Rakes and Radishes (4 page)

“And what does that mean?” she said, a little pointy edge to her voice.

Kesseley took a deep breath and began in a monotone, like a child prodded by his parent. “Everyone has assumed that manure with the correct ammonia ratio, when stored, produces enough nitrogen to make soil fertile. However, I found with my own manure that my crop yield actually diminished. So I conducted an experiment with my turnips. I discovered that adding ash constituents from the previous crop to your manure gives you a better yield. For instance, if you have one field you fertilize with just manure and another that you—”

“Fascinating,” the famed astronomer said in such a way as to intone the opposite.

“You are in many journals all over the world, are you not, Mr. Van Heerlen?” Henrietta asked, trying her hardest to keep the conversation diverted from her.

“Yes, of course. My comets. I have—”

“Those comets were discovered over a decade ago,” Kesseley said dismissively. “Do you not follow the work of our Astronomer Royal, John Pond? I have read his articles in the Royal Academy’s
Philosophical Transactions.
Is it not fascinating, his work with observation using mural circles?”

“Yes, a brilliant man,” Mr. Watson agreed, with a duck wing in his mouth.

Mr. Van Heerlen’s Flemish accent hardened. “No, I do not work with Mr. Pond. Our studies are quite different. Although a gifted astronomer, he is—in my opinion—too slow to embrace the advances of the Germans. We have debated this point, as gentlemen, of course.”

A slow smile crossed Kesseley’s face. His chair creaked as he leaned back, widening his stance, his fingers tapping the table. “No doubt having the credit of discovering a new planet will prove your superiority.”

She wasn’t sure what passed between the two men, but each looked unflinching at the other, lips tight. For a moment, she thought it wouldn’t be unthinkable for one to leap over the table and throttle the other.

“Lord Kesseley, did I not tell you that Papa and Mr. Van Heerlen have an appointment at the Royal Observatory in a few weeks?” She grasped at conversational topics, trying to sound light.

“Well, this works out perfectly. Henrietta will be away in London, and you two may work in silence, undisturbed by the beauty of Henrietta’s stars—although I prefer to say the beauty of her face. But, you see, I am far more direct than yourself, Mr. Van Heerlen.”

“London?” Mr. Van Heerlen asked her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what—”

“You promised Mother to be her companion for the Season. We’ve gotten the London house ready for you and engaged a box at the opera. The Season has already started. It’s too late to go back on your word.” Kesseley stared at her with a dead serious expression on his face, as if to say,
how could you forget?

She wanted to leap from her seat and embrace him, perhaps even kiss him like she had in her imagination.

London! Edward!

I’m going to get Kesseley the very best bride in all of England—Lady Sara, of course! He will be the handsomest gentleman on St. James! I will pull the full romantic moon down from the heavens for him and throw in Sirius to boot. We star goddesses can do these things!

Kesseley had finished his morning rounds and couldn’t procrastinate any longer. The new drainage ditch had been staked out, and the tenants could begin digging. For once, one of his cows had an easy birth, and the new, wet creature immediately suckled his mama’s teat. He should have felt optimism instead of dread as he and Samuel walked back to Wrenthorpe, the morning sun rising over its roof.

But he knew his mother wouldn’t take the news of Henrietta well. It had only been after months of tearful pleas from his mother about how he needed to break from Henrietta and find a wife who would love and appreciate him that he had finally consented to give the Season a try. And now he had to confess that Henrietta would be tagging along. As Mama’s companion, no less. He braced for the onslaught of maternal tears and guilt as he entered Wrenthorpe through the stable yards. From the bakehouse, the delicious smell of rising bread mingled with scents of hay and horses. The blind girl he had hired from the village was running her fingers along the laundry line, hanging the newly washed sheets. Samuel chased the cats from his water bucket and dipped his head in, lapping noisy slurps. Kesseley walked into the scullery, stepped out of his boots and put his head under the pump.

“My lord.” A nervous young female servant curtsied and handed him a towel.

“Thank you, Rebecca.” He wiped his face and neck. “Has your father recovered from his chill? Should I send out the physician again?”

“Mama says he is quite well now. Thank you, my lord.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, handing her the soiled towel. He took the servants’ passage to the morning parlor and quietly slipped through the door.

His mother’s parlor was an airy, tranquil room with pale yellow walls and white wainscoting. The gold brocade curtains had been drawn back, letting in the light from the neat boxwood garden just beyond the panes.

Kesseley leaned against the doorframe and observed his mother sitting at her desk, unaware of his presence. Her head was bowed over a book that lay open before her. The sunlight shone on her fair skin and blond hair that curled about the edges of her lace cap. She bit her bottom lip, made a soft humming sound and turned a page.

Kesseley remained silent, marveling at the serenity that had come over their lives since his father’s death.

In this same room twenty years before, he had rushed in, wanting to show off the picture he had drawn of a machine for planting carrots. He had found his mother sobbing, shoved against her desk, as his father stood between her limbs, clawing at the cotton of her new ivory morning gown.

“You’re making me wild,” his father groaned.

“Leave me alone,” she screamed, flailing under his grip. “Go to one of your mistresses.”

Terror seized Kesseley’s young mind. He didn’t know or care what a mistress was or why his father was ripping his wife’s gown, all he knew was his mama was being hurt. He charged, his fists balled like little stones, and pounded his father’s back.

“Don’t hurt my mama! Don’t hurt my mama!” he wailed.

The earl pushed his son in the chest with the heel of his palm. Kesseley fell backward and sprawled on the rug. His father came to stand over him, a diamond and gold ring glinting from his fisted fingers. In his eyes glowed that dangerous, alcohol-induced shine that always scared young Kesseley.

“You leave my mother alone,” Kesseley spat, even as he raised his small arm to shield his face.

The earl laughed. “I’m not hurting her,” he said in his low, purring voice, the sweet fire of brandy on his breath. “Son, this is what a woman is made to do. You need to know these things.”

He strode back to his wife, now huddled on the desk, her arms crossed over her body, quivering and sobbing. He ran his finger down her cheek and across her chin. “I made your mother a lady,” he said, as his finger trailed farther down her neck to the delicate amulet on her necklace. “Do you see this diamond, son? And these pretty clothes? I gave them to her. And all I want is one simple thing. But she can’t seem to remember her duty as my wife.” He gently lifted Lady Kesseley’s chin. “Now what do you say to me?”

She shook her head, refusing to answer.

His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened. “What do you say to me?” he growled.

Kesseley rose up. “Leave her alone!”

The earl turned slowly, his brows low, the edge of his teeth just visible below his tight lips. Kesseley stepped back, petrified.

“I’m sorry,” Lady Kesseley cried, grabbing her husband’s arm. “Please, I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” The earl ripped himself free of her hold. “Thomas, take your ugly picture and get the hell out of here.”

Now the pretty room felt like an old battlefield overgrown with grass and wildflowers covering any reminders of bloodshed. For a moment, that feeling of deep, peaceful relief flowed through him like the day they had set his father’s coffin in the family vault and heaved the heavy marble slabs back in place.

“What abominable trash,” Lady Kesseley cried. She slammed her book shut with a hard thud, regarded the cover for a moment, then pushed the offensive volume off the desk.

Kesseley chuckled. “I gather the lady does not care for the book?”

His mother’s head shot up. Sunlight reflected in her pale, wintry eyes. “Tommie, I didn’t see you!” A deep blush blossomed over her skin.

“Good lord, what lurid things are you reading?” he teased, bending over to retrieve the book.

Oh no.
He recognized the swirling marbled cover. “Don’t tell me you are reading
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven
too?”

“Good heavens, no! Fanny sent me that. How she could dare—” Lady Kesseley halted, and then brushed the curls off her forehead. “I mean, how dare she send me such embarrassing drivel.”

“I concur. I’m only on page ninety-seven and I keep hoping some right-minded gentleman character will challenge Blackraven to a duel and end my literary misery.”

His mother let out a little gurgling laugh. “I never knew you liked sensational claptrap.”

“I don’t. Henrietta recommended it. Actually
recommend
is putting it lightly. She ordered me to read it.”

The amusement vanished from his mother’s face. “I thought you were avoiding that girl. You know how I feel about her.”

Kesseley sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable battle. He returned the abused volume to the desk. “You judge her too harshly.”

“I do not. I can’t forgive Henrietta for how she treated you. She’s been spoiled since her poor mother died and her father does nothing to curb her selfish and wild behavior. Every time I saw her in the village, I tried to give her some motherly guidance but she paid me no heed. As if I didn’t matter.”

He didn’t miss the slight quiver in her voice. His father had told her over and over that she was worthless.

“Now, that’s not true,” he said, laying his hand over her smaller one. “Henrietta thinks the world of you. Everyone does.”

He gave her fingers a small squeeze and then let go.

“I have a little problem. Can you help me?” he asked, taking a seat in the ladder-back chair near her desk. He leaned back, lifting the front feet from the floor.

“Yes, of course.” A bright smile curled her lips. He knew she loved feeling needed.

“A scholar—a bachelor scholar—is visiting Henrietta’s father and pushing his unwanted affections on her.”

“I fail to see how this is your problem. She has a father, albeit a rather useless one. Don’t you dare help her. She’s hurt you enough. If this scholar is so bothersome, she should have that cousin of hers take care of him. She’s been chasing him hard enough these past months.”

Kesseley fingered a loose green thread on his cuff. “The thing is, Edward was caught trying to run away with a Lady Sara. Henrietta is devastated.”

“No!” his mother gasped. “The Duke of Houghton’s daughter?”

“I believe so.”

She paused for a moment, running her thumb along the edge of
The Mysterious Lord Blackraven.
“Well, I truly feel sorry for Henrietta,” she began, “but please don’t think this is a chance for you to win her affections.”

Kesseley’s focus shifted from his mother to a figurine of a shepherdess set by the inkwell. “I don’t have those feelings for her anymore.”

“Yes, you do. You are too much like me when you care for someone.”

“And how is that?”

She rose and walked to the window. “Weak,” she whispered. Beyond the glass, Samuel had plopped down on the cool stones under the sundial.

“I asked her to be your companion in London.”

“What!” His mother spun around.

“I thought I could help her.”

Her eyes widened with horror and then narrowed. “Help her? This was that sly minx’s idea. This scholar isn’t bothering her. She’s just trying to get to her cousin in London. Don’t you see that she is using you?”

“No. This was all my doing. She had nothing to do with it.”

Lady Kesseley jutted her chin. “I don’t want a companion. Fanny and the princess Wilhelmina are coming in from Brighton to help us, so I have no use for Henrietta.”

“But she is too excited now, going on about what she’s going to wear to plays and operas and all those senseless things she cares about.”

“I don’t care if she sewed an entire wardrobe complete with a court dress of gold thread, she is not going.”

“This man is pressing his intentions—”

“She certainly had no difficulty telling you her feelings.”

Kesseley shot up and strode to the mantel, but even there he couldn’t escape his mother. An oval portrait of her, painted before her marriage, hung over his head. She wore a simple white gown gathered along the bodice, her blond curls pooling about her shoulders. The passing years had done little damage to her beauty but her eyes had changed. In the portrait they were gentle, untouched by ugliness of his father.

“I want her to go,” he said in a quiet voice. He was the earl, after all.

Lady Kesseley returned to her desk and pressed her palms against her forehead. “Very well,” she said. “Don’t you understand? You’re such a wonderful man. I want you to have everything that I didn’t—someone to love you, respect you, cherish you. Henrietta isn’t that lady. Perhaps I once thought that you and she—” she paused, then shook her head. “She will ruin everything.”

In the cold darkness of the morning before departure, Henrietta kneeled before her opened trunk in the parlor. She wrapped herself in a blanket, and with a candle on the floor, checked her belongings, making sure the servants had packed the box of gentlemen’s fashion clippings and articles on gentlemen’s etiquette that she had collected from old copies of
Town and Country,
as well as a list she had made of London hatmakers and bootmakers and such. Mrs. Potts staggered in and slammed a basket down on the round marble table. She put her hand on her hip and poked her head out like a turtle, waiting for Henrietta to say something, a shot in their ongoing domestic war.

“Good morning, Mrs. Potts! I’m going to London. Shall I bring you some nice fabric from the Grafton House, on New Bond Street? That’s where all the fashionable stores are.”

“I won’t be needin’ any fancy-dancy fabric from London. It ain’t going t’ make this face any prettier.”

“Oh well, I shall buy you a scrub brush. How pleasant. Did you make those heavenly creampuffs from Monsieur Ude’s cookbook? I think the additional egg yolks will make a nice light, flaky crust around the cream.”

“I made the creampuffs I’ve been makin’ for thirty years. If the Lady Kesseley didn’t like them, she’d had plenty of time to complain before now. Good morning.” Mrs. Potts left the room, cursing under her breath.

Henrietta opened the linen and lifted out a flat, browned creampuff. She snapped it open like a hard biscuit to see clotted-over whipped cream turning to butter.

“You look beautiful this morning, Miss Watson, as you always do,” a male voice echoed in the room.

Henrietta shoved the puff into her mouth and turned to see Mr. Van Heerlen fully turned out in tight doeskins, Hessian boots and a light blue jacket with large brass buttons that accented his bright eyes and fair features. He didn’t approach her or return a bow, but instead circled the edge of the room, falling in and out of the shadows, his gaze locked on her face.

“You should know your father is a brilliant, brilliant man,” he said. “I had no idea the true genius of his mind—his numbers—until I came here. He is a mastermind of math and physics.”

“Your words mean so much to me, for I’ve always believed in him. And, well, the societies have been so harsh. It breaks my heart to see him so dejected.”

He put a hand on her cheek. A column of tightness rose from Henrietta’s lungs to her throat. She resisted the urge to back away.

“Your fierce love and loyalty to your father is commendable. Would I be presumptuous to desire the same love and loyalty for myself?” He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “Miss Watson, I love you. I always viewed marriage as a necessity, not a want. For how could one mere woman keep me enchanted, for quickly I would tire of immature opinions and insipid conversation? But I feel that I can never have enough of your company, your presence. You perform the most difficult mathematical calculation while asking me if the paint color suits the study. You are the most bewitching lady I have ever met.”

His blue eyes, once cold and reserved, were filled with a terrifying mixture of fear, hope and vulnerability. She felt a rush of compassion for the astronomer. She wished she could return his affections, that she wouldn’t have to break a heart like hers had been broken. How perfect the match would be for her father’s career.

Yet, she just couldn’t.

She reached deep for her courage, hoping that she wasn’t destroying her father’s dreams, that she shouldn’t feel ashamed or guilt-ridden for the words she was about to say. “I—”

He grabbed her shoulders, letting her blanket fall to the floor, then drew her to him and pressed his lips on hers. They were warm, full and not entirely unpleasant. He shivered and tightened his hold on her, squeezing her against his chest. He didn’t have Edward’s musky scent—he was sweeter—and she didn’t tingle at his touch. There was just a feeling of detached observation, a pleasing curiosity.

He opened her mouth with the pressure of his lips, brushing his warm tongue against hers. She pushed him away.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly.

Out in the hall came the sound of the rusty creak of the old great door being opened. Kesseley’s heavy steps echoed through the corridor.

Mr. Van Heerlen squeezed her fingers. “Promise you’ll come back, dearest Henrietta. That you will consider all that I have said.”

The door to the parlor opened.

“Say it!”

“I…”

“Please.”

“I—I prom—”

“Have I interrupted something?” Kesseley inquired, his gaze latched on to Henrietta’s hot face.

Oh Lud, what had she done now?

***

As the rising sunlight cracked over the horizon and Kesseley’s footmen hoisted Henrietta’s trunk into the carriage. She stood quiet, holding her arms about herself.

Usually Kesseley played the funny jester to lighten her mood, but he was tired and in poor humor. He hated traveling any distance longer than two hours and had been up all night seeing to the small details at Wrenthorpe, writing detailed instructions for ridding his barley of parasites should an infestation occur during his absence, as well as diagramming the dimensions of the drainage ditch he required for the clover. He had concluded that the estate would crumble to the ground in his absence. Additionally, he’d received a stack of correspondences from various politicians who, upon learning he was coming to London, were busy setting up appointments to meet him. He liked the proxy vote—it left little room for compromise—and he detested compromising when it meant bad agricultural reform. On top of it all, his mother carried on like some doomsday prophet. He just wanted to stay home.

He stepped into the carriage. Samuel was sprawled out beside his mother, who sat asleep with her head cradled on the side of the carriage.

Kesseley shook Samuel. “Down, big boy.”

He picked the hound up and put him on the floor. Then he swept the dog fur off the seat and offered Henrietta his hand. She reached up and latched on with her small fingers. He lifted her up, bringing her head on level with his, the moist vapor of her breath warming his cheek. Her lips were rosier than usual, slightly puffy. White anger flashed through him.

“Did Van Heerlen kiss you?”

She brushed past him to take her seat.

“It was nothing,” she murmured.

He turned on his heel, poking his head out the carriage door, a week of frustration squeezing into a hard ball of anger. Maybe if he could just land Van Heerlen a facer, he would feel much better.

Henrietta grabbed his taut arm, trying to pull him back inside. “Please, let’s just go. He is watching from the window.”

Kesseley certainly hoped so as he rammed his fist into his palm.

“Let me guess.” He adopted Van Heerlen’s accent. “Miss Watson, I have fallen in love with you, only you can ease my suffering, and by the way, if you want me to sponsor your father, you’ll consent to be my wife.”

Henrietta looked at her hands, bound tightly in her lap. “I didn’t give him an answer.”

“Would you like me to?” he said. Because nothing would give Kesseley greater pleasure at that very moment than knocking the daylights out of Van Heerlen.

“Let us forget it for the duration of London.”

“You’re actually considering him?”

“Thomas, do sit down. I’m sure Henrietta could adequately break his heart if she chose to,” Lady Kesseley said languidly, waking from a light doze. She stretched her arms before her and yawned. “Good morning, Henrietta. You look none the worse for being mauled.”

Henrietta launched into a stiff, rehearsed speech. “Lady Kesseley. I am so honored that you have allowed me to be your companion. I shall strive not to disappoint you. Anything you require for your comfort, I shall acquire. I can read, play cards, help you pick out fabric and—and—”

Henrietta faltered under his mother’s cold gaze. Kesseley felt his belly clench. His mother was doing her best to make this difficult. He just wanted to call the whole thing off. He wouldn’t ever get married and his cousin in Winchester would make a fine Earl of Kesseley.

“I—I’ve brought some creampuffs for the journey.” Henrietta offered them up, her eyes nervously downcast like a terrified villager offering a sacrifice to an angry volcano god.

He looked at the unappetizing brown balls and declined. His insides were too knotted to consider eating.

Samuel perked up and sniffed the air, then climbed into Henrietta’s lap, swallowing a puff in a single loud gulp. Then he proceeded to curl up there as if he were a small fluffy dog and not a five-stone hound.