Saber’s hands curled into tight fists. It wasn’t going to be easy getting along with the cantankerous dwarf. Big was intent on badgering him.
Goldie descended the ladder and joined the two men. “Big, what in the world’s gotten into you?”
Big stuffed his hands into his pockets and saw her cast a glance at Saber. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and that worried him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he lied. “Nothing.”
“Then shall we?” Saber asked, sweeping his hand toward the mansion.
As they strolled across the grounds, Goldie admired the luxurious garden that was profuse with colorful flowers of every kind. She picked dandelions.
“Saber! Goldie! “ Addison called merrily, waving from the steps that led to the manor house. “Come in, come in,” he said as they arrived. “And who might you be, sir?” he asked the small man beside Goldie.
Big grunted. “I might be Big Mann. I might be someone else, too. I might be Jeffry Roberts. I might be Sam Brown. I might be—”
“He’s Big Mann,” Goldie cut him off. “And he’s not in the greatest mood today. A regular ill-box is what he is.”
“Ill-box?” Addison echoed.
“She uses that expression for a person who is crabby,” Big explained gruffly. “I, however, am no ill-box.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” Addison replied, and looked at Saber. “Tell me, Saber. How was the rabbit? Did you sniff each bite of it?”
Saber assisted Goldie up the steps. “I did.”
“And he held his pinky finger out while nibblin’ the meat, too,” Goldie added, presenting Addison with her bouquet of dandelions. “I’ll swannee, he looked just like a duke, eatin’ that way.”
Addison stared hard at the bunch of weed flowers to keep from laughing. “Yes, well, that’s splendid, Goldie. You’ve gotten off to an excellent start teaching etiquette to my backward cousin.”
“Amusing, Addison,” Saber muttered as he led Goldie into the spacious marble hall. “Very amusing.” He stopped as Goldie let go of his arm. “What are the two of you doing?” he queried when he saw her and Big on the floor struggling with their shoes.
Goldie peered up at him. “Same thing you should be doin’. Take off your boots, Saber. A duke wouldn’t ever track mud all over a house as beautiful as this one. It just isn’t proper.” She rose, placing her hands on her hips as she waited for him to obey her instructions.
He stared down at her. He knew if he got mud all over the house, the servants would clean it up. The thought made him look around. Where was Freeborn, the butler? And that little maid, Abigail, who was forever hovering around the foyer? “Addison, where are all the—”
“Saber, did you hear what I said?” Goldie demanded, wiggling her bare toes upon the polished marble floor. “Take off your boots.”
“Yes, Saber,” Addison agreed. “How dare you get mud all over the house! My shoes,” he said to Goldie, “are clean. I changed them the very second I came in.”
She nodded approvingly, patted his arm, and then glared at Saber. “You gonna take your boots off, Your Royal Highness Lordship Duke Marion Tremayne?” she asked, emphasizing the name.
Bending, he snatched them off. Goldie noticed his irritation. “Saber, you can’t be gettin’ mad every time you have to do somethin’ mannerly. You’re just about as mulish and touchy as ole Roscoe Snood down in Sharksville, Tennessee.”
“Sharksville?” Addison repeated. “How very interesting.”
“Y’know, I never did understand why they named that town Sharksville,” Goldie told him, glancing at the tremendous crystal chandelier twinkling from the high ceiling above her. “There wasn’t a single shark anywhere nearby because the ocean was about sixty-five million miles away. Anyway, ole Roscoe—Remember I just told you he lived there? Well, you couldn’t even look at the man without him takin’ your head off for doin’ it. I looked at him once, and he hollered, ‘What the hell you lookin’ at, girl?’ Great day Miss Agnes, he near about scared the spit out of me. Nobody’s ever yelled at me just for lookin’ at ‘em before.
“Well, ole Roscoe, he got it into his head to build a house on Can’t-Make-Up-My-Mind Hill. Folks tried to tell him the hill got its name for good reasons, but Roscoe was mulish just like I already told you. He built that house and strutted around like he was God’s gift to the world. Well, a big rain came. The hill washed away and sprang up in another spot. Nobody could ever figure out how a hill could change places like that, but that one did. That’s why it was called Can’t-Make-Up-My-Mind Hill. It couldn’t make up its mind where it wanted to be, y’see. Roscoe’s house washed away too. Worst thing about it was that Roscoe was in it when it did. Nobody ever found him. Some folks said he’s buried inside Can’t-Make-Up-My-Mind Hill. They were gonna wait till the hill moved again, then look for him. But I don’t know if they ever did that because Uncle Asa and I moved on. And there you have it, Saber.”
Saber stared down at her again. Her story was so outlandish, it was a moment before he realized she was waiting for him to comment. “Poor Roscoe,” was all he could think of to say.
Addison laughed until his sides ached. “I do believe you owe Goldie an apology for being so mulish and touchy, Roscoe...er, Saber. Oh, and I’m quite sure that dukish folks say they’re sorry on bended knee,” he informed Goldie.
When Saber saw Goldie point to the ground, his first thought was to refuse. The Duke of Ravenhurst bowed to no one but royalty, and that was that.
But the mulish and touchy Roscoe Snood came to mind, and it went against Saber’s grain to be compared to the man buried in a traveling hill down in Sharksville, Tennessee. Too, he remembered he was supposed to be enjoying these blasted duke lessons. He sank to the floor on bended knee. Taking Goldie’s hand, he pressed a light kiss to it.
Her eyes widened when she felt his lips upon her hand. His touch flowed up her arm and spread throughout her entire body. Her breath caught in her throat. Never had she felt anything so wonderful. So romantic.
Saber looked up and noticed the blush on her cheeks. He smiled. “I humbly apologize for balking, Goldie. For showing such blatant obstinacy. For making your job more difficult. For—”
“Saber!” Winston called as he, Kenneth, and David descended the staircase. “What are you doing? Proposing?”
Saber rose. “Apologizing.” He watched as Goldie and Big began examining various pieces of furniture. “Addison,” he whispered, “where are all the servants? There’s no one in the barn or the house.”
“Hence, there’s no one to call you ‘milord’ or ‘Your Grace.’”
“We told them we wouldn’t be needing their services for the time being,” David added.
Saber frowned. “But—”
“Who’s the man with Goldie?” Kenneth asked.
“He’s her friend, Big Mann,” Addison answered.
“Big Mann?” David repeated, his lips twitching.
Addison nodded. “And take care not to ruffle him. He’s an...ill-box.”
“He’s a what?” Winston asked.
“Saber,” Goldie called, motioning for him to join her in front of a large, gilt-framed portrait. “Come look at the man in this picture.” Absently, she caressed the hand he’d kissed.
In his stockinged feet, Saber advanced, glancing at the portrait of his mother’s Uncle Radcliffe.
“Look at his hair,” Goldie said, studying the picture carefully. “We need to get you one of those white wigs. This man is obviously a dukish person, Saber. His flarin’ nostrils are a sure sign of that. Mildred Fickle said dukish people always flare their nostrils. Lemme see if you can do it.” She looked up at him, her eyes focused on his nose. “Go on. Flare away.”
Saber’s lip curled when he heard his friends laughing. Drawing himself up to his full height, he inhaled through his nose, making sure his nostrils flared as wide and sharply as they would. “Was that satisfactory?”
She cocked her head, her ear almost touching her shoulder. “Could you mak
e a small snortin’ sound while you’re flarin’? Mildred Fickle didn’t say anything about snortin’, but it sounds like it sorta goes with flarin’, don’t you think? I mean, you don’t have to sound like a hog rootin’ around for grub, but a soft little wheeze and sniff would go real good with the flare.”
“Wheeze, Saber,” Addison demanded, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “Wheeze and snort.”
Saber had to swallow his aggravation. Flaring his nostrils again, he attempted a wheeze, but all that came from him was a strangled sound. God, he felt ridiculous.
And yet Goldie was right, he mused. Many noblemen he knew did flare their nostrils and make wheezing sounds. They sniffed their noses at many things, and they did it to demonstrate their displeasure or condescension. He’d never paid much attention to it. But as he thought about it now, he realized what an arrogant mannerism it truly was.
“Goldie, I’m afraid I don’t know how to wheeze,” he told her, feeling very glad that particular habit was not one of his own.
At the look of defeat in his eyes, Goldie reached up and caressed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it right now. I don’t expect you to learn everything in one day, Saber. We’ll practice wheezin’. Before you know it, you’ll be flarin’ and wheezin’ right along with the best of ’em.”
* * *
“Great day Miss Agnes!” Goldie exclaimed when Saber lit several lamps in the room where she would sleep. She’d already explored the rest of the gorgeous house, each thing amazing her with its luxury and elegance, but this bedroom surpassed everything she’d seen so far. It was even nicer than the one in which she’d just left Big.
Decorated in pristine white, vivid pink, and apple-green, it was the most beautiful room she’d ever beheld. Gleaming brass was everywhere, providing a striking complement to the color scheme. Warm oak furniture served to soften the effect. Goldie couldn’t suppress another soft squeal at the sight of the white lace canopy sweeping delicately to the floor. She knew it would be sheer heaven sleeping in the princess bed.
“Does that little squeal mean you like it or dislike it?” Saber asked. He ambled over to the glass doors that opened to the balcony and began to pull the pink silk drapes across them.
“No, don’t close ’em!” Goldie cried, running to the doors. Flinging them open, she stepped out onto the balcony. The moonlit garden met her wide eyes; the fragrance of night-blooming flowers caressed her senses. A graceful tree branch swept lightly across one corner of the balcony, creating a pleasant and soothing sound. Absolute contentment floated through her. “Oh, Saber,” she whispered, looking below. “I can’t believe I’m stayin’ here. It’s like a—Well, like a dream,” she said shyly. “This house is like a castle. If I were still a little girl, I’d pretend I was a princess.”
Saber smiled, suspecting that once he left her alone in the room, she would pretend to be a princess. She’d been a mermaid in the pond, hadn’t she? “How old are you, Goldie?”
“I’ll be nineteen in five months and three days,” she replied, still hanging over the balcony. “How old are you?”
“Thirty, and don’t lean over so far.” She was so little, her feet weren’t even touching the ground as she balanced herself upon the rail. “You’re going to fall into the shrubbery below.”
He scowled, remembering the time when he’d fallen from that same balcony and into those same bushes. God, he hadn’t thought of that in years. Quickly, he looked down at his right hand. There it was. The little scar from the injury caused by the fall. Lost in the memory, he ran his finger over the telltale white mark, trying to suppress the bittersweet nostalgia.
“When will you be thirty-one?” Goldie asked.
“I only recently celebrated my thirtieth birthday.”
“Did you have a party?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I—Because I didn’t want one.” Saber’s thoughts drifted again to a time when he had birthday parties every year. His mother and father filled the house with presents, and he was pronounced “King for the Day.” He even got to wear a crown. He hadn’t been “King for the Day” in twenty years. Potent emotion seized him once more, making him long for those days.
Those days that had been taken from him when he’d needed them the most.
“I never knew someone who didn’t want a party,” Goldie informed him. She got down from the railing, turned to face him, and lifted her balled hands beneath her chin. “Are you sure the owner of this Leighwood estate won’t mind me stayin’ in this room?”
Saber leaned against the door frame and contemplated her. Her eyes were so wide, so full of gold sparkle. Her stance, the way she held her hands, and the unmitigated wonder in her soft, childlike voice... She was like a little girl who’d just wandered into the land of make-believe. This made him almost sure that she would be Princess Goldie very shortly. “Why would he mind?”
Slowly, she relaxed her fists, her fingers uncurling on her cheeks, their tips disappearing into the unruly curls framing her face. “I—Well, it’s such a fine room, Saber,” she tried to explain. “Finer even than Imogene Tully’s tea parlor back in Bug Hill, Kentucky. The town had a lot of crickets, y’see. I always liked to hear ’em singin’ at night. Ole Imogene used to have tea parties in her tea parlor every Wednesday at three o’clock. She near about wore herself into a frazzle puttin’ the parlor together. She traveled all over the state huntin’ out frilly things to put in it. I wasn’t ever invited to her parties, but once she hired me to clean that parlor. It was the first and last time she ever let me in there.”
“Bug Hill, Kentucky, and Imogene Hilly,” Saber mused aloud. He watched Goldie’s arms fall to her sides. She clutched handfuls of her dress. The sight of her pale, slender fingers wrapped around the coarse brown fabric of her skirt disturbed him. He thought about how nice they would look lying upon folds of rich, crimson satin.
He brought his gaze upward. The kiss of moonlight upon her flaxen hair made those curly locks seem almost alive. Golden twists of ribbons come to life. “Why was that the last time you ever saw Imogene’s magnificent tea parlor, Goldie?”
The tenderness she perceived in his rich, deep voice made her stomach flutter. “I like the way you say my name.”
His brow rose; a slight smile touched his lips. Most women he knew liked the size of his wallet. The vast acreage of his lands. The centuries-old honor of his title.
Goldie liked the way he said her name. “Goldie,” he said again for her and for himself, too, because he wanted to give her something she liked once more.
“Goldie,” she repeated in a whisper, mesmerized by the intensity of his eyes. “You ever seen seaweed? Not dried-up seaweed, but wet seaweed? The kind that washes up with the waves and lays all spread out over the sand? It’s such a purty green. So fresh. The seawater makes it sparkle, and it looks real good against the warm, tanned shore. You have seaweed eyes, Saber.”
Seaweed eyes. Saber pondered the sound of that. Jillian was fond of telling him his eyes reminded her of exquisite emeralds. Emeralds and seaweed. There was a drastic difference between the two, but how much more vivid was the image of fresh, wet seaweed against a warm, tanned shore. He smiled, thinking of it.
“It was Uncle Asa,” Goldie said.
Snatched from his pondering, Saber looked at her blankly. “What was Uncle Asa?”
“Well,” she began, still fingering the material of her skirt, “he came to Imogene’s lookin’ for me. He’d been drinkin.’ He—He always drinks,” she squeaked. “I tried to keep him out, but Uncle Asa...well, he doesn’t listen to anyone when he’s been drinkin’. Close your eyes, Saber, and imagine a big, clumsy elephant tryin’ to walk through a patch of buttercups without crushin’ ’em, and you’ll know what Uncle Asa looked like in Imogene’s parlor.
“He’d barely set foot in it when a lamp crashed to the floor. It was the one with Chinese pagodas painted all over it. A vase broke next, and the water and flowers spilled all ove
r Imogene’s love seat. She said she had that little sofa special made by a French sofa-maker, and that she paid a hundred dollars for it. I never believed her. She didn’t have a hundred dollars to spend on a sofa. Nobody in Bug Hill had that kind of money. ‘Cept maybe old Hiram Winkler. He had a hairbrush that was made of pure gold.”
Saber let out a long, slow whistle designed to show her how very impressed he was over Hiram’s gold brush. Inwardly, he smiled.
“Hiram was so proud of that brush, he wore it around his neck on a chain. He said he did that so he’d always have his brush handy when his hair got messed up. But Saber, ‘cept for about three hairs above each of his ears, the man was bald. He just wore the brush like that to show it off. I always wondered what it would be like to brush my hair with a pure gold brush. You think pure gold brushes work any better’n plain wooden ones?”
Saber’s inward smile reached his lips. A low chuckle escaped. Goldie had maddened him several times today, but he decided she was quite the most entertaining person he’d ever met. “I really couldn’t say. I’ve never had one.”
He did have a sterling silver brush, he remembered, wondering if that counted.
“I don’t even have a wooden one since I lost the one I had,” she said wistfully. “Anyway, the harder Uncle Asa tried to keep from messin’ things up in Imogene’s parlor, the more he wrecked ’em. Imogene came in and clubbed him over the head with a statue of a chicken. She hollered that neither one of us was fit to be in her parlor and that she didn’t know what in the world had possessed her to hire me to clean it. It really hurt my feelin’s, Saber, because I hadn’t broken anything before Uncle Asa came. I’d been as careful as I know how to be.” She squeezed her eyes tightly so as not to cry.
“And I want you to know right here and now that I’ll be careful in this room too,” she swore, crossing her heart. “Daddy’s honor, I won’t touch anything. I’ll just sleep in the bed, and that’s all. So if you or Addison ever talk to the owner, you can tell him that all I did was sleep here and that I didn’t mess anything up while I was sleepin’. And I sleep in a tight little ball, Saber, so I probably won’t even wrinkle the sheets all that much.”
Diamonds and Dreams Page 8
