckenridge addressed himself to his plate for the rest of the meal, but at the end, he fixed her with a hard gaze once more. “Goin’ for a drive this afternoon. Be pleased if you’d accompany me, Miss Chance.”
The words were couched as a request, but it was an order, Damaris had no doubt. She turned to Freddy. “Did you have plans for us this afternoon, Freddy?”
“Wasn’t asking him. It’s you I want to talk to.”
“You said you wanted to go into the village,” Freddy said at the same time. She’d said no such thing; he was giving her an excuse.
“She can do that anytime, boy,” his father snapped. “Make up your mind, gel, which is it to be?”
She forced her fingers to unclench—the man was so rude. She longed to give him a good set-down, but Freddy was looking tense. False betrothal or not, his protective instincts were strong, she’d learned, and she didn’t want to be the cause of any further tension between him and his parents. Better for him to think his father’s rudeness didn’t bother her at all. Water off a duck’s back, she’d said.
No doubt Lord Breckenridge was going to attempt the same kind of pretension-squashery as his wife had earlier. If that was the case, Damaris thought, bring it on.
“As your father said, Freddy, we can go into the village anytime. Thank you, Lord Breckenridge, I’d be happy to go for a drive with you.”
“Hah!” The older man shot a triumphant look at Freddy. “Gel knows which side her bread is buttered on.”
“Nothing of the sort; it’s just that I was taught to show respect to old people,” she said sweetly, adding, “no matter how little they may deserve it.”
• • •
She ran upstairs to fetch her warm pelisse, hat and gloves. When she came downstairs, buttoning her gloves, Freddy and his father were standing chest to chest, glaring at each other.
As she hurried up, Freddy glanced at her and stepped back, saying something to his father she didn’t catch.
His father snorted and turned to Damaris. “Ready, Miss Chance?”
She glanced at Freddy. His face was set and unreadable but he made no move to dissuade her. “Perfectly,” she said and sailed out the front door.
“Thought I’d show you the estate,” Lord Breckenridge said as the carriage moved off. It was a phaeton, she was glad to see, open to the air but with a hood to shelter them if it rained. After her experience with the yellow bounder, she was a little nervous of riding in stuffy closed carriages. The last thing she wanted was to throw up over her supposed future father-in-law. Though there could be compensations, she reflected.
“What were you and Freddy talking about in the hall just now?” she asked him.
He snorted. “Damned impertinence.”
“Who, you or him?”
He gave her a narrow look. “That’s enough cheek from you, missy. Bad enough my son thinks—” He broke off and glared at her. “I know how to treat a lady, dammit.”
Damaris hid a smile. She was perfectly capable of defending herself against any gibes his father might make, but the thought that Freddy had warned his father off made her feel warm inside.
“And don’t think I’m going to let you tool these beauties about the country,” he said grumpily, indicating the matched bays pulling the phaeton. “I’m not a reckless fool like my son.”
“Your son is neither a fool nor reckless. And if you have brought me here to insult him, you may stop the carriage now and I will get down and walk.” She waited with chin high, ignoring his scrutiny.
After a moment he grunted, so, taking that as acceptance of her terms, she added, “And beautiful as they may be, I have no desire to drive your horses.”
They drove down the main drive and turned left, away from the village, along a narrow lane lined with high hedgerows. They passed a small cottage, where an elderly woman in a mob-cap stood in the front garden, pruning vines. She gazed intently at them and half raised her hand, as if to wave, but Lord Breckenridge took no notice. Damaris smiled at the woman as the phaeton swept past at a fast clip. “Who was that?”
“Eh? Oh, he
r. Nobody.”
“She was clearly somebody.”
He gave her an exasperated look. “Old retainer. Nobody you need notice.”
“Oh, I notice everyone,” she said blithely. She waited for some crushing response, but apart from another grunt, he didn’t say anything for some time.
They drove through endless lanes, and from time to time he’d throw out some comment about whatever it was they were passing. “Potatoes,” he said as they passed a field of some crop drowning under sheets of water. “All this blasted rain we’ve been havin’. Looks set to ruin the harvest.”
Another time he jerked his head at a field full of sheep. “Sheep,” he informed her.
She restrained herself from exclaiming in amazement. While he remained civil, so would she. “For meat or wool?”
He gave her a surprised look. “Wool.”
They drove through a small hamlet and he said, “Tenants’ cottages.” Several children ran out, waving. A woman carrying a basket bobbed a curtsy. A couple of laborers trudging along the lane stood back as they passed and tugged their forelocks to Lord Breckenridge. He ignored them all.
Damaris, not quite knowing what to do, smiled at them anyway.
At a crossroads a broad-shouldered man in a worn leather apron straightened from examining a horse and dipped his head in greeting. Lord Breckenridge gave him a curt nod, saying to Damaris as they passed, “Smith. Good man. Knows his trade.”
Gradually it dawned on her that, unless he’d changed his mind at the last minute—or since she’d threatened to get out and walk—this wasn’t an attempt to squash the unsuitable bride’s pretensions. He really was giving her a tour of the estate. Why, she had no idea, but something inside her unknotted, and she began to relax and enjoy herself.
They came to a muddy field dotted with pigs. Before he could say “pigs” to her, she said, “I used to breed pigs.”
It was only a slight exaggeration; a farmer had given them a piglet once, and Damaris had raised it. She’d wept when it had to be killed but she’d still eaten the meat. Meat was always very scarce at the mission and it was sinful to waste food simply because you’d known it as a friend. Pigs were affectionate and intelligent creatures.
He turned his head to stare at her. “You bred pigs? Good God!” Then, after a pause, he asked, “What kind of pigs?”
“A Chinese breed. They were experimental,” she hastily added.
He grunted and gave her another hard-to-read look. “Experimental Chinese pigs, eh? And do they swim, these Chinese pigs?”
She gave him a blank look. “Swim?”
“Yes, well, they’d need to, because of the canals, wouldn’t they?”
She managed to keep a straight face. ”Er, no, we kept them on an island, where we had the orchards.”
“Extraordinary,” he murmured to himself. “Experimental Chinese swimming pigs . . .”
• • •
“Well, how was he?” Freddy asked her on their return.
“Perfectly civil.” She took off her hat and frowned thoughtfully. “Surprisingly so.”
“Why? What did you talk about?”
“The estate.”
“The estate?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t at all what I expected, but he pointed out the crops he was growing and the apple orchards and sheep. And we talked briefly about pigs.”
“Pigs?”
She giggled. “The pigs were my fault, to be honest. I told him I’d bred pigs—well, I raised a piglet once in China, which is close. I thought for a minute he’d bubbled me when he asked if they swam in the canals, but he seemed to accept my explanation—I said they were kept on an island where we had orchards. He seemed remarkably impressed.”
Freddy groaned. “He would be. It all makes sense now. Blast!”
“What makes sense?” She tilted her head curiously. “Tell me.”
He took her arm and led her toward the stairs. “Those muff—girls they had lined up for me, they’re all very different, but they have one thing in common: They were all raised on an estate like this and have some knowledge of how to run one.”
She nodded, a little puzzled. “Yes, your mother asked me about running a house the first night we arrived, remember?”
“Yes, but you don’t understand. My mother is in charge of the house; my father runs the estate—or, rather, tells the estate manager how to run it.”
“Yes, I assumed that’s how it would be. So what—” She broke off. “Where are we going?” They’d passed the landing of the floor where her bedchamber was.
“Something I want to show you.” He tugged her onward. “The thing is, if my father is talking land management—and pigs!—to you, it probably means he’s starting to approve of you.” He pulled a wry face. “Come to think of it, they probably both do. First you sent my mother upstairs in a sulk—”
“I did no such thing.”
“She called it a headache, but believe me it was a sulk. Which means she didn’t manage to crush you, which is a point in your favor. The future Lady Breckenridge must be able to hold her own with the finest aristocratic bitches in the land. They like it that you stood up to them.”
“Oh.” She digested the implications of that as he led her through a maze of corridors and up a series of increasingly narrow stairs.
She paused on a landing to catch her breath. “So when they’re nasty to me, would you rather I burst into tears instead?” She wasn’t sure she could weep on demand, and it certainly went against the grain to do so, but he was giving her a cottage in exchange for this performance, and he who paid the piper chose the tune.
“Good God, no, I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. I don’t think any young woman has ever managed to get the better of my mother.” He shook his head in amazement. “And not only did you manage to keep my father civil—”
“That was you and your warning off.”
“How did you—”
“I asked him.”
“And he told you?” He laughed. “Well, there you are. And then you discussed crops and pigs with him. Wonders will never cease. Turn here.”
“Where are we going again?” She peered doubtfully up a steep narrow staircase that seemed to lead into a cupboard.
He gave a faint smile. “Wait and see. There’s a key to unlock it—ah, here we are.” He produced a key from the ledge over the narrow doorway, reached past her to unlock the door and waved her on. “Ladies first.”
She had to bend to get through the small door, but she stepped outside into fresh air and gasped with pleasure at the view in front of her. He’d brought her to the small towerlike structure she’d vaguely noticed on top of the house. Surrounding the tower there was a narrow walkway about four feet wide, with a railed barrier for safety. She could see for miles in every direction.
“Seeing as you’ve been driving around the estate all day, thought you might enjoy the bird’s-eye view. Besides, with any luck we’ll get a sunset. You do like sunsets, don’t you?”
“I do indeed,” she said softly, touched by his thoughtfulness.
He nodded. “Thought so. Women usually like such things.”
Unreasonably annoyed at being part of “usual women,” she moved to the edge of the walkway and looked out.
She could see the kitchen gardens, the apple orchards and the beehives she’d visited in the morning. On a rise was the copse of winter-bare silver birches she’d noticed on her drive, and surrounding the estate was a patchwork stretch of small farms and cottages. She spotted the cottage where the old woman had smiled at her. “Who lives there?”
“Our old nurse, Nanny McBride. Why?”
“Oh, we passed her today, that’s all. She was in her garden, pruning. I thought she looked nice.”
“She likes her garden,” he said indifferently.
“Can I mee
t her?”
“Nanny McBride? Whatever for? She’s very old.”
“She seemed quite vigorous to me, certainly not too old for visitors.”
“I’ve already dropped in on her. Did it while you were off with my father.” With one booted foot he stirred a small pile of rubbish in a corner, bits of wood, an old bucket, a length of rotted rope.
“You’ve visited her? Already?” He must care for his old nanny to have visited her so soon.
“Only out of duty.” He sounded uninterested, but she wasn’t convinced.
He leaned forward, frowning, then smiled, and from the pile in the corner, produced a small, weathered-looking wooden sword, the handle of which had once been painted red. “So that’s where it got to. He must have hidden it.” He turned the small sword over in his hands and made a couple of pretend passes with it. “My brother, George, and I used to play up here every chance we could. Pirates and buccaneers, mainly, but sometimes we’d be soldiers trying to take the fort or the castle, depending what it was. That end was always George’s and this end was mine.”
It was a dangerous place for small boys to play in. His brother had died when he was a boy. That barrier would be easy to climb. Without thinking, she blurted out, “Did your brother fall? Is that how he died?”
“No.” He turned abruptly and walked away, disappearing around the other side of the tower.
Damaris bit her lip, silently cursing herself for her tactlessness. She gripped the rail hard and stared out at the horizon. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to talk about his brother, and it was, after all, none of her business. It wasn’t as if she were really his betrothed. Should she go after him and apologize? Or should she just let it slide?
To the south, not far from the house, lay a lake, wind-whipped and gray, lined on one side with dark pines. Nearby was a small stone chapel, and beside it, a scattering of headstones. The family cemetery. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked, coming up behind her. Close behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body all down her back.
