Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter Two

Itry to put the scene from my mind, but I cannot stop my daydreams. I do not expect to see him at church, but when I arrive at All Saints on Sunday morning, Philip stands in the churchyard receiving eager greetings from the congregation. One villager after another pushes through the gathering to speak to him. After his predecessor’s years of seclusion, everyone is keen to know the new power in the community, for the dukedom dominates activity in the whole region.

My very best friend, the vicar’s daughter, Betsy Preston, moves next to me as I watch the scene. “So, we have the new duke.”

“Indeed so,” I reply.

“I hope you will come home with us after the services. He has agreed to join us for a cold collation in the garden. I sent a note to your house to invite you and your brother, in case you did not make it here this morning.”

“William didn’t get out of bed before I left, nor did Papa.”

Betsy loves my only brother William and plots to become his wife.

“My father wants to spend the day with the man who appoints the vicar of All Saints parish, Aberham. The duke will decide our future, you know.”

“Yes,” I agree. I doubt replacing the vicar would even occur to him when he has so many problems to confront, but Betsy might not see it that way. I watch the new duke talk with many, receiving condolences for the death of his uncle or congratulations on accession. Perhaps a combination of both. I find it startling to see him clad in all black, looking solemn as if he accomplished some deed himself, instead of merely surviving an elderly relative and stepping into a role long anticipated. I can hardly believe he is the sturdy fellow I watched yesterday, a sweaty chap stripped to the waist and swinging a long-handled axe as if he was an experienced forester instead of a newly-minted duke. Recalling his glistening shoulders and muscled arms causes an eager frisson to dance through me.

“What in the world are you thinking about, Meg?” Betsy asks, moving beside me.

I instantly release my lower lip from between my teeth. “Just watching that nodcock Philip strut among his minions,” I whisper and draw a deep breath. “You would think his new status was his own achievement instead of an accident of birth.”

“Nevertheless, he has to rescue the sagging fortunes of the Aberfeld holdings. After the services, Papa wants us to make an amiable impression after the new duke’s many years away from this neighborhood.”

“I’m not sure I should be joining your party. He used to tease me mercilessly years ago and I despised his rudeness.” But the thought of him yesterday sends my heart into a tumult. Too much bare skin for my composure.

“Nonsense. I doubt he even remembers.”

And that, I surmise, is probably true. Why do I even care?

image-placeholder

I hope I won’t betray my strong reaction to seeing Philip shirtless once we are sitting in the vicarage garden. I give a little shiver, remembering the pounding in my heart, my trembling fingers and curled toes. I must remain aloof. Philip surely recalls how I disliked him because he and my brother attacked my dolls. As pirates or dragon-slayers, they carried off my miniature teacups and made me weep. He won’t assume I’ll be all smiles.

Once the pleasantries are behind us, the duke leans toward me and speaks in a soft voice. “I am pleased to see you again, Miss Bowen. How is your esteemed father?”

I return his smile. “He is well, still devoted to his study of the Romans.” Between his love for reading Cicero and supervision of our tenants, father grows more reclusive with every year. ”And William?”

“I suspect he will join us soon.”

“I surely hope so, as I miss our friendship.”

I remind Philip about their attacks on tea parties for my dolls, how mean they were to tip over the table and knock the dolls to the grass, and to rip off their bonnets. “Just to make me cry,” I finish.

Philip sighs. “We were loathsome indeed. I hope you are not still irritated with me for being such a keen invader.”

“It was a long time ago, the capers of rowdy boys.”

“Yes, we were mischievous.”

There are a few more antics I want to mention, but decide not to embarrass myself.

From a gangly seventeen, Philip has evolved into the very model of a Guardsman, tall and erect, probably haughty and pretentious, now that he is a duke. No matter what he looks like or how fast my pulse runs, I can give nothing away. Revealing how I spied on him would be too humiliating to survive.

Just as we are about to taste our lemonade, William arrives, spouting a weak excuse for missing the church service. My brother aims for the favor of Betsy, who in addition to being pretty and clever, returns his regard. The afternoon unfolds comfortably in the budding garden. When Betsy brings out some old battledore racquets, the duke is reluctant to play, but eventually joins in. The object is to keep a shuttlecock made of cork and chicken feathers in the air. The game is boisterous. We laugh as we try to prevent the shuttlecock falling to the ground with many wild swings and near misses, occasional squeals, and lots of stumbling about. The game is new to me, causing a great deal of hilarity and the occasional clash as some of us bump into one another. Toward the end of our exertions, I reach to bat the silly feathers higher into the air. In the process, I topple sideways into Philip. Together in a froth of muslin, we tumble to the ground with me on top of him, arms wrapped around each other, laughing and winded.

“Why Miss Bowen,” he says with a wide smile, “I did not know you cared.”

Breathless, I have no quick response. He whispers in my ear. “I see those little buds have blossomed quite handsomely.”

I realize my bosom is compressed on his chest. I try to scramble to my feet. My face reddens in full view of everyone. Our eyes meet. In silence, we slowly bring our faces together, then whirl away at the last possible moment and rise to our feet. Did he pull away? Or did I turn abruptly an instant before he did, saved from a stolen kiss. Was it a lucky save? Or the sad loss of a moment never to be recaptured?

Later, he responds to my praise of the game and the exercise, “It’s a child’s game. And for females of all ages.”

How dare you?I want to howl at him. But instead, I smile sweetly. “You looked like you were having fun to me, little boy.”

He frowns, as if he’s about to bluster at me. But then he grins and says, “Touché, Miss Bowen. Hoisted with my own petard.”

“What is a petard, anyway?”

“Something that blows up in the speaker’s face, in this situation. A powder charge.”

“Ah, indeed.” I send him a sarcastic smirk.

The vicar insists we all stay for Sunday dinner. I have no possibility of running home to lick my wounds. What colossal nerve Philip had to refer to my neckline. I wish I’d had an instant retort, a dig at his crudity. But since the moment has passed, if I try to insult him now, it will only call attention to my embarrassment.

Talk at the dinner table wanders into Philip’s impressions of his new world.

“How do you find the affairs of Aberfeld?” Mr. Preston inquires.

“Not at all what I hoped,” the duke replies. “His Grace, the ninth duke, long ago lost his verve for life. The men he relied on were either as old as he was or only too eager to line their own pockets at the dukedom’s expense.”

“You have rid yourself of them?” my brother asks.

“Sent the scoundrels packing. Found two of the faithful retainers a place to live on the estate, with pensions I hope I can fund. Several of the miscreants sold off moderately valuable possessions, but trying to recover anything is not worth the trouble. Nuisances I don’t have time for.”

The vicar continues. “So, what are your immediate goals?”

“Clearing land never replanted after the great frost of the seventh duke’s time. Chopping up old dead trees, cutting down the saplings and underbrush. How about joining in?” Philip nods to William. “Get your muscles working.”

I recall the suppleness of Philip’s sweaty back and its rippling skin as they go on talking with the vicar, who relates the old duke’s story of what he’d heard as a young man. In the winter of 1709, the cold brought loss of crops and near famine to the population. Later, floods finished the job of stripping Aberfeld and the entire country of most of its walnut trees.

Philip shakes his head in dismay. “Hard to believe that Uncle abandoned the care of the walnut plantations, even when he was in his prime. The wood is the best revenue source from the estate.”

“Who would have thought those nuts would be so valuable?” Betsy asks. “I think of them simply as flavoring for cakes.”

“Exactly, tens of thousands of cakes,” Philip says with a crooked grin. “And timber for paneling and furniture.”

“Gun stocks.” William nods. “Walnut is the best of the woods.”

I now understand why Philip swings that axe.

“We ought to get a bunch of our men to join in,” William continues. “We have quite a few batters on our village cricket team who could use stronger arms. I’ll see to it. Now tell us about the army.”

My attention wavers to a scrutiny of Philip, or His Grace, I should say, now in a sober dark jacket and starched neckcloth. In the field, his naked torso glistened with sweat, muscles flexing as he swung the axe. My insides flutter as if filled with dragonflies. I bite my lip to keep from blushing as my brain fills with images of his bare back and wide shoulders. I silently recite the morning’s prayers to rid myself of the ache of desire.

Before we leave the table, His Grace beckons to me. “William says you are quite the expert on housekeeping, Meg. Or should I address you as Miss Bowen now that we long ago left our childhood behind?”

“Meg will do, Your Grace.”

“Please, stop that ‘your grace’ nonsense. It makes me sound like a valetudinarian, the very last thing I am.”

“Is that not the proper term, Your Grace?”

He grimaces. “Now you are teasing me.”

I nod. “A little. But why would you and William talk about housekeeping?”

“The old house not only needs roof repairs. It is rundown, dingy, and the carpets are threadbare. Mrs. Moore is very old, nearly blind, and deaf as a post. I want her to retire to one of the cottages near the Home Farm. Most of the maids and manservants left long ago.” He shakes his head and draws a long breath. “You see, I do not know where to start to improve the place. Can you come over and take a look?”

As he speaks, I try to keep my gaze turned away from him, anywhere but on his handsome face or his shoulders, or his sun-browned hands. But when I stare straight into the intensity of his deep blue eyes, I am at a loss for words. “I… I might not ah, be able to help,” I say, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “I only know my own household, for the years since Mama died.”

“Perhaps, between the two of us, we can begin to list what needs to be done.”

I nod, simultaneously fearful and overjoyed.

“Together,” he says.

Later, His Grace and I walk to the vicarage orchard to see if any blossoms are left on the apple trees. At least that is the excuse for leaving the others. But the blooms are gone, leaving dried petals all over the grass. I touch the latch of the gate. He covers my hand with his, gently warming it. My heartbeat races and my shoulders tense. He smiles, lifts my hand, and touches his lips to my wrist. Pulse pounding, I tingle in every nerve. Where could this lead?

We walk back to the garden, my hand now feeling cool where his kiss left a trace of moisture.