Page 2 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Flora?” he said in the same teasing tone he applied to his infant cousins. And most other people as well, come to think of it. “You ought to be called Daisy, or Daffy.”
The pink bow of her lips thinned.
“Or,” he snapped his fingers, “Petal. Just Petal. I shall call you that.”
She drew her tiny self up, as haughty as Headmaster Ingles before he took out his strop. “My name,” she said in perfectly accented English, “is Fleur.”
Fleur?Flora, Daisy, Daffy, Petal… but Fleur? The ridiculousness of it made him laugh as he picked up his gun and rabbits and ran to catch up with his friends.
Thereafter, Petal seemed to appear everywhere he and Thaddeus went fishing, hunting, tree-climbing. She’d even attended the end of summer picnic at Sherington Manor with her guardian, still not speaking, except in the frowns and grimaces she showered upon him when he called her Petal.
The day he departed for a visit home to farewell his family before joining the regiment and taking up his ensign duties, he made one last walk savoring the peace he’d found at Sherington Manor. The little chit tracked him down and handed him a square of white cloth.
It was a man’s handkerchief; golden petals straggled around the edges in clumsy, uneven stitches.
A handkerchief. His new messmates in the regiment would think he had an amour. Would he look like a fool if they knew this came from a mere baby?
A laugh bubbled up and spilled over. Despite himself, he was touched. But when he looked up to thank her, she’d disappeared.
* * *
September,1815
On a brisk earlyautumn morning the day after his arrival in Cheshire, Captain Gareth Ardleigh rode past fields swarming with laborers harvesting corn. Back-breaking labor it was, as he well knew from his days growing up on his gentry father’s modest estate. In bad years or good—especially in good—gentleman or not, all hands were needed. Returning to school for the Michaelmas term had always been a blessed reprieve, and he’d made good friends there, Thaddeus Sherington and to a lesser degree Thad’s older brother Laurence. Gareth had been warmly welcomed for visits by George Sherington and his lady wife. Those had been good times. Sadly, Mrs. Sherington died a little over a year ago. And Thad…
He reined up and gazed down the long drive to Bicton Grange, a square stone manse with a filled in moat and overgrown hedges. Tall grass had overtaken the lawns too, except where wheel tracks carved crescents around a crater-sized hole in the bumpy lane.
The Bicton-Morledge family had fallen on hard times. It was unfortunate, but not something he could help with. He had a small—very small—income from his late uncle, and somehow, he would live on it. His elder brother had not demanded Gareth’s return to the family fold; had been grateful, in fact, for one less mouth to feed.
He’d come to Reabridge first to visit the Sheringtons, and then… Well, once he finished here, if roaming around the country as an officer on half pay became boring, he could return to active duty and risk dying of a fever in either the East or the West Indies. He was, at least, alive now, as Thaddeus wasn’t, having fallen, finally, after so many battles, at Quatre Bras.
Laurence might be an annoying complainer, but he’d accepted Thad’s personal effects with almost as much grief as his mournful father and his watery-eyed widowed cousin, Mrs. Esther Smythe, who served as the Sherington chatelaine since Mrs. Sherington’s passing. They’d invited Gareth to stay on through the harvest, and longer, if he wished.
Which served Gareth’s needs quite well. For, much as he was honored to perform the task, delivering Thad’s things wasn’t his only reason for visiting Reabridge. He had a debt to repay, and to do so, he must find a female whom he’d last seen here.
He’d start looking in earnest tomorrow. Today, he’d ride back to Sherington Manor and open another bottle of champagne.
* * *
“Mr. Sherington won’t haveyou, gel. I’ll wager you a quid on that.”
Fleur Hardouin sent the snowy-haired lady next to her a haughty look. Lady Dulcinea Ixworth, the granddaughter of a duke and widow of a long-deceased viscount, perched perilously on the seat as Fleur handled the lines, making no move to clutch the siderail of Bicton Grange’s rickety gig. Dulcinea was, as usual, fearless, and full of vinegar.
“If either of us had a quid to spare, madame,” Fleur said, “I would take that wager.”
She suspected she might lose, of course, but that would be fine. No one in her life had been more generous than Dulcinea Ixworth in sharing small bounties.
“Perhaps he won’t see us, as ill as he’s been,” Dulcinea said, pressing her lips together.
Fleur glanced at her companion. Fearless Dulcinea might be, but Fleur sensed a heightened tension in her employer. Dulcinea had donned her newest gown, lavender half-mourning trimmed in intricate silver embroidery at the neckline and hem by Fleur’s own skilled hands. With her carefully coifed hair and newly trimmed bonnet, Dulcinea looked magnificent for this call on an old acquaintance.
Providing that Mr. George Sherington was able to receive them. Just months earlier, the fever that had taken Mr. Bicton-Morledge to the grave had struck Mr. Sherington. Mrs. Knollwood, the housekeeper at Bicton Grange, who’d been a beloved housemaid when Fleur was a child there, had learned that the local doctor said Mr. Sherington ought to have come out of his Bath chair weeks ago.
The doctor apparently had returned from Waterloo with a penchant for drink that sometimes loosened his tongue too much.
“The son will be more likely for you,” Dulcinea said, interrupting Fleur’s revery.
“But not more manageable.” Fleur urged the horse onto the lane leading to Sherington Manor. While one son had gone off to the army, Laurence had been home for school holidays, and she remembered him well. Unless he’d changed, he’d be bossy and careless of a wife. One could tolerate a bossy man for a few years, but Laurence would likely live another thirty.
