An Independent Miss (4 page)

Maddy curtsied. “I don’t mind,
mum.”

“Just let me gather what I need
from here. There is a basket in the greenhouse. Please get it for me.”

The serving girl followed
Felicity’s bidding.

“Is that where you saw us?” Andover
asked, realizing she had other places to go, things to do. He didn’t want to
separate from her. These past two weeks he had gotten used to the comfort of
her company of an evening. To feel the same, during the day, would not come
amiss.

“Yes, Mother and I were in the
greenhouse. Our tenants—you remember the Smiths? We visited them the
other day, when we were riding. The young mother, who just had the baby, is
Maddy’s sister. I want to check on the family, see if there’s anything they
need.”

“I see.” He tried to speak, but his
lip had swollen further, making it difficult.

Felicity stalled him. “Let me take
you down to the kitchens. Lucy will see to that lip and your nose.” She touched
it gently. “Remember, have her use the comfrey salve that’s in the stillroom.”

“There is no need of a salve.”

“Yes, there is, and there is
another one…” She frowned, pulled free, and looked away, “…that I’ve heard is
good, but I will have to send that up to you later.”

“No, truly, do not bother. I am not
comfortable with such things,” he admitted, though he wasn’t at all sure what
to think. He hoped to God foraging and medicines were not her hobby. Surely
not, it was an unusual interest for a lady.

The
depths of her.

There were too many challenges in
his life at present. He chose Lady Felicity precisely because she offered ease.

“I will escort you to the farm.” He
surprised himself by offering, especially as he felt like the absolute dickens.

“But your face, you need to have
that seen to.”

He brushed off her concern. “It
will mend on its own, no need for anything.”

“It’s a generous offer.” She looked
away from his face, at his chest. He looked down.

“Ah, the blood.”

Her chuckle slid into him, warm and
intoxicating as brandy. He’d not expected that. To feel, or for her words to
tickle his own humor. “Rather dramatic, I’d say. Unfortunately, rather than
frighten the children, they’ll swarm you wanting all the details and then I’ll
have to be the villain for shooing them away.”

“I’ll change then, shall I?” It was
an effort not to raise his hand, touch her cheek, pull her in, hold her against
him to absorb all that steady calm.

The directness, the way she looked
into his eyes, had him turn, lest she see his desire.

“You should stay, if for no other
reason than to get something cold on that lip and across the bridge of your
nose.”

“Just give me a moment. I can
change shirts in a trice. I promise not to be too long.”

She sighed, bit her lip. So telling.
He disrupted plans. Was not welcomed for it and yet he did not rescind his
request to be with her, to ease over this bad business with her brother. He
waited for her response, willing her to agree.

Her sigh, answer enough, though he
welcomed the words. “We will wait.”

“Thank you.” Now he must prove
himself a useful escort, an engaging companion. He would see to it she wanted
him by her side as much as he wanted her by his.

He reached his rooms, to find his
valet, Jones, hovering over a basin of fresh water, a bowl of ice. A change of
clothes laid out, ready.

“Saw the altercation from the
window. Thought you would want to freshen up,” he explained.

“Lady Felicity is waiting,” he told
Jones.

“Then we best make this quick.”

“Is it that bad?” He didn’t dare
look in the mirror.

“Bad enough. Your eyes may bruise.”

“Lady Felicity was speaking of
comfrey,” he admitted.

“One plant that, not some
concoction.”

“No.” Jones knew better than to
needle him on this.

“Right.”

Andover seated himself by the
basin, Jones washed away any sign of the fight, talking as he worked. “There’s
talk of Lady Felicity below stairs.”

“You aren’t listening to gossip
these days, are you?”

The valet snorted. “Praise is more
like it. She is held in high regard here. The best of a good family.”

The
best of the lot of us,
Thomas had said. “So I have heard.”

“Intelligent, too.”

“Did you think I would settle for
any less?”

“Might want to trust her, from what
I’m hearing, about the comfrey and such.”

“A valet who counsels. How did I
find such a gem?”

“Just saying.”

“No need to. I know she is
intelligent. That doesn’t change my mind on the herbs.” He stood so Jones could
undo the buttons on his shirt, half of them missing. “When was the last time
you saw a wounded animal put leaves on a sore? Or ice, for that matter,” he
argued.

Jones didn’t bother to answer.

****

Narrow, winding stairs led down
into the bowels of the house. Felicity waved at Jasper and Darcy, to stop them
from rising as she passed through the servants’ hall. Darcy looked up from her
mending, Jasper from shining shoes. Jimmy pushed away from the wall and hurried
over to Felicity.

“Cook has a basket for you to take
to the Smiths,” he told her. “I’m to carry it for you.”

“Good,” Felicity answered, pleased
by his eagerness. He was no more than nine years old, just starting to train
for service. Still, she did not stop, intent on finding medicines for her
brother and Lord Andover before she left for the Smith household.

“Is Lucy in the stillroom?”

Felicity’s domain, where everything
from fruit cordials and scented waters, to the most complicated tonics, were
made. It was the last chamber at the end of the servants’ hall. There was a
door to the outside that came out just below the conservatory. She was
encouraged to use that door rather than disturb those busy with household
chores, but Felicity had worked out an easy peace with those in the lower rooms
of the house and often cut through their area.

“I don’t know ma’am,” He followed
her to the kitchen doorway, roughly pushed past to get inside.

“Jimmy! You do not shove your
betters around!” Jane, the kitchen maid, reprimanded.

“But I have to get the basket,” he
argued.

Felicity put a hand on his
shoulder. “A gentleman always requests the right to pass, Jimmy, and a lady
graciously moves.” She edged him back behind her. “Let’s try it again.”

“What do I do?”

“Kindly ask my permission to pass.”

“May I pass?”

Jane huffed. “M’lady!”

“What?”

“May I pass by, m’lady?”

“Oh.” He scuffed his toe on the
brick floor, tugged at his forelock. “May I pass by, Lady Felicity?”

“Yes, sir, you may.” Holding back a
smile, she moved aside.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Cook
gestured to the basket on the table, as Felicity let the organized chaos of the
kitchens spill around her. The clatter of pots and pans and the scents,
heavenly scents, held temptation to nip in and snitch a fresh baked lavender
biscuit. She could see them cooling, knew they were for the afternoon tea which
she would not be back in time to enjoy.

“Wondered when you would be down here.”
Cook settled the basket on the boy’s arm.

“Lost track of time, I’m afraid,”
Felicity admitted.

“No shame in that. Jimmy here will
carry this for you.”

Felicity lifted the towel covering.
“Don’t suppose…”

“Lavender biscuits and a nice cup
of tea, won’t be a minute.”

“You are the dearest, Cook! But
there isn’t time, I’ll just…”

An old family retainer, Cook had
known Felicity since she was no more than a twinkle in her daddy’s eye. Without
hesitation, she took Felicity by the shoulders and directed her to a seat and
sat her. “Doesn’t take any time to sip some tea, have a biscuit. Lucy is just
down the hall. Jane here will go fetch her. You can give her instructions
before you go.”

Felicity got right up again, with a
handful of her favorite treats. “I really can’t dally. Lord Andover is going
with us, and he will be waiting.”

Cook snorted. “He should be seeing
to his injuries. We heard all about it, we did. The lad’s already been to the
ice house.”

“I need to get medicines for both
men.”

“Lord Andover won’t take it. His
man said as much. Said he don’t hold with healing of any sort.”

“Doesn’t hold with healing?”
Biscuit halfway to her mouth, Felicity stopped, considered, dismissing the idea
with the flick of a wrist, the biscuit flying out of her hand in the process.
“That’s ridiculous. Surely you misunderstood.” She looked for the fallen treat,
already grabbed up by a scullery maid.

“That’s what Jones, his valet,
says.”

“Is that right?”
I am not comfortable with such things
.
“Even a simple thing like comfrey?”

Cook shook her head. “Doesn’t use
anything.”

“People have been using comfrey for
centuries. Surely he will use such a salve,” she argued, although she knew he
wouldn’t. He had already put her off the idea. “Really, some people have the
strangest notions.”

“He has a surprise coming in you,
if that’s how he feels,” Cook chortled.

CHAPTER 4 ~
OBSTACLES

The issue did not arise as Felicity
and Andover made their way to the Smiths’ home. She was garbed in a fresh
muslin frock with vertical green and cream stripes, while he wore buckskin
breeches, unlike the coarse trousers of their tenants, and a dark blue frock
coat, over a simple lawn shirt of the lightest weight, and a waistcoat.

The waistcoat, with horizontal
stripes of burgundy and cream, prompted him to chuckle when they met. “Do you
think your Abigail and my valet conspired with the stripes?”

He was too handsome. Handsomeness
drew too many fond advances to many lures to betrayal.

Still, Felicity was not immune to
the flattery of his attention.

She should be wary, she knew she
should, but she couldn’t help being flattered. A titled, wealthy, handsome man,
was spoiled for choice. To be singled out by such a man, especially her, a
bluestocking far outside the interest of top flyers—quite took her breath
away.

Yes, she’d been courted, but solely
by men as focused on serious studies as she. They did not leave her breathless.

Andover did.

“Of course.” She found her tongue,
took his arm. “Do you think, in the conspiring, they imagined a plaid?”

“Ha!” He shot her a quick look and
laughed. “Vertical and horizontal laid upon each other.” Fist to mouth, head
turned, he coughed, hiding a bark of laughter, much as her brother or father
were wont to do.

“What?” she asked.

He looked toward the path. The part
of his lip not swollen beyond recognition caught firmly between his teeth.
Suppressed humor again, much like the men in her family whenever she said
something they considered earthy.

She sighed, adjusted her bonnet,
nodded to Maddy and Jimmy, both with baskets for the Smiths, not to wait, but
go on ahead. No need for close chaperones now they were betrothed.

His hand, gloved this time, covered
hers on his arm. No warm flesh to warm flesh, to tickle her senses. He matched
his step to her smaller ones, as they followed the two retainers.

She dared a look at his booted leg.
He didn’t limp, but she knew it hurt by the way he’d rub it when he thought no
one noticed, just as he’d done in the study earlier that afternoon. The
Redmond’s had not been kind to their guest. First Charles and Annabel’s wicked
game of blind-man’s-bluff and then Thomas turning to fisticuffs. Honestly, she
could throttle her own siblings.

She offered arnica salve, a
wondrous mixture for bruises.

He refused it.

No, she corrected herself, he
hadn’t so much refused her salve as refused any mention of salves or ointments.

I
am not comfortable with such things.

She dipped her head, bit her lip,
trying to reconcile her skills with his reaction to medicines.

There were people like that, who
refrained from doctors and medicines and the like. She respected them, often
wondered what came first, their healthy continence or the disregard for
disease. But why would they choose pain if it could be relieved?

She refused to think of it just
yet, on this their first stroll without parents or siblings or anyone who would
jump into a conversation. Maddy and Jimmy were now out of sight, leaving them
to converse in private.

There were so many things she would
like to ask him, to speak about.

She couldn’t remember a one.
Totally lost the easy comradery of their budding friendship.

Instead, the healer in her kept
sneaking sideways glances at the swell of his lip, the slight crook of his
nose. One moment she’d be full of remedies to suggest, the next amused by the boyishness
of his wounds.

Like his smile, those hurts broke
the austerity in his dark chiseled looks. A wayward lock of hair kept falling
over his forehead and into his eye, revealing less a dream and more a tangible
human.

He neither complained of, nor acknowledged
pain, though he must hurt like the devil. She suspected that was why he didn’t
speak much, the swollen lip making it difficult.

It was a quiet lane that led to the
Smiths’ home, the path dappled with shadow and light as the sun slipped through
a canopy of trees. Felicity’s hand rested lightly on Lord Andover’s arm, her
mind whirling with thoughts even as she scrambled for conversation. Something,
anything, to say that would keep her speaking, and save his mouth having to
form words.

She looked at that mouth and
sighed.

“Lady Felicity?”

She jerked, noticed his frown.

“Is my appearance so ghastly?”

“No.” She promised, horrified for
her soppy staring.

“I am sorry to have been in a
fight.”

A fight for her. She swallowed
another sigh. “It’s nothing. With Thomas, one half expects a fight, though…”
she had rather he not suffer for her, “…though not usually physical
altercation. He’s grown beyond that, or so I thought.” She rambled now. He
would think her a mindless bore.

Embarrassed, she looked into the
growth along the path, a habit gained from years of wild crafting, always
searching for new buds and plants she could use. Her eyes were trained to see
what others missed. They didn’t fail her this time.

“Oh! Look!” She pulled away,
stepped off the path and into the woods, bent over a lifted mound of last
fall’s leaves, knowing what pushed them up. “Morels!” Delighted, she looked up,
just as Andover, his eyes wide with horror, grabbed her wrist before she
reached her prize.

“Don’t touch that!” he ordered,
urging her away, as though she’d found a vipers’ nest.

“But look…” She fought his hold,
brushed away the clump of leaves with the toe of her boot, revealing a stout
morel mushroom. “They’re absolutely divine! And if there’s one…” She stopped
explaining, stunned by the revulsive shudder that racked his frame.

“Please,” he asked, so agitated,
Felicity held her breath, watching his nostrils flair, chest heave, as he
desperately tried to breathe past panic. Visibly, he fought to calm. “Please,”
he said, in a lower tone, gesturing for her to precede him to the path.

With one sorrowful look back, she
complied.

He didn’t return to where they were
standing, instead clamping her hand to his arm, as he led them toward the
Smiths’. The firm grip could not hide the tremble of his hold.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he
offered.

“Possibly not,” Felicity said with
quiet conviction, “but you did.”

“Yes, of course.” He cleared his
throat.

“There’s more than a revulsion of
mushrooms,” she offered.

He nodded. She waited, her mind
wildly filling with scenarios. He interrupted.

“We’ve spoken of the deaths in my
family.”

“Yes.” And suddenly the tumult of her
thoughts stilled in a solitary focus. “Something they ate.”

“Yes.”

Her heart sank. “Mushrooms.”

“Foraged mushrooms.” He stopped,
then faced her, eyes dark with memory. “I do not believe there is a more
gruesome death, Lady Felicity, all three of them. My father, brother, and
sister-in-law.” He looked to his feet, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Four, if you count the expected babe.”

“How awful,” she whispered.

“Yes.” He lifted both her hands to
his lips, kissed the fold of her fingers. “Awful. Those hours of sitting with
them, trying everything we could to save them. Everything. But in the end, all
we could do was watch them suffer.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose
and grimaced, having forgotten the bruising from earlier.

“Those were the worst moments of my
life. Mother and I would not be here, but neither of us can abide mushrooms of
any sort.” Humor, though he did not smile. “As expected, the doctor was
useless, his concoctions, to purge them when they already convulsed with
nausea, bloodletting when their bodies writhed so fiercely blood spewed across
the room, cupping. Worse, those supposed men of science, always they make it
worse.” He shuddered.

“I’m sorry.” She was, for she’d
seen such deaths and knew there was little anyone could do against the poison
of fungus.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. We
didn’t speak of it, I don’t speak of it.” He released her, put his hand to the
small of her back, moving them forward before offering his arm once more. “That
is the only firm rule I think I would ever ask of you, that you do not bring
foraged food into our home.”

“But surely…”

“No, I am most fixed on this.” He
frowned, no doubt registering her distress. “Have no fear, we have extensive
orangeries and greenhouses and all sorts of modern modes of growing whatever
you want, and forcing them to bloom when you want. Even mushrooms, if you must.
My father and my brother loved them. I believe the gardener has a place in the
cellar where he grows them. Just don’t show them to me, ever.

“You will have your fill of
anything you want. But I beg of you, do not bring anything into our home that
has been found in the wild.”

“You will hunt.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. I will
forego hunting, if that eases your palate for my edict.”

“I love to gather in the woods.”

“Surely you have other interests.”
He tried, but she didn’t. Not really. She gathered - in the woods, in the
fields, in meadows - and created medicines, many to be imbibed. That was who
she was and the one thing he couldn’t abide her being. “You can cultivate
whatever pleases you.”

Could she? Would that be the same?

Andover, gentleman that he was,
changed the subject, leaving her numbed to revelations she very much feared
were breaking her heart.

“You’ve been very attentive to the
Smiths?”

Yes, she had been, because, through
her gathering, she had the means to help. “Childbirth is not a good time for
Adele. She has a tendency toward melancholy once the babe is born. Devastating
for sufferer and family both.” She looked straight. “Maddy is her sister.” She
nodded to the serving girl with her basket, now visible ahead of them. “She
feels utterly useless, as does Mr. Smith.”

Lightly as her hand rested on his
forearm, she felt the sudden flex of it, and realized mushrooms and gatherings
were not the only triggers to his tensions.

“This upsets you?” she asked.

He urged her forward, Felicity not
even aware she’d stopped. “Melancholy hits the best of people.”

“Yes, it does,” she agreed,
wondering if that was one of his weaknesses, as well. A melancholic nature. She
would have to ask Thomas.

Their chaperones, meager protection
that they were, turned another corner leaving them alone again. He turned to
her, lifted her chin ever so slightly, enough he looked down, directly into her
eyes, his gaze lowering to her mouth.

“I cannot help but believe your
presence will ease Mrs. Smith’s sorrows. There is a calm strength in you,
Felicity.”

It
is not my presence,
she wanted to cry out.
I take her medicines—the ones that I make with foraged plants.

She could say nothing, dared not
quell this moment, for he bent his forehead, rested it against hers, his eyes
closed, as if in prayerful gratitude.

She held her breath hoping, against
her better judgment, that he would kiss her. A light touch of his lips to hers,
no more. Perhaps the only chance she would have, if this betrothal were called
off for differences neither could abide.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt his wounded
mouth to press her lips, the way he’d caressed her wrist with his lips this
afternoon. Nor would it taint her reputation if the betrothal needed to be
called off.

Just a mere brush of flesh against
flesh.

She shivered with the possibility,
a singular opportunity. He pulled away.

“Thank you,” he offered a bow.

Disconcerted, habit took over. She
curtsied, “you’re very welcome,” and hoped he did not see her disappointment.