Chapter 8
Two days later, she wandered the garden alone. Her thoughts, however, insisted she keep company with a certain solicitor.
Despite the heavy clouds pressing low after a morning of sunshine, she could not resist the call of the blooms, sweeter than any London park she had known. The air was lush with damp earth and roses.
If she had her own home, she would want a garden just like this.
Phoebe seated herself on a stone bench opposite the cherub, palms resting on the cool surface.
Something had shifted on Sunday. She could not pinpoint what, only that Mr. Ellison no longer appeared merely a stiff clerk.
His nearness had made her breath falter.
Ridiculous, really. Their talks had only ever been about accounts and lineage, hardly fodder for romance.
And yet, she could not deny her awareness of him.
A sudden rustle cut short her thoughts. From around the hedge, a floppy-eared dog skittered, tongue lolling, paws skidding on the gravel to come nose-to-skirt with her.
Phoebe reached down to pet her new companion only to be startled yet again when a small boy bounded after it, arms outstretched, laughter squealing.
“Steady there!” she called, rising as the dog circled her skirts.
His cheeks pink from the chase, the child clutched the dog’s scruff. “Caught him at last! He never listens, miss!”
“Then you are both conqueror and puppy keeper.” Phoebe smiled in reward.
The boy returned a proud grin, holding fast to the dog. But before she could ask his name, two older children hurried into view, halting short when they saw her.
A girl, perhaps twelve, but as solemn as a little matron, gathered her skirts and dropped into a hasty curtsy. “We’ve not had the pleasure of an introduction, miss.”
Phoebe inclined her head. “No, though your brother has already claimed me as his new friend. What am I to do but submit?”
Before the older brother could say his piece, voices rose in conversation behind them as another pair turned the hedge.
This was becoming a popular alcove, Phoebe mused.
Their parents appeared at the turn of the path, surprise flickering sharply in their faces.
She could almost hear their unasked question: Who was this woman, alone in the earl’s garden, without a proper host or chaperone, and with their children no less? Quite beyond the pale.
The younger boy was still clutching the dog and chattering happily, unaware of the impending trouble of both chasing a dog and talking with a stranger.
Phoebe rose to the occasion with graceful composure, her curtsy unhurried. “It seems I am discovered, though not by design, I assure you. Your young explorer found me out. He has proved quite the gallant guide, though I daresay he needs no help from me in finding mischief.”
The child puffed with pride, although Phoebe could not say if it were from being heralded a gallant guide or a finder of mischief.
Phoebe added warmly, “I am but a guest of the house, taking advantage of the sunshine between rain showers. Your son’s company has been the happiest accident of my stay.”
It was the father who spoke first, genially, his chuckle proving Phoebe had won herself a new ally. “Not every day Rutherford is called a happy accident.”
The mother, however, stood to her full height—barely reaching Phoebe’s shoulder—and said in crisp tones, “We’ve been paying our respects to Mrs. Redshaw. We presume you are kin to his lordship?”
Although Phoebe’s lips parted, it was a deep and steady voice from behind her that answered.
“Miss Whittington is here under the earl’s invitation.
” Mr. Ellison stepped forward, ruffling the dog’s ears.
“I serve as his man of business. We thank you for your condolences and trust we may return your card shortly.”
With murmured farewells, the family withdrew, the children waving as they were shepherded away.
Phoebe turned, lashes lowered in mock coyness. “How delightful to have you come to my rescue.”
“On the contrary. I was rescuing the household’s reputation.” The gleam in his eyes betrayed his humor.
“Then it was I who rescued you with my quick wit, smoothing matters before you arrived.”
Blue eyes twinkled. “I see you require no knight to defend you.”
“No indeed.” She pivoted to admire the flowerbed, only to glance back over her shoulder when she said, “Though I confess, it gratifies me to know you were ready to brandish a lance, on behalf of the household or otherwise.”
He matched her smile with dry wit. “Perhaps you should attempt another scandal, if only to test my readiness.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she quipped.
“For someone with no claim to the stage, you play the lady of the house convincingly.”
Her hand pressed to her heart. “Take care, sir. A reproach disguised as a compliment might lead me to believe you’re sincere.”
He laughed outright, the sound caught between admiration and caution, and for an instant neither broke the gaze that lingered too long.
With a glance towards the house, he asked, “Join me in the old study tomorrow? We’ve more work to catalogue.”
Dipping into a teasing curtsy, Phoebe said, “Then I shall come prepared for the task.”
Graeme slid a long roll of parchment across the desk, the edges curling like stubborn ivy. “Tenant rolls,” he explained, smoothing the creases flat. “Names, holdings, rents due. The steward’s writing, however, leaves much to be desired.”
Miss Whittington cocked her head. “And why have they been given to you? I shouldn’t think a solicitor cares much for tenant rolls.”
Astute woman, he thought. Aloud, he said, “The earl wishes a full accounting, from tenants to tassels. We must copy the notes in a neat hand and order them properly.”
“Doesn’t he trust the steward?” Miss Whittington nosed.
“A man of business neither trusts nor distrusts without cause. More to the point, the earl insists on knowing what he has inherited, and so we must catalogue until our eyes cross.”
“Then I fear my eyes have already failed me.” She squinted at the parchment.
Graeme leaned to read the crabbed script, but the words blurred without his spectacles.
“This says,” she continued with exaggerated solemnity, “Widow Parsons pays her rent in… chickens.”
Tugging the roll closer, convinced she jested, he secured his spectacles. Sure enough. Four lines from the top: chickens.
His lips twitched.
“How many hens equal a pound, do you suppose?” she asked.
“Three,” he replied without inflection. “Provided they lay golden eggs. Otherwise, she’s in arrears.”
Miss Whittington stared for three full breaths, then burst into laughter—unguarded, musical, and altogether charming. Graeme’s pulse leapt.
“And I always thought ledgers were dull,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “Never did I dream poultry would feature. Do you always accept hens in payment, Mr. Ellison?”
“Only when their solicitors are in attendance,” he returned, the corner of his mouth betraying him.
She laughed again, shaking her head. “I daresay the poor woman has probably paid thus for years. Surely the earl won’t object?”
“Unlikely,” he admitted. “Still, Mrs. Parsons may merit a visit from a curious clerk. After all, I wouldn’t wish to… run afoul with the tenants.”
“Run a fowl?” Miss Whittington’s laughter pealed. “For such a poultry amount! But don’t forget to collect the hens while you’re there.”
Graeme tried to stifle his smile but could no longer smother it from view. “Perhaps you’ll accompany me. You seem the sharper negotiator.”
Her brows arched. “Me? Whatever could you mean?”
His glance flicked briefly to her maid, absorbed in her knitting. “Mrs. Redshaw goes into Tansy Hollow soon, errands for the household. I’ve been pressed to accompany her. You might take the chance to see the village?”
“Oh!” Surprise lit her face. “Oh, I should be delighted.”
For once, he resisted another jest, unwilling to mar the glow of her acceptance.
Instead, he turned back to the parchment, though his quill lay idly above the page.
Each glimpse of her smile from the corner of his eye was too arresting.
Likewise, the faint scratch of her notetaking, the soft clink of needles in the corner, and the scent of neroli perfume seemed suddenly too loud, too close, too aromatic.
Her voice startled him from his reverie. “You’ve spoken of your mother and sister. Do they never fear losing you to the endless paperwork with your change of occupation from tradesman to solicitor?”
“On the contrary. They would lock me in the study if they were here, ensure I stayed focused and served the earldom to the best of my abilities. My sister claims it’s the only way to keep me out of trouble.”
“Mmm. She sounds wise.”
“She is thirteen.”
“Ah.” Miss Whittington laughed again, warm and unrestrained. “I hope she’ll like Lobelia Hall. But will Mrs. Ellison not miss London?”
His mind stuttered. “Who?”
She blinked. “Mrs. Ellison. Your mother?”
Recovering, he bent low over the parchment as if it held all his interest. “Ah, yes, of course. I mean, no, I think not. She and my sister are avid readers. Between the two libraries here, I doubt London will be missed.”
Miss Whittington studied him for a moment, her curiosity obviously piqued. Graeme forced his attention back to the page, pulse thudding in his ears. A narrow escape.
After a moment, he tapped the parchment with the end of his quill. “See? Books upon books. Enough to occupy them for years and distract them from any missed London diversions. Much like you—too occupied teasing me about hens to notice time passing.”
“Then I fear you are doomed, sir, for I shall not soon forget Widow Parsons.”
Their eyes met across the desk, his guarded, hers still bright with laughter. The air between them held both warmth and question, their gazes lingering longer than propriety allowed.
With smooth, steady strokes, Fanny brushed Phoebe’s hair, the curls unfurling against her shoulders.
Phoebe studied her reflection, though her thoughts wandered.
What would the Phoebe of old think now? That girl would be aghast. Waiting in a stranger’s house for the chance to ensnare an earl?
This was just the sort of game her father would approve, the very sort the old Phoebe would have rebelled against, for that Phoebe believed in hearts above all things, without question or caution.
But hearts, once bruised, were treacherous companions.
One did not recover quickly from being duped into an elopement, least of all with a libertine’s honeyed vows of love—false vows.
She would not be fooled again. She would not be played for money. She would not—
A sigh escaped as the bristles soothed her scalp.
And yet… how many “would nots” did it take to muffle the beat of a heart?
Something had shifted in the chapel, something she could not undo.
She could no longer see Mr. Ellison as a staid clerk, but rather as an attractive and available man.
To call it infatuation would be absurd. One walk, a few shared laughs—hardly the stuff of love.
But the shortness of her breath? Undeniable.
Perhaps it was only that he was nothing like Freddy. But even that comparison was unjust. Mr. Ellison was not a measure against her past.
The mirror offered no answers, only her own searching gaze.
And so, the trouble remained: aside from her cautions and her bruised pride, what reason had she not to care for him?
The earl himself meant nothing, only a means to freedom from her father’s hold.
More to the point, the earl was not here, and Mr. Ellison was, but more profoundly, she felt an attraction for the clerk, a connection, beyond their shared experiences in trade, something more acute, something that trembled her knees.
Could she risk her heart again? There was more at stake than her heart, though, and she would do well to remember that fact.
Freedom. Always freedom. His question echoed: Would wealth buy you freedom?
If she had money of her own, perhaps. But young ladies did not live alone in cottages without scandal.
Should she purchase a little place of her own, her life would be as steeped in scandal as the one she had left in London. Even liberty came with shackles.
Her reflection in the mirror seemed to smirk back. It asked, demanded even: Which chain will you bear? The risk of love, the wager of an absent earl, or the prison of her father’s demands?
For now, she let the worry rest. In time, she hoped her heart would tell her which dreams to keep and which to let go.