Falling in Love Again (21 page)

“Our bell tower is in a sorry state of repair. One bell is cracked, and all of them need new ropes. I've requested several interviews with Lord Woodruff to discuss the matter, but he has unfortunately been busy with his writing.”

“Yes, he's very busy with his book,” John agreed sympathetically. “Perhaps I can discuss your request with him.”

“Oh, would you?” the Reverend Luridge said, his eyes glowing with delight.

Mallory twisted the napkin in her lap into a knot to keep from shouting at her husband. Did the man have no shame?

The rest of the meal passed with Hanson and John making plans for the harvest home and the Reverend Luridge going on and on about his bells.

Mallory couldn't wait to get John alone.

It rained after the midday meal, delaying their departure by an hour or so. By the time they'd said their goodbyes, Mallory was more than ready for a confrontation.

She waited until the pony cart was out of sight of the Hansons' house before exploding with pent-up anger. “I can't believe you are
deceiving
these good people this way!”

His jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze on the mud puddles in the road. “Oh, you've decided to speak to me, hmmmm?”

Mallory sat back on the bench, crossing both her arms and legs. “Is that what you were doing?” she asked, feigning enthusiasm. “Telling the Han
sons and the Reverend Luridge patent untruths in order to get me to speak to you? How fortunate for you it worked!”

“You are jumping to conclusions. I will secure Lord Woodruff's approval for the harvest home.”

“And just how are you going to do that, John? The same way you attempt to charm me—through deceit?”

He turned on her, his blue eyes bright with rising ire. “I
will
convince him to sponsor the harvest home.”

She nodded and then checked items off on her fingers: “And provide all the ale, and contribute to the repairs on the bell tower…you're going to have a busy week, aren't you?”

“
I'll
pay for the ale. Peterson probably has the blunt now from the sale of the necklace. I could buy enough ale to keep this village befuddled with drink for a year—”

“Oh, that's a lovely thought,” Mallory replied coolly.

“I can also put in the damn bells,” he finished, through clenched teeth. He drove the cart over a rut in the road and into a deep puddle. Mallory's bottom bounced on the seat and she was forced to unfold her arms and hold the side. She thought he'd done it on purpose.

“It still doesn't give you the right to stretch the truth, John. You did it to me, and now I've witnessed you doing it to these good people.”

“What would you have me do?” he said. “They're excited about the harvest. You heard them. Hanson told me there hasn't been so much goodwill and neighborliness since before Tyndale
took over Cardiff Hall. I'll see that Woodruff sponsors the harvest home and that he does it gladly.”

She came forward, leaning an arm on her knee. “Are you sure?”

“I'd stake my life on it. There, is that what you wanted?” His eyes bored into hers, and Mallory quite wisely decided to back down. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

A flock of ducks scattered out of their path as the cart pulled into the barnyard. Terrell and the others weren't around, since they had been given Sunday afternoon off.

Mallory didn't wait for John to come to a complete stop before she opened the cart door and hopped out. John jumped easily over the side, right into her path. Their eyes locked. She smiled grimly and whirled around, ready to march off to the cottage like a soldier, when a young man stepped out of the barn. His riding clothes were damp and mud-stained, as if he'd ridden through the summer shower earlier.

He removed his hat. “Lord Craige? I'm Roger Ambrose. Major Peterson sent me.”

John glanced over his shoulders to ensure they weren't being watched. “Come, let us go in the barn.”

Mallory, not about to be left out, followed the men.

They stopped in the middle of the barn. Roger gave John a letter. Breaking the seal, John moved over to the shaft of light coming in through the door and held the letter up to read. Mallory read over his shoulder.

Several crisp pound notes of different denominations were folded in with the letter. John held the notes up to Mallory. “Ale money.” There was enough there to do as John had promised—keep the village of Tunleah Mews in drink for a year.

John rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. He turned. “Louis can't have just disappeared.”

“Why not?” Mallory asked.

“You don't know him, Mallory. The man is…flamboyant. But he's also a creature of habits. He has a card game he plays in every Tuesday night, and he's done so for the last twenty years or more. He patronizes only one coffee shop. His clothes are made by the same tailor, no matter what the style. Even the snuff he uses is a special blend made by the same tobacconist ever since I can remember. For him to disappear…?” He shook his head. “No, he's waiting. I can feel it in my bones. Once he's certain it's safe, he'll come back to London.”

“Is there a message you wish to send to Major Peterson, my lord?” Roger asked respectfully.

John tucked the letter in his coat pocket. “Tell Peterson thank you for the good work and that I shall anticipate his next report Sunday.”

“Wait, I have a request,” Mallory said. The gentlemen turned to her. “Is it possible that Major Peterson could deliver a small note to my mother
in East Anglia if I have it ready for you next week?”

“I'm certain he can,” Roger answered. “Does he have her address?”

“She's staying with Squire Hal Thomas,” Mallory said proudly, knowing full well that John would not like to hear this. “The Post will know how to deliver it.”

John tensed at the mention of Hal's name. “I hope you didn't tell her our whereabouts.”

Refusing to be cowed, Mallory met his gaze levelly. “I don't plan on it.”

“I have another message for Peterson,” John said. “Have him send some of the money from the diamonds to Mallory's mother. I want her taken care of.”

“Yes, my lord,” Roger said. He cast an uncertain glance in first Mallory's direction, then John's. “Is there anything else?”

“No, nothing,” John answered, and waved him on. Roger bowed and went to fetch his horse, tethered in one of the stalls. He led it out of the barn, mounted, and rode off across a meadow.

John stood silhouetted in the barn door, his feet spread wide apart. He watched Roger leave, his expression unreadable. When the messenger was out of sight, he brought the pony and cart into the barn.

Watching him unhitch the pony and comb it down, Mallory allowed herself for the first time to contemplate the unthinkable.
What if they were forced to leave the country
? What would happen to her mother?

Tears came unbidden to her eyes.

John turned and saw them. The harsh lines of his face softened. “Mallory, don't worry.”

“I'm not,” she denied, and pressed a hand against her burning cheeks.

“I'll find Louis—I promise.”

“Yes, like all the
other
promises you've made.” The words flew out of her before she could stop them.

John went very still. His eyes glittered. Mallory stepped back, suddenly wary—but she was too late.

His hand shot out and he grabbed her by the wrist. “Come.” He half-dragged her out of the barn and toward the house.

Mallory twisted her arm, trying to break his hold. Her feet were forced to move at double time to keep up. “Where are we going?”

“To see Lord Woodruff.” He stopped and pulled her up to him. “I'm going to prove to you that I do keep my promises.”

“All right,” she said brightly. “Let's go.”

He made a low growl in his throat, but Mallory wasn't intimidated. She was good and angry, too. It became a race to see which one of them arrived at the servants' entrance first.

Mallory nearly won.

“Mrs. Irongate,” John said, his voice one of authority as they entered the kitchen. “We need to see Lord Woodruff.”

Mrs. Irongate and Mrs. Watkins looked up from their dinners of beef and cabbage. Mrs. Irongate pushed her overlarge mob cap back up her forehead. “I'm sorry, Mr. Dawson, but Lord Woodruff is eating his supper now. This would not be a good time to pay a call on him.”

John slapped the table with such force that the plates, silverware, and ladies all jumped. “All the better.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Irongate said.'

John leaned toward her. “Ladies, you see before you a man who is like Jason, leader of the Argonauts.”

“Argo—who?” Mrs. Watkins asked.

John gave her a secret, sly smile that Mallory knew first-hand could make a woman do anything he wanted. “A hero, Mrs. Watkins. A warrior.” He faced the kitchen door. “Now, go announce me to Lord Woodruff.”

Mrs. Irongate put down her napkin. “He's serious about this,” she said to Mallory. “Bloody serious.”

Mallory shrugged. “He's looking for the Golden Fleece.”

“Fleece?” Mrs. Watkins asked.

“It's a long story,” Mallory assured her.

“Mrs. Irongate…” John prodded.

“Very well,” the housekeeper said. She set down her fork. “But Lord Woodruff isn't going to like this.” She bustled out of the kitchen. John and Mallory followed her through the dining room and into the foyer.

Mallory was starting to have doubts, but John appeared supremely confident. She tugged on the arm he still held by the wrist and whispered, “Perhaps we should wait. After all, the point is not to make him angry. We need him to agree with us.”

John cast her an irritated glance. “Getting cold feet?”

“I'm just trying to be wise.”

“We're calling on him now,” was his resolute reply.

They stopped in front of the door to Lord Woodruff's study. From inside the room, they could hear muttering. Unconcerned, Mrs. Irongate rapped twice.

Lord Woodruff shouted what sounded like,
“Whozztha!”

Mrs. Irongate looked over her shoulder at them. “He talks with his mouth full. It is so disgusting. Please wait here.” She opened the door and went in.

A moment later, John and Mallory heard Lord Woodruff clearly and distinctly yell, “I don't want to see him!” followed by Mrs. Irongate's well-modulated tone.

Lord Woodruff raised his voice again, but to their surprise, Mrs. Irongate cut him off.

A moment later, she opened the door. “Lord Woodruff will see your now.”

J
ohn had three impossible tasks before him. The first was to win Lord Woodruff's approval for the harvest home. The second was to recover his reputation and the fortune he had carelessly managed. And the last was to earn Mallory's trust and the love he valued above all else.

He entered Lord Woodruff's study ready to accomplish the first task.

Books were once again strewn everywhere around Lord Woodruff's desk, and balls of paper littered the floor. At one side of the room, small stacks of paper had been laid out in rows.

The room could use a good airing, and since the sun had finally decided to shine, sunlight glared off the streaks of dirt covering the windowpanes
behind Lord Woodruff's desk. He sat at the desk eating, both elbows on the surface, spearing pieces of cabbage off his plate with a three-pronged fork.

On his head was a green fez, the hat favored by Mediterranean men, with a purple tassel. His hair struck out in all directions beneath it. Since returning home from church, he'd removed his coat and neck cloth and now sat in a gold brocade dressing robe worn over his shirt. This is how Beelzebub would look, John decided irreverently, and his determination to win this man's sponsorship of the harvest for the good people of Tunleah Mews increased tenfold.

The question was, of course, how to do it.

“Well, what is it?” Lord Woodruff barked. “Have you come to apologize again for making me late for church? I hope you've not come to berate me again for not paying wages. I'm up to date and owe no one!” His beady, black eyes glared at them from under his bushy brows. He didn't wait for John to answer but snapped, “Speak up, damn you, I'm busy.”

“I realize that, my lord,” John answered, his smile forced.

“If you realize it, why are you here bothering me?”

John struggled with a very strong desire to rub the rude, ill-mannered oaf's face in his plate of cabbage.

And then he felt Mallory's touch. She stood a half-step back, by his side, as would any good country wife, but her hand lightly touched his. He
curled his fingers, capturing hers. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze in return.

“I'm here to see if there's something I can do for you, my lord,” John said confidently.

“Do for me?” Lord Woodruff repeated. He made a circling motion with his fork toward all the books stacked on his desk. “Can you finish the verse that eludes me? Hmmmmm? Here I am, on the verge of the most original, brilliant work of my life, and I can't find the words! Can you help me with that”?

Without waiting for an answer he pointed at the stacks of papers on the floor. “Or can you help me with these blasted reports that Tyndale's cursed land agent keeps sending me? Some go back more than five years. Tyndale has ordered me to fill them out or find new quarters. Can't he respect the fact that I am a poet? I'm not a farmer. I don't want to be a farmer.”

He pushed back from the desk and stomped over to the table holding a selection of decanters. As he poured a healthy draught of claret, the mouth of the decanter rattled against the glass. “I hate the interruptions that go with farming. And details. All day long, I am forced to think about details, rents, crops, yields, and whatever elses.” He drained his glass.

John knew in a flash what he was going to do. Lord Woodruff was no different than any number of complacent, self-centered generals he'd known during the war. These men sat far from the front lines, complaining of hardship, while their men died on the battlefields. John had learned early in
his career the trick of maneuvering these senior officers into believing his ideas were their ideas.

The first step was to get the man in a good frame of mind.

“I can help with the reports, my lord.”

“You can?” Lord Woodruff asked, looking at him over the rim of his glass.

“Of course, that is what a steward is for.”

Lord Woodruff lowered the glass. “Yes, of course.” He drew the words out thoughtfully. “That
is
what a steward is for.” He slammed his glass down on the table and strode purposefully back toward his desk. With a flip of his dressing robe behind him, he sat in the chair. “Dawson, I want you to complete all those reports on the floor before the end of the month.” He sat back in his chair. “There. Now all I have to do is collect the rents and Tyndale will be pleased with me and leave me alone.”

“But you
have
collected the rents, my lord,” John said.

“I have?”

“Yes, sir. You asked
me
to collect them.”

“I did that?”

“Two days ago, my lord,” Mallory said, speaking for the first time. “You asked me to take the rent ledger to my husband.”

“I did that, did I?” Woodruff's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “And you collected the rents?” he asked John.

“Yes, sir. Most of the tenants will pay next week, if they are able.”

“What of those who are not able?”

“They will pay after the harvest, in two weeks' time.”

Lord Woodruff steepled his fingers in front of him. “This is good, very good.” He spoke more to himself than to John and Mallory. “Tyndale will be pleased and will leave me alone.”

“I was also going to suggest,” John started and then stopped. He shook his head. “No, I shouldn't. It would be an insult to someone of your talent, my lord. I beg that you excuse me. Come, Mallory, we must not waste any more of Lord Woodruff's time while the light is still good for writing.”

He'd taken two steps toward the door before Woodruff's voice stopped him.

“I say, what do you have in mind, Dawson?”

“I hesitate even to suggest it, my lord.”

Lord Woodruff waved him forward. “By all means, suggest it.”

John paused a moment before saying humbly, “I think there is something poetic about an English harvest.”

A rude snort erupted from Lord Woodruff. “What's poetic about
work
?”

“Nothing,” John hastened to agree. “But there is something special about the smell of freshly cut sheaves of golden grain standing out in the summer sun to dry.” He drew a deep breath as if he were smelling the sheaves.

Lord Woodruff's nostrils flared as he took a sniff, too.

“And have you ever seen the harvesters at work?” John asked.

Lord Woodruff shook his head, his eyebrows coming together with interest.

John took a step toward him, drawing from his memory of what Mallory had told him during their picnic and embellishing it. “Did you ever notice that the fields are never so crowded as they are at harvest time, Lord Woodruff? They're full of all sorts of people. First come the reapers, reaping hooks in hand.” He doubled up his fist and swung and imaginary reaping hook through the air. “They cut in wide rows, sir, and as a man cuts, he folds the stalks under his arms until a sheaf is gathered and then lays it upon the ground.”

Lord Woodruff's gaze dropped to the floor as if he could see the sheaf.

“Then the women and children come through,” John said. “They bind the sheaves and stand them up to dry. By midday, when the men and women break for their lunch, the field is dotted with sheaves of grain drying in the sun. It's a wonderful sight.”

Lord Woodruff shuddered. “I've seen the cut fields, but I've never considered them a wonderful sight.”

“Ah, but sir, use your imagination.” John edged even closer to the man's desk. “The harvest is the very essence of English life. I've seen many a picture painted of the harvesters, but I've never read a poem that captured it.”

He had Lord Woodruff's full attention now: he could tell by the shine in the man's beady eyes. John frowned throughtfully. “It's almost as if no
writer is capable of using the King's English to document the joy of the harvest.”

Lord Woodruff stroked his chin. “Do you read many poems, Dawson?”

“I've read the ones I was taught in school,” John answered with sudden humility. He nodded to the shelves of books against the wall. “Of course, I am not as widely read as you, my lord.”

“I've read a poem or two concerning the harvest,” Lord Woodruff said, “but nothing on an epic scale.”

“Yes, an epic! What a brilliant idea, Lord Woodruff.”

“Idea? What idea?”

“To write an epic poem on the harvest. Publishers will be lining up for the privilege of printing such a manuscript.”

Lord Woodruff sat back in his chair. For a second he looked off into space, and then muttered to himself, “Yes, it might interest a publisher, mightn't it?”

“Of course it would, sir,” John agreed readily. “The public is tired of poems about fables and myths, and they already know enough about heaven and hell to frighten them for an eternity. What would interest the public is something fresh and original. Something charming, like the simple pleasure of the harvest home.”

“Harvest home? What is that?” Lord Woodruff said, sitting straighter.

“It's the celebration of the harvest, my lord, a tradition as old as time.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I'm surprised. After the workers are finished
with the harvest, they hold a great feast with music and dance to rival the pagan ceremonies of old.” John stood beside the desk now and used several books to illustrate the placement of what he envisioned for the harvest home. “We'd hold ours in Cardiff Hall's barn, just as they did years and years ago.”

“In our barn here?”

“Aye, sir. The musicians will sit here.” John used smaller books to show the various areas. “The food and drink will, of course, be set up out in the barnyard. Only dancing will take place inside.”

Lord Woodruff reached across the desk and moved one of the small books. “I think it would be better if we kept the food inside and had the dancing outside.”

John mulled over his suggestion. “Why can we not have both the food and the dancing inside? After all, the barn is large enough, once we remove the coach and wagons. We can set up the ale keg here.” He moved an ink bottle to the “barnyard.”

Lord Woodruff considered the ink bottle and nodded.

“Very good, sir,” John said. “We shall do it your way.” He took a step back. “Now, with your permission, I'll go ahead and make arrangements.”

“Arrangements?”

“You want to know the details, don't you, sir?” John said, deliberately misunderstanding Lord Woodruff's question. He turned to Mallory, who watched in wide-eyed wonder, and asked, in the
brusque, good humor of a country man, “What do you say, Mrs. Dawson? What shall we feed the people, and how many kegs of ale shall we order?”

Mallory blinked, startled not only to be included in their conversation, but by the whole turn of events. How had John done it? Lord Woodruff waited in anticipation of her answer. She thought quickly. “I believe it would be best, ahmmm, to roast a full pig and a lamb.”

John looked down at Lord Woodruff for his opinion. His lordship gave a small shrug. “It sounds fine to me.”

With more confidence, she continued. “We should have at least….” She paused and mentally counted the number of guests who had been in attendance at the Hansons' last night and doubled it. “Two large kegs of ale should do. As for side dishes, the women in the parish will prepare those.”

“Well, there you have it, Lord Woodruff,” John said cheerily. “My wife and I will carry out all your plans. It's as good as done.”

Lord Woodruff appeared slightly befuddled by the swift turn of events—but he didn't argue. “Very well. We'll hold the harvest tomorrow, eh?”

“Tomorrow?” John questioned.

“I want to get started. I'm ready to write!”

“I'm sorry, my lord, but the harvest won't be ready for another week, maybe two.” John shot a glance at Mallory for verification.

She nodded and added, “And we must arrange for the harvest crew.”

“Two weeks?” Lord Woodruff frowned in dis
appointment. “I'm ready to write now. What shall I do in the meantime?”

John looked over the stack of books on the desk. “Research?”

Lord Woodruff's eyes came alight with purpose. “Ah, yes. Research.” He clapped his hands together. “Dawson, organize it all. Spare no expense, and make it a true English harvest. I'm going to immortalize it!”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” John said, taking Mallory's arm and backing toward the door. “We'll make it the best harvest ever.”

Lord Woodruff actually tried to smile. “You do that. Now, hurry off with you. I have my research to see to.”

John turned the handle of the door and they would have slipped out of the man's presence except that Lord Woodruff called them back. “Dawson, aren't you forgetting something?”

John stopped. “No, my lord, I don't think I am.”

“The reports,” Lord Woodruff said. He'd picked up his fork to resume his meal and pointed it toward the papers stacked on the floor. “Tyndale's land agent wants them by the first of next month. We should also include any information on this new harvest.”

John and Mallory exchanged glances, then suppressed smiles of relief. They hurried across the study and picked up the stacks of papers. Bowing and scraping like the most faithful of servants, they left Lord Woodruff at his desk, running his finger down the page of a reference book while munching on cabbage.

Once outside Cardiff Hall, they burst out laughing. Mallory shifted the heavy stack of reports in her arms. “You have the skill of an actor on the stage,” she declared to John.

“No, my persuasive skills come from years of working with senior officers.”

“I've never seen the like,” she said. They'd reached the barnyard. A hen scurried out of their path and the last golden light of the day stretched long shadows over the yard. “When he asked you what he should do until the harvest and you said research, I could barely keep from laughing out loud. John, you were brilliant.”