The Book Of Scandal (14 page)

“Of course!” Evelyn grabbed Harriet and hugged her tightly. “I am so pleased to see you! This is the best surprise I might have hoped for.”

Harriet smiled a little. “I am hungry,” she said. “I’ve been wanting oatcakes.”

“Benton! Benton!” Evelyn called. She put her hands on Harriet’s shoulders, turning her about as Benton appeared from the dressing room. “This is my dear, dear friend, Lady Harriet French. She desperately needs a hot chocolate and some oatcakes.”

“At once, my lady,” Benton said, clicking his heels and bowing low before Harriet.

Evelyn leaned down and whispered, “Go with Benton now. I’ll finish up here and meet you when you’ve had your fill.”

The girl nodded and allowed Benton to lead her out. Kathleen shut the door behind them and turned to Evelyn.

“Did you hear what happened?” Evelyn asked anxiously.

“Did I hear? All of London has heard it, mu’um!”

“Oh no!”

“Lady Balfour put it out that you’d gone off with Dunhill,” Kathleen continued, her face pinched with displeasure.

“She didn’t!”

“Aye, she did indeed, and it had Her Highness quite distraught. But then word came from Sir Wilkes that you’d gone home with your husband and Her Highness was at peace again. Naturally, everyone speculated it was because of that awful to-do between the Prince and Princess of Wales and that you and Lord Dunhill knew something about the prince that you oughtn’t.”

“I don’t!” Evelyn insisted.

Kathleen’s expression was skeptical. “Her Highness thinks you are protecting her brother and bids you stay here lest you be questioned. They are rounding up people, you know, especially gentlemen Princess Caroline is suspected of…” Kathleen colored. “You know very well what I mean.”

“Yes,” Evelyn said. “But what of Harriet?”

“Oh, that woman!” Kathleen said, pulling a face. “For the life of me, I don’t know why you call her a friend! She went off to Bath for the weekend and said Lord Balfour would come for the girl. Just left the poor thing behind as if she were a hat. Well, Lord Balfour didn’t come, and Lady Balfour didn’t return as she said she would, and when I was sent for, the queen said it wasn’t proper for the girl to be there at Buckingham as if she were an orphan, that Princess Caroline might take her in and call her her own, so I sent word to Lady Balfour that the girl had come with me. Lady Balfour is to come for her when she returns from her holiday.”

“Oh my. You did the right thing, Kathleen.”

Kathleen nodded curtly and began to tidy the room.

“W-what of Dunhill…did he come for me?” Evelyn asked meekly.

Kathleen did not look at her as she straightened the bedcovers. “No…but it wouldn’t do to give rise to more rumors,” she said. “It was thoughtful of him not to come.”

It didn’t feel very thoughtful, Evelyn thought morosely.

“Oh, ’tis good to be back! I’ll just put these things away,” Kathleen said, and picking up a small portmanteau, she walked into the adjoining dressing room.

The news from London made Evelyn feel restive and unsettled again. “I’m going to take Harriet for a walk,” she announced, and followed Kathleen into the dressing room to find a muffler in one of the trunks. As she dug through one, her hand touched something hard and cool. She pushed aside several articles of clothing and accessories and withdrew the Limoges music box. She opened the hand-painted lid; the dancing couple popped up and instantly began twirling in one another’s arms to a Handel tune.

It had been an extravagant and dangerous gift from Pierce and she ought not to have kept it…but she had. Kathleen had always believed it came from Mary. Evelyn had never disabused her of the notion.

When she’d found her muffler, she told Kathleen she’d be back after Harriet had a chance to stretch her legs. She put the music box on the mantel of her bedchamber and quit the room.

By the time Evelyn and Harriet made it outside, a wind was kicking up, and a thin covering of clouds was approaching from the north.

With her arm around Harriet for warmth, Evelyn showed her the grounds. They were immaculate, particularly the parterres in the back of the house, where flowers bloomed so gloriously in the spring. And of course, there was the small, overgrown, and mostly moribund rose garden, which had once been renowned. Evelyn did not show Harriet that small space.

Instead, she pointed out a row of beech trees along the service road. “See the trees?” Evelyn said. “His lordship and I planted them many years ago. They were only half the size they are now.”

She could remember standing next to Nathan, watching men plant them, one after another. “We shall watch them grow like children,” she’d said laughingly, but Nathan had given her a startled look. “I suppose,” he’d said.

He’d gone off with his friends that afternoon.

“They’re very nice,” Harriet admitted. “But I prefer flowering trees. My grandfather grows flowering trees. Where does that lead?” she asked, pointing to the path that led down to the river.

“That is a lovely walk along the river. If you’re not too cold, we could take it.”

Harriet said that she wasn’t the slightest bit cold, so Evelyn took her down the path to where it narrowed along the river’s banks. It was narrower than Evelyn remembered—extremely so—there was scarcely enough room for a wagon to pass. The slightest mistake and a wagon would topple right into the river. Nevertheless, Evelyn had always loved this path. It was rustic and picturesque and removed from everything. In a moment of abandon, she glanced over her shoulder, and determining that no one was about, she took Harriet by the hand and said, “Let’s run!”

Harriet’s eyes lit with delight. The two of them ran, just for the sake of it, because they were free to do so, because there was no one there to tell them that ladies did not run.

They ran until the path curved, where Evelyn had to slow her step and press a hand to the stitch in her side. With the river rushing below her, she laughed at herself. When she’d caught her breath, she shouted, “Harriet! Where are you, halfway to the sea?”

There was no answer.

Evelyn began walking briskly, her muffler swinging at her side, looking up through the bare branches of the trees at the pale blue sky. She found Harriet ahead, at a fence railing, gazing upon a thatched-roof cottage. Evelyn knew the cottage and believed it belonged to the gamekeeper. Someone was about; smoke was rising from its single chimney.

“It’s lovely,” Harriet said. “I should like to live there.”

Evelyn laughed. Beneath the boughs of a pair of old elm trees, on the banks of the river, it was an idyllic setting, but Harriet was destined for a far grander house, and Evelyn said so.

But Harriet shook her head. “I should like to live in a cottage. People who live in cottages are quite happy, I think.”

Evelyn didn’t say anything to that, but she rather supposed anywhere Harriet might live would be happier than her current circumstance.

They stood silently, admiring the cottage. Having been in London all these years, with the crowds and noises and the perpetual haze that seemed to hang over the city, Evelyn had forgotten how beautiful the grounds at Eastchurch were. It was little wonder there were so many landscape portraits hanging on the walls—the earls of Lindsey had wanted to preserve it for all eternity.

The door suddenly swung open, startling them. Evelyn grabbed Harriet and pushed her behind her as an elderly man wearing a leather apron emerged carrying a wooden bucket. He had a three-or four-day shadow of gray beard and a tuft of gray hair that stood up from the crown of his head. He paused when he saw them, and bobbed his head. “Afternoon.”

“I beg your pardon, sir—”

“I’d heard tell you returned to the abbey,” he said, and tossed the contents of his bucket—a rust-colored liquid—onto the ground. Two hens appeared from nowhere and began pecking the spill, looking for food.

Did she know him? “I…I beg your pardon again, sir. I’m afraid I don’t recall—”

“Oh, I’ve not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” he said matter-of-factly, and eyed her closely. “But I know who you are.”

The way he looked at her made Evelyn a little nervous. She glanced at the path behind her, looking for a quick escape.

“I live just over the hill there,” he continued, drawing Evelyn’s attention again. Harriet stepped out of her shadow, staring curiously at the man. “I come round each day to help his lordship with the plants.” He shook the bucket to ensure it was empty, then at Evelyn. “I’ve long had an interest in his work.”

She had no idea what he meant. “His work,” she repeated, trying to imagine what that might be. Gambling? Hunting?

“The botany.”

The word did not quite register with her. She must have looked a little dumbfounded, because Harriet said, “I think that means science.”

The old man chuckled, put the bucket aside, and squinted at them. “Don’t know of his lordship’s work, eh?” When Evelyn slowly shook her head, he gestured for them to come in through the gate.

Harriet followed him instantly, and therefore, so did Evelyn.

“I’ve been working here for nigh on fifteen years,” the man said to Evelyn. “The lad is just inside. Come, then, and I’ll show you a bit of it.”

Her curiosity won over her suspicions.

“Milburn is me name,” he said as he opened the door and held it open. “I was a tenant on these lands for thirty years until me back gave out. His lordship took pity on me, he did, and I’ve been tending to his work since.”

“I don’t understand,” Evelyn said.

Milburn gestured for them to precede him. Harriet disappeared into the darkened interior. Evelyn had to bat some of the roof’s thatching that had come loose away from her face as she stepped across the threshold. A cheerful fire was burning at the hearth where a small kettle hung. The air was filled with the sweet smell of lavender. As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she noticed the boy who quickly doffed his hat and held it nervously in his hands. “Frances!” she exclaimed happily.

He looked at her with his big, brown eyes, and his hair stood up every which way.

“I’ve not seen you since our drive from London! Is this where you’ve been keeping yourself?”

Frances looked at Harriet.

“Oh, forgive me. This is Lady Harriet French. Harriet, may I introduce you to Master Frances Brady?”

They eyed one another until Frances announced proudly, “I am his lordship’s helper.”

“I am her ladyship’s friend,” Harriet instantly responded.

“The lad helps with this,” Milburn said, indicating a long, wooden table that stretched almost the entire length of the room. On that table were plants in various stages of growth. Some of them were tall, reaching almost to the ceiling. Some of them were so small she could barely see them over the tops of the little clay pots. On the walls were shelves full of beakers and vials and cups, some of them containing liquids, some of them empty.

Evelyn stepped deeper inside and untied the strings of her bonnet. “I smell lavender.”

“His lordship is working to graft various lavender plants to create a more potent oil.”

Evelyn looked at him curiously.

“For medicinal purposes,” Milburn said. He picked up a small clay pot and carefully fingered the plant. “It is the oils,” he said. “The plants his lordship have produced have greater medicinal properties than the lavender that grows wild.”

Evelyn looked at the table with the plants, at the vials and the leather-bound ledgers neatly stacked on the table. Harriet picked one up and opened it. A little cloud of dust rose up—it had obviously been there for some time. “Are we speaking of my husband? The Earl of Lindsey?”

Milburn’s grin was missing a couple of teeth. “Lord Lindsey has done some very fine work in the botanical sciences, mu’um. I grant you, it’s not a well-known fact among the gentry, but in the science, his work is quite well respected.”

Evelyn gaped at him incredulously. “What? How? When might he have done these things? In the last three years?” she asked as she tried to comprehend how he could have gone from a libertine to a…a scientist.

“Oh no, much longer than that. On and off since he was a lad, really.” Milburn put the little pot aside. “He’s taken a keener interest in the last few years, aye.”

He proceeded to show her the plants in various stages of growth, with Frances’s help, of course, who chimed in with what he’d done to assist Lord Lindsey. His comments, Evelyn couldn’t help notice, were directed at Harriet, who countered with the things she and Evelyn had done. Frances did not seem to be terribly impressed with dancing, however.

There were notebooks that contained Nathan’s familiar scrawl and meticulous notes, dating back twelve years. There were gaps, she noted as she ran her fingers over the leather-bound notebooks; the year they had married, for example. The two years in which Robbie was born and died. He’d not resumed his notes until three years ago, but there were several notebooks containing his work since then.

Frankly, Evelyn didn’t know if she felt betrayed or strangely proud. How was it she did not know this about him? Why had he never mentioned his work in this small cottage?

“May she try the oil, Mr. Milburn?” Frances asked.

He opened a small brown vial; a very fragrant scent of lavender filled the room. Evelyn and Harriet held out their fingers, onto which Milburn dabbed a drop so small Evelyn could barely feel it. “Only a drop is needed,” he said.

Evelyn quickly dabbed it behind her ears and onto her wrists. Her nose filled with the sweet scent, prompting a host of memories, such as walking to church on Sunday mornings. Or taking tea in her mother’s garden.

And another, far more distant morning, shortly after they were married, when Nathan had awakened her with his hands and mouth and she had experienced true carnal pleasure for the first time in her life on bed linens scented with lavender.

The memory caused her to blush, and she picked up her muffler, stuffed her hands into it. “Thank you, Mr. Milburn and Master Brady, for showing us,” she said, nodding to the table. “I had not…that is to say, my husband never…” She did not finish her sentence. Why he’d kept this from her, why he’d failed to mention it, confounded her. Did he think she would criticize him? That she would not understand? That she would not care?