Flowers From The Storm (60 page)

She wanted simply to look at him. Every dispute over his spending was doubly painful, because he wouldn’t even quarrel now. He either went away, driving out alone, leaving her bereft amid the splendor, or he seduced her. Like Eydie, she was lost to him—only worse—worse in her need, in how deeply she had surrendered herself; she would do anything he guided her to do and take pleasure in it. She was terrified of him—this power that he held, and still she gave it to him, heart-glad and wretched.

She was defenseless. She thought of Eydie on the stairs. His coaxing skillful caresses, his worldly sophistication; she thought that there must have been others and would be others again, locks of hair and painted miniatures and pain.

She ought to go. Leave this place. Anyone could do such work as she performed for him, a clerk, a secretary; she ought to get away, go to her father and save herself while she had yet enough shame left to understand what was becoming of her. But she was responsible still—just this morning she’d had a letter from Lady de Marly. Maddy had read it, and then burned it, to hide it from Jervaulx, so that he would not see what his aunt had written.

His mother wanted him confined again immediately. The power of this iniquitous jade who claimed to be his wife must be broken. So far, Lady de Marly’s barrister had persuaded the dowager duchess to delay an unwilling detention, avoiding a fuss that was likely to become mortifyingly public, perhaps even scandalous—attempting to confine a man not yet certainly judged incompetent. But as a result, pressure for a hearing had grown to intense proportions. The attorney was having serious difficulty preventing a date being set. The family were beside themselves at the duke’s rate of expenditure and his dismissal of the land-agent who’d handled his affairs for years. Maddy, Lady de Marly made no bones to tell her, was considered the sole source and spring of this bleeding discharge of money, painted in the halls and offices of Chancery in the lurid shades of an avaricious, opportunistic harpy who had complete control of the mindless wreckage of the Duke of Jervaulx.

This picture was such a reverse from the real truth that it had choked an awful laugh from her. But it came as no surprise. She wasn’t at all sure herself that Jervaulx had competent control of his affairs—there was no saying what his situation must appear to an outside party. Certainly she might reasonably be supposed the guilty party. She thought it one more cause to leave him, but Lady de Marly ordered— begged, actually begged—Maddy to do all in her power to make him reduce his expenses to a reasonable level, specifying a figure that would have seemed to Maddy monstrous a month ago, but appeared quite modest now.

She despaired of being able to do it. Jervaulx was not even paying the arrears of his loans—though he dictated polite letters in response to all, he’d settled only the most desperately threatening claims. With all of his labor over the figures, Maddy did not see where he was making any progress—she’d begun lately to suspect that he was instead hoarding money, neglecting payments so that he had an even greater income than before.

They had argued about it again just this morning—or at least Maddy had argued; Jervaulx had merely scowled at her until he lost his patience and came around the desk and began to kiss her.

Fortunately, Durham arrived, putting a stop to that more effectively than Maddy ever could herself. She was not asked to accompany Jervaulx and his friend on this first round of selected calls they planned to make, a society custom which intimidated her extremely. Durham, who didn’t seem to have a glimmer of her feelings, apologized to her for being left home.

“You’ll be out and about at such stuff before you know it,” he predicted optimistically. “As soon as this ball gets you popped off official.”

“Oh,” Maddy said. She glanced at Jervaulx. “It is for that?”

He swept a bow. “Introduce my duchess.”

“Bowl ”em over,“ Durham said. ”Only way to do it. Take your fences head on. Nerve and pluck will carry it. Not the height of the Season, but with nothing else going forward, you’ll have ‘em here bag and baggage. Hunting’s been so slack, even your Melton men may forgo the chase a day or two for this.“

“Sacrifice!” Jervaulx said dryly.

“Shev don’t like to fox-hunt,” Durham confided to Maddy. “Not modern enough. He prefers shooting, as more scientific.”

The duke seemed to find that a sour thought. “No more,” he said. “Couldn’t hit… broad barn now.”

“It’ll pass,” Durham said insistently. “See how you’re improving.”

Jervaulx didn’t answer that, but stood at the door, a grim statue, waiting for his friend to shake hands with Maddy. As they went out, he was saying, “We don’t stay… only five minutes. Damned short, Durham. Understand? So I don’t… talk.”

Calvin appeared a few moments after they had departed. “I’m to help you with the invitations, Mistress, so as to get them out by tomorrow. The stationer has sent materials.” He laid a packet on the desk and produced a small pair of scissors to clip the string.

Maddy sighed. Clearly, whatever his creaturely talents, patience was not one of the duke’s virtues.

It seemed hours later, and her hand and back were aching from transcribing the letters of the morning and the invitations of the afternoon when a footman scratched on the door.

“The nurseryman, Mr. Butterfield, and his gardener Mr. Hill,” he announced.

In spite of the flowers that still filled the library, delivered fresh every day, Maddy had completely forgot the appointment Jervaulx had made for her with the nurseryman. But Calvin had risen, and the footman was already showing the two men into the room. The second wore a Quaker’s hat and plain coat.

“Thou misspoke my name,” he said, turning from the footman to Maddy. “It is Richard Gill.”

Maddy felt a great wave of humiliation. She sat rooted to her chair, covered with it, breathless as if she stood upon a platform and heard her offenses cried in the public streets.

Mr. Butterfield bowed low, and gave a cheerful smile as he bounced his portly figure upright. “It is an honor to serve you, Your Grace. I hope the flowers and plants have been satisfactory?”

She nodded. Like a creaky pull-toy, she stood up and held out her hand to Richard. “Friend,” she said.

“Archimedea,” he answered, just touching her hand and dropping his away, while the nurseryman looked on in surprise.

“We’re already acquainted,” Maddy said to him. “I’m—” She did not say that she was a Friend. She couldn’t, not now. She had no right. “I have met Richard Gill before.”

Mr. Butterfield was all smiles again. “How fortuitous. Gill has been with me just a short while, but perhaps you know he has come directly from Mr. Loudon, Your Grace?”

“No,” Maddy said mechanically. “I didn’t know that.”

“Ah. But you’re familiar with Mr. Loudon’s work?”

“Mr. Loudon—” She found a kernel of intelligence to cling to. “
The Suburban Gardener
?”

“Indeed, Your Grace. The premier horticulturist of our day—
The Suburban Gardener and VillaCompanion, An Encyclopedia of Gardening
, the
Gardener’s Magazine
—a fit successor to Brown and Repton, I assure you. And Gill here comes with Mr. Loudon’s highest recommendation as designer and florist. He is an expert in botanical science, and can aid us in planning an arboretum and garden in the most forward style. Beautiful to the eye, educational to the mind, and most importantly, uplifting to the spirit. I hope he will be acceptable to you?”

Richard merely looked at her, his clear-eyed gaze steady, killing in its lack of accusation. Maddy could barely meet it for an instant. “Yes. Acceptable. I’m sure Richard is acceptable.”

As soon as she said it, she thought of Jervaulx, who would likely not think it acceptable at all. But she could not say that, nor find the words to turn off smiling Butterfield and the whole opulent project. The nurseryman was clearly elated over his commission.

“Well, then—” Butterfield turned to Richard and took a notebook and sketchpad from him. “Shall we take a look at what we have?”

The space between the house and stables was no larger than her garden in Chelsea had been, paved and bleak and new. Between walls that had no softening cover of trailers or trees, nothing provided ornament but a single wrought-iron bench. Butterfield made a judicious moue of his lips. “There’s a service basement beneath the pavement?”

“Yes.” Maddy was familiar with the kitchen and cellars from her first day alone with Jervaulx, and cravenly glad to have something impersonal to talk about. “It goes through to the mews.”

“I’ll have to have a look at the foundations before we begin. It won’t take a moment. Gill—you’ll attend the duchess.

If Your Grace will please to let him know any particular plants you may have a fondness for. No, no—no need to stir! I’ll find someone to show me down.“

He was darting back into the house before Maddy could realize that he meant to leave them alone. She lifted her hand—but he was gone.

She stood looking at the handsome French door where he’d disappeared into the house. In the alley behind the stables, someone was whistling. She hung immobile in the powerful silence that prevailed inside the barren court.

“Why?” Richard asked.

Maddy had to turn to him. She kept her eyes down, staring at the raw pavement.

“Did he force thee? Archimedea—” His quiet voice had a terrible undertone of emotion in it. “Thou could have come to me. Surely thou knew it.”

She shook her head quickly, helpless to explain.

He walked away to the wall. “The Lord required of me to watch over thee, and to the grief of my soul, I failed in it.”

“No, Richard—it was not thy failing.”

The white stone outlined him, square-shouldered, faced to the wall, dark severity against the stark light.

When he turned, Maddy averted her eyes again, unable to meet his. He came closer to her.

“No matter that he took his way with thee,” he said low, his tone burning with intensity. “I would have asked consent of Meeting to make thee my wife.”

“Wife!” She looked up at him, staring.

“I still will do it, Archimedea, if thou will repudiate this fearful error.” Beneath the shadow of his hat, his face held a steadfast purity of purpose—almost innocence, it seemed, compared to the muddied turmoil of her own spirit. “It is my blame.”

“Thou art too good,” she said wretchedly.

“Come back with me. Leave here; leave this corrupt place and come back now.”

Maddy stepped away from him, feeling her heartbeat quicken. She’d known she was sinking in this slough of worldliness and carnal love—how far, she had not realized until he offered his hand to pull her free. “I’ve married him,” she said uncertainly.

“An unbeliever. An ungodly man. ”Duchess,“ they call thee! ”Your Grace“!” He made a grimace of disgust. “Married. Oh, Archimedea, can thou name it that? How, married? Not in the Truth, in the Light, with thy Meeting’s consent and thy father’s. It is no marriage. Thou are no more than whore to him!”

A small sound escaped her as she pulled her shawl tight around herself and turned her face away.

“No—that was not justly said.” He laid his hand on her arm. “The shame is not thine. It belongs to me. I came back—and they had taken thee away. And every day and night,” he said fiercely, “I’ve scourged myself for leaving thee one hour, for one minute. I knew it unsafe!”

“But—my father wished it.”

“Thy father! God forgive him if he wished such a thing!”

She half turned. “Thou wrote it! That Papa wished me to go with Jervaulx!”

“I never wrote to thee any such nonsense!” he said vehemently. “Nor would have, even if I could have seen thy father and he commanded me to do it!”

“Even if—” Maddy had the ends of her shawl gripped in her hands. “But—thou saw him.”

“No. He was not there when I went, not at the hotel. I ought to have come back to thee instantly, but I waited late for him to—”

“Richard!” She brought the shawl up to her cheeks and pressed it there. She broke away suddenly, walking three paces from him. “Tell me—” She spoke, facing away, with desperate deliberation. “Thou went to my father that day, and sent back a note, in the depth of the night, with instructions to me—to go wherever the duke’s friends sent us to hide him.”

Richard’s silence seemed to grow and grow, becoming a thundering in her ears. Maddy turned back to him.

“Tell me! Didst thou write it?”

Slowly, he shook his head.

She felt a weakness come over her. Her mind could not seem to get round the knowledge, but her body had already begun to tremble. Richard caught her hands. “He’s the devil!” he exclaimed. “Thou
must
come—”

Voices sounded from within the house: the nurseryman’s, and Durham’s. The glass door opened and Jervaulx stepped out, turning from the others behind him.

The brief echo of cordial voices went silent except for Butterfield’s blithe monologue. “—adequate support for beds, and I have an idea of bringing up pipes and using steam from a boiler to heat the greenhouse. If Your Grace…” His voice faded away as he seemed to realize no one was looking at him.