The Redemption of Madeline Munrove

by Mary Campisi

  Had Madeline not witnessed this debacle between those of her parents’ circle for years? The betrayal? The humiliation? And what of her own mother, a strong, independent woman, capable of achieving any feat but ridding herself of the husband she could not stop loving, even though he did not deserve that love? No thank you.

  “Who said anything about love?” This from Regina. “Look at the muscles on his back. And the shoulders. Wider than an ox and I’ll wager stronger. From the size of him, he could lift all four of us like feathers. Of course, if he tried it—”

  “We’d thrash him soundly,” Annabelle piped in, her eyes not on her work, but not on the object of discussion either.

  “And strap him to a board, strip off his breeches—”

  “Regina!”

  “How else do you plan on getting a closer look at male parts? It’s the only way I’d trust a man.”

  Madeline could see the wisdom of her statement. “You have a point. We would render him helpless. Quite a novel approach.”

  “Exactly.” Regina leaned forward with keen interest, her red braid flopping as she turned her head thus and so to keep track of Mr. Schilling’s maneuverings. A splash of water blotted the front of his breeches, outlining an area any proper lady would not notice. Madeline pretended not to notice, but of course, she did.

  She’d only seen Weston without his shirt once or twice, but her brother’s chest was nothing like this man’s which was dark and furry and twice as big. The butterflies started again, twirling and fluttering from her belly to her throat.

  Simon Schilling turned and stared at the window as if he knew they had been watching him. The man actually had the audacity to smile. Right at her. Well, perhaps not at her, perhaps he’d been smiling at Sarah, who stood a tad to Madeline’s left, or Regina, who had her face pressed to the window.

  Just because he had what some might consider a very nice, oh all right, exquisite body, meant nothing. Clearly, the man lacked breeding and manners. If she did not need work done so desperately and did not think he would be the type to do it for food and lodging, and if he were not Mr. Schilling’s nephew, she would send him on his way. Maybe she would send him along anyway—she didn’t like the flip-floppiness of her stomach when she saw him. Oh, but there were the mountains of chores to consider and drat, the other truth. Other men might ask questions about the three women who resided at Lingionine with Madeline. They might notice one had a belly the size of a watermelon and wore no ring. The other dressed in breeches and acted more hoodlum than lady. And the third possessed such fear as to invoke serious questions.

  Mr. Schilling did not appear the type to notice. His pauses, confusion, and ungentlemanly directness all pointed to one truth. He was not a man of puzzles or superior intelligence. He would never guess the women were in hiding, each seeking shelter from their own particular demons, all of them male.

  The chair scraped and Annabelle inched her way to the window to stand alongside the other women. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  For goodness sake, the man was beyond ridiculous. He knew them to be gawking and yet he remained shirtless, his tanned body glistening. And now, oh bother, now he closed his eyes and splashed more water on his chest, flexed his arms until the muscles bulged one atop the other and then, Madeline swore he purposely let droplets of water spray his thigh. The better to see those muscles.

  “Peacock,” she mumbled.

  “Indeed,” Sarah murmured.

  “He moves like a nobleman,” Annabelle breathed.

  “A nobleman? Surely you jest.” Madeline found nothing noble about the man.

  Annabelle inclined her dark head to one side. “I am most serious. Observe the carriage of his body. Tall, erect, proud. And his head. Tilted just so, chin thrust out, indicating leadership and privilege. The walk is slow, purposeful, as one accustomed to having others in attendance.” She turned from the window, shading her face. “Perhaps you are mistaken. He might well and truly be one of Gerald’s men come to force me back to Elendine.”

  Madeline snaked an arm around the poor woman’s waist and hazarded one last glance at the object of their discussion. The man had inclined on a tree stump and leaned back in repose, face tilted toward the sun, a silly grin on his face.

  Indeed. The last of the butterflies settled but twirled once again when he flexed his stomach muscles and stretched his arms above his shoulders. Thump! Thump! Thump! The butterflies swirled like cream in a butter churn.

  “No harm will come to any of you. Rest assured, I will maintain a very watchful eye on Mr. Schilling. After all, he is only a man.”

  Chapter 4

  Douglas swiped his shirt over his chest, catching the last of the water droplets. For a man accustomed to changing attire three and four times a day, with said attire matched and laid out in wait, wearing the same shirt and breeches for two days proved a challenge—and a disgusting one at that. He supposed he could ask Madeline if there might be an extra pair of breeches and a lawn shirt, knowing the clothing would undoubtedly belong to the scoundrel who had tried to cheat him.

  There would be a certain degree of satisfaction mucking up the man’s clothing, just as Douglas intended to muck up the bastard’s life with the document in his satchel. Unfortunate about the sister and the gimp brother and whoever else had been peeking at him while he washed up. A blond, a redhead, and a brunette. And Madeline, of course. She’d been more distinguishable than the others with her dark curls and sun-kissed skin.

  Ha! They were an interesting lot, true country bumpkins gawking at him as though they wanted to poke and prod. And explore. He wouldn’t mind Madeline’s soft hands on him, working their way down his body… Blast! He’d come to take what was his and as delectable a treat as she might prove, he could not let himself think about her slender neck, her curved behind, or the way her voice hitched when she spoke of her younger brother. That last would only gain his sympathy and make it more difficult to finish his task.

  He shrugged on his shirt and made his way to the stables. Ethan had better be deep in the hunt for Douglas’s bride and not tracking other diversions, namely women who were not bridal prospects. The man might be a valet but noble blood ran through his veins, albeit unblessed by marriage, and women swarmed him. Ethan enjoyed the swarming— sometimes overmuch.

  Nevertheless, he would be here in a few days and then Douglas could get this business behind him. It was not his fault the woman had a good for nothing brother who had not seen to her needs or the needs of the others inhabiting the estate.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Douglas swung around to find a boy of fourteen or so standing just inside the stables. When the boy stepped forward, he thrust his right foot out in an uneven movement. The gimp younger brother. He took another step, and then another, in an awkward shuffle until he stood two arm lengths from Douglas.

  “Mr. Schilling?” He beamed and thrust out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Gregory Munrove.”

  Douglas shook the boy’s hand. What the scoundrel brother lacked in propriety this one made up for in politeness. A pang of uneasiness centered in Douglas’s gut. This boy would suffer from his brother’s recklessness. Damn the guilty for ruining the innocents. “Simon Schilling, young man. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The youth nodded and released his hand. “My sister asked that I bring this list to you.” He reached in his pocket and proceeded to turn a faint shade of red. “And assist you as needed.”

  “Assist me?” An extra pair of hands could make light work, especially since Douglas was not accustomed to getting his hands soiled.

  Gregory cleared his throat and keyed his gaze on the paper. “With the reading of the list, sir.”

  “Ah.” So, the little witch truly thought him illiterate. Would his mother not rise from St. Theresa’s cemetery at those words and exclaim how her eldest son could read and converse in three languages?

  “Would you like me to read it for you, sir?”

  Douglas co
uld not ignore the eagerness on the boy’s face. “Please do. And Gregory, thank you.”

  Another beam from the boy, and then he began, “‘Daily duties: Muck out stalls each morning, fork hay into stalls, carry water for the animals, feed chickens and gather eggs. Other duties: Mend fence, fix lock on door, paint side fence, dig bed for additional vegetables on south side of property. Cut down fir tree. Haul wood nightly. Perform other duties as required.’”

  A vision of Madeline’s supple breasts flashed through his brain. He could conjure up an additional duty or two, as required of course, even if the lovely Lady Madeline did not know she required it. He pushed her loveliness away and said, “Sit awhile, Gregory. Allow me to gather my strength before I begin these formidable tasks your sister has created for me.”

  “I could help you,” the boy stammered, then finished with, “if you like.”

  “Certainly.” Douglas would need a little guidance if he were to pull off the role of carpenter and common laborer, seeing as he’d never hammered a board or hauled wood in his life. Men who tripled their family’s wealth through careful strategy and investment were not required to perform manual labor. “My uncle told me little about this place or your family. Where are your parents?”

  The boy’s mouth turned down and he shrugged. “My mother passed two years ago. Fever took her. My father, four years before that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gregory nodded and looked up, his face brightening. “I have a brother who travels the world. He’s an adventurer.”

  Indeed. An adventurer in the fleecing of others. And a liar. And a cheat. “Where is he now?”

  Gregory’s blue gaze softened. “We never know until he returns. That’s what makes it an adventure, Weston says. Madeline does not much like it when he goes or when he returns for that matter. Weston calls her a mother hen because she pecks at him constantly.”

  That, Douglas could imagine.

  “Madeline says ignorance and shortsightedness are the plight of being a man, and a woman should never depend upon one unless she strives for the perpetual role of nursemaid.”

  Douglas nearly choked. “Your sister said that?”

  The boy grinned. “She said more, but I best not repeat it.”

  “Oh please do. I find your sister quite amusing.” When Gregory hesitated, Douglas assured him, “This will go no further than these four walls and Matilda.”

  “She says a woman should never subject herself to the company of a man who has nothing to say and is more interested in acting like a popinjay. Maddie abhors self-importance, and flattery if it’s false, which she says she can tell from three properties away. And she says women are the stronger creatures of nature but continue to mold themselves into bumbling idiots in tight undergarments and batting eyelashes because men desire it.”

  He’d never heard of such outspokenness, even from his mistresses, and they’d had opinions aplenty. The woman was mad…and utterly fascinating. He could not help but ask, “What does she say of me?”

  Splashes of red blotted Gregory’s neck, cheeks, nose. He shook his head.

  “Come now, I’m most curious.”

  “No, sir. It would not be proper.”

  “The name is Simon and it is only improper if the request is unsolicited.” He pressed on, more than a bit curious to learn what the little spitfire had to say about him, other than the illiterate part.

  “Well, she says you are in possession of—” he hesitated “—are you certain you wish to hear this, Mr. Schill—I mean, Simon? It’s not at all flattering, but then my sister can be given to a certain directness my brother calls unbecoming.”

  “Indeed I do wish to hear it. Every last word.”

  Gregory drew a deep breath and spat out, “She said you are dimwitted. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Dimwitted?” How he would love to challenge her on that assumption. Given the right opportunity, he most certainly would do so. “Your sister has quite an opinion.”

  “Unfortunately, yes, sir, she does.”

  “Tell me more.” He’d not had such entertainment since he’d tossed his brother’s breeches in the pond while Harry trysted under a magnolia with the neighbor’s wife. There had been much to explain when Harry arrived home dressed in a woman’s drawers.

  “Well, Weston says Maddie should have been born a boy.”

  Madeline of the soft curves and rounded bottom, a boy? Hardly.

  “And Lady Annabelle says she would have made a fine man with her fearlessness.” He leaned closer, inviting Douglas into his conspiratorial circle. “But Sarah says Maddie only detests men because she hasn’t met the right one yet.”

  Madeline detested men?

  “And Regina says—”

  “Hold on. Who on earth are Lady Annabelle and Sarah, and Regina?”

  Gregory’s hesitation came one pause too long. “My…sisters.”

  “You sound uncertain.” Something was amiss.

  Gregory shook his head and looked away. Too bad Douglas would not be at Lingionine long enough to teach the boy how to tell a convincing lie.

  “Gregory, will you consider me your friend?” The obviousness of the answer shone on the young boy’s face in a crimson glow of affirmation which pricked Douglas’s conscience.

  “I would be honored to, sir.”

  “What did your sister, man-hater she might be, teach you about friends?” He’d wager the self-righteous Madeline valued friendship.

  “To be honest and true, and never forsake the friendship.”

  “Exactly. Now, I shall permit you one more answer. Who are Lady Annabelle, Sarah, and Regina?”

  “Runaways,” he whispered. “Lady Annabelle’s trying to escape her dead husband’s family. Sarah’s been cast out because she’s got a baby in her belly and no husband. And Regina’s on the run from the law because she’s a pickpocket who stole a sack of jewels.”

  Chapter 5

  Politeness dictated she invite him to dine in the main house. Charity suggested she offer him a meal. Courtesy required civility. But at the moment, Madeline did not feel particularly polite, charitable, or courteous.

  She trusted Simon Schilling about as far as she could budge him. Not one bit. Oh, why did he have to be dear Harold’s nephew? If he were merely a vagrant and she still had suspicions on that subject despite the man’s protests, why did he have to be related to the one member of the male species she actually admired? Harold Schilling had kept Lingionine in good repair long after the funds to pay him ran out. He never complained or asked for more than a supper, often a cold one, and a roof over his head, even if it were the roof of a barn. He could have found employment at many neighboring estates where the owners dressed their servants in finery and permitted them sumptuous fare, but Harold remained loyal and true to Madeline and her family, like the spaniel he kept at his side.

  That loyalty could not go unreturned. She owed Harold and the very least she could do was provide his blasted nephew with a meal in his belly and a place to sleep. Besides, a speck of guilt and aggravation niggled her conscience— she was in dire need of a man’s assistance right now. She would keep him until he completed the repairs and had enjoyed a decent number of meals before she sent him off with well-wishes, and if strong-armed, a tepid letter of recommendation.

  One could only be expected to stretch the truth so far before it sprung back and beheaded the person. Speaking of beheading, had the man no sense of modesty? He’d trudged around the grounds for a good part of the morning, bare-chested and glistening, with a hero-worshipping Gregory limping after him. Twenty-seven trips before the mullioned window. Mounds of slick muscle slathered across his back and forearms. Of course, she had counted each trip. It was her duty to keep an eye on Gregory, was it not? The heat might overtake him, he could fall, injure himself…After the thirteenth trip carrying bits of wood, it became obvious the most danger Gregory might encounter would be a soiled shirt and a sunburned nose.

  Madeline was not so fortunate. By t
he fifth trip, Simon Schilling’s muscles bulged with a fine sheen of sweat that sent her stomach into a fit of butterflies. When she settled her gaze on the front of his snug breeches, the butterflies flip-flopped and she almost lost her balance. Regina promptly foisted a glass of lemonade on her with the command that she sit for fear she would faint. Madeline attributed her lightheadedness to a scant lunch and her monthly, both of which were lies. Since when had she begun fibbing to her friends?

  Gregory had certainly taken to the man, but then the poor thing was surrounded by females with the slim exception of an infrequent visit from Weston. She sighed. Gregory had left her no choice. She could ignore his rapid gait and quick laughter but her brother’s nonstop chatter and Simon Schilling’s rapt attention, made her suspicious. By the eighteenth trip, she had decided what must be done. Simon Schilling was coming to dinner.

  * * *

  Something was definitely amiss.

  Douglas finished his second glass of wine and pretended great interest in the cut of his lamb chop. “Excellent. I haven’t tasted such fare in a long while.” In truth, he’d dined on roast pheasant less than four days past. Served on the finest dinnerware, hand-painted from the Orient. At the Duke of Weatherby’s. And now, here he sat, trying to remember to act like a backward commoner and not a gentleman, while Lady Madeline Munrove assessed his every move as though she were a misguided schoolteacher ready to slap his hand if he used the wrong fork.

  Her gaze remained shrewd. And doubting. And blast, but it rarely left him.

  Had she detected the subterfuge through his attempts at charm? Gregory said she detested men. Mayhap, they detested her as well. The woman probably expected him to bow and kiss her slippered feet in gratitude for the clean pair of breeches and lawn shirt she’d sent by way of Gregory. Never mind the breeches were two sizes too small and pinched his groin and the sleeves of the shirt rested at his forearm. He would wager she had done it on purpose.