The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

by Jayne Fresina

  "Since you are currently naked and submerged in water, sir, it might be a good idea to remember your manners. You do, after all, want your clothes back."

  "I suppose you'd prefer to keep me like this, wouldn't you, woman? Naked and at your mercy. Is that not the perfect man?"

  "Not quite perfection, Master Radcliffe. You're still talking."

  The flame ducked and quivered again. Finally he heard her steps retreating. Afraid he might laugh out loud and not certain she meant it as a joke, Joss held his breath and slid quickly under the water.

  * * * *

  She decided to rinse out his soaking garments herself, wring them through the mangle and set them to dry before the fire. Why leave Shawcross to do all that when he had duties enough? It was years since she'd done this, and she wouldn't like to think she'd lost her skills and become lazy.

  Besides, then she had an excuse to touch his shirt, stockings and unmentionables.

  In truth, it felt good to do things for a man again.

  Although he made a jest of finding use for her, he didn't need her. Not really. Not the way the other men in Persey's life had needed her. The things she could do for Josias Radcliffe were few and far between, for he was a successful, clever young man with an independent, wayfaring streak. He was not like Pye, who needed her to keep him upright, to mix headache powders and stomach soothers; to put his pieces together every so often after a bad night at the tables or the races. Nor was he lonely and sad, like the marquess, to whose life she'd brought good company, merriment and sunlight. He most certainly was not sick and in need of nursing.

  There were, however, a few... things she might do for him. They would be as much for herself as for him she thought, chagrinned, feeling her hot cheek with one palm.

  It occurred to her that there was another reason why he'd made certain she was invited to dine at the great house. He didn't want her running away, did he? And she might have. If she wasn't so tired of traveling and so fond of Holbrooke.

  As the man in the bath resumed whistling, Shawcross came out of the mudroom with a pair of boots so brightly gleaming that they might have been new.

  "Madam," he exclaimed when saw she had completed the washing and wringing of Radcliffe's garments, "even...," he lowered his voice to a somber rumble, "the gentleman's small clothes with your own hands?"

  "Yes, Shawcross. I managed and survived the indignity, as you see." For a finishing touch, she took a bottle of her own distilled bergamot and citrus perfume and flicked it across his drying shirt. "Not that I have the slightest idea why we're going to all this trouble for Cinderella in there," she added.

  "Do you not, madam?" the butler inquired with a bemused curve of one eyebrow.

  * * * *

  Wrapped in a woolen blanket, he padded across the kitchento find his clothes hanging to dry before the fire, and Shawcross carefully ironing his shirt and stock. A soft drift of fragrance swept up to his nostrils.

  "Master Shawcross, do I strike you as a man who might wear a perfumed shirt?" he demanded.

  The butler gave a neat cough into his curled fist."Indeed not, sir. Alas, her ladyship took it upon herself to complete the laundering of your articles with her own hands. She would not be stopped." With a grave look, he added, "As you may have observed, her ladyship prefers things done her way or else they had better not be attempted."

  "I certainly have observed it."

  Perhaps he ought to complain and tell her not to touch his things, the way she'd told him not to put his hands on her. If he was the peevish sort who held grudges, he might have said that. Fortunately for her he was not. Or at least, he never had been before. Several things had changed about him recently, matters that had never bothered him before, suddenly became more important to him. Such as his appearance and his manners.

  As the butler completed ironing and helped him dress, Joss took the opportunity to find out more about that curiously fascinating woman who couldn't seem to decide what she wanted to do to him.

  "Have you worked long in her employment, Master Shawcross?"

  "I came to Holbrooke thirty years ago, sir, when I was a young man. I worked first as a footman, but rose up to become butler for the previous marquess. When he died, two years ago, I suffered a slight...discord... with the new marchioness, and so the dowager asked me to manage the staff for her here at the lodge." The butler hesitated a moment and then continued, "I am afraid, this simple act of kindness on the dowager's behalf has only served to increase the animosity between the two ladies. I believe the new marchioness would rather have me gone from the estate altogether, so when the dowager took me in here, it was seen as another form of rebellion against the new regime at Holbrooke."

  "Why? What was your transgression? Did you steal her pearls, drink all the port and seduce her maids?" he teased.

  "No, sir." Shawcross remained somber. "I had enquired into the possibility of taking a fortnight away from my duties to spend the period with my mother, who was unwell. At that time, Lady Holbrooke the younger had just ascended to the title of marchioness, upon the death of my previous master, and she took my request for time away from the estate as some sort of protest against her. She is a lady who suffers from a rather nervous, fraught disposition, brought about, I suspect, by a lack of confidence in her own self, which she ascribes to the perspective of those around her, even when— dare I say— nobody is actually thinking much about her at all. Let alone seeking to undermine her in any way." He sighed. "It was the dowager marchioness who stepped in and said I must be granted the leave the go and be assured of my keeping my post when I returned. The new marchioness objected strongly, not only to my going, but to what she saw as her mother-in-law's interference and disregard for the order of precedence."

  "And what of the new marquess? Did he have no say in the matter?"

  Shawcross looked as if his collar might be too tight. "The current marquess is...somewhat stymied by the wife he chose. While anxious to keep her fragile temper from straying into territory that disturbs his own peace, his lordship tends rather to chose a state of deafness and ignorance when it comes to her actions. I have heard that this is not an uncommon occurrence in certain married couples."

  "But the dowager gave you a place here instead."

  "Indeed. A circumstance for which I am extremely grateful."

  "You find your mistress a fair employer?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. Her ladyship has been very good to me, ever since she came here when she and the previous marquess were married."

  "Some time ago was it?"

  "Eight years this summer. My lord had been melancholy for some time before that, suffering a sickness of great depression, unwilling to host visitors or go anywhere very far. Only occasionally a trip to his solicitors in London, or to show his face in society. He took no enjoyment in anything. In my opinion, my lord was wasting away, aging before his time. The house was very grim back then, Master Radcliffe, a place quite devoid of joy. And then, quite suddenly— thank goodness— he found his new wife, Lady Pye, as she was titled before the marriage. What a change she wrought, with her laughter and tenderness!"

  The butler held out his waistcoat and Joss, unaccustomed to being dressed by a servant, awkwardly slid both arms into it.

  "When my mother was ill, her ladyship was very kind, bringing medicines to the cottage and sitting with her for hours at a time, reading her books and telling her stories. She allowed me to take that leave of absence, of course, and she attended my mother's funeral. I believe she has been a far better and more understanding mistress than most. Nothing and nobody is too far beneath her care and notice."

  Next came the tailcoat. That too was held out for his arms, and once Joss had shrugged his way into it, Shawcross took a small brush and swept it once again across his shoulders.

  "You said recently, sir, that she is lucky to have me, but in truth, I am fortunate to have her ladyship. We all are, here at Holbrooke. I do not believe you would hear a word uttered against her in the vill
age. She is much loved."

  Joss was tempted to imagine she hid behind the door to hear this, having paid the butler a little extra to give her a glowing recommendation. But no, all this seemed to fall quite naturally from Shawcross's lips and a genuine dampness shone in the old man's eyes as he gave Josias's clothing a final inspection.

  And he'd heard much about her good works when he visited the village tavern. Meg of the Long Legs had come a long way since her days in Twytchel-on-the-Nene.

  "There. Cinderella is ready for the ball," said Shawcross, with a quietly satisfied smile.

  Joss frowned. "Cinderella?"

  "That is what her ladyship referred to you as, sir." Shawcross clutched his brush in both hands and said proudly, "She likes her little jests. But I daresay she has plans to match you with Lady Honoria. I have heard her say that the young lady's marital prospects and future happiness are her main purpose these days."

  So that was the reason for her attention to his laundry, he thought, chagrinned. Might have known she didn't do it for him. Or for herself.

  "That is, of course, the purpose of her gentlemen guests in the evening too," Shawcross added. "The gentlemen entertained here by the dowager marchioness are meant for Lady Honoria's consideration. Her ladyship attempts to find her stepdaughter a suitable match, as it was the last wish of the previous marquess that she look after Honoria. I do not think her ladyship entirely agrees with the efforts of the current marquess— noble and well-intentioned though they might be."

  This information had the effect of a cooling cloth on the back of his neck. Joss had not fully realized, until then, how jealous he'd felt about all those gentlemen visitors. A woman had never affected him quite the way she did, so suddenly and deeply. It was like walking into a lake that he thought was shallow, only to find the bottom abruptly dropped away beneath his feet. He was still feeling his way through the dark water.

  "I see. I had assumed she was looking for another husband herself. Or a lover."

  "Oh, indeed no, sir. She has considered the purchase of a lapdog or a little spinster. Although I'm not certain either could maintain pace with her ladyship."

  Trying not to laugh, he put his chin up while Shawcross tied his stock.

  Planned to truss him up with herbs like a joint of beef and present him at dinner to her stepdaughter, did she? Well, they'd see about that. The dowager marchioness would find him just as stubborn as herself, just as determined to get his own way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Persey emerged from the house and into the first breath of evening dusk, he leaned by the gate in his freshly cleaned attire, tossing his hat up in the air to catch it. He had waited for her patiently, humming to himself.

  "Master Radcliffe, you look...tidier."

  "I'm not completely a lost cause then."

  "I never consider anybody a lost cause. Well, almost nobody."

  He looked at her, his head tilted. "Still don't remember me, do you?"

  "Radcliffe, I'm sure you're mistaken. Where could we have met? You are too young."

  Eyes narrowed, he muttered, "Like I said, I'll leave you to think about it. And I'll try not to be insulted that you don't remember me."

  "I suppose this amuses you, to make me wonder? A riddle of sorts?"

  "Yes. You are a riddle of sorts."

  A cheery shout caused them both to look over as a very smart, open landau appeared through the main gates of the estate.

  "Aha. Lady Flora and her brother are very prompt."

  He looked slightly irritated. "I thought you and I would walk to the house alone. We have much to discuss."

  "We wouldn't be there for the first course if we walked. Besides, you are so clean and polished, it seems a pity to let you get untidy again before dinner."

  So he seemed to put his disappointment aside with a shrug and opened the gate for her.

  "Not leaping the gate or the wall this evening then, Master Radcliffe?" she asked wryly.

  "I'm on my best behavior. For you, your ladyship." As he took her in slowly from head to toe, his eyes glittered with ideas he should not have and which Persey should pretend never to see. It did not bode well for the evening that they both failed in these simple tasks. And when she took his arm, she felt as if she accepted much more than that.

  "That is a very becoming frock," he said, his voice low, causing a quick shiver under her bodice. Another thing she tried to ignore and failed.

  "Thank you." It was one of her newer gowns, blue and silver sarcenet with white tiffany muslin for the lower half of her sleeves and the removable fichu. Having never been fond of large panniers under her skirt, Persey favored a less ostentatious shape with only a small bustle in the rear— a fashion choice that always received a superior sneer from Minty. Which is perhaps why Persey stayed with the plainer design so faithfully, as she would be the first to admit.

  None of that mattered now. If this man standing in front of her meant to expose her as a fraud, she might as well be dressed in one of her old torn frocks, sewn by her own hands from Mistress Cosgrove's left-over scraps of material. She was an accomplice to theft and a murderess. Nobody would care what she wore on the gallows.

  She cleared her throat. "I trust Shawcross found you everything you needed for your toilette?"

  "He couldn't find anybody willing to scrub my back and tend my worst aches. The rather surly wench who brought me hot water absolutely refused to oblige me."

  "Best behavior, Master Radcliffe?" She shot him a dubious look.

  He laughed. "Within reason." Then, serious suddenly, he turned his head to look at her. "If anybody could make me misbehave against all good intentions...but you know that already."

  She felt short of breath, too warm under her gown. It was as if the bright sun was out again, as it had been the day they met, and she perspired helplessly.

  "We must not talk of that though," he added. "Now, I'm all shiny and scrubbed clean. My mind ought to be the same, eh?"

  "Yes, pity we can't fit a brush through your ear."

  "It will only come out t'other side." He grinned and once again she felt as if he'd touched her with warm hands, like the caress of sunlight.

  She just wished he would say what he really wanted from her and have done with it.

  But the landau had arrived. Francis quickly leapt down to give Persey a hand into the carriage, and she took a seat beside Flora. Josias sat with Francis on the opposite side of the vessel, his back to the horses.

  Somewhat apologetically he muttered that he would have walked to dinner, but that the dowager marchioness didn't want him to get dirty.

  Flora laughed. "We certainly have plenty of room, Master Radcliffe, and I would not dream of leaving you to walk while we ride." She slipped her arm under Persey's. "Here we can all be cozy together, can't we?"

  "How was your great-aunt, Lord Chelmsworth?" Persey inquired, anxious to find another subject. "Well, I hope."

  "She was in good health, Lady Holbrooke, although her spirits have declined in recent years."

  "There is nothing amiss with her spirits," Flora muttered. "They are what they always were— mean and domineering. As sharp and merciless as her teeth. She wants my brother married and cannot understand why he is thirty-two and a bachelor."

  Francis scowled at his sister across the carriage. "She also wonders why you have not settled down again, Flora."

  "Good lord, can't a woman enjoy her freedom a while? I already took one husband, at her insistence, and that was more than I wanted. She cannot even be satisfied with that."

  "You've enjoyed your 'freedom' for ten years, and our great-aunt is concerned about your reputation."

  "She's concerned that I might become resistant to having another leash and collar about my throat."

  "You cannot run about like a stray forever, Flora."

  "Can't I?"

  Francis turned his head and apologized to Radcliffe. "This is not a conversation one ought to have among strangers, sir. Do forgive us."
/>
  But Persey saw Radcliffe smile as he listened to the brother and sister bickering. "Don't mind me. I'm only the gardener."

  Persey looked at Francis— so proper and polite. What would he think if he knew the true account of her history? It was unlikely he would invite her to ride in his carriage. A former scullery maid with real dead bodies in her past.

  It would be a great scandal for Holbrooke.

  Minty, her rival erased at last, would gleefully declare from her horrid temple, "I told you so."

  Already, she could imagine the lurid broadsheet illustrating her crimes. Somewhere, perhaps in King's Lynn, Master Cosgrove would read it out to his pinch-faced wife at breakfast and they would remark upon what a lucky escape they'd once had. For a while, no doubt, Mistress Cosgrove could bask in the fame of having lived with the villainess under her roof.

  The landau bore them swiftly and smoothly toward the great house, as the sun set over the distant elms and the birdsong drained away to its last weary dregs. Persey tried not to look too often at Radcliffe, but it was impossible not to catch his eye occasionally, not to think how very fine he looked tonight, despite the danger he threatened.

  Poor Francis, seated beside him, quite faded into the dusk. Oh dear, she hadn't meant to eclipse Chelmsworth completely. In truth, she had hoped Honoria would look at the two men, side by side, and realize that Chelmsworth was better suited to her after all. Francis had all the perfect manners of a gentleman, and as long as he stayed upright tonight and didn't try any heroics, he ought to be able to impress Honoria. In the grand banquet hall of Holbrooke, surely Chelmsworth's noble good looks and chivalrous manners would win the young lady's favor.

  But that was before Persey saw how well the gardener turned out with a little spit and polish.

  "Master Radcliffe," Flora exclaimed, "I can see already the marvelous change you've wrought to the estate grounds. Holbrooke seems so much more comfortable in its own skin. Don't you think, Persey?"

  "How do you mean, Flora?"

  "Well, no offense meant to you, my friend, but it was always rather stiff and formal— with all those topiaries, straight lines and crisp hedges. The prospect is so opened now. I find it refreshing, and welcoming in a way the house was not before." She beamed at Radcliffe. "I must congratulate you, sir."