Chapter 15
Eloise had not meant to be in the garden that morning with a face like a thundercloud. It had simply happened.
She had gone out with Clara because there was work to be done in the beds near the east wall, and because Clara had decided that a proper garden this spring would require more soil, more patience, and considerably fewer foolish interruptions from everyone else in the house.
Eloise had offered to help carry a tray of cuttings. Clara had told her, in the sternest tone available, that she would rather trust a fox with the basket than a woman trying to look brave and distracted at the same time. Which, unfortunately, had been fair.
She stood now with her hands clasped in front of her and watched Clara dig into a new patch of earth with impressive vigor. The morning was bright but cool, and a faint wind moved through the hedges and tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet.
She had been thinking about Lawrence and the way he had behaved several nights prior, about the carnival, and about the fact that he had offered to escort her in front of everyone and left her with no decent way to refuse without making a scene.
She had accepted because there had been no graceful alternative. That did not mean she liked it.
Clara stabbed the spade into the ground with an audible thud, and Eloise glanced at her. The cook wore an expression of concentrated annoyance, one Eloise had become accustomed to.
“What is that face?” Eloise asked.
“This face?” Clara did not look up. “It is my face for when I am forced to tolerate people.”
“That seems frequent.”
“It is.” Clara scraped another shovel of soil into the bed. “I do not like the marquess.”
Eloise had expected that, and perhaps had hoped for it, though she had not wanted to admit as much even to herself. “He has been perfectly polite.”
“So was the man who sold my father a lame horse with a painted leg.”
Eloise blinked. “What?”
Clara planted the spade in the dirt and wiped her hands on her apron with grim satisfaction.
“My father bought a horse once from a man who smiled too much and swore the animal was sound. It limped by the third mile. The leg had been painted to hide the crack.” Her mouth flattened.
“That is the sort of man the marquess reminds me of.”
Eloise let out a soft breath, half laugh and half disbelief. “That is a very specific insult.”
“I have had years to refine it.”
Eloise lowered her head, fighting a smile she could not quite suppress.
“Do not laugh,” Clara said.
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“Only a little.”
“A dangerous amount.”
That made Eloise laugh properly, though it faded quickly when the thought of Lawrence returned with all its aggravation. She folded her arms and looked across the garden.
The beds nearest the path had already gone green with new shoots, and a line of daffodils had begun to open by the wall. Everything in the garden looked orderly and alive, entirely unlike the state of her own mind.
“You are still thinking about the carnival,” Clara said, looking up from the earth.
Eloise did not answer at once, which was answer enough.
“He backed you into it,” Clara said.
“He did not.”
“He did.”
“He merely offered.”
Clara’s expression went flat. “And when one says no, what happens?”
Eloise looked away. “I do not want to be escorted by him.”
“Of course not.”
“But he made a point of offering in front of everyone.”
“That is how men like him do these things.”
“What things?”
“Everything,” Clara said, and Eloise could not help but smile a little at that.
Logan appeared at the side gate just then, carrying a sack of fresh soil over one shoulder, looking far too pleased with himself for a man burdened by dirt. Clara turned and narrowed her eyes at once.
“You are in my garden.”
“Yes, I am aware.”
“You are carrying my soil.”
“Also true.”
“You were not invited.”
“I believe I was. By common sense.”
Clara straightened. “I beg your pardon?”
He set the sack down beside the bed and brushed the dirt from his hands. “You were struggling.”
“I was not struggling.”
“You were.”
“I have managed before without help from a man.”
“That is because you had not yet met me,” Logan said, and Clara glared, while Eloise turned her face slightly away to avoid laughing too obviously.
“Shall I put this over there?” Logan asked, lifting one end of the sack.
“I can manage it.”
“I am sure you can. But you need not stay,” Clara added.
“That is unfortunate. Because I intend to.”
“You are exceedingly tiresome.”
“Yet still here.” He looked at her as one might regard a stubborn fact of nature, and she pointed sharply at the bed.
“Put it there and do not speak.”
He obeyed, though only after one last look of mock injury, and Eloise watched the exchange with open amusement.
“I have a message,” Logan said, dusting his hands once he had finished.
“Of course you do,” Clara said, exasperated.
He looked at Eloise instead, his expression more direct than before. “You are expected at the carnival.”
“I am aware,” Eloise said.
“Then you should be ready.”
“See?” Clara said. “There. He has no business speaking like that.”
“That goes for you too, Clara,” Logan said, glancing toward her.
She stared at him.
“You will be ready,” he added, in the same maddeningly calm tone.
“I do not take instructions well from men carrying dirt.”
“I have noticed.”
“And I do not appreciate being told what to do in my own garden.”
“I was not telling you what to do.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Annoying you.”
Clara opened her mouth, then shut it, and Eloise saw the exact moment she realized he had succeeded. Logan’s expression turned faintly triumphant.
“You have abysmal listening skills,” Clara said.
“Yet you still remember my voice,” he said, inclining his head, and Clara went absolutely still.
Eloise, watching them both, caught the way the cook’s face changed just enough for Eloise to see.
A faint flush rose in Clara’s cheeks, so slight that if Eloise had not been looking directly at her, she might have missed it entirely.
Logan, for his part, seemed entirely unaware, or entirely unwilling to acknowledge it.
He straightened and brushed a hand over the front of his coat.
“Be ready by the appointed time.”
“Or what?” Clara said.
“Or I shall be disappointed,” he said, smiling, and the line caught her off guard. Clara made a sound of insincere annoyance.
He turned to go, then paused and looked back. “And Clara?”
“What?”
“I am not bringing the soil again.”
“That is a pity.”
“It is.”
“Then why did you bring it today?”
He looked at her a second too long. “Because I knew you would need it,” he said, very mildly, and Clara stared at him while he seemed content to leave that hanging in the air. He tipped his head toward Eloise and walked away.
Clara watched him go with a scowl that did not appear to have much strength left in it. When he had disappeared beyond the hedge, she sniffed. “The man cannot listen.”
Eloise looked at her. The cook was still staring after him, her mouth set, her cheeks still not entirely returned to normal.
“Perhaps he listens selectively,” Eloise said, careful to keep her tone light.
Clara made a thoroughly dissatisfied noise, and Eloise said nothing further, though she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Logan’s departure had left a sort of tension that refused to disappear.
Eloise told herself she did not care about any of it, which was becoming a habit, and a poor one, and an entirely familiar one.
She turned her attention back to the garden and tried to think of anything except Lawrence, the carnival, and the discomfort of having one part of the household behave too knowingly while another part remained impossible to read.
That did not work either. She had spent too many evenings in the past week trying not to think about the way he looked at her when he believed she was not watching, too many mornings noticing how often he had begun appearing at dinner, too many moments pretending that the kindness in his voice was only practical, nothing more.
It was easier to tell herself the disturbance in her mind came only from a household routine being altered.
That explanation was sensible. Correct. Safe.
She clung to it through luncheon. She clung to it while walking through the hall afterward. She clung to it until she looked up and saw Lady Catriona crossing the upper corridor at the precise moment Jamie descended the staircase.
The sight stopped her cold. Catriona paused. Jamie paused. The exchange between them was not dramatic in the least, which somehow made it harder to watch. They looked at one another with composed familiarity.
Then, with a small smile from Catriona and a brief lift at the corner of Jamie’s mouth, they acknowledged each other as though no years had passed at all. The illusion Eloise had been maintaining all morning fractured at once. She stopped telling herself anything.
***
Catriona found her in the garden that afternoon, just before the carnival preparations began in earnest. Eloise was standing near the path with a pair of shears in hand, trying to pretend she had not been waiting for the world to explain itself.
Catriona approached with a calm smile, walking along the path as though she had every right to be there. I suppose she thinks she does, since Jamie’s welcome to her has been so very warm, Eloise thought dryly, choosing not to closely examine the bitterness the notion brought.
“Miss Beauchamp.”
“Lady Catriona.” Eloise set the shears down.
“I wondered whether I might borrow a few minutes.”
A small knot of unease coiled in Eloise’s stomach. “Of course.”
“This is a beautiful garden,” Catriona said, glancing at the flowers nearby.
“It is Clara’s work.”
“Then I admire her taste already.”
Eloise could not help a small, tight smile, which Catriona seemed to notice.
“I hope I did not make you uncomfortable at dinner,” Catriona said with unsettling gentleness.