Persey assumed he merely tried to use her as an excuse not to dine at the great house. There was, after all, never a very interesting evening's discourse to be found there, and he had suffered at least one dinner in Albert and Minty's company already, so he must be aware of the awfulness. Perhaps he thought that if he said he was invited to the dower house instead, then the subject would be dropped.
"But this is easily enough amended," Hugo exclaimed. "Lady Holbrooke must join us too, of course." He turned to his cousin. "Should she not, Araminta? Surely you planned to invite the dowager in any case."
Clearly Hugo had not received the same lecture from Albert. He must not know of the impending heir to Holbrooke and its health depending on Minty's temper being kept in a warm place free of drafts, untroubled by opposing wills.
Infuriated, Minty could do nothing but boil away quietly for a few breaths and then shrug impolitely. She wanted the fashionable garden designer at her table and now she could not have him without Persey. It was a surprise her skull stayed intact with so much thwarted rage fermenting within.
Thinking in haste to save the situation, Persey said, "Oh, but I am expecting Lady Flora Hartnell and her brother Lord Chelmsworth this evening too. I would not like to cancel their dinner."
But Hugo clapped his hands together and said cheerfully, "Surely they won't mind if you have family obligations this evening. In fact— here is one of my splendid ideas— why not invite them to the great house too? I recall them both as lively company. Particularly the delightful Lady Flora. We'll send a messenger."
His cousin's face was now puce. Not only was she forced to accommodate Persey at dinner, but two further unwanted guests she disliked. And since it was her precious Hugo's suggestion, she could find no excuse to prevent it. Hugo loved society— the more the merrier, as it meant a wider range of pockets he might pick at and ears into which he could spill his sad stories of mistreatment. More guests also meant convenient buffers between himself and his cousin, for although he needed her financial assistance occasionally, he had no particular desire for her company and the longer he was forced to remain in it just to get what he wanted, the more strained his patience and his expressions became.
Yes, she understood Hugo's reasons for expanding the guest list, but as for Radcliffe's purpose, she was confused. When his face turned toward her and he gave her a sly wink, she realized he thought he had done this deed for her— not to save himself from being invited, but to get her invited there too.
Why? Did he think she wanted to suffer a dull evening in Minty's company?
As he passed behind her to retrieve his hat from the grass, he murmured, "That's better."
Which puzzled her even more. What was he up to and what did he want from her?
Her skin shivered with expectation.
Chapter Seventeen
"I wondered, if I might prevail upon you...for a bath." He stood fidgeting in the hall, hat in hand, coat over one arm. "A swim in the lake might suffice in most circumstances," he added, "but dinner at the great house necessitates more thorough—" he coughed, feeling damnably awkward, "ablutions."
Shawcross tilted his head to one side. "Of course, sir. Say no more of it. I'm quite sure the dowager marchioness would have no objection to providing you with the means to perform necessary ablutions."
"That's very good of you. I don't want to make work for anybody."
"Not at all, sir." The obliging butler looked at his shirt and waistcoat. "Perhaps a hasty laundering might also be needed, sir?"
"Surely that would be too much trouble."
"Certainly not, sir. It would offend my eyes to see your freshly cleaned and groomed self put back into tainted garments. It would also somewhat negate the effort of undertaking a bath, would it not?"
He grinned, sheepish. "I suppose it would." Hesitating, he glanced toward the closed door of the parlor. "You're certain she won't mind?"
"Her ladyship is at work in the herb garden, sir, but I will apprise her of it."
* * * *
"A bath?" she exclaimed, poised in the process of gathering rosemary. "Here?" While she had anticipated a few odd requests from this man who claimed to have known her before, this was not the sort of thing she expected.
"The gentleman has nowhere else in which to partake of one, madam. Before dinner."
Persey considered for a moment and then looked up at Shawcross again, one hand holding the brim of her hat. "It has not escaped my notice that while Radcliffe was only 'the gardener' some days ago, he is now, quite suddenly, a 'gentleman'. Apparently you've taken a liking to him."
To which the butler replied, "Master Radcliffe has said thank you to me on several occasions, which is far more than most people do within the entire span of our acquaintance." And then he added a hasty, "Yourself excluded, of course, madam."
She stared.
He cleared his throat. "I thought I might set the bathtub in the buttery, madam. It is Nell's afternoon off and Ruth has taken shoes to the cobbler, although she will return in time to help you dress for dinner. Mistress Lyne won't be in this evening to cook since you are dining out. The gentleman's presence, therefore, should not cause any consternation."
That's what you think, poor, dear, unobtrusive Shawcross, she mused. Nobody could possibly cause more consternation.
"I suppose we had better let him use the bathtub then." There would be other demands no doubt, in exchange for his silence. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.
"Very good, madam. I shall begin warming the water."
As the butler turned to retreat around the corner of the house, Persey called him back.
"Shawcross."
He stopped. "Madam?"
"Thank you," she said. "For all that you do."
His lips twitched, he bowed his head, and then continued on his course inside.
She watched him go and then returned to the herb garden. This was where she often came to work when she had something preying on her mind. The scents were soothing, medicinal. Each herb plant, of course, held special meaning. Rosemary, as Radcliffe had said, was for remembrance. Sage was for wisdom and strength. As a child she'd heard that if one wrote a wish on a sage leaf and slept with it under her pillow for three nights the wish would come true. But she didn't believe in wishes. Meg had always known she'd have to work hard for what she wanted and take fate into her own hands.
At Holbrooke she'd become a little lazy, rather too accustomed to her comfortable life there. Shawcross's remark about being thanked stuck in her mind and vibrated around it, an echo that would not fade.
Did she not say thank you to him often enough? She thought she did. But Persey remembered a time when nobody ever said those words to her either, when she was a servant who should not be seen, heard or even acknowledged; a girl who existed merely to serve; a girl given the material for only one new dress a year, and who was supposed to remain in ignorance for her own good.
Persey cut another bunch of rosemary and paused again, looking at her hands, thinking of how they used to be rough, her fingernails grimy. She might be cleaner now, well spoken and accepted in society with folk who would never have looked at her before, but underneath it all she was still the same Meg of the Long Legs.
And Josias Radcliffe knew it. He knew her. But from where?
After all her hard work to get here and make a new life, if her past came to light she would lose everything. Then who would look after Honoria? And, for that matter, Albert? Although it was nobody's fault but his own that he'd married a harpy, Persey couldn't help feeling sad for her stepson and wanting, in some way, to ameliorate the gloom in which he shrouded himself— helping him as she once did for his father.
What of the school she'd started in the village, of all her efforts for the poor and sick? At least she had done what she could, while she could. It wasn't enough; it never would be. But it was a start.
Today, by the stile, when Radcliffe suggested he'd known her before, she'd felt a moment
of sheer, wretched panic. Although she'd always known somebody from the past might recognize her one day it still took her breath away.
"Don't get your petticoats twisted, your ladyship. I'm not going to tell."
But he was clever enough to use it to his advantage, surely. He feigned innocence and sunshine, but she had thought before that he was too good to be true.
Surely the man had some faults. He must. The habit of blurting out what he felt about her simply didn't count. It was a flaw about which even she could not object.
But now that she was certain he meant to bribe her with the information he had about the past, ironically she felt better. The fear had passed, because Persey knew where she was with a villain. She knew how to proceed, and a new calmness had settled over her.
* * * *
Joss undressed behind the door of the buttery, passing each item out to the waiting hand of Shawcross until finally, naked as the day he was born, he could step into the warm water and submerge with a grateful groan.
He rested his arms on the edge of the copper bath, and then he tipped his head back and sighed. This was the life.
Shouldn't get too accustomed to it or he might turn soft.
"If you have all that you require for now, sir, I shall leave you while I attend to your garments. There is another kettle of water heating by the fire, which I shall bring to you presently, sir."
"Excellent, Master Shawcross. If I had a permanent roof over my head and somewhere to keep you, I'd poach you away from your mistress to work for me."
"Flattering though it is, sir, I would not let her ladyship hear you say that."
"No." He chuckled. "I doubt it would improve her opinion of me. She thinks I'm here to usurp her gardening skills, or for some other underhand purpose. God forbid I also steal her faithful butler away."
"Indeed, sir."
"Although she would approve of me having a home of my own. She's mentioned it so many times lately I wondered if she had property to sell."
"That is a propensity of ladies in general, sir. I find they usually want to put a man somewhere out of the way. They do not like to see them living in the wild, rambling freely."
Joss laughed.
"Should you require anything else, sir, do shout."
"Thank you, Shawcross."
The butler had provided him with a cake of soap and a candle, for there were no windows in the small buttery, where barrels of ale and cider, and bottles of wine were kept. It was quiet, peaceful. He crossed his ankles, heels propped up on the far end of the tub, and considered the woman who called herself Persephone, Dowager Marchioness of Holbrooke. She definitely had long legs under her skirt. He was sure of it now, despite her denial. Of course, he hadn't seen those legs with his own eyes yet. But he would.
That thought heated his bath water another few degrees.
Should have woken her himself the other morning when he called to show her his "plans" and not waited for the butler to do it, he mused wickedly, stretching out his arms and bending them behind his head with another sigh of bliss. He closed his eyes again and imagined how, exactly, he would wake her— where he would begin the task and how he would proceed.
Fairly soon he wouldn't need that extra kettle of heated water at all.
* * * *
At first glance the kitchen was deserted when she entered with her basket of fresh cut herbs, but down a few steps through a low door into the mud room, she could see Shawcross hard at work polishing Radcliffe's boots beside the open back door, through which cheery afternoon birdsong chirped away. Evidently he had already brushed down the other man's buckskin breeches and his tailcoat, for they hung over the back of a wooden chair. A shirt, a pair of stockings and some linen drawers were soaking in a large pot of water and washing soda, beside the fire.
Did the man not have more than one set of unmentionables with him? Or was Shawcross merely being his usual punctilious self?
Radcliffe, who commanded five guineas a day and had no home and no family to support, could surely afford many pairs of drawers.
At the other end of the kitchen, the door to the small buttery was left slightly ajar and faint sounds of splashing, accompanied by a jaunty whistle, floated from within.
As Persey stood at the table to unload her basket and tie the bunches of herbs with string, she listened to the noise he made and thought how long it was since she'd had a man bathing in her house. Other than Shawcross, of course, who, if he bathed— which she supposed he must do occasionally— never did so while she was at home. Did the butler whistle too when he was in the tub? Somehow she could not imagine it.
A man in her bath. A man in her house and her life.
It shouldn't feel quite so strange. After all she had male guests to dine frequently. But that was different.
This man was not like the others. She'd known that from her first glance.
Uh oh. The whistling had stopped.
"Master Shawcross, I'm ready for the hot water now, if you please," he suddenly called out.
Persey looked over toward the mud room where her butler was about to set down his boot-black. When he saw her there, she put a finger to her lips and shook her head. He nodded and got on with his work, while she went to the fire, wrapped a cloth around the kettle handle, and prepared to carry it to the buttery. A last minute idea came to her. She stopped to open the lid and sprinkle some thyme, lavender, and rosemary into the water.
* * * *
The arms extending through the gap in the door frame were definitely not Shawcross's. That much he knew at once. When he saw the soft, light skin of her hands, the identity of his hostess was certain.
"Your ladyship, what will the neighbors think? I hope you aren't spying on me through the crack in the door, trying to get a peek at my manly tackle."
"I manage to resist the temptation, Master Radcliffe. Although, since I'm a widow, I have seen it all before."
"Not mine you haven't," he muttered.
"Is yours so very different?"
"Yes. It's every bit as spectacular as the rest o' me."
He heard the amusement in her voice when she said, "I have news for you, sir, and you may take it or leave it as you wish— but your tackle is not so very special, even if other women flatter you that it is. Women are just as capable of false praise as you men."
"I told you, madam, no other woman has been near my tackle to be acquainted with it. Let alone to praise it."
There was a pause, and he suspected she'd tried to catch him out in a fib. "You still maintain this virginal purity at twenty-eight? I find that challenging to believe. I've seen how women are in your presence."
"I can't help that, can I? I don't do anything to encourage it. Never have. Some women bloody terrify me, truth be told."
"Josias Radcliffe, you are either the biggest fibber alive, or the most unlikely innocent I've ever encountered."
"You can know the answer to that riddle, if you care to find out."
"You've saved yourself all this time for me?"
"That's right."
After another thick pause, she exclaimed, "Here! Take the kettle then. It's heavy, for pity's sake!"
"I can't reach it. You'll have to bring it in. If I get out of the bath, I shall catch cold."
He wondered what she would do next. Call Shawcross to complete the job? Or be bold.
Perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised when she chose the latter. Shoving the door wider with her elbow, she came in, struggling under the kettle's weight.
"Brace yourself," she said with evident amusement, before pouring the hot water into the far end of the tub. A chalky, fresh scent of herbs drifted up to his nose, and he guessed this was not the butler's touch. "Shall I sharpen the razor while I'm here, and attend to that... beard?"
"I appreciate the thought, madam, but I'd rather not end up in one of your stories and buried in the garden. Should the blade slip a notch."
The kettle now empty, she prepared to leave, but stopped in the do
orway. "What did you mean by that's better? Earlier when you trapped the marchioness into inviting unwanted guests to her dinner. I suppose you decided that if you must suffer, so should I?"
He'd got some water in his ear, so he stuck a finger in and wriggled it. "I thought the evening might be more bearable if you came."
No reply and she kept her face turned away.
"I wanted you there," he added, just in case she still tried to misunderstand, "with me." He wanted her with him all the time, even if it was just to look at, but he didn't want to sound like an even bigger fool.
A very small, "Oh," drifted through her lips. "And then what?"
"We'll eat dinner."
"That's all?"
He had no inkling of what she meant. "Life's too short to put up with things I don't enjoy," he shouted after her. "If I have to be polite to your shrew of a daughter-in-law, I should at least have the compensation of sweeter company to make it better. And there is none other at hand. I might as well make use of you."
Now on the other side of the door, which she had left ajar, Persey gasped out a short laugh. "What about Lady Honoria? She is very taken with you. As, I'm sure, you've noticed. Her company should more than make up for Minty's."
"She's too young for me." He sighed, stretching again. "No, I've a hankering for the company of older women. Especially those with a bit more experience and flesh on their bones. Interesting women who've led an adventurous life." He grinned at the candle on a nearby barrel, as he saw the flame shiver and knew she'd exhaled a sharp breath of indignation through the crack in the door. "When you took to mending my hand I realized what I'd been missing. Must be that I'm in need of mothering, since I lost my own ma when I was not much more than a babe."
"Well, I'm not quite old enough to be your mother, but glad to be of service, I'm sure," came the curt reply.
"Why not come in here with me and give my back a good scrubbing? If you can keep your eyes closed, that is. I wouldn't want to tempt you. I know how women of a certain age can be when let loose around a fine male specimen. Like a wolf with a lamb."
The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg Page 20
