Chapter Two

In Which Certain Revelations prove Distressing, while Others provide Delight…

Since his entertaining interlude was clearly at an end, Garrett sighed, brushed off any lingering grass from his breeches, and turned in the opposite direction to Miss Trease, heading back to Myrtle Manor.

It had, he reflected, been a good idea to take some time away from everything and rusticate amongst the woods (he couldn’t think the word “tree” without a snicker). He hadn’t imagined the local fauna to be quite so appealing or outspoken, but ever the man for an adventure, he didn’t regret any of their verbal sparks.

Was he on their property? He’d have to ask Harry’s housekeeper, although whether she’d know or not was a question Garrett couldn’t answer. He would have asked Harry himself, but at this moment had no idea of where his friend was.

Horses were all and everything to Harry; he’d known that from the minute the two of them met at college, and since then, Garrett was the first to acknowledge that the Chalmers stable was one of the finest in England. Odds were pretty good that Harry was off on a buying spree, or at least visiting a place where his four-legged obsessions might be found, bought, or ridden.

None of the beautiful steeds resided at Myrtle Manor, though, just a few job horses and one or two mounts for guests to ride should they wish. His own grey was at this moment grazing in a lush paddock, eating his head off, which was fine with Garrett, who was doing the same thing, only on two feet instead of four.

Mrs Smithee, the housekeeper, and an old acquaintance, was spoiling him terribly, and he was loving every minute of it.

Come to think of it, he would wager any amount of coin that she would be able to answer some of his questions about the imperious Miss Trease, and the household at Forest Grange, even if she didn’t know much about land boundaries.

That face—how it had glowered over him. And yet for all that, it had been quite appealing, he mused as he strode across a field. Such soft skin, a blush on her cheeks and a mouth that…well, those lips…

He tripped over a root and cursed as he caught himself.

Foolish mortal that he was, he accepted that he found her very attractive, and wondered what she’d look like when she smiled.

Had she been in town during the Season? She looked old enough to be “out” in Society, but if so, why hadn’t he heard the pounding of boots on the pavement toward her residence? Surely a lovely young lady, daughter of a Viscount, and undoubtedly well-dowered, should have attracted the notice of more than a few eligible bachelors?

A question he could pose to Harry, although if he didn’t know, Mrs Smithee might again prove the most helpful.

Thus inspired, Garrett breathed in the sweet scents of grass and something flowery, appreciating the vast difference between a country field in the summer and the streets of the Metropolis.

He liked London, generally.

He had friends there, enjoyed their company of an evening, was prepared to do the necessary when it came to balls and dances, and thus far had dodged almost all the matrimonial lures that had been cast his way.

His mother had warned him years ago that he would become the target of such things, but—being the sensible and caring woman she was—had urged him to be kind, but also firm.

“Don’t let your body rule your heart, Garrett,” she’d said. “There are things a man wants, and will have. But when it comes to the finding the right woman, the one you’ll want to love for the rest of your life, and build a family with, that’s when your heart must lead the way.” She grinned at him. “Just make sure you know the difference between your heart and your—”

“ Mama .” He’d stopped her before she made him blush any more than she already had. There were no two ways about it, he was blessed with a mother that loved him and understood him. But he had to admit she was somewhat outspoken at times.

They shared a grief; the loss of his father had been an unexpected blow, but he’d passed away quickly, which had been merciful. His heart had just stopped, his physician said, and since he’d been in his own garden at home, his family could do nothing but mourn his loss. He’d been nearing eighty, had enjoyed a full and active life, and from everything Garrett had seen, his father had loved his young wife with a strong and unwavering passion.

They’d had four children, three of whom were settled into their own lives. He had remained with his mother, the two of them running the DeVarne estate, and rather enjoying it. He’d discovered he had a knack for such matters, and the fact that their country home of Belcaster was well away from town added to his pleasure.

He did keep in touch with friends, though, especially Harry Chalmers, whose house he was now approaching.

God bless Harry, one of life’s most charming companions. Nothing really seemed to upset him; if a crisis occurred, he’d shrug, deal with it as best he could, and move on. It was, reflected Garrett, easy to be friends with Harry. And one could not, in all fairness, ask for more.

They had met years ago at some sporting event, and as occasionally happens, found a friendship forming within moments of that first handshake.

Harry was charming, handsome, and completely unaware of his own merits, which made him an excellent companion. He had considerable wealth that he never mentioned, several homes around the country, and a small family that depended on him for just about everything.

The uncertain young man that Garrett had been at that time had found the perfect friend in Harry, who was already taking on responsibilities that rightfully belonged to older and wiser men.

When Garrett’s father had passed away a few years later, Harry was there within a day or so, offering whatever was needed in the way of an ear, a suggestion, or just a presence that demanded nothing and offered everything. Many took Harry for a dull chap, but Garrett knew better, and although he would have loved some time with his friend, he wasn’t surprised to find that Harry wasn’t at Myrtle Manor very regularly.

They accepted each other for what they were, and that was Garrett’s definition of a perfect friendship.

This little holiday was exactly what he needed. No endless hours spent at a desk working through estate business, no lengthy meetings with people who had important things to discuss, just freedom. He could sleep as long as he wanted, walk whenever the urge took him—as it had this morning—and think whatever thoughts chose to drift through his brain.

There was no question about it, being free to simply be himself was a delightfully informal business, and he made up his mind to cherish these summer days, no matter what.

As he neared Myrtle Manor, he paused for a moment.

Nestled at the bottom of a small hill, it was a neat and pleasant hunting box, with the perfect amount of tidy lawns, shrubs, a few flowers, and a gravel driveway leading to a welcoming set of stairs. Nothing imposing or overwhelming, no clear statement of wealth and station in life.

It didn’t scream “ only the wealthiest people reside within ”, as so many country homes did. This one simply smiled and whispered “welcome”.

He blinked, then laughed at himself for the whimsical thought, just as the sound of a carriage approaching caught his attention.

It appeared from the northeast, kicking up a little dust as it slowed and turned into the Myrtle Manor drive.

Someone else visiting Harry, perhaps?

Garrett sighed. It looked as if his enjoyable self-isolation might be ending, but he could easily avoid Harry’s guests if he needed to. Informality had its advantages.

Hurrying down the hill and around behind some massive bushes, he arrived at the front doorstep just as the carriage was disgorging its occupants. And more than a few pieces of what looked like expensive luggage.

“Uh oh.” His heart sank as an elegant lady emerged, caught sight of him and laughed delightedly.

He sighed. “Hullo Mama. What on earth brings you here?”

*~~*~~*

Cherry’s somewhat aggressive tramp back through the woods toward home did little other than to give her the chance to mutter beneath her breath at the outrageous nerve of some people. Trespass on her property, would he? She’d see about that.

Aggravating ruffian.

Her conscience kicked her. Well, all right, he wasn’t quite a ruffian, and he’d been gentlemanly in his behaviour.

And yes, she could not but observe that if he had been otherwise, she might have found herself in a difficult position. But that did not mean that she was about to drag her poor maid with her everywhere she walked.

The forest was hers .

She knew every hollow, every path, almost every plant that grew—or failed to—within its boundaries. The trees had a rhythm to their lives that matched hers; coming alive in the spring as the soft green buds burst into a canopy that soaked up the growing sunshine, shading her through the summer, then lighting her autumn with brilliance as they reddened and tumbled to the floor, where her shoes crunched them into dust.

In the winter, the stark bare branches turned into platforms of snow, sometimes decorated with glistening icicles. And on bitter nights they sang for her, the wind whipping around and through them, creating a melody that she heard with her heart as much as her ears.

Yes, the forest was hers, and she’d be damned if she’d surrender the pleasure of it just because some rude and idiotic visitor had suggested she needed a companion with her while walking in it.

Hah .

Although, (once again, her weary conscience administered a half-hearted thwack), Cherry found herself forced to confess that he hadn’t really been rude at all.

Upon review of their conversation, it had been her own actions that had set the tone. Perhaps sticking her toe in him to see if he was alive had not been the most appropriate move she could have made.

It had been the shock, she consoled herself. The utter and complete shock of seeing someone else in her place.

Of course, any other young woman would probably have shrieked and run away. Or, being an ordinary and proper young woman, would have had her maid (a poor girl who had to follow her mistress everywhere) find out if he was alive, and then she could have engaged in minimal but appropriate conversation, while the aforementioned maid stood quietly a little distance away, with her hands clasped in front of her, just in case her mistress needed rescuing from the unwanted attentions of this man who had been roaming the wilderness in search of unattended maidens.

And what, she asked herself, was a maid actually supposed to do under such circumstances? Throw herself in harm’s way and beg the attacker to take her instead? Remove her shoe and thump him soundly with it? Kick him in the place she’d been firmly told never to kick a man unless it was absolutely a matter of life and death?

Utter and complete nonsense.

Even her favourite walk back toward the Grange did little to improve her mood. Why was it that young women were so closely guarded? Why was it that their every word, or gesture, was scrutinised or criticised? Were they so precious that they had to be appreciated, or was it that they were so stupid that everyone wanted to remember them so that they could repeat them later?

All right, yes, some were. And unfortunately, she’d met more than a few of that particular category in London. Another reason she was less than enchanted with the city.

But for women of sense, those who weren’t afraid to speak their minds, or—if need be—get into an argument with a gentleman, London was not the place to be.

With a sigh, she found herself heading down the well- trodden path, past the first formally trimmed hedges that surrounded the grounds of Forest Grange.

“Mornin’, Miss Cherry. How’s our trees today?” The gruff voice belonged to Tully, head gardener, and it greeted her as she rounded a massive rhododendron, both plant and man a balm to her turbulent thoughts.

“Same as ever, Tully. Beautiful, fully leafed in, and the ferns are doing well in the shady spots.”

His face creased into a smile. “How’s them flags comin’, then? Likes their feet wet, they does.”

“Oh yes, they do indeed. They’re going to be very happy where they are. By this time next year, the whole bank will be blooming bright yellow. There are even a few flowers showing now.”

“There you are, then, Miss. Put the right thing in the right place, you got years ahead to enjoy it.” He looked toward the Grange. “Goin’ in, are you?”

She sighed. “Yes. I couldn’t walk as much as I wanted. There was a strange man in the woods.”

Tully frowned. “A stranger? Should I tell the house?”

“No, no. It’s all right. A gentleman. Someone staying at Myrtle Manor, apparently. Out for a bit of a wander and decided to lie down for a nap.” She clenched her teeth. “On my spot.”

He shook his head. “Best stay home until he’s gone, Miss Cherry. No point in takin’ chances.”

“I doubt I’d have anything to worry about, but it was quite disappointing. I’d hoped to be able to read most of the morning out there. Now I’ll have to sit inside or in the gardens, I suppose.”

“Not that bad, Miss,” he said quietly.

“But not the forest,” she replied, knowing he’d understand.

He nodded. “Not the forest.” He turned back toward the hedge he’d been trimming. “Ain’t nothin’ like the forest.”

Cherry agreed. “Enjoy the morning, Tully.” She walked away, wondering, as she often did, why it was that an elderly gardener seemed to be the only person in her entire world who understood her feelings about the woods, and never questioned them.

Shrugging, she offered up a quick prayer of thanks that at least someone did. It would have been quite dreadful if she’d been alone in her appreciation of nature.

Crossing the lawn, she entered the Grange by way of a large glass door that led her into what the family called the Summer Room.

It was a good size, big enough for a few of their family parties, and had a huge bow window facing out onto the gardens themselves. Several of the other windows opened, like the one Cherry had just used, thus it was perfect for those wonderful warm evenings when the sun didn’t seem to want to set, and the scented air drifted around the flowers and hedges.

Her papa used to say it was a time of magic and fairies, and when she was young, she’d believed him, just as he’d also told her if she was quiet in the woods, and listened with her heart, she would hear the little folk talking and playing amongst themselves.

Once she’d grown up, though, she’d tucked away the notion of magic, fairies, or whispers in the trees. Reality had taken those dreams and replaced them with practicality.

And yet, on rare occasions, mostly at night when the world was quiet, Cherry couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the fairies might even now be dancing in her forest…