Chapter 19

CHAPTER19

Bruxton Hall had begun its transformation, the doors and windows flung wide to allow in the warmth of spring, the gloomy, unsettling portraits replaced with beautiful landscapes and even a few of Edwin’s more unusual pieces, which had grown on Joanna. She had even found some reems of unused silk wallpaper, and had roped in the assistance of the gardener, the remaining footman, and Golding to help her replace some of the worst worn portions of the wall in the most used rooms.

In the entrance hall, Edwin’s mother watched over the manor with kindly eyes, her lips immortally curved in a gentle smile that welcomed visitors, instead of making them want to run. And though there was still a great deal to be done, it was a promising start, lifting the spirits of the entire household.

“Wasn’t she beautiful?” Joanna heard one of the maids saying, as she descended the staircase—also in the midst of being fixed and made whole again—to seek some company after her afternoon nap.

Joanna smiled. “She was.”

The three maids who were staring at the portrait whipped around in fright, their scared faces cracking into bright smiles as they looked upon the lady of the house.

“We didn’t hear you, Your Grace!” one chirped.

“We’ve grown so used to every creak of the floorboards. Don’t know what we’ll do without them,” a second said, laughing.

The third nodded. “I imagine I’ll still tiptoe ‘round the parts that were painted red. Takes a while to break a habit, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does,” Joanna agreed. “Now, which one of you might do me the honor of helping me to dress for Lord Rotherham’s ball tomorrow?”

All three jittered with excitement, their hands shooting into the air as they cried, “Oh, let it be me! It’d be my honor! Oh, please, Your Grace!”

“Perhaps, we could be a little untraditional and all three of you could help me?” Joanna offered, chuckling. “It will be my first ball as a duchess, after all, and I would like to make a lasting impression for Ed—I mean, for His Grace’s sake. Which one of you is capable when it comes to hair? I have not the faintest idea of how to even heat the curling rod, and I worry I would burn the manor to the ground, quite accidentally, if I were to attempt it alone.”

The first maid, Mara, danced a jig. “Every one of my five sisters used to ask me to do their hair for the village dances, Your Grace. Not one left the dance without at least ten compliments.”

“Then, I give that task to you,” Joanna said, buoyed by the feeling that she was becoming a true part of the household. A Lady that the staff seemed to like, for that mattered more to her than anything. Almost anything.

The second maid pressed a hand to her chest. “May I dress you? I’ve always wanted to be a lady’s maid.”

The third maid sighed in resignation. “Let Harriet do it,” she said. “I will take charge of your bath and your maquillage.”

“She’s a witch, you know!” Harriet blurted out, gaining a sharp look from the third maid, Cathy.

“I’m not a witch, Your Grace,” Cathy insisted. “But I know herbs and plants, and my ma makes oils and tonics and tinctures that everyone in the village I come from uses religiously. I’ve a few special oils with me, if you’d like me to put them in your bath?”

Harriet feigned a swoon. “You’ll have skin softer than silk. I stole some once, and I swear it to you, I thought I’d been transformed into a goddess.”

“I look forward to the transformation.” Joanna flashed the young women a mischievous wink. “Harriet, the gown I am to wear ought to be arriving later this afternoon. Might you take it up to my chambers when it comes? Coral silk. Quite beautiful. You cannot mistake it. Indeed, can you have it aired for me after it has been delivered? I should hate it to smell stale when I enter the ball.”

The gown had been ordered a week ago: a gift from her father, as a means to “make a suitable entrance back into society as a duchess.” Of course, Joanna was the one who had chosen the material and the design; her father had merely paid for it.

Harriet nodded eagerly. “I’ll tend to it the moment it arrives, even if Mrs. Phelps tries to beat me out of the laundry with that awful smacker of hers.”

“And don’t worry about the scent, Your Grace,” Cathy added with a knowing grin. “I have just the oil in mind. A little dab on your wrists and neck and the other guests will be following you around, sniffing wildly, wondering what that heavenly aroma is.”

Joanna felt her heart lighten. “Thank you, ladies. I will send for you first thing in the morning, so we can begin the toil of beautifying this wayward creature with soil on her hands and grass stains on her skirts.” She gestured to the patch on her knees where she had spent most of the morning weeding what she hoped would become beautiful flowerbeds.

The maids laughed, offering to take the dress to the laundry.

“It will suffice until I prepare for dinner,” Joanna told them, spotting the gardener wheeling his barrow. “It will only get dirty again, for the gardens are calling once more.”

The old, grizzled fellow was the least enthusiastic among the staff about Joanna’s presence, but she was determined to be a thorn in his side until the gardens were blooming again.

Saying a quick farewell to the maids, Joanna took off toward the portion of neglected garden that demanded her attention, meeting the gardener as he was tilting his barrow to spill fresh soil onto the weeded beds.

“Afternoon, Your Grace,” he said, tipping the woolen cap that almost never seemed to come off his head. “Took some soil I’d been savin’ for the roses. Found me some marigold seeds an’ all. Forgot I had ‘em, but they’d be right nice here, I reckon.”

Joanna beamed. “Marigolds sound delightful. Anything with color.”

“Ye’ll get red’uns and yellow’uns. Maybe some whites and oranges.” The gardener continued to pour the soil evenly, his liver-spotted hands as strong as a much younger man’s. “I’ll be goin’ into town when ye and His Grace are at that ball. Thought I might buy some seeds and cuttings from a fella I know. Anythin’ ye prefer?”

Joanna could barely conceal her excitement, for though the gardener spoke gruffly, she could tell he was just as eager as her to make something of the long-dead land. “Wisteria and climbing roses for when we have the trellises built,” she replied, thinking. “As for the flowerbeds: I should like poppies in abundance, cornflowers, common orchids, English pinks, camellias, daffodils, hydrangeas, peonies, primroses… oh, and lavender—so much lavender, for the butterflies!”

The gardener gave a stiff nod. “We’ll start with lavender, poppies, and a few of them others. Get ‘em growin’ and plant others as we go on.” He paused, shyly handing her a folded square of paper. “Them’s the marigold seeds. Thought you might want to plant ‘em yerself.”

Joanna took the gift as if it were a slab of pure gold and, without hesitation, kneeled on the dirt to start the painstaking task of poking holes in the soil and gently placing a couple of seeds at a time. But, sometimes, the most exhausting work could be the most rewarding.

* * *

“You have a… creature on your shoulder,” Edwin said, snapping Joanna out of her hours-long trance of planting marigold seeds and pulling up dry, tangled weeds.

She smiled up at him, hot and tired and so happy her heart could burst. “I do?”

“It is… green.” He pulled a face, as she followed his concerned gaze to the peak of her shoulder.

She smiled at the delicate insect. “He is not causing any harm. I imagine he is relishing the sunshine and enjoying a rest from all of his flying.”

“He?” Edwin raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps, he has a wife and children awaiting him at his home leaf, and he is stealing a moment for himself before he returns to the chaos,” Joanna continued, chuckling at her own husband’s bemusement. “Have you never invented stories, Edwin? Did you not conjure pretend tales when you were a child?”

He sniffed. “When I was a child, yes.”

“Oh, and because we are now grown, we must let our imaginations die? I refuse,” Joanna scoffed, carefully getting to her feet so as not to disturb the greenfly. She dusted off her hands. “Besides, if you truly thought that you would not have the largest library I have ever seen. You cannot fool me, Husband.”

The faintest gasp escaped his lips, his eyelids flickering for a moment as if she had shocked him. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, as he reached his hand toward her shoulder. Her heart jumped into her throat as he took a step closer and bent his head, leaning down as if he meant to kiss her neck. Her body seized, her eyes closing as she waited for the press of his lips against her skin, ready for that delicious touch.

A moment later, she felt the warm breeze of his breath upon her skin as he blew gently. Her eyes snapped open, her cheeks flaming as she noticed he had taken a small step back, the greenfly perched upon his fingertip, stubbornly refusing to move. With one more blow, firmer this time, Edwin urged the insect into flight.

“I said… he was not causing any… harm,” Joanna half-protested, breathlessly.

She had been so certain of what he meant to do, especially after their close encounter in his makeshift gallery. Indeed, if Peggy had not interrupted when she had, Joanna knew Edwin would have kissed her. It had haunted her ever since, plaguing her dreams, making every awakening from one of those dreams more and more frustrating, for though Edwin no longer avoided her, and they were more companionable of late, he maintained a polite distance. One she could not traverse, even when she joined him in the library of an evening to read together.

Edwin shrugged. “I meant him no harm, either. He has a wife and children to return to. He should not shirk his responsibilities.”

“But why did you blow him away?” Joanna swallowed hard, too fixated upon what she had wanted to realize that he had made a jest.

Edwin offered his hand. “Because it is time for dinner, and you are not dressed appropriately.” He squinted up at the sun, “did you not realize the hour?”

“Why, what time is it?”

“Almost seven o’clock,” he replied, startling her for a second time.

“How can it be so late?” she gasped.

He nudged his arm against hers. “I suppose the garden must be one of those places in the manor where time moves more slowly.”

She took Edwin’s arm and allowed him to lead her into the manor, though her heart urged her to pull him back out into the balmy evening, so they might walk together and pretend that they were blissful newlyweds, finding somewhere quiet and dark and hidden. A game of imagination that Joanna dearly wished to play.

“Please, offer my apologies to Peggy and Jane,” she said, reaching the bottom of the grand staircase. “I shall not be more than half an hour, depending upon the nature of the gown I choose.”

He bowed his head. “Then, pick simply.”

“Or, you could—” she halted sharply, wondering if the heat of the day had stolen her sensibilities. She had been about to ask if he would join her, to make the matter of undressing that little bit swifter.

His head lifted slowly. “I could choose your gown? I have no knowledge or talent for gowns.” His throat bobbed, “I know if one becomes you, that is all.”

“You do?” she mounted the first step, glancing back over her shoulder. “Which gown became me the best, of all the gowns I have worn in your presence? I confess, I was not aware you even noticed.”

His tongue dampened dry lips, his brow furrowing. “Your wedding gown was… pleasant.” He took a breath, “beautiful, actually. Anyway, I ought to attend to my aunt, inform her of the situation.”

“Or you could help me,” Joanna blurted out, eager to keep him close after hearing that single compliment. She did not want to lose the momentum of coaxing a smile from his lips. “It will spare me from having to summon a maid, and from lengthening the time that your aunt shall have to wait for dinner. I trust you have some talent for buttons?”

Edwin pulled at his collar, where a flush of red rose up to his jaw. “I suppose… I could assist you.”

He headed up the stairs ahead of her, giving her a pleasing view of his athletic figure and muscular backside, though she might have preferred it if he had taken her hand and led her to her chambers, as a good husband would have done. An interested husband.

At the door to Joanna’s bedchamber, he allowed her to open it, as if he did not dare to enter without permission. Although, for the past week, Joanna had dreamed that he would, sweeping into the room with one endeavor upon his mind—to sleep beside his wife, and consummate the union that, thus far, remained incomplete. Even a kiss would have bolstered Joanna’s hopes.

Joanna stepped into the room and noticed the box on the bed. “Oh, it has arrived!” she cried, hurrying to open the gift. In truth, she was eager to discover Edwin’s opinion. Perhaps, she would even give him an exclusive look before the ball tomorrow.

“The gown?” Edwin eyed the box.

“It is beautiful, Edwin,” she told him giddily, remembering the design as she unfastened the ribbon. “I asked Harriet to air it, but Mrs. Hislop must have distracted her with more pressing tasks. No matter—I shall air it now.”

Opening the box, a gasp slipped from her lips, her eyes widening as her hand came up to her mouth to stifle her horror.

“It cannot be that beautiful. It is just a—” Edwin stopped sharply, narrowing his eyes at the mess of torn fabric and frayed ribbons and ripped lace that greeted his gaze. “What is the meaning of this?”

Joanna shook her head, tears beading in her eyes. “I do not know, Edwin,” she murmured, though one thing was clear: the dress was ruined. And not just ruined but destroyed.