Page 83 of The Viscount and the Vixen
Chapter19
May arrived with weather warmer than usual. Portia couldn’t bear the thought of cleaning rooms when she could enjoy the sun warming her face. Kneeling, inhaling deeply, she took satisfaction in the fragrance of freshly turned earth. Except for a brief respite for lunch, she’d spent the day working on bringing the garden back to life. The next time they had guests, she wanted to be able to invite them for tea on the terrace. So earlier that morning, once Locksley left for the mines, she had gone into the village, visited with those who had gorgeous flowers blooming, and asked for some cuttings from their favorite plants. She’d never been the beneficiary of such generosity from strangers, and she’d left feeling as though she were accepted by the villagers, as though she truly belonged here. Then when she returned to Havisham she set the servants to work.
The footmen and stable boys were making great progress hacking at the brambles and overgrowth. The maids were pulling up the unwanted vegetation. The marquess, bless him, was turning over the soil with a shovel, creating a narrow path that lined the terrace. She was following along behind him, on her knees, using a trowel to prepare a place for each cutting and potted plant, carefully setting it into its new home, and gently filling in the hole. She did hope they would survive.
“How do you know about gardening?” Marsden asked, taking a break from his toils and resting an elbow on the shovel.
“My mother. The only time she ever seemed truly happy was when she was in the garden. Sometimes she would let me help when she was planting or pruning.”
“My Linnie loved flowers.”
Although she wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her face, she raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she glanced up at him. “Based upon what you’ve told me of her, I’m not surprised. I imagine these gardens were beautiful once.”
He crouched beside her. “They were. I shouldn’t have let them go. She’ll be pleased to see you’re bringing them back. But we must hire a gardener. This area is massive. We can’t have you doing all the work, and those servants are going to grumble about these labors if you keep them at it too long.”
“Maybe once the plants are flourishing we’ll hire someone.”
“No need to wait. It’s not as though we can’t afford it.”
She wasn’t quite certain his words were true. It had been a few weeks since she’d learned the truth, since she watched Locksley return in the evenings and noted the dejected slump of his shoulders. His bath always seemed to refresh him, and there was never any evidence of his worry when he joined her for the evening. He assured her that they weren’t beggars but she suspected they’d find themselves in a spot of bother if they didn’t watch their spending. “I’ll discuss it with Locksley,” she said, hoping to steer Marsden away from the topic of their finances.
“I like that the two of you talk things over. Linnie and I decided everything together. She was my partner in all ways. She would—”
Bells began pealing.
“Christ,” Marsden muttered, shooting to his feet with a speed that astonished Portia.
“What is it?” she asked.
The maids lifted their skirts and began running away from the manor in the direction that Locksley went each morning. The footmen, still holding on to their shovels, followed on their heels. Trepidation sliced through Portia and she pushed herself up. “What is it?”
“John, ready a carriage!” Marsden shouted at the coachman.
Portia grabbed the marquess’s arm and asked again, more forcefully, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“There’s been an accident at the mines.”
Riding in the carriage with the marquess at the reins, Portia arrived at the mines to discover her worse fear realized: Locksley was one of the ones trapped when a ceiling collapsed.
The marquess had charged into the fray—into the mine—to assist, which terrified her, although she understood his need to be of service. She could do little more than offer water to the workers who periodically emerged to rest for a bit while others, refreshed, took their place. She paced alongside the other women, wrung her hands, and whenever gruesome thoughts of the worst possible outcome hovered at the back of her mind, she fervently squashed them.
Locksley had traveled the world, had no doubt been in far more dangerous situations and emerged unscathed. He would survive this.
“Not to worry, m’lady,” Cullie said, standing beside her. “The workers wouldn’t still be in the tunnel if there was no hope.”
“It could collapse further, taking them all.”
“Aye, but we mustn’t think like that, and I’ve never known you to see the dark side of things. Shall I go in and see if I can determine what sort of progress has been made?”
She shook her head. “No need to put more people at risk. Besides, those coming out would surely share news if there was news to share.”
“They’re a stoic lot, not wanting to raise or dash hopes, so they keep their thoughts to themselves. But if I was to prod them—”
“No, let them concentrate on their tasks.”
“This waiting drives me blooming crazy, though.”
Portia released a small laugh. “Me as well.”
