Page 28 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
They resumed their walk in silence until turning onto the lane that led to the cottage.
“Look, Oliver. I’m a right bastard but you knew that already.” Jack’s voice was gruff, but his hand brushed against Oliver’s in a way seemed deliberate, almost conciliatory. “You’re not going to hold it against me, are you?” As far as apologies went, it was lacking, but it was the first time Jack had addressed him by his Christian name and Oliver fully intended to savor it.
Before Oliver had to come up with a suitable response, he caught sight of the cottage.
Jack whistled low under his breath.
“I can hardly believe this place is real,” Oliver said, pausing in order to better admire the sight. The cottage itself was made of the same grayish brown stone as most of the buildings they had seen in this part of the country. He didn’t know why the building was referred to by locals simply as “the cottage.” It looked rather like it had once been a dower house or hunting lodge or some other outbuilding associated with nearby Pickworth Hall.
While the cottage itself was pretty, what made this place astonishing was the garden. There was a profusion of flowers—vivid purple Canterbury bells and soft yellow primroses, foxgloves in every shade of pink and a carpet of violets. He caught the clove scent of sweet William before he saw the clusters of tiny red flowers. Every square inch of soil had been planted and carefully tended by someone with an almost preternatural ability to make things grow.
Oliver knew nothing about gardening. What he did know was that he might sell his soul at a crossroads to live in a place half so lovely. A man could forget about war and evil in a place like this.
Suddenly, his walking stick caught in between two stones and he lost his footing. Damn it, he was going to fall and tear up his breeches right on this lady’s doorstep. But then he felt Jack’s arm around him, supporting him as easily as if Oliver weighed no more than a kitten.
“Steady now,” Jack said easily, as if half-crippled men fell into his arms as a normal occurrence. They stood there for a minute, Jack’s arm around Oliver’s waist, their mouths only inches apart. “I’m going to let go if you’re all right,” Jack finally said, his voice rough.
Oliver murmured something suitable and stood up straight. His leg—to say nothing of his mind—would never let him forget about war and evil, not even in such a pretty place as this. But damn it if he wouldn’t like a chance to try.
He picked his way more carefully along the stone walkway as it wound through the garden, arriving at the cottage’s front door, which was painted a shade of green that made it fade into the ivy-covered walls. A neatly dressed maid answered the door and took Oliver’s calling card.
“Cottage, my arse,” Jack said, as they stood in the small vestibule awaiting the maid’s return. Indeed, most cottages did not have Hepplewhite chairs littered about the entryway, nor were most cottages freshly plastered and painted.
The maid directed them into an adjacent sitting room. Oliver had to duck his head to pass under the lintel. On the settee sat a lady of about thirty, a book opened spine-up on her lap, her hand raised to her mouth to cover a yawn. Three books were in similar positions on nearby tables. A tea cup was balanced on top of a stack of books, and one of the walls was lined with bookcases holding dozens of volumes.
“Mr. Rivington?” She was wearing a white muslin day dress and her pale brown hair was falling out of what had this morning likely been a tidy arrangement. “Do sit, if you can find a place. To what do I owe the honor?” Her voice sounded rusty, as if she had only now woken from a nap.
Oliver removed a shawl from one chair and watched Jack try to rouse a sleeping kitten from another. “Thank you so much,” he said, smiling apologetically. “I couldn’t have walked another step, I’m afraid.” He gestured to his walking stick. “And Mr. Turner here was positively done in by your bluebells, Miss Barrow, and insisted on meeting the—what did you say, Mr. Turner—ah, yes, the artist responsible for such a bewitching creation. That was it.” He liked this fictional Mr. Turner, and liked even more that the real Jack probably did not.
Miss Barrow laughed, a genteel tinkle of a sound. “My gardener is the artist, I’m afraid. I do nothing but agree to whatever schemes he comes up with. He’s been here longer than I have and I’m loathe to ruffle his feathers.”
“Are you not originally from Pickworth, then, Miss Barrow? I was rather hoping you were. You see, my sister, Lady Montbray, instructed me to call on an acquaintance of hers in this neighborhood.” He smiled ruefully. “But the trouble is I forgot her name.” He supposed they ought to keep to the same story throughout their visit in case the villagers compared notes. Besides, it was hardly a lie at all: if he had in fact told Charlotte that he was coming to Pickworth, she would doubtless have dragged out someone or another for him to visit, and likely as not he would have promptly forgotten the name. So it was, if not precisely the truth, at least a close second.
“Oh, you gentlemen, never writing things down,” she said indulgently. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your sister.”
Tea arrived, carried by the same maid who had answered the door. The tea was very good and the china was of a quality that even Charlotte wouldn’t be embarrassed to possess. That, compounded with the proliferation of calf-bound books and the abundance of very fine furniture meant only one thing: Miss Barrow was no impoverished gentlewoman, regardless of having once been a governess. Had she come into an inheritance, perhaps? Jack would want to know.
But when Jack spoke, it seemed to have nothing to do with their purpose in coming here. “Is your gardener here today, Miss Barrow?” Jack asked, speaking for the first time since entering the room. “I wonder if I could speak to him.”
“I daresay he’s pottering in the back garden. Be careful or he’ll talk your ear off.”
Jack was gone instantly.
“He’s plant-mad,” Oliver offered by way of explanation. “Can’t make him think of anything else.”
“Well, he and Norris will be equally matched, then.”
“The family that owns the house on the hill is called Durbin, are they not? A friend of mine, Francis Wraxhall, married a Miss Durbin last year some time. Can’t remember when, because I was still on the Continent. But I’m wondering if it’s the same family.”
For an instant too long the lady stared at him in surprise. “Oh, yes, you’re talking about Lydia Durbin. I was her governess for some time, in fact.” After an awkward pause, she added, “Lovely girl,” and Oliver supposed she couldn’t say anything else.
“But what I don’t understand,” Oliver went on, “is what Wraxhall was doing in Yorkshire. His people are from Norfolk.” He could thank Debrett’s for that piece of knowledge.
“You’re quite right, of course. The Durbins went to Brighton for Mr. Durbin’s health, and the next thing anyone knew Lydia was engaged. She never came back to Pickworth, not even for the wedding. She was married in Brighton and they went to London directly after. It caused quite the uproar.” She leaned forward and brushed one of the stray tendrils of hair behind her ear. “Because, you see, everyone thought she was going to marry—” She stopped abruptly, apparently realizing she was speaking to a stranger.
“I never heard her called a jilt, or anything like that,” Oliver said in between sips of tea, as if there was nothing remarkable about this conversation, just two well-bred people talking about the antics of someone less refined.
“That’s because she wasn’t truly engaged to the other man. The banns were never read. It was simply understood in both households that Lydia would marry Mr. Lewis.”
