Winter Garden (5 page)

“It sounds as if I will be enlightened,” she replied with only half interest in the topic, clinging to her cup, and the hope that he'd not realize how taken with him she had become in one short day.

His forehead creased in frown. “Have you something appropriate to wear? I didn't think of that.”

His pragmatic concern waylaid her fears, and she smiled wryly. Just like a man not to recognize the attraction. “I brought one gown for each possible social occasion, but with minimal trunk space I could only carry three of them in addition to the one I wore yesterday.” Without thought, she admitted, “You will likely tire of seeing me wear the same things repeatedly.”

“I doubt it,” he countered very quickly.

That small compliment, coming from his mouth in
honest disclosure, warmed her more than the tea in her hands. She stared into his eyes, almost brazenly watching him as he gradually became aware of what he'd said. Then he grew serious and looked away. “A translator wouldn't have a spectacular wardrobe anyway. It will better fit your role if you appear less sophisticated and extravagant.”

A marvelously reasonable answer, she mused; and what she herself had rationally considered.

“As for today,” he continued before she could comment, “I thought we could walk through the village so that you can get a feel of it and learn something about the area, perhaps even call on one or two prominent residents.”

“A very good idea,” she agreed pleasantly, taking another sip of her tea. Slowly she lowered her cup, studying the creamy liquid for a moment in contemplation. “Thomas, we've been together for nearly a day, sleeping under the same roof, taking meals at the same table, and yet we have discussed nothing more than our assignment and the weather.” She paused for effect, then added, “Don't you think we should learn a few things about each other if we are to be living together indefinitely?”

He turned back to her, and she raised her lashes to peer into his eyes, offering him a small, challenging smile.

“What would you like to know?” he asked pensively.

She was really hoping for more than that. “Are you married?” she inquired, trying to keep the tension from her voice and knowing that the question had been driven by agonizing curiosity on her part. It surprised him, too, but she really knew that only intuitively.

“No,” he murmured in quiet diffidence, “although I was once.”

Her eyes grew round with interest she couldn't hide. She was also thankfully relieved he couldn't possibly be aware of her enormous satisfaction.

“I see,” she responded sedately, hoping he'd clarify. He didn't disappoint.

Breathing deeply, he leaned forward on the bench, elbows on knees, rubbing his fingers together to ward off the cold as he shifted his focus to the lake. “Her name was Bernadette. She died twelve years ago, giving birth to my stillborn daughter. I have one living child, William, now fifteen, who's enrolled in a Viennese boarding school.” Faintly he concluded, “There's really nothing else about me to know personally. I fought in the war, I work for the government now, and I live a very quiet life in Eastleigh.”

“I suppose you miss your son,” she said rather than asked. “And your wife.”

“I miss my son every day,” he admitted through a sigh, “but he's a gifted violinist and needs to be where the great tutors are if he is to become great himself. Sometimes I miss my wife as well, but she's been gone for a long time.”

Madeleine grew cautious. She didn't want to pry and yet she fully believed there was more to him than he chose to disclose. He was a complex man, that much she'd gathered, and his silence was a shield. Her best option for getting him to confide was to open up to him.

“I was never married,” she revealed too brightly, raising her mug to her lips again. The contents were nearly cold, and she drank what remained then leaned over to place it on the forest floor. “I've never wanted
to bind myself in such a manner, and I've never wanted children. I enjoy the life of challenge and excitement offered me by the British government without the necessity of being tied to a husband.”

He gazed down to the thick grass, twisting his foot and pushing the sole of his boot into hard wooden twigs and fallen pine needles until they cracked. For a moment she was certain he almost smiled.

“I would like to marry again,” he thoughtfully admitted. “There are many advantages that come with such a union—”

“For a man,” she cut in, eyes glowing as he lightened the mood. “As a woman I would prefer those advantages outside of wedlock.”

He glanced at her sideways, studying her face. “I'm not sure we're discussing the same advantages, Madeleine.”

She smiled companionably and sat straighter on the bench. “I'm sure that we are. I'm twenty-nine years old, Thomas, and French. I wouldn't call myself naive. I refuse to be someone's property to enjoy him.”

Her first thought upon that admission was that he might be shocked by her very frank tongue. He wasn't. For seconds he just looked at her, and then, for the first time since they'd met, his mouth grew broad until he grinned fully, showing near-perfect teeth and a face that looked years younger. Boyish. In that instant, sitting on the edge of the woods near a shimmering, peaceful lake, Thomas Blackwood charmed her, and she felt a slow rising heat within, deliciously comforting and ridiculously capricious.

“Perhaps you've simply not met a man who warms your blood with the kind of desire that lasts, Made
leine,” he suggested in a deep, intimate whisper. “The kind that's never satiated but instead makes you always yearn for more. The kind that makes you want to hold on and never let go.”

The fact that he hinted at something she nearly felt made the heat rise to her cheeks. She blushed fully, which she almost never did. He recognized it, too, as his eyes once more grazed her features, his expression soft.

She dropped her lashes and fidgeted on the bench, reaching into the pockets of her cloak for her gloves with more of a need for something to do rather than for the warmth they provided. She pulled one first over her left hand, then the other. “You talk as if you've felt that kind of devotion for a woman.”

“Do I.”

It wasn't a question but a simple statement void of implying a needed response on her part. That made her slightly uncomfortable and even more inquisitive. She wanted details but bit her tongue to keep from probing, and in the end he offered nothing else.

She sighed purposely, turning her attention to the lake. “Perhaps you're right, Thomas. But I've accepted my station. I'm too old for marriage, and as I have never experienced that kind of devotion to or from a man, I have serious doubts that I ever will. I'm not sure I would even recognize such romantic feelings at my age. Passion, yes. Romance, no.”

He shrugged lightly, which she perceived more than saw. “One can feel it at any age, Madeleine. Of course, it won't happen if you close yourself off and never allow it into your life, but then that would be your choice.”

His tone was casual, but his words were explicit,
cautionary in a manner not meant to insult, vivid with meaning.

“My work means too much to me, Thomas,” she countered somewhat defensively. “That must always come first.”

He sat back, relaxing against the bench once more, crossing one booted leg over the other. “I understand that kind of devotion as well.”

She was sure he meant that assertion. Yet he couldn't possibly know the depth of hers, and she had no idea how to explain it to him should she try.

Abruptly her attention shifted to the opposite side of the lake where a man emerged from a thicket, sitting atop a large gray horse as it meandered along the path toward them near the water's edge.

“Is that him?”

“That's him,” Thomas answered warily.

Prior conversation abandoned, Madeleine leaned forward earnestly and focused on the baron, assessing him as well as she could over the distance. He wore riding clothes of dark blue, but he was too far away for her to determine their quality. His hair was sandy red and cut in standard fashion, his skin pale and clean-shaven aside from long side whiskers, body average in size although his legs and arms were strong. His expression was hard with effort at that moment, but she could visualize him as the handsome charmer at social functions, and he rode with the experience of one well trained.

As if on cue, his concentration faltered. He peered out over the water, slowing his horse's gait as he became aware of them for the first time. He stared at them while continuing to move slowly along the forest path, no nod
or wave of acknowledgment, no smile on his face, eyes black and shrewd. Calculating.

He's clever. And he's watching me.

A gust of icy wind unsettled the air, lifting fallen leaves and stirring them, rustling trees, rippling the water. Still he never took his eyes from them, from her. For the first time since she'd walked outside that morning, utter cold seeped through her clothing, chilling her skin, and she shivered.

Thomas either felt or saw her reaction. In one even movement he reached behind her and lifted the hood of her cloak, slowly, running his palm along the edge then pulling it tightly in at her neck. The fur caressed her face, and she grasped it herself, her gloved hand touching his for several seconds until he dropped it again at his side.

She pulled her attention from the baron and once more regarded the man beside her. Their eyes met, and a glimmer of something passed between them—not sexual exactly, but something with grave meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Then, in a bolt of clarity, it was there before her, and her eyes grew wide in comprehension and amazement.

The gesture he'd innocently made in raising her hood was more than simple gentlemanly behavior. It was as calculated as the look she'd witnessed from Richard Sharon, an overt move of direct intention. It meant possession, in a silent communication from one man to another. It meant possession. Thomas had acted, and the baron had seen it.

“Are you ready to go inside?” he asked gently.

She blinked then wavered and turned back to the lake. Baron Rothebury had disappeared into the low trees.

“I suppose so,” she mumbled, feeling the dull ache in her head again, flustered by her own concerns.

He stood, offering his arm which she took without thought. She reached down for her empty tea mug then walked silently behind him through the tunnel of foliage, wondering at her confusion, wondering if he was as inexplicably attracted to her as she was to him, wondering if his show of possession was actually something he felt or was only just performance.

M
adeleine's impatience made her uncommonly fitful. For the good part of forty-five minutes she'd been a guest at Mrs. Sarah Rodney's lavish country home, nibbling dry pudding cakes that certainly lacked pudding, and sipping weak tea, listening to her hostess and four other ladies gossip outrageously while they fairly ignored her presence except for an occasional remark and glance at her person as if she were an unwanted but highly intriguing and colorful insect. Granted, they had little in common with her beyond the social graces one needs to commune in genteel fashion. Madeleine herself had learned her grace not from growing up with discipline and training like these ladies, but by observance, practice, polishing, and then becoming. She was essentially one of them and they didn't like it, not that they could find anything wrong with
her
precisely. But she was French, and they simply
found that affronting, irrationally unforgivable, feelings they tried only superficially to hide. This made her burn inside. She was half English as well, but that was a secret she couldn't reveal without also revealing, to some degree, her scandalous birth. Doing so would draw questions she wasn't prepared to answer, and foster a pity she couldn't bear. This was primarily why she chose to live her life in France instead of England, despising her French heritage and all that the culture stood for while using her assumed station in life to help the country she loved, and its people who would always consider her an outsider because they didn't know.

Madeleine sat on a small, white, wrought-iron chair, straight-backed with a hard, rounded seat, into which her body fit snugly though the others were undoubtedly squeezed painfully. That gave her a fair amount of satisfaction. She helped herself to her second pudding cake—not because she wanted another but because it gave her something to do with her restless hands.

Together, the six of them had taken their places around the matching wrought-iron table, now covered with a white lace tablecloth, fine pink china, and wedged into the southwest corner of Mrs. Rodney's sweet smelling, flower-filled conservatory. It was the first sunny day since the afternoon of her arrival in Winter Garden nearly one week ago, and although it was cold outside, the large conservatory windows absorbed the sunlight and warmed the air as if it were summer.

She sat with her back to the sun, in her day gown of pale plum silk that, although rich in fabric and modest in cut, had a medium full skirt accentuated by two large, flowing bows in creamy yellow near the hem, and a square neckline and tapered waist fringed with lace of
the same color. The bodice fit snugly but conservatively, the wide cuffed sleeves were at three-quarter length, and with her plaited hair coiled becomingly at the back of her head, she looked every bit the conventional young widow dressed for an afternoon of calling.

The Lady Isadora Birmingham sat to her right. She was a vibrant woman in her midsixties, pink-cheeked and lively, softly rounded in figure, probably lovely in her early years, and the only one of the group to allow Madeleine any kind regard, as she'd asked a question or two of her with actual interest in the reply.

Mrs. Catherine Mossley occupied the next seat, a corpulent woman who continued to stuff pudding cakes into her mouth while she talked, which was incessantly. She was a lady in only the broadest stretch of the word, for she had the table manners of a country hog, in Madeleine's opinion. But undeniably, making her worthy of an invitation, she also had wealth bestowed upon her by her late husband who realized a fortune in the gas industry before his untimely demise in an industrial fire that fortunately left his money and good name intact.

Next to Mrs. Mossley, and directly across from Madeleine, rested the sober but erect figure of Mrs. Penelope Bennington-Jones, followed by her daughter, Desdemona Winsett. Mrs. Bennington-Jones possessed shrewd black eyes, coarse brown hair streaked with silver, and a nose like a hawk's. She was large of stature, though not particularly fat, and not in the least attractive. She was, by far, the keenest of the bunch, however. She looked upon Madeleine's presence as an intrusion, occasionally glowering at her with a scorn she couldn't hide. She was the greatest threat at the table.

Desdemona was entirely different from her mother. A rather homely, fair-haired bride of nineteen, she'd been married only two months to an Army officer now away on duty, but she was already showing signs of pregnancy. This would probably be one of her last outings before socially retiring to await the birth, as her baby, by Madeleine's estimation, would arrive sooner than the expected and normal nine months of carrying. Of course, the family would be saved from direct scandal by declaring the child early but amazingly strong, large, and healthy, which would likely go unproved but not unheeded as society whispered about it secretly. Desdemona bore a particular shyness of personality that, when coupled with a domineering mother, encouraged pity. And although she'd hardly spoken to anyone beyond initial introductions, Madeleine knew the youngest lady found having a Frenchwoman in their midst strangely fascinating. Desdemona stared at her continuously from across the table while sipping her tea.

To complete the circle, Sarah Rodney, the acknowledged Winter Garden historian, and their hostess, sat at Madeleine's left. She personified an Englishwoman in every sense of the word, down to her pale skin, generous bust and hips, soft demeanor, white hair and exquisite manners. Madeleine thought Mrs. Rodney to be outwardly charming and intelligent, but inwardly flawed in that her invitation to a socially acceptable Frenchwoman was predicated not on kindness or hospitality, but on curiosity and the underlying desire to discover flaws.

The conversation had been about nothing that mattered so far, starting with superficial chatter about the unusually cold autumn weather and everybody's health,
including that of Lady Claire Childress, who had been invited but was feeling too poorly to attend, which apparently had become a frequent occurrence. The topics from there flowed naturally into more confidential gossip regarding Winter Garden residents and those just coming south for the season. Madeleine listened raptly, adding her own comments where appropriate, though being generally ignored where it wasn't socially required to acknowledge her opinions. Finally, after two cups of tea, filled for her by the ever present but silent servants who stood between the rhododendrons and African violets as if nothing more than decoration for the colorful room, she wanted to turn the talk in a direction to help her.

Lifting her lace napkin and pressing it gently to her lips, effectively informing them all that she was about to speak, she turned to her hostess.

“Mrs. Rodney,” she started thoughtfully, “I was wondering who owns the large house on the far shores of the lake? It's a lovely piece of property, and quite unlike the other homes I've seen in Winter Garden.”

Silence ensued, and Madeleine feigned ignorance to the fact that they all seemed rather taken aback by her audacious interruption and outright turn in conversation. Or maybe it wasn't the manner of her questioning but the desire to discuss the baron?

Mrs. Rodney cleared her throat and leaned slightly to her left. “I believe you mean the manor house owned by Richard Sharon, the Baron Rothebury,” she said rather than asked.

“Such a charming man,” Mrs. Mossley interjected quickly.

Mrs. Bennington-Jones raised her cup to her lips
with delicate fingers and took a slow sip of her tea. “Indeed he is, Mrs. Mossley. I would have been very happy had he chosen my lovely Desdemona to wed, but alas, she had her mind set on marrying Mr. Winsett.” She gave her daughter a guarded, look, hard as steel. Desdemona, flushing scarlet, lowered her eyes to her lap, fidgeting with the peach lace on her skirt.

“The baron is Winter Garden's most eligible bachelor, Mrs. DuMais,” Lady Isadora properly explained. “He is a year-long resident. Of course, he is titled, handsome, and not without a good family name and substantial means.”

Madeleine smiled and nodded as expected. “A marvelous prospect for any family.” She glanced again to Desdemona now sitting rigidly in her chair. Subduing her irritation at the lady's mother who, like so many others, including her own, used her daughter as a pawn, she added, “Any lady would be fortunate to marry a baron, I suppose. But young ladies today, and even some young gentlemen, are more often marrying for love instead of financial and social stability. At least it seems to be that way in France.”

Desdemona's gaze shot up to meet hers, and Madeleine couldn't decide if the lady looked frightened or appalled. The others had no idea what to say in reply, which was exactly what she'd anticipated.

Mrs. Bennington-Jones took the cue. “I suppose you married for love, then, Madame DuMais?”

The Englishwoman's use of the title “Madame” instead of “Mrs.” had every intention of reminding them all of Madeleine's place at the table. But more significantly, she recognized the underlying suggestion that as a Frenchwoman she might somehow be whimsical
by nature, perhaps even loose. It gave her the opening she needed.

“Goodness, no,” she said with some surprise, staring the woman straight in the eye. “My marriage was arranged, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, as my husband was from an excellent family—tea traders all of them—with sufficient means and respectability. I have been most fortunate since my wedding day, although from time to time I miss my dear Georges. He was lost at sea several years ago.”

“How very sad,” Mrs. Mossley remarked with feeling.

Madeleine shrugged negligibly, dropping her gaze and reaching for her fork to slice another piece of cake. “Yes, but the sea takes many souls each year, Mrs. Mossley,” she said frankly, “and I was not unaware of the risks when I married him.”

Ever the practical widow, well mannered and well married. One or two ladies nodded with genuine, growing approval of her.

After swallowing a very small bite, she turned back to her hostess to revert to her original query. “And the baron's house, Mrs. Rodney? Has it always been in the family?” If the woman noticed she was pressing for information she didn't show it.

“Oh, yes, it's been the Rothebury estate for…nine or ten generations now. It's lovely inside, and parts of it are quite old actually. The family has enlarged it through the years.” Her wide forehead crinkled gently as her eyes focused on pink carnations in the center of the table. “I recall that it was once a monastery of some kind, or at least the foundation upon which the house is now built was part of a structure belonging to the church several centuries ago.” She glanced up to her
guests again and lowered her voice. “Some records indicate, or rather”—she patted her lips with her napkin—“rumor suggests it was a haven for those not afflicted with the Black Death.”

Madeleine glanced around the table. Everyone's attention was now thoroughly engaged, as was hers, but, of course, for different reasons.

“To hide from those individuals who were diseased?” Lady Isadora asked with genuine titillation.

“To keep from succumbing themselves, I should think,” Mrs. Mossley corrected with an air of assurance, wiping crumbs from her mouth with her fingertips. “If one secures oneself from the outside world, disease can be avoided.”

Mrs. Bennington-Jones scoffed. “Nonsense. If God chooses to cast down affliction, nothing can be done to avoid it.”

Quiet filled the room for a moment as those words were absorbed. Then Lady Isadora shook her head slowly. “But who would take shelter there? Clergy?” Her own answer satisfied her, and she sat back in her chair. “I suppose that would explain who was inside and why they lived through the Death. Men of God would not be afflicted.”

Madeleine reached for her tea, bringing her cup to her lips. “But men of God are still men. They succumb to temptation, illness, and death as do laymen.”

Every woman at the table looked stung by that.

Mrs. Rodney cleared her throat again, this time purposely. “I believe, Mrs. DuMais, that with the good Lord's help and guidance, men of the cloth would have sense enough to close themselves off from the outside world until the threat of danger is passed.”

Madeleine took another sip. “You're suggesting, Mrs. Rodney, that the baron's home once posed as a fortress of sorts for those seeking shelter?”

“Precisely,” she returned with a drop of her thick chin.

“But they would still need to eat and provide for essentials,” she argued pleasantly. “The Black Death lasted for several years. Surely those inside could not go that long without food and supplies.”

Mrs. Bennington-Jones smiled at her flatly. “Monasteries are equipped with the land and means to provide, Madame DuMais. I should think they are the same in France?”

Madeleine nodded once in acknowledgment, holding her tongue graciously of a retort that food alone wouldn't be the only thing needed for survival, but also firewood and oil among the many, as well as messages from the outside world that would allow those inside contact with others. She didn't need to say anything. Everyone else knew it, too.

Mrs. Mossley stuffed her mouth with the last of her cake. “Maybe they all died.” She smiled broadly at her own sense of humor as she chewed. “What I mean is that it's just a story. Mrs. Rodney even said it's more rumor than fact. The Black Death occurred five hundred years ago. One cannot be certain of events that took place so far back in history.”

There was silence for another long moment, then Desdemona offered softly, “I've heard…rumors of lights in the night and ghosts on Baron Rothebury's property. Maybe they're all dead clergy—”

“Oh, for heaven sake, Desdemona,” her mother interjected, annoyed. “There are no ghosts. Clergy do not
become ghosts. Your imagination is beyond the incredible.”

Desdemona sank lower in her chair, looking sufficiently scolded. Mrs. Rodney attempted to clear the air.