A Most Unconventional Courtship

by Louise Allen

  ‘Doctor Pyke will not venture to contradict your diagnosis in such matters.’ Mr Williams took out his pocket book and handed Alessa a list. ‘He asked if you had any of these salves in stock. If not, he would like to order them.’

  Alessa opened the big press and began to lift pots down. ‘All except the lemon balm ointment, which I am potting up today, and the sage wash. I will have some of that ready by the end of the week—it is still infusing. Here, it will all go in this rush bag with his lordship’s clothes. His linen is still in the wash; I will bring it with the rest of the Residency laundry.’

  Further muffled curses heralded Chance’s emergence from behind the screen. He was hopping on one foot, the other unshod, his hand gripping Robert’s shoulder. ‘We can carry you, my lord,’ the footman was protesting. ‘Make a seat with our hands. You’ll not manage the stairs otherwise.’

  ‘I am not drunk and I am not dead,’ Chance retorted grimly. ‘I can manage a flight of stairs.’ The look he shot Alessa was defiant, but she refused to gratify him with feminine flutterings and protestations that he take care, despite the fact that his lips were set in a thin line and he had gone white under his tan. He was a grown man, and he could take the consequences of being too proud to be carried in front of a woman.

  ‘Kyria, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me. I apologise that you have been put to such inconvenience by my actions, and, if in my…confusion, I blundered.’

  Do not go, not until you explain what you meant…The words were so clear in her mind that for one awful moment Alessa thought she had spoken them out loud. ‘There is nothing to apologise for, my lord,’ she said calmly. ‘Xenia, hospitality to strangers, is important to us. You may best repay it by taking care of yourself. And, Roberts…’ the footman turned ‘…be careful with that arm.’

  ‘I will, Kyria.’ The man grinned. ‘But it’s all healed up now.’

  Alessa let them all out on to the landing, but went straight back inside, leaving the door a little ajar, and waited, braced for a crash. None came, but the muttered curses rising up the stairwell added a little to her vocabulary. With a smile she closed the door and went to look out of the window down into the courtyard below. Chance was resting, one hip hitched on the edge of the fountain, apparently engaged in questioning Roberts. The footman, who was wearing a sleeveless waistcoat, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and began to roll up the sleeve, just as Spiro wandered out of the bakery door to see what was going on. Alessa’s eyebrows rose—this was going to be interesting.

  ‘Kyria Alessa’s a wonder with salves,’ Roberts explained in answer to Chance’s enquiry as they had hopped slowly down the stairs. He bared a forearm for inspection. In the bright sunlight the tanned skin was puckered with a pink scar. ‘The cook splashed me with boiling water three weeks ago—and look how she’s got it to heal. Hey, Spiro, you see Kyria Alessa for your back, don’t you?’

  ‘Ne.’ The stocky man nodded politely to Chance, subjecting him to the intense stare he was beginning to expect from the local people. He had seen him somewhere before. ‘She fixes it good now.’ The man rolled a shoulder experimentally, sending flour off his coat like snow. ‘She is a tough one, Alessa. She bangs my back hard where it is all knotted and she rubs in the ointment that stings, and she tells me not to be a baby when I shout. It makes it much better.’Of course—this was Spiro of the thumping bed head.

  Chance regarded his clasped hands thoughtfully. He had managed to put his foot in it comprehensively. Both feet, in fact. Alessa had probably saved his life, she had dressed his wounds with a skill that ought to have told him something, if only he’d stopped to think beyond embarrassment at the knowledge that she had stripped him to do it—and what had he done? Leapt to the worst possible conclusion about her.

  And why did you do that, you bloody fool? he asked himself savagely as the footman and the baker topped each other’s stories of how wonderful the Kyria was. Because you want her, that’s why. The first thing that enters your head when you think of her is sex.

  Mr Williams strode back into the courtyard. ‘The carriage has managed to get through to the next street. Just a few more yards, my lord, if you are rested.’

  ‘Of course, thank you.’ Chance got upright, his hand on Roberts’ shoulder, and looked up. Far above them Alessa was leaning out of the window, framed with scarlet flowers in pots. She was watching them, her weight on her crossed arms. He thought she was smiling. Chance lifted a hand in salute and wondered if he was going to receive a plant pot in return. Instead she lifted a hand in response and he thought he glimpsed a flash of white teeth.

  A forgiving woman then, or perhaps she was just enjoying the sight of his undignified exit from the courtyard and out of her life.

  Chapter Four

  Alessa turned from the window, the smile still playing about her lips. A stubborn man that, but one who was at least ready to admit his faults. Even from her lofty viewpoint she could read the mingled chagrin and regret on his face.

  How could she blame him for the conclusion he had jumped to? And how could she explain that leap of faith, which had led him to deny what common sense told him was the disreputable truth about her?

  She pulled the cauldron well clear of the fire on its hanging bracket and began to lift out the clothes and drop them into the rinsing water. She squeezed and wrung and worked her way down the mass of flimsy feminine items until she found a pair of uncompromisingly male stockings and Chance’s shirt. Her hands stilled on the fine cloth, then, with a shake of her head, she wrung them out vigorously and tossed them in with the rinsing.

  When the whole lot was done and the laundry basket full, she dragged it to the foot of the stepladder that rose to a trap in the ceiling, tied the handles to the dangling rope and began to climb. As she emerged on to the flat roof high above the town she looped the rope around the pulley fixed to the parapet and hauled it up. The basket landed with a wet thump and she dragged it to the washing lines strung across the roof between the chimney stacks and the rickety vine arbour.

  Doing washing was so much better in the summer, when there was hardly any smoke from the chimneys and the sun shone hot, drying and bleaching the white linens and lawns in a fraction of the time they took in the winter, dripping all over the living room.

  Alessa hung out the load, then went down the ladder again for some bread and cheese and a jug of watered wine. She could spare time to rest up here in the shade and eat her luncheon. There was a shirt of Demetri’s with yet another missing button she should be mending and there was her accounts book to check through. The clock chimed, the bells only just above her level up here on the roof. Yes, she could spare an hour, then perhaps she would not feel quite so much on edge.

  The sound of puffing and complaining jerked her out of her reverie. Kate Street emerged on to the roof, red-cheeked from negotiating the steep ladder. ‘Here you are! I met your two little ones on their way home and thought I’d drop in and see what you’d done with your handsome patient.’ The sound of the children drifted up from below. They were squabbling mildly over whose fault it was that there were none of the yeast buns left from yesterday.

  ‘Whatever time is it?’ Alessa jumped to her feet and looked round. ‘It must be past three!’

  ‘Half past,’ Kate confirmed, perching on the edge of the crumbling parapet with blithe unconcern for the drop beneath her. ‘And you’ve been sitting up here daydreaming for how long exactly?’

  ‘I haven’t been daydreaming—I’ve been eating and mending and doing my accounts.’ Alessa followed her friend’s gaze to take in the full mug with the fly floating on the surface, the cheese sweating in the sun, the shirt with the thread and loose button lying on top of it, the closed ledger. What have I been doing? ‘I must have dozed off, I’ve had a busy morning,’ she amended defensively.

  Kate’s lips twitched, but all she said was, ‘His lordship’s been removed, then?’

  ‘Yes. The Residency staff collected him. And he is
a lord, in fact—Lord Blakeney.’

  ‘All the better. You charged him plenty for the trouble, I hope.’

  ‘Certainly not! How could I? One does not charge guests, however unwitting they may be.’

  ‘Honestly, Alessa, sometimes I think you are more Greek than the Greeks.’

  ‘I am Corfiot. What else is there for me to be?’ Affronted, Alessa stalked over to peer down into the room below. ‘Dora, Demetri! Have you had a good day? I will be down in a minute.’

  Two round faces appeared, tipped up to smile at her. ‘Very good,’ Demetri announced. ‘Doctor Theo says my French story was incredible.’ Alessa kept her face straight.

  ‘And your English spelling?’

  ‘Not so incredible,’ the boy admitted.

  ‘And, Dora—are you coming up here?’

  ‘I had a good day too. The nuns have got new kittens. May we go and play?’

  ‘If you like. Take your hats—and stay in the courtyard.’

  The thunder of feet heading for the door was all the answer she got. Kate watched over the parapet. ‘No hats—but then, they are born to it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Alessa agreed absently. Getting either of the children to wear a sunhat was a lost cause. There was so much she should be getting on with—why did she feel at such a loose end?

  ‘So,’ Kate settled herself, ‘tell me all about him.’

  He helped me with the soap, I asked him any number of impertinent questions, he thought I was selling myself, I can’t stop thinking about him, and now I do not know what he thinks about me. And that matters somehow.

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ she responded with shrug. ‘He rested, I worked on all the usual things, Mr Williams came with two footmen. His lordship was too proud to be carried downstairs and had to hop, so he is probably feeling very sore and sorry for himself as a result. But he is Dr Pyke’s problem now—I do not imagine he will be finding his way back here for some arnica lotion for his bruises.’

  By the afternoon of the next day Chance was feeling not the slightest inclination to go anywhere. The Lord High Commissioner had announced that he must be accommodated within the Residency so that his personal physician could attend upon him, and as a result Roberts the footman had assisted him to a comfortable wicker chair in the shaded cloister of the inner courtyard.

  With a footrest, a pile of cushions, a table at his side for journals and refreshments, a walking stick and a bell, Chance allowed himself to sink into unfamiliar indolence. He lazily considered that he probably resembled nothing so much as a valetudinarian colonel taking the spa waters at some resort, but really could not summon the energy to care.

  Doctor Pyke assured him it was simply the after-effects of a blow to the head. Chance thought it more likely to be the reaction to a halt to his travels for the first time in months. His every need was being taken care of, there were no decisions to be made, no unfamiliar cities or uncertain modes of transport to be negotiated, no servants to hire.

  He had set out four months previously, suddenly restless at the realisation that, with the war with France at last over, this was the moment to travel before doing his duty, finding a suitable wife and settling down. Not that he had been leading a life of irresponsibility and excess. Chance was used to hearing himself described by his various fond female relatives as a paragon of domestic virtues, an ideal son and a wonderful brother.

  The praise amused him, but he would have thought less of himself if he led them to believe anything different. A gentleman could manage his private life discreetly, and he had a duty to his womenfolk to care for them. He turned over the closely crossed page of one of the letters that had been awaiting him when he arrived.

  Mr Tarleton is proving ideal, as I knew he would, you having chosen him. Such a tower of strength over every matter small or large! And he has explained the correspondence from the estates and sat with me when Mr Crisp came with those papers about the sale of the pasture…His mother continued with her praises of the secretary he had appointed before he set out on his tour, in addition to the battery of advisors and agents at her beck and call.

  Chance did not expect Lady Blakeney to concern herself with, let alone understand, the business of the estate, nor that she, or his three sisters, should have to trouble themselves with anything beyond their domestic sphere. That was as it should be and he would never have left if he had any doubts about the arrangements.

  I do hope that you are looking after yourself (three times underlined) and wearing wool next to the skin at all times. Also that you are avoiding foreign food—he was not quite sure how she expected him to accomplish that—and the dreadful temptations and lures that one hears these foreign cities place before English travellers. Chance grinned. He could recognise a sharp wherever he met one—and between Paris, Marseilles, Rome and Naples he had met plenty—and he had admired, but resisted, the lures thrown out to him by an exotic assortment of barques of frailty.

  He was well aware that his family regarded him as immune from the dreadful things they heard about in London society: and that too was right and proper. It simply meant that one enjoyed oneself with discretion and without excess; ladies did not have to know about such matters.

  He read to the end, noted that his own letters were reaching home in an order wildly different from that he had sent them in, and lay back, brooding on the news that Lucinda, his middle sister, aged seventeen, was apparently becoming attached to young Lakenheath. His mother found that worrying. Chance, beyond wondering why Lucy inevitably fell in love with unsuitable young men who fancied themselves as poets, was less concerned. It wouldn’t last, not beyond Lucy encountering the formidable Dowager Lady Lakenheath. He decided against offering any advice to his mother on the subject.

  Which left him with nothing to think about but his own affairs, which honesty forced him to acknowledge he had been avoiding doing for twenty-four hours. Specifically Alessa. Not that anyone would consider that she was his affair. Thank goodness. He tried to put some feeling into that pious conclusion and failed. But to his mind she was very much unfinished business, and he was damned if he knew what to do about her.

  She had saved him from the consequences of his own recklessness, looked after him—and in return he had insulted her about as badly as it was possible to insult a lady. But she presented herself not as a lady, but as an herb woman who took in washing. Which meant she should be treated with the courtesy due to all her sex and recompensed financially.

  Chance shifted without thinking, swore at the pain, and forced himself to confront the problem. Alessa was a mystery, and, whoever she was, she was certainly not simply a Corfiot widow running a couple of business ventures to support her children. She was English. Put her into a fashionable gown, suppress her independence of speech and she could pass, very convincingly, in society. However, she had ended up in the back streets of this town, she did not belong here and something ought to be done about it.

  He shifted position again, almost welcoming the warning stab from his ankle as an antidote to the almost equally uncomfortable stab of lust that thinking about Alessa provoked. Lust and liking. The soft pad of footsteps approaching the courtyard came as a timely distraction, then he saw the sway of black skirts in the shade of the arcade opposite the one under which he was sitting, the crisp white of a full-sleeved blouse catching the sunlight, the tall, graceful figure carrying a laden basket. ‘Alessa.’

  He spoke as she vanished through a door without glancing in his direction, and he realised he had pitched his voice as though speaking to himself, as though she was a dream.

  Alessa found the steward without difficulty. As usual at this time of day he was in his cool office facing into the courtyard. ‘Good morning, Kyria Alessa. I have your money here for last month’s laundry. Are the children well?’ He counted out the coins, the familiar muddle of Venetian and French currencies, and handed her his quill with a smile. As always, Alessa made the point of producing a careful squiggle, which could be taken as a signature or a
mark.

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Williams. Shall I leave the salve that Dr Pyke ordered with you?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He helped her unpack the pots from under the piles of ironed laundry. ‘Would you care to leave that washing with me as well?’

  ‘Thank you, but I will take it up to the housekeeper. There are one or two things I would like to draw to her attention.’

  She left him with a smile, hefting the basket that was considerably lighter now the jars had been removed. The household was quiet, only the subdued bustle of servants going about their business disturbing the calm that Sir Thomas insisted upon when he was working in his study. He did not always get it, of course, not when his widowed relative, Lady Trevick, and her two daughters were entertaining.

  They must all be out, she mused. They had probably taken their new guest with them in the landau to show him the sights, and to allow him to admire the Misses Trevick to their best advantage under pretty new sunbonnets. As she rounded one corner of the cloister, making for the stairs to the housekeeper’s room, she was congratulating herself upon taking such a detached, ironic, view of his lordship.

  ‘Alessa.’ It could not be anyone else. Even the one word was distinctive in that pleasant, lazily deep voice that seemed to her fancy to be the same brown as his eyes. She dropped the basket. By some miracle it landed squarely on its base and none of the pristine items fell out.

  Chance was half-sitting, half-leaning, on the low inner wall that separated the shaded cloister walk from the open garden in the centre. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you.’

  ‘My lord.’ He stood up, taking all the weight on his uninjured leg, and she realised he was dressed like the sailors on the English ships that crowded the harbour under the walls of the Paleó Frourio. Only none of the sailors would be dressed in loose cotton trousers and linen shirt of quite such fine cloth and pristine white finish. He was hatless, that intriguing tortoiseshell hair glinting in the sunlight.