Edmund couldn’t get the rope unlooped. He tried three times. Then he shot it.
Evangeline waited until father and son were talking together before she turned her attention back to the beach. But she pictured her cousin’s face as she remembered her from all those years before. Poor Marissa. Poor girl. The duke was right. It was tragic.
She looked back toward the path, so wide and easy, trod upon by hundreds of boots and horse hooves over the years, over the centuries. Even Edmund’s Shetland pony hadn’t hesitated to go down the path. The three horses stood in the sand, nickering to each other, eyeing the stream of gulls that dipped and wheeled over their heads, just out of reach. She scanned the cliff face for a sign of the cave Houchard had told her about. Nothing. She thought she saw a shadowy indentation and walked toward it. No, it was just a sharp bend in the rocks. Where was the bloody cave?
She slewed about at a shout of laughter. The duke held Edmund high above his head, threatening, she imagined, to toss him into the water. Then he lowered Edmund and tucked him under one arm, like a small, wriggling package.
“I think he’s half fish,” the duke said as he set Edmund back on his feet.
“You mean, Papa, like Eve’s half foreign?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right.” His eyes roamed over her, pausing at her breasts. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He said finally to his son, “Have patience, Edmund. We’ll leave your cousin in a ditch somewhere and come back for a swim. If, of course, it stays hot a while longer. Do you think Eve would like to join us?”
“My gun would float,” Edmund said.
“True.”
“But we don’t wear any clothes,” Edmund said. “Girls always wear clothes.”
“He is very young,” the duke said to her.
Houchard had described him very well, but this man, he was so very alive, so outrageous, so utterly wicked. Such a short time she’d been here at Chesleigh, with him, and she felt that wickedness twining around her, burrowing deep inside her, and she liked it very much. She said, “I am very likely a stronger swimmer than your papa, Edmund. Perhaps if it continues this warm, why then, you and I will swim together and we’ll leave your papa in a ditch. But you know, even though it’s so very warm today
, it’s still February, the dead of winter. The water must be frigid.” “What’s frigid?”
“It means,” the duke said, “that a girl’s parts would become too chilled to react. She wouldn’t drown, she’d just freeze. She wouldn’t be any fun at all.”
She said, “I haven’t the faintest notion what you just said, but it was probably perfectly wicked.”
“Here you are, an old married woman, and you don’t know anything about freezing up.” “I’m not old.”
“You’re older than I am,” Edmund said. “And Papa says I’m quite the young gentleman now.”
She looked from father to son. It was time to give up. She threw up her hands, laughed, and said, “I retire from the field, defeated.”
“Good,” said the duke. “It isn’t healthy for a lady to ever win a battle. Remember that, Edmund. Although it’s true that sometimes a gentleman must pretend that a lady wins. Remember that as well.” “I will, Papa, but I don’t know what it means.” “You’ll learn soon enough. I doubt the lessons involving the ladies ever stop until you croak it.” “You are a cynic, your grace.” “I have become a realist, Madame.” They said nothing more. Evangeline was vastly relieved when the horses climbed back up the cliff path with no hesitation.
Chapter 12
Dorrie, a slight, gentle-looking girl of eighteen, Evangeline’s new maid, said as she fingered a pale yellow silk dress, “I remember this gown. Her grace wore it on Christmas morning. Goodness, it must have been five years ago, when I was just a young girl, newly here in service. She gave me my Christmas present herself—a sewing box. Mrs. Raleigh told her that I wanted to become a seamstress. So very lovely she was. Such a pity that she was taken so soon.” “You sewed for her?”
“Not then. She told me to do mending for the servants. I promise I’ll be careful, Madame. I’ve learned a lot in the past five years. I’ll make it more fashionable if you wish. You are tall. The ruffles wouldn’t look well. You need simplicity in the styling.”
“I agree with you, Dorrie. Remove all ruffles and anything else that moves you to remove it. As you can see, her grace and I were of a very different size. I am the maypole of the family.” Or, as the duke had said, she was a big girl. And he’d held her waist between his two big hands.
Dorrie examined the seams, the hem, then said briskly, “When I’m finished, all the gowns will look as if they were made especially for you, Madame. And they won’t look old-fashioned. His grace’s mother sends me magazines with all the latest fashions. I read them constantly. You will look a dream, Madame.”
Evangeline left her, wondering if Houchard, who seemed to know everything about the duke’s family, had known that the duke would insist that she take his dead wife’s gowns. Houchard probably assumed that the duke would more or less use the gowns as payment after he allowed her to seduce him.
She knew that Edmund was taking his nap. The duke was with his steward in the estate room. The castle was quiet, at least as quiet as it ever was with nearly fifty souls moving about in it. She went to the North Tower. It was late in the afternoon. She saw only a lone footman in this part of the castle. She smelled the tower room before she was even close to it. It was a sweet yet tart odor, like rosemary mixed with cinnamon. She intended to find out what Mrs. Needle had meant when she’d told her she had heat in her eyes.
The odor grew stronger as she climbed the winding wooden steps. She rapped lightly on the old oak door and heard Mrs. Needle’s lilting singsong voice telling her to come in.
The old woman was standing in the middle of a circular room with windows cut deep on all sides, at least ten of them, thick wooden beams between them. It was an incredible room, divided into sections by thick silk screens. Tables curved against the walls, obviously built especially for this climber, especially for Mrs. Needle. On the tables were dozens of labeled jars in neat rows, three jars deep. There was a fire in the fireplace, a hob with a pot seated on it, sending out the cinnamon smell along with comforting warmth. Even on a warm day like today, the fire felt good in this open room.
“Och, ye’ve come sooner than even I guessed ye would. Sit over here, little lassie, and I’ll give ye a nice cup of herbal tea.”
Evangeline nodded, and followed the slight old woman into the sitting area that faced the immense fireplace. A sleeping area was set in an alcove. The rest of the huge space was devoted to Mrs. Needle’s herbal laboratory. While she prepared the tea, Evangeline walked to one of the tables and examined the labeled jars. DRIED ROSEMARY, she read. CRUSHED GINGER BERRY. ROSE PETALS. IRINGO ROOT. JAMARIC SEEDS. And so many others, names she’d never heard of. There were several small braziers, small pots set atop them. From one came the strong odor of roses. She breathed in deeply.