Amanda McCabe (5 page)

“No!” Mrs. Gilbert wailed. “He hid in the cupboard and scared poor Betty so that she burned the toast. Then, while she was in hysterics, he sent the toast out with those footmen of yours. I set him to whisking eggs, and he mixed in eggshells with them. He took the coffee off the stove where it was to warm and let it go cold. Because of
him
, his lordship thinks I can’t make a simple thing like breakfast! I’ll get the sack for certain, and it’ll be me starving in the road.”

Julia listened to this litany of complaints in stunned silence. “Oh, no, Mrs. Gilbert! I am sure there is no question of anyone getting the, er, sack. I told Lord Ellston that you are a superb cook and that something must have gone terribly wrong in the kitchen this morning. I am certain that he will see what I meant when he eats the wonderful luncheon you are no doubt preparing.”

“Well,” huffed Mrs. Gilbert, obviously beginning to be mollified, “I
am
making my salmon croquettes, and then a nice beef boulogne for supper. And maybe an apricot tart for dessert.”

“Excellent!” Julia said enthusiastically. “I know Lord Ellston will be most appreciative.”

Mrs. Gilbert deigned to give a small smile. “I will not be able to do my best salmon croquettes, though, if
that
is allowed in my kitchen.” She pointed at Charlie, who rolled onto his back as if mortally wounded.

Julie eyed him dispassionately. “Yes, I do see what you mean, Mrs. Gilbert. Have no fear. I will send Charlie to work in the stables.”

“The stables!” Charlie shouted, only to fall back down at Julia’s stern look.

“So you may tell Betty that she can go on with her work unmolested,” Julia continued. “If that will be satisfactory, Mrs. Gilbert?”

“Quite satisfactory, Miss Barclay.” Mrs. Gilbert rose and straightened her apron, her feathers now smoothed. “I will just be getting on with luncheon, then.”

As soon as the door shut behind her, Charlie sat straight up. “‘Thou marble-hearted fiend!’” he shouted at the door.

Julia frowned at him. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Charlie Englehardt. Especially not
King Lear
. You behaved very badly.”

Charlie crawled toward her on his knees, his hands clasped beseechingly. “Oh, Julia, sweet Julia! I beg you, don’t send me to the stable! My delicate hands were never made for mucking out stalls.”

“You should have thought of that before you were such a nodcock in the kitchen. What would we have done if Mrs. Gilbert had indeed resigned? None of us can cook.”

“I was only trying to brighten her day with a bit of humor. How was I to know the kitchen maid would burn the toast? It won’t happen again, Julia, I vow!”

Julia shook her head sternly. “We can’t afford to have any of the real staff quit. So to the stables with you, Charlie. For today, at least. You can polish tack or some such. Just
don’t
bother the horses.”

“But . . .”

“Not another word! To the stables.”

After Charlie departed, grumbling, Julia buried her face in her hands and groaned. So many crises averted already, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

What could the rest of the day possibly hold?

Chapter Seven

Here’s flowers for you;

Hot lavender, mints, savoury marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun,

And with him rises weeping.

—
The Winter’s Tale

“Tell me, Julia, do you like living at Rosemount?”

Julia, who had turned away to examine one of the flower beds in the garden, looked back at Marcus in surprise. He had been so very quiet during their walk, up until now. “Do I—what?”

“Like living at Rosemount. Are you happy here?”

“Of course I am,” she answered slowly, bemused by both the question and the way the sun turned his black hair to the sheen of a raven’s wing. She blinked quickly. “Who could fail to be happy at Rosemount?”

“Who, indeed? May I ask where you lived before you came here?”

“Oh, no place really.”

“No place?” he said, startled.

“I do not mean we lived in a gypsy wagon or anything of that sort,” Julia clarified. “We had a house in London. Mother often had engagements there during the Season. But usually she was on tour. I saw all of England and a great deal of Wales, Ireland, and Scotland before I was twelve years old. It was very exciting, to be sure, and I would not trade those experiences for anything. It is just . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she looked out over the neat gardens wistfully.

How she loved every rosebush, every statue, every lavender border! She hated the thought of leaving it all, of being rootless again.

“It is just that such a wandering life is not the same as having a
real
home, is it?” Marcus said quietly.

Julia’s gaze flew up to his. His expression was solemn as he looked at her, and very, very understanding.

Ever since their meeting in the drawing room yesterday, Julia had felt nervous around him. After all, he held the power to send her away from her home. She had not wanted to trust his flashes of humor, his charming smiles.

But
this
Marcus, so serious and understanding, she somehow felt she could trust. This Marcus gazed at Rosemount with all the longing she herself felt. He had seen so much, just as she had, and knew the wonderful thing this place was.

Did he also know the value of peace?

Deeply confused, Julia sat down on a nearby bench set in the shade of a tall tree. She put her basket of flowers down at her feet and carefully folded her hands on her lap.

“Nothing is the same as having a real home,” she said. “As having a place to belong to, to be safe in. I did not really mind the travel, you see, because I was with my mother. She was my family, my home. When I lost her, it was a great comfort to be here at Rosemount, where we had been so happy.”

Marcus nodded. “I felt the same when I lost my own mother. I felt that a part of her remained here. I feel that still.”

“Yes!” Julia cried. “Yes, that is it exactly.”

“I am glad that you have found comfort here, Julia.”

“And I hope that you may do so, Marcus. Now that you are home again.”

“Thank you.”

They looked at each other then, and Julia fancied she saw a tenderness in his face that had not been there before. An openness. Emboldened, she leaned toward him and said, “Please, Marcus, I must ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“I know that one day you . . . you will marry, and that perhaps that day will be soon. I only want to ask, to beg, that you not send me away right away. That you give me time to make arrangements that I would find agreeable.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Send you away?”

“If my being here at the house is in some way uncomfortable for you, I could remove to the dower house,” she rushed on. She had only thought of the dower house last night. It was rather small for herself and all the actors, but they could manage. She would still be at Rosemount, could still walk in the gardens.

But she could see that he was appalled by the idea. Perhaps he had some old auntie he wanted to move into the dower house.

“If that does not suit, there is also a cottage to let in the village,” she said. “Though I fear I have no money until I receive the bequest your father promised me for a dowry. If—”

“Julia!” Marcus interrupted. “Julia, please. I know that you have little reason to trust in me. But please know that I would never turn you out to a cottage or the dower house.”

Julia’s burgeoning hysterics stilled. “You would not?”

“I am not some ogre. In the spring I intend to take you to my cousin, Lady Thornton, in London. She will sponsor you for the Season. My father did leave you a substantial dowry, and I will see to all the additional expenses of clothing and a come-out ball. So you need not worry about anything.”

Then Marcus sat back with a smile, obviously expecting her to shower him with gratitude.

Julia feared that her mouth was inelegantly agape as she stared at him.

A
Season
? The great lout thought to placate her with a Season? And here she had foolishly thought they were understanding each other so well. That he knew how deeply she dreaded leaving Rosemount. Yet here he smugly sat, thinking a jaunt to London, a chance to snare a husband, would make everything right with her.

Julia did not trust herself to speak just at that moment. She looked back out at the garden, but now she took little pleasure in the autumn flowers there.

Her mother and Gerald had talked about a London Season, of course. They had wanted to open up Hadley House on Grosvenor Square again, to throw lavish balls and routs in her honor. After all, as her mother pointed out, she would have to marry one day, and there was a distinct paucity of eligible gentlemen in the neighborhood.

Julia, however, had known that she would never find the sort of man she would like among Town bucks and beaux. She had finally compromised by agreeing to go with them to Bath next summer instead, and look about there.

Since her mother’s passing, she had given up the thought of any kind of Season, and not without a measure of relief. She was perfectly content to be at home with her books and her own kind of friends.

Now here was Marcus, declaring that all her troubles were at an end because he, her shining knight, was going to send her off to London!

She would much rather go live in the cottage.

However, she could not just smack him over the head with her basket as she longed to do. She had to tread carefully. And, she told herself, spring was months away. Anything could happen between now and then.

She pasted on a bright smile and turned back to him. “A Season. Well. How good of you to think of me. But I pray that you will not go to any difficulties on my behalf.”

His own confident smile faltered. “It is no difficulty at all, I assure you.”

Julia shook her head. “I would never want to be a burden to you. A Season is so much trouble, such expense! I am really too old, you know, and I am sure I would not take. But it is so good of you to think of it!” She gathered up her basket and stood. “It is becoming rather warm out, and I have letters to write before supper. If you will excuse me?”

Marcus bowed. “Certainly. We can speak further about this at supper.”

“Yes, of course. At supper.” She nodded and smiled again, then hurried off toward the safety of the house. If she had
her
wish, they would never speak of it again.

***

Marcus watched Julia’s blue-clad figure as she marched down the pathway, her back as stiff and straight as a soldier’s. Every twitch of her skirt, every jerk of her head, spoke of her irritation.

Women!
If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand them.

He sat back down on the bench and ran his hands through his hair, leaving the short curls sticking straight. He was too confused by the enigma that was Julia Barclay.

Why would she be angered by his offer of a Season? Any other woman would have been overjoyed at the chance to go to Town, to attend parties and have someone else pay the bills. Any other woman would have been relieved to know that someone was looking out for her welfare, for her future.

Not Julia. He had the distinct impression that she was disappointed by his plans. Her hazel eyes had flashed furiously at him before she quickly veiled them in blandness.

Obviously, he had missed something vital, and now she considered him a clumsy cabbage head who had no clue as to what might make a lady truly happy.

That stung a bit. Certainly the ladies he had known in Paris and Florence and Cairo had been happy to receive his thoughtfully considered gifts, and had thanked him very prettily. They had never palmed him off with patently false excuses and then stalked away, as Julia had.

For some reason, he found himself very much wanting to make Julia happy. He wanted her to smile at him again, in the easy way she had when they first met in the lane, before she knew who he was. He wanted her eyes to sparkle with laughter.

And the damnable thing was, his desire to see her happy had nothing to do with any obligation he felt toward his father’s memory. Not that he was quite prepared to admit that, even to himself.

How could he possibly find out what would make this woman, who was unlike anyone he had ever known, smile at him again?

***

“Then
he offered me a Season!” Julia, who had gone straight from the garden to Agnes’s room, cried out the last of her tale. “Can you imagine?”

Agnes smiled gently. “How dare he offer to pay for a Season, to help you find a suitable husband? The cad.”

Julia peeked up from where she had buried her face in the cushions of the chaise. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Just a bit, dear. Lord Ellston sounds quite generous to me. Doesn’t every girl dream of London balls, of capturing the attention of some handsome beau?”

“Not
this
girl.” Julia sat up against the cushions she had been buried in. “I had thought we were coming to understand each other. That he understood why I did not want to leave the neighborhood. I was beginning to think he would even let me move into the dower house. Then he said he was going to send me off to his cousin for the Season, to marry me off! And he looked so smug and satisfied, as if he were some rajah bestowing favors, and I should fall down at his feet in gratitude.”

Agnes laughed. “Oh, Julia! He
is
a man, you know. You cannot expect a man to understand such subtleties. No doubt the women he has known before
have
fallen at his feet in gratitude for his gifts. I’m sure you are the first one who hasn’t, and he doesn’t know what to do with you.”

Julia grinned. “I have no doubt you are right, Agnes. You should have seen him when I refused his offer of a Season! He looked quite like a trout who has suddenly landed out of water. At least we needn’t worry about him for very much longer.”

“How so?”

“He told me that Gerald’s bequest to me was very generous. When you all leave on tour, I will come with you and look all about England for the most agreeable cottage to purchase. A cottage would be a much better investment than a dowry, I think. Then I shall have a home of my own, just as I have always wanted.” She plucked at the fringed trim of the cushion as she thought of living in her snug cottage far away from Rosemount. All alone.

“You don’t seem terribly enthusiastic about the whole idea,” Agnes observed.

Julia looked up in surprise. “Do I not?”

“No. You seem rather . . . wistful. What did you think would happen when Lord Ellston came back to Rosemount?”

Julia shrugged. “Exactly this, I suppose. That my life would have to change its course. I just never expected . . .”

“To like Lord Ellston?”

So the truth came out. Yes, she
did
like Marcus. More than she would ever have expected to, more than she wanted to. He had behaved so badly four years ago that she had thought she would despise him. But he was not the arrogant, humorless lout she had imagined.

It made an already complicated situation even worse. She already didn’t want to leave Rosemount; it would be terrible if she didn’t want to leave Marcus, as well.

“You are too perceptive for my own good, Agnes,” she said.

“Just be careful, Julia.”

“I am always careful. Especially now that you are all relying on me so.”

“It is not that. It is just that, well, that we would hate to see you hurt.”

“I will not be hurt. But it is so very nice to have friends to worry about me. I should go change for supper. It is getting late.” She blew Agnes an airy kiss and went off down the corridor to her own room.

Elly, her maid, had already been there to build up the fire and lay out a pale yellow silk gown for Julia to wear to supper.

And, on her dressing table, sat a very large bouquet.

It glowed with the autumn colors of the flowers in the gardens, gold and saffron and burgundy. It was tied up with red-and-gold striped ribbons, and a carefully folded note was tucked among the petals.

It was the first bouquet she had ever received from anyone except her stepfather.

She unfolded the note, and read the words scrawled there in a bold, black hand:

My dear Miss Barclay
,

Please forgive my presumptuousness of this afternoon. London is indeed not for everyone, as I well know. Perhaps we could discuss any ideas you may have after supper?

Sincerely,

Your friend,

Marcus.

Julia smiled softly and tucked the note carefully away in her jewel case, to be taken out and reread later.