The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

by Jayne Fresina

  "As you see I am far from a spent force. Do not think to render me a negligible one either, sir," she'd said.

  He felt a little disappointed that she hadn't given him any further trouble yet. She spied behind hedges, but apart from that she kept out of his way. Fearing he might try to kiss her again perhaps, he mused.

  The idea had occurred to him. Especially today, by the lake— the first time he'd had a clear view of her since their tour through the labyrinth— and when he saw that small scar on her cheek.

  And he knew she'd thought of him kissing her too, but she didn't know what to make of him or of the lightning they felt between them. That must be the reason why she hid herself away from him. Shrank from his touch.

  He chuckled at his own foolishness. Since when had he brooded because a woman didn't make a pest of herself? Unlike the others she was in no haste to confide in him or put her hands upon him. Just his luck— a woman he actually found interesting and she couldn't wait for him to be gone.

  Well, Josias Radcliffe wasn't going anywhere for some months, so she may as well get used to the idea and whatever this was that had happened to them. He couldn't ignore it, so neither would she.

  Somehow he'd flush her out of the bushes to face him. He must, because he began to feel like a villain, skulking in trees to watch her like this.

  * * * *

  Persey was wrenched out of a deep sleep the next morning by the sound of banging on her front door, followed by the bell ringing. Then more banging, in case the first had not been heard.

  She never liked to be roused in a raucous fashion— it was a wretched reminder of her early days in service— but today it was especially painful. Her head already ached intolerably, her tongue felt like a dried out walnut shell, and her eyelids lifted with supreme reluctance to greet the bright spear of sunlight through her bedchamber curtains.

  She had no idea of the time; a ticking clock always kept her from falling asleep, so she never had one in her room. Shawcross or one of the maids served instead as her reliable reminder to get up, usually tapping gently at her door around nine in the morning and bringing coffee as a peace offering. This was definitely before nine, however; she could tell from the angle of the sun. Groping for another pillow, she held it down over her head and ears, hoping to block out all sound and light.

  But it was futile. Once awake she could never go back to sleep.

  When it became evident that the ill-mannered soul at the front door would not go away, somebody below must have let them in. She heard low voices and then the creak of steps on the stairs.

  A moment later, Shawcross's solemn tones through the bedchamber door advised her of a visitor. In case she had not heard.

  Croakily she demanded to know who it was, to which her butler replied, "The gardener, madam. He says it's most urgent. Otherwise I would not have awoken you so early."

  The gardener. He said the words as if striking a death knell.

  She sat up, gripping her pillow with both arms, as if it were a neck to throttle. "What does he want, blast him?"

  "The gardener will speak only with you, madam. He insists."

  Perhaps it was all just a champagne-induced nightmare and Radcliffe didn't exist. Could it be some other gardener? Some harmless soul with crooked legs and scant teeth? "I take it you refer to that damnable Master What's-his-name. Radcliffe, is it?" she ventured.

  "I'm afraid so, madam. Most regrettably."

  So much for that hope. Falling with her face to the pillow, she groaned out a muffled, "What the devil time is it?"

  "Not yet seven, madam."

  Persey thought about making the gardener wait, but she was too irritated now to lie there peacefully, and the idea of him sitting in her parlor, poking his nose into her possessions would not help her temper. He had come so early that she could not even pretend to be out. So she sent for Ruth, her maid, and dressed in her plainest, oldest, least handsome day gown, determined not to make any effort. She wore her hair tied back in a simple red ribbon, which just happened to be the first one her fingers fumbled upon while her eyes were still half closed. The maid could only find one of her little pearl earrings and Persey was too cross to bother looking for another pair.

  Suddenly she heard him whistling a merry and immensely irritating jig. She completely forgot about the single earring dangling from her left ear and, grabbing the slippers from Ruth's hands, told her to stop fussing. Kitty Waddenhoe would be appalled at the disregard for her appearance, but even that redoubtable lady would find herself hard pressed to perform in full armor at such an uncivilized hour.

  "It's only the gardener," she told the maid, reassuring herself out loud. "I'm sure we needn't mind what we look like for him."

  And the gardener had better have a very good reason for waking her at this hour, because she'd just been enjoying a very lovely, extremely detailed dream.

  All about him.

  * * * *

  The butler had let him in and shown him into a small, pleasant parlor— the same room into which he could see from his perch in the oak tree.

  "Do mind your head, sir," the butler advised solemnly, just in the nick of time, for the rugged beams were low, the stone floor slightly uneven.

  "Thank you." He grinned ruefully and rubbed the top of his head. "I do need to keep my wits about me. Can't afford to lose the few I've got."

  The butler's eyes narrowed. "Indeed, sir."

  It was not a large house, but charming, everything crooked and comfortably worn with age. He had noticed a small farmyard with a goat, pigs and hens behind the house. There was also a neatly laid out vegetable garden, a few bee hives and, on the south-facing side of the building, under her parlor windows, a pretty herb patch. The mistress of the house apparently liked to be as self-sufficient as possible. He had heard from Lady Honoria that she kept only two maids, a butler, and a cook. The latter lived in the village and came up to the house when her ladyship expected guests.

  "Mama is an excellent hostess," the young lady had told him. "She likes the best of everything and says a woman should never settle for less. Minty says she's spoiled."

  In her parlor, the furnishings were light and cheerful, very different to the interiors of the great house, where everything was formal, with dark wainscoting and an excess of burgundy damask. Here, a joyful battalion of flowers invaded everything— from the paintings on the wall, to the rug and the fabric of the couch and chairs. It was a profusion of color and light, a bold combination that few would dare throw together. Sunlight swept in through the two leaded windows, casting a pattern of flaxen tiles across the rug at his feet and occasionally, when a breeze ruffled the ivy that grew up the cottage walls, darker blobs of shadow danced around those golden squares.

  As the minutes passed and she still had not appeared, he wandered around the parlor, looking further. Shakespeare resided on the bookshelf, beside many other poets. All pristine as if seldom opened. But they looked impressive and he supposed that was the point. A bible and a small stack of paper waited on the writing desk, beside an ink pot and a wax seal stamp bearing the Holbrooke crest.

  The candles around the room were all well burned down. Graceful wax droplets hung from the brass holders, like tears poised in time, and the crisply blackened wicks still held a lingering scent of last night's smoke. On a low table, surrounded by comfortable chairs, a hand of playing cards lay scattered as they were abandoned last night, thrown down in victory by the winner. A number of embroidered cushions were likewise tossed about, some on the floor. Yesterday evening's card party was definitely a relaxed affair, and a merry one.

  Everything in that room was about leisurely coziness, comfort and indulgence: the chairs were well-stuffed, not the usual stiff, hard little things that discouraged anybody from sitting too long, but wide and deep and seductive. Prettily embroidered throws, some velvet with lavish fringes lay about the backs of those chairs, ready to further cosset the occupant if they felt a chill. The rug underfoot was thick and soft, a gr
eat luxury and one completely wasted unless it was ever walked upon by bare feet. On the mantle, two lidded, cut-glass dishes held sugared nuts and fruits, and little marzipan confectionaries.

  Joss retrieved a cushion from the floor and held it close to breathe in her fragrance. Peonies. He set it down on a chair, only to pick it up and take another deep and greedy draught, just before he heard the rather annoyed and graceless clatter of her steps descending the stairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  When she entered her parlor, he stood at the window, his back to the door, a roll of paper tucked under one arm, apparently studying the view so thoroughly that he didn't hear her come in until she cleared her throat.

  "Master Radcliffe. To what tragedy do I owe such an early morning visit? Is there a conflagration somewhere that requires evacuation of the estate?"

  He spun around, beaming stupidly. "Early?" he exclaimed with the sort of boundless and merry energy that made her want to take out his eyes with a daisy grubber. "Gracious, madam, I have been up two hours at least."

  She sniffed, tilting slightly in the doorway, her head pounding. "Is that any reason for the rest of us to be dragged out of our beds?"

  "It's such a beautiful day outside, that I couldn't imagine anybody would want to lay abed all morning and miss the bounty of nature on full display. It would surely be selfish of me to keep it all to myself. So I decided I ought to share it."

  He made it sound as if he did her a good deed, she mused. Like a child, waking her to play with him because the sun was out, tugging impatiently on her hand— or in this case, her bell— until she stumbled out of bed to see what he was up to. Wanting to show her something pretty that he'd found.

  A shawl hung over the nearest chair and carefully, without moving her head, she reached for it. The room felt cold this morning, for there was no fire lit. Of course, Shawcross could not have expected her to be up for hours yet.

  "As I told you before, madam, I keep my promises."

  She squinted. "Promises?"

  "We made a bargain when you showed me the way to the secret garden. Have you forgotten?" His gaze danced over her in evident amusement as she carefully eased the shawl around her shoulders and hugged the ends across her bosom. "You kept to your side of it, however reluctantly. Now it's only right that I keep to mine."

  He meant the kiss, of course, she realized belatedly, thankful that he didn't mention it directly.

  "If I show you the plans now it should save you from having to flirt with me again," he added in a low voice. "I'm sure that was a great indignity you suffered."

  Huddled under her shawl she eyed him skeptically. "Does my stepson know you're here?"

  "The marquess? No." Again a boyish grin accompanied his bouncing steps to the low table, where he unrolled his paper, covering the scattered playing cards from yesterday. "If you don't tell him, I won't."

  She was still trying to get her thoughts in order— a near impossible task without a dose of her headache powders. Oh, why did he have to make so much noise? Children did, of course. It was a well-known fact that they could never be quiet. The unraveling paper scraped across her mind like scavengers' claws.

  He glanced back over his wide shoulder. "Is something the matter? You seem...out of sorts, madam?"

  Clutching her shawl, she warily approached the table. "There is nothing the matter with me. It is simply very early." And you're very irreverent, as you were when you touched me yesterday. But he was altogether too excited to show off his designs, and she, with that awful streak of tenderness that Kitty Waddenhoe had always warned would be her undoing, could not bring herself to reprimand him again.

  "Is it early? Not for me, madam. You must waste a lot of your time in bed." And then he looked away rather quickly. "Or perhaps you were late going to your bed."

  It was none of his business when she went to bed and how long she stayed in it— indeed it was most improper of him even to mention it— but at that moment, Shawcross arrived with the coffee pot on a tray, which he set down upon a small butler's table in front of the hearth. "Should I have Nell light the fire, madam? It feels a trifle crisp in here."

  She had begun to nod before she remembered her head. "Yes, please do," she managed, hoarse. The butler went to find the housemaid, leaving herself and her early guest alone in the parlor again.

  Radcliffe found a candelabra to hold down one corner of his plan and then gestured her over. This morning he wore a coat so she was not forced to admire his bared forearms, but that did not erase the memory. Especially when she stood closer to the table, and to him. These were the shoulders and arms that had yesterday pulled her rowboat to freedom.

  She eyed the gardener warily. "Master Radcliffe, my daughter-in-law would not be at all pleased about this."

  He gave her a grin as broad as his shoulders. "But I thought I'd save you the trouble of finding some other underhand way of viewing the plans." Was he talking louder than usual? He laughed and clapped his hands together, making her wince. "Such as hiding behind privet hedges and rhododendron bushes. Creeping about in the herbaceous border, peeping through the ferns."

  "I wouldn't— I have never—"

  "So here I am to show you my plans and then you'll know. I should like to hear your opinion, as Lady Honoria assures me you have excellent taste."

  "I have been advised to stay away from these improvements, and you have been warned to make sure that I do."

  "But since that kiss—"

  "I must insist, sir, that you never refer to that mistake again." She glanced nervously toward the open door. "A mistake we both made."

  "Since then," he went on as if she never spoke, "I have seen the desperate lengths to which you would go to spy upon me. Yesterday, sabotaging a boat ride, just to see what I was up to, gain my attention and take me away from my work, for instance."

  "That was an accident entirely and naught to do with you."

  "You knew I was at work by the lake, did you not?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And rather than stay away, you took your friends boating. A coincidence? I think not."

  "It was not my idea. I'm sure you're aware of a certain fascination you seem to hold for ladies."

  "I am?" He frowned. "I do?"

  "My friend, determined to set eyes upon the infamous Master Radcliffe, dragged me along against my will."

  "I find it challenging to believe you do anything against your will, madam."

  "For my dear friends, I will suffer any discomfort."

  His shoulders lifted in a careless shrug, but she took note of his skeptical smirk.

  Persey hugged her shawl tighter. "I have the impression, sir, that you think the mischief in the labyrinth was planned by me and therefore solely my fault."

  "You mean, when you played the part of a tempting housemaid, just to tease secrets from an unsuspecting fellow? Is that the mischief to which you refer?"

  "A mischief in which we were both complicit. You lied about your own identity."

  "I didn't lie. I simply neglected certain details. My name is Joss, and I do work in gardens."

  "In that case, I did not lie either. I work in gardens too."

  He paused, head on one side, brow slightly quizzical. Then he said, "I, however, was honest in my interest and my intentions. While I thought only of kissing you, madam, you secretly mocked me, taking me for an ignorant fool, one from whom you might pry information. You meant to use me and leave me utterly discombobulated." It all came out of him in a rush as if, stored up in a bulging barrel, it suddenly broke open under the strain.

  "I don't know what that means." She didn't know what anything meant at that moment. It was too early for sensible thought and looking at him tended to make her even more confused.

  "I think you know very well what it means," he muttered, staring down at his plans. "But I am trying to forgive you and put it out of my mind. Like any good servant should. After all, why else are we poor, unwashed folks here, except to provide sport for the aris
tocracy?"

  "Kindly don't pretend to be humble, Radcliffe. It doesn't suit you."

  "How do you know what suits me?"

  "You're a young man with the world at his feet. Everybody wants you, according to my daughter-in-law, my stepdaughter and my best friend. The only humble servant inside you is one you use to fool the ladies. And I'm quite sure that unassuming fellow is well away by the time you tumble those unsuspecting girls in the nearest hayloft."

  Again he looked at Persey in that curious way, as if he chewed something over in his mind.

  "What is it now?" she demanded, clutching her shawl, suddenly afraid she might have forgotten to dress and actually be naked under it.

  "You wear only one earring today, madam. Is it a new fashion?"

  Relieved, she put her chin up. "At my age I'm sure I can wear whatever I want. I do not follow fashion for the sake of it, unlike some people on this estate."

  "Yes." He smiled slowly, looking her old grey gown up and down, finally coming to a halt at her feet. "So I see. Lady Honoria was right and you do have a unique sense of ...flair."

  It was only now that Persey realized she wore slippers on her feet from two different pairs.

  He held his lips tight, as if to smother a chuckle and turned his gaze back to the table.

  "I'd rather be a leader than a follower," she exclaimed, remembering what Francis had said yesterday. Dear, sweet, well-meaning and very proper Francis, who was most likely still tucked up in bed at this hour and would be woken civilly by a soft-voiced valet shortly before noon. Francis who never had to do anything for himself, unless he really wanted to. Francis who complained of blisters from a quarter hour of leisurely rowing, in leather gloves.

  "Well, here they are." Radcliffe gestured to the plans he'd unrolled. "Payment for the kiss which must not be mentioned and shall henceforth be expunged from our minds. Here lie all my secrets to save you any further spying. I am eager to hear your opinion, madam."

  Finally she edged closer and looked down at the drawing. It took a moment— a long moment— for her sleepy eyes to adjust and make sense of what she saw.