Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

M ary’s quill scratched over the page, a sound that almost calmed her rattled insides. This unbearable charade with Daniel put her off balance, and she did not know how to proceed. Spending time with his parents tortured her, blackening the deceit, and scrambling her nerves. Aware of their misuse of Daniel, she was disposed to dislike them, but their affectionate natures set the abuse of their son at a counter position. She understood Daniel’s frustration with them, for they were irresponsible, even silly. Eccentric. She did not want her interest in them to increase and complicate the situation.

She took long, solitary walks and hid in her room writing. The story she wrote unfolded with a rapidity and clarity absent from her other work. Words appeared on the page as naturally as the blooming of a flower. It was the effect of enchanted Almery and the recent unsought-for adventure that ignited her imagination. While a little self-reproach accompanied the writing down of those escapades, it helped to sort out the situation.

Her eyes fell on the full bouquet of roses she’d found in her room after dinner. Daniel attached a note probably meant to thank her for agreeing to pretend they were engaged. Even so, she opened it and reread his simple missive to conjure the pleasant flip her heart made at his words.

Dear Mary,

I enjoyed your company in the rose garden. You are a bit like a rose, beautiful and sweet, but not without your defenses. I admire both your softness and your thorns.

Daniel

And it did not come without a pang. He did not fancy her the way a man does when he loves a woman. To him, she was an agreeable companion. And how could she expect anything different? She was a widow of middling years, seven years his senior. Though she did not think herself unattractive, she was not the kind of woman with whom men fell in love.

Even if he did love her, which was a notion that barely warranted thought, they could never marry. She would perish if unable to continue writing, and confessing her secret was out of the question. If he responded with Lord Allen’s flippancy, her heart would break. She was being dramatic, but she knew that without her pen, she was miserable. Despite having written a book that caused senseless girls like her own niece to behave foolishly, she was pleased her writing was being consumed by the masses. If the publisher wanted more, maybe she should give them her manuscripts. The thought held her attention, tempting her like a bowl of cream filberts. In Bath when suspicion had fallen upon her, she evaded and disavowed enough that she did not think anyone still believed her an author. She escaped that situation almost unscathed. If it weren’t for Miss Barry, no one would have guessed. If she stayed away from Bath—and she certainly planned to—and avoided writing characters who resembled herself, she might publish freely.

Could she continue writing in anonymity, bearing the anxiety that her identity might be discovered?

Muffled shouting erupted from below stairs. Mary’s room was situated on the same side of the house as the kitchen, and it seemed the sisters were at war once more. Mrs. Fletcher surely did not have the emotional strength to handle their aggression.

Mary folded Daniel’s note and tucked it under a rose leaf before leaving her room for the kitchen where, as expected, she found the three cooks in a squabble.

“Good morning. I thought I’d make myself a bit of toast and jam.” Mary breezed into the kitchen, noting the way the cooks stiffened, and their argument ceased.

“No,” they said as one.

“Don’t mind me. I do not wish to disrupt your work. I’ve a hankering for coffee as well.” Mary hummed as she made her way around various canisters and baskets, upsetting and displacing them as she went. The bread keeper was in plain sight, and while the coffee percolated, Mary made a show of cutting an uneven slice of bread. She moved to the hearth, changing around the various tools before removing a toasting fork, pulling up a stool, and sticking her bread into the open flame while the three women rushed to straighten the mess.

“What do the three of you bicker about?” Mary asked.

“Betsy is bossy, always telling me how to do my job, though she’s less experienced.”

“Only because you’re an imbecile when it comes to puddings.”

Mary wished she hadn’t asked. In half a second, the three women were in an uproar again. Mary put her stick deeper into the flames until it caught fire. She let it blaze a moment before waving it into the kitchen. “Help!” She waved the bread as close to the cooks as she dared.

The sisters turned toward her and leapt into action. One took the cloth from her shoulder and waved it at the flame while another grabbed a bucket of water.

Before anyone could put out the flame, the door opened. “What is going on?” Mrs. Fletcher stood at the door. Mary tossed the bread into the fire.

“It is nothing, really, Mrs. Fletcher. I apologize for disturbing you.” Mary’s face burned over the mischief she’d caused. Who was childish now?

“Are you in need of refreshment?” 0ne of the cooks asked.

“I have a headache from listening to all the shouting. What is the meaning of this mess?”

No one said anything. The cooks looked at the ground but threw surreptitious glances toward Mary, who replaced the toasting fork to its proper place.

“Mrs. Fletcher, let me bring you some coffee,” Mary said. “Rest in the parlor, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

As soon as she’d gone, Mary turned toward the sisters. “Are there biscuits?” After filling a tray with every good thing that could be found, she made her way into the parlor with a tray laden with a seed cake, a pot of coffee, and an apology.

She poured Mrs. Fletcher a cup and offered her cake. “I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. I was trying to teach your cooks a lesson, and it failed. It is not my place to try to correct them. You must pardon my interference.”

“Correct them? You mean keep them from fighting?”

“Yes. I can see they keep a clean work area, so when I hear them arguing, I make myself a nuisance by upsetting their organization. It worked the first time, but only for a day.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s eye sparkled. “You have done more than I have ever managed. If they weren’t so adept at baked goods, I’d have sent them packing long ago.” She bit into her cake. “Divine,” she said, her eyes closing.

Mary sampled the cake. Mrs. Fletcher was right. It was delicious. Nutmeg and citron mingled with butter and sugar in perfect proportions. “Their skill might be worth the trouble.” Mary sipped her coffee and nearly spat it back into the cup. “The coffee, however, is not. But that is my own fault, since I made it myself.”

Mrs. Fletcher laughed, rang the bell, and bid the cook bring another pot.

“The cooks answer the bell?” Mary hoped her question was not impudent.

“Yes. I know it is an odd arrangement, but their mother served here before they did, and they all wanted to work together, so I hired them with the understanding they would all cook, clean, and serve. They all like cooking best, and I believe that is the source of their disagreement.”

Mary nodded and eyed Mrs. Fletcher’s wan, shadowed face. She needed help. It was too much to run a household and care for an ailing husband, a plight too familiar to Mary. “You are overtaxed. Would it be too presumptuous of me to speak with them? It cannot be comfortable to bear the relentless squabbling.”

“You shall someday be mistress of the castle. I would take it kindly.” She eyed Mary over her cup with a deflated expression Mary could not interpret. Was she suspicious? Grateful? Or exhausted?

Mary eyed the ink stains on her fingers. They kept her from becoming the mistress of any house, save her own.

“Tell me, Mary—I will call you that, though you refrain from addressing me as Florence—what is your age?” Though rude, she spoke casually, ending the question with a blithe smile, so Mary took no offense.

“I turned forty not three months ago.”

“Daniel wishes for children. Are you still having regular courses?”

What was this? A medieval union wherein fertility was determined before marriage? Heat crept up her neck as she envisioned herself with Daniel, tumbling in the hay before the wedding to determine if her belly would quicken.

The questions were no longer charming and deserved an impertinent answer. Mary had one ready but vanquished it, opting for politeness. “Do you enjoy gardening?”

Mrs. Fletcher waved the question away. “What attracted you to Daniel?” She leaned forward and stilled, reminding Mary of a cat listening for the sound of a mouse.

She may as well tell the truth. “I saw him first as he entered the ballroom. From that very first moment, he seemed everything a man ought to be. I sensed the sort of man he is.”

“And what kind is that?”

Mary flinched under Mrs. Fletcher’s tight, examining eyes. “Perceptive. Thoughtful. Kind. And he is so handsome.”

“You may say that about any number of men. What in particular do you admire?”

“While many men may be called kind, I have never met one so caring as Daniel. It is not kindness alone. He is perceptive of my needs. He senses when one is in distress.” Mary’s face warmed at the memory of all Daniel did to lift her spirits during their journey. He remembered what she liked and went out of his way to please her. The roses in her room testified of his consideration. “He makes life better. That can be said of few. He is one of the best and most sincere people I have ever met. He a man of character.” A dam broke, and she could not stem her words. “He is polite, excellent at conversation, intelligent, the best companion. But you know all of this. You are his mother.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s attention flicked to the door and back to Mary. Without looking up, Mrs. Fletcher said, “And you, Daniel, what did you notice about Mary?”

Daniel stood in the doorway with an expression she dared not study. Her heart plummeted to her shoes. She busied herself pouring his coffee and cutting cake, while he settled in a chair between herself and his mother. A man whom she complimented with such effusion could not doubt her infatuation. After all, she had stopped writing a novel and begun a new one when she became aware that she unwittingly cast him as the love interest. In that novel she described with effusive abandon his selfless deeds, his fine figure, his well-formed lips, at which she stared this very moment. She looked down at her cake.

“Her charming face, of course,” Daniel said, but his voice was tight. “It’s the first thing one notices. But then I saw that she is a commanding woman.” A forward statement. Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes grew wide. And Mary coughed. It was Daniel’s turn to blush. “I mean, a man likes to be useful to a pretty lady, but I watched Mary take care of herself with admirable aplomb.”

Mary laughed. She was not certain it was a compliment, but she was flattered he’d noticed, even if her treatment of Mr. Bateman, however necessary, had been deplorable. “He is referring to my discourteous behavior toward a gentleman.”

“Not only that. She is independent and clever. After dancing with so many ladies whose heads seemed full of feathers, I was immediately attracted to your frank intelligence.”

He leaned toward her, his pale blue eyes an invitation. For what? Mary swallowed.

“Well, I must see to your papa.” Mrs. Fletcher interrupted their staring match but stood with a question in her smile. “Daniel, take Mary to visit the tenants and bring her upstairs to visit us before dinner. Your father wants to know her better.” She left the room.

“Pardon me. I did not mean to listen to your conversation. I happened to come by and?—”

“Do not worry yourself.” She shifted in her seat and dabbed her tingling forehead with a napkin. His compliments affected her, and she did not know whether to take them to heart or brush them off as show. For her own part, she meant every word.

“Would you care to join me, as my mother suggested? I would appreciate your company, but you have no obligation, of course.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as discomfited as she.

How could she refuse? Even if she wanted to, she could not say no when her whole being yearned to be near him. She bit the inside of her cheek. It was not in her best interest to spend more time with a man who had only fictional interest in her. Save for the publication of her book, the past years had provoked very little emotion in Mary.

Over time, grief for her husband had mellowed into an ache that she accepted and lived with. Her emotions rose and fell in joy and sorrow while watching other people fall in love, find happiness or failure. Since losing Lord Allen, her feelings had comprised of other people’s experiences, some real, others she imagined for her stories. The giddiness that fluttered through her in that moment was all her own. She savored the fleeting delight of it, feared its inevitable conclusion. This pretense was driving her into raptures only love could bring. She could not say no to its thrill while available. For that moment and every moment until it was no longer offered, she would take it.