Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, my lady,” Loretta Pickleworth said warmly.
“The pleasure is mine, ma’am.”
Evie spoke shyly, even though the good lady’s beaming welcome felt like sunshine on this dreary day.
Morgana Vernon’s visit yesterday had tied her up in knots.
Like a coward, she’d avoided her husband, afraid she might reveal too much.
At the same time, a wild part of her wanted to shake the tree of her past and let every rotten fruit tumble down at once.
Would James stand by her, then? When he’d spoken of other chances, he had been referring to conceiving another child together…
not forgiving her for a heinous crime. Would he defend her if he knew her secret?
If her scandalous past brought his dreams crashing down?
She didn’t know what he would do, but of one thing she was certain: if she lost James, there was someone waiting to take her place.
Her petty thoughts made her feel even worse, and she’d fled to Chuddums in search of distraction.
“I wanted to thank you again for the herbs. They worked like magic,” Evie said sincerely. “For me and my husband.”
“Ah, yes. I heard his lordship came down with a touch of the ague. But I don’t have to inquire after his health, do I, since he and his brothers were down at the Briarbush.
By all reports, he appeared hale and hearty whilst enjoying a pint at Pie and Fool night.
” Seeing the widening of Evie’s eyes, Loretta laughed.
“That’s village life for you, dove. News travels faster than a locomotive. ”
Evie managed a smile. “I imagine Manderly is a topic of conversation these days.”
“Oh, everyone is on pins and needles to see him speak. A lot has happened here in Chuddums, but we’ve never hosted a hustings.
Puts the village on the map, doesn’t it, and good for business too.
In fact, I’ve been preparing my special jam to sell during the event.
Visitors might like to take home a souvenir, don’t you think? A taste of Chuddums.”
“I think that ought to go on the label,” Evie said with a smile.
“Well, then, it just might. Now, will you join me for a dish of tea? I’ll ask Mr. Pickleworth to mind the shop while we have ourselves a chat.”
Without waiting for Evie’s reply, Loretta hollered the request to her spouse, who hollered back in the affirmative.
“That’s settled then.” Loretta beamed. “Off we go.”
Evie found herself back in the cozy courtyard shed, taking tea with her friend. She sampled fresh, fluffy bread slathered in ruby-red jam.
“Your rhubarb jam is delectable,” she said. “The perfect balance of sweet and tart.”
“That it is.” Loretta smiled as she stirred her tea. “I come from a family of fruit farmers, you see, and that recipe was handed down from my great-great-grandmama. They say her jam was even more delicious, but I had to substitute rhubarb for the ingredient she used, which is no longer available.”
“What was the original ingredient?”
“Cherries.” A dreamy look softened Loretta’s comfortably worn features.
“My family had orchards of the plumpest, sweetest cherries, a variety not found anywhere else. In fact, back in the day, the village was so famous for its cherries that it was dubbed ‘Chudleigh Blossoms.’ Visitors came from near and far to see the trees in bloom and to sample delicacies made with the fruit.”
“If the cherries were so popular, why did your family stop growing them?”
“It wasn’t by choice, my lady. The trees stopped producing fruit, you see. Year by year, despite my family’s best efforts, the crop dwindled, and not only theirs. All the local cherry farmers in the area were affected until, finally, there was no harvest left.”
Intrigued, Evie leaned forward. “Was there a blight? Some sort of infestation?”
“That is the mystery of it,” Loretta said somberly.
“To this day, no one knows what caused the cherries to fade. The trees had no visible signs of damage or disease, appearing healthy while producing no fruit. Indeed, my brother still maintains a few trees on his property, in hopes that he may one day coax a crop from them.”
“I should like to have a look,” Evie mused. “At the trees, I mean. I have some experience with botanical matters, and perhaps fresh eyes might reveal a new clue regarding the crop decline. Would your brother mind a visit?”
“Quite the opposite. There’s nothing Ned enjoys more than waxing on about his orchard.” Loretta patted her hand. “It’s kind of you to take an interest.”
“Think nothing of it.” For Evie, praise had always felt like an ill-fitting coat. “I’m unlikely to discover anything new. And I am in your debt for the herbs—”
“It’s the thought that counts. And friendship isn’t tit for tat, dove.”
Loretta’s declaration was like her jam: simple and sweet.
“Now I hope you won’t find this impertinent.” She studied Evie with a kind yet astute gaze. “You look like you could use some rest—all that fretting over your husband, no doubt.”
You have no idea. While Evie knew that her friend was referring to James’s recent illness, she was now fretting for an entirely different reason. Her reaction must have shown for Loretta frowned.
“His lordship is fully recuperated?”
“Oh, he’s fit as a fiddle.” Unable to help herself, Evie blurted, “In fact, his renewed vigor has, um, not been entirely overlooked by others.”
She couldn’t say more and was surprised she’d said as much as she did.
“I understand.” Loretta had a knowing gleam in her eyes. “My Liam, he draws glances aplenty. And quite a few females have come to shop for more than turnips, if you take my meaning.”
Relief at being understood percolated through Evie.
She released a breath. “What did you do about it?”
“What any self-respecting wife would do.” Loretta’s chin angled up. “I chased them off with a broom.”
Picturing herself waving a broom at the glamorous Lady Vernon, Evie had to laugh.
“That certainly would get the point across.”
“If it didn’t, the toe of my shoe against their backside certainly did.”
Evie’s chuckle faded when she saw her friend wasn’t jesting.
“A woman has as much pride as a man,” Loretta said stoutly. “If some chap made eyes at me, Liam would be after him with more than a broom. If it’s sauce for the goose, why not for the gander?”
Evie couldn’t argue with that logic.
“If a fox were to wander into your henhouse, my lady, would you look away and pretend it wasn’t there?”
“Um, no. I suppose not.”
“There is no supposing about it. Of course you wouldn’t. You would chase it off, protect what’s yours. The same applies to marriage. It does nobody any good to stay silent and hide their feelings—not when it comes to the things that matter.”
On the way back to the manor, Evie decided to take a detour through the woods.
The visit with Loretta had put her in a contemplative mood, and the forest, padded with leaves and moss, enlivened by birdsong and the burbling stream, was the perfect place to lose herself in thought.
Her friend had presented a perspective that she hadn’t considered before.
She did have her pride, just as James had his.
If he felt some fellow was encroaching on his territory, he certainly would not stay silent.
Then why should I?
The question opened corridors of the past from which she usually ran.
Yet this time, in the safety of the forest, she let herself venture through the dark halls, seeing all the places and ways she’d hidden herself from the terror of her stepfather’s power.
Maybe, she realized with a jolt, she’d never stopped hiding… even in her marriage.
The awareness tingled through her that perhaps it was time to do something different.
Was there a way to test the waters…to see what part, if any, of her past James might be able to accept?
Furthermore, it had been more than a fortnight since she’d heard from the blackmailer.
It was possible that he was satisfied with the payment she’d made.
Possible that he might leave her alone. Without that menace looming over her head, it might be easier to reveal some of her secrets to James.
He was an understanding and tolerant husband, after all.
Stop trying to pull the wool over your own eyes. It is one thing for James to tolerate your quirks and another for him to accept that you killed a man.
A rumble sounded, jolting her from her thoughts.
Looking around, she realized that she’d wandered off the path and deep into the forest where the terrain had turned hilly.
Water rushed downstream, churning as it hit the rocks.
As thunder sounded again and agitated birds shot into the swirling sky, she hastily searched for shelter.
She noticed something up ahead…a pale arch in the hillside, visible behind some overgrown brush.
Is there a hollow in the rock behind those shrubs? Perhaps I can wait out the storm there.
She dashed over, clearing away the brush.
To her surprise, the arch wasn’t a natural formation of rock but stone that had been worked by hand and embedded with…
shells. A tingle tiptoed up her spine, and with dawning wonder, she passed under the arch and into a chamber the size of a church’s apse.
No more than a dozen feet in any direction, the cave had a niche in the entryway and, on the other side, a stone bench in a recessed alcove.
There was a little hearth, with a pile of kindling that someone had left behind.
The scents of decay and growth reminded her of her greenhouse, another solitary retreat.
I wonder how long this hermit’s grotto has been here?
Wealthy landowners oft constructed such dwellings on their estates, and some even hired hermits to occupy them. The hermits often wore robes like monks, with long hair and beards, and dispensed advice or philosophy. Their presence was intended to give the estate a fashionably romantic ambiance.
As Evie examined the grotto, her tingling sensation grew. Her breath quickening, she traced her fingertip along the familiar pattern in the wall. A single shell at the center, its rings spiraling outward in such fluid circles that the entire design seemed to have no beginning or end.
“The spiral of shells,” she whispered. “I saw this in my dream.”
She gazed at the pattern for a long time, trying to puzzle out its meaning before she noticed the markings carved into the adjacent wall.
Moving closer, she saw they were words. Squinting in the dim light, she read them aloud: “You are mine, and I am yours. Not only for ease, but for every trial. This is the way of love: to stay, to forgive, to begin again.”
A lover’s vow—was it Rosalinda and Thomas’s? Or had it been added by others who had visited this place in the intervening years? Evie didn’t know, but the sentiment stirred something deep in her…something she was not yet ready to examine.
Was my dream of Rose actually a vision? Did she find refuge here in her time of need? Am I standing where she once stood…did she bring me here for a purpose?
Trembling, Evie pressed a hand against her thumping heart.
As soon as the rain let up, Evie left behind the hidden hollow and returned to the manor.
She felt shaken…and exhilarated. A part of her had attributed her dreams to an overactive imagination—and, perhaps, a desire to be part of the romantic legend like Xenia and Gigi.
But Rose’s visions had led her to the grotto, which meant they were real.
Evie knew she had to share this with the others so that they could put their heads together and figure out what it all meant.
Exhaling, she climbed up the front steps.
First things first: she wanted to rebuild the intimacy between her and James.
He would be dressing for supper now, and instead of avoiding him, she could waltz into their shared chamber and ask him how his day had gone.
She could make pleasant small talk while making wifely adjustments to his cravat and lapel.
Her splendid plan and gathered courage came to naught when the butler informed her that the earl had gone out.
He hadn’t left word of his whereabouts, only that he would not be taking supper.
Deflated, Evie trudged to her room alone.
When she was greeted by the lingering scent of James’s cologne, longing and frustration welled inside her.
Tossing aside her bonnet and gloves, she wandered listlessly to the sitting room that James had taken over.
Seeing the papers scattered across the escritoire, she went over with a faint smile.
A messy desk was one of James’s foibles, which she secretly found endearing.
She tidied up newspapers, correspondence, and notes he’d jotted down for his speech.
She found a cream-colored envelope with a broken seal; the paper was smooth, with a luxurious heft, and she turned it over.
A pulse throbbed at the side of her throat when she saw the unmistakably feminine hand that had addressed the note to her husband.
She paused, debating the merits of what she was about to do.
Her sensible side argued that this was James’s private correspondence: she had no right to pry.
Her primal side drove her shaking hands to extract the note.
Attar of Roses, which she’d always found cloying, wafted from the paper.
Unfolding it, she read the lushly penned message:
My dearest Lord Manderly,
I hope you will join me for a private supper at my home this evening. I wish for us to become better acquainted and to discuss our future plans without interruption. Too many cooks can spoil a dish—or a campaign, don’t you agree?
I eagerly await your reply.
Yours,
Morgana Vernon
Better acquainted? Our future plans?
Was the woman hinting that she and James had started a liaison…or that she wished to?
An image blazoned in Evie’s head: James alone with the ravishing widow, drinking champagne and dining by intimate candlelight. This very moment, they could be laughing, flirting, and doing heavens knew what else.
Not if I have any say in it. Loretta was right. I must protect what is mine.
Crumpling the note in her fist, Evie stalked off to find her husband.