Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (3 page)

Claire’s heart jumped.

“You go ahead, dear,” she heard Mrs. Gower squawk behind her. “But remove the shawl and pull your bodice down!”

Claire turned and tossed the shawl back to Mrs. Gower; it was too hot to wear anyway. She bit her lip and hurried down the stairs, praying Flavian didn’t overhear her chaperone.

“My father had the estate landscaped by Capability Brown,” Flavian explained as Claire gazed at the wild beauty of the grounds. “But he insisted on the preservation of my great-grandfather’s formal garden.”

There was such a lot of open space to cover on the grounds. Claire knew Mrs. Gower was hidden somewhere behind an invisible curtain, fretting about every flaw in her performance. Divided by thick hedges, the formal garden offered more immediate refuge. “What wonderful flowers,” she said, leading Flavian down a graveled path between a riot of peonies, irises and lilacs. The sun-warmed blossoms suffused the air with gaudy perfume. The peonies especially were so ripe with scent and color Claire was almost embarrassed for them. They exposed their petals with open sensuality. “Immodest things aren’t they?” she said, lifting the heavy head of a blossom and sniffing deeply.

“Forgive their forward nature,” Flavian replied, chuckling. “They can’t help themselves.”

“You have my pardon,” Claire told the flower. When she let it go, it drooped nearly to the walkway.

She strolled on, attracted down the path by a patch of yellow primrose. Flavian caught up to her. She couldn’t keep a smile from her lips at the sight of him: the flecks of red in his curls, the ruddy flesh rounding his angular cheekbones and square chin.

He produced a peony from behind his back.

“Is this the one I forgave?”

“You were so kind; it couldn’t bear the weight of sorrow when you left.”

“Thank you.” Her hand closed around the stem. It was cool with a woody flexibility that sprang under the weight of its showy flower. He’d given her a flower. Her heart filled until she had to swallow and look down. She hoped Flavian didn’t notice the heat growing in her cheeks. “In China they use peony to cure all kinds of ailments. Stomachache, gall stones … ” Then she remembered Mrs. Gower’s warning about herbal remedies — that he’d reject her as a woman more interested in doctoring than in having babies of her own. “Why am I talking about all that on a lovely day like today?”

He moved closer, a keen look in his eyes. “Is healing a grim subject?”

“Only when it fails.” She moved quickly to a patch of faded jonquils just ahead. “How spectacular they must have looked in full bloom.”

She heard the crunch of gravel as he came up behind her. A tingle coursed through her spine. “But that doesn’t happen often with you, I would imagine,” he said.

Oh, why did she have to go and mention healing when he hadn’t seen her in so long? Knowing she dabbled in such things probably accounted for his long silence in the first place. “It’s just a hobby, you know, healing.”

“When your sister, Ellie, was wounded two years ago, you seemed to know what to do.”

Claire tried to think of something to distract him, but nothing came to mind. Sure that he’d react with cold brooding, she spread her arms hopelessly. “I do. I do know what to do.”

Rather than retreating, he seemed pleased. “How did you come upon the art?”

“I have a mentor. One of our tenants at home is the local midwife, but everyone goes to her with all their ailments. When my older sister, Peggity, was born, father sent for the doctor. That man nearly killed my mother and the baby. All of the servants begged father to fetch the tenant woman, and she saved them. Both of them … Oh, but look at this beautiful garden. Why dwell on hardship in the midst of grandeur?”

The corners of his eyes narrowed. He plucked a spent stalk. “Narcissus. Does it have healing properties?”

She could not seem to dislodge him from the subject. Perhaps he wanted to assure himself she wasn’t a medically minded bluestocking. “Are you interested in herbal remedies, my lord?”

A troubled look came into his eyes. He rolled the daffodil between thumb and pointer then shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Well, jonquils make your hands itch and turn scaly.” Flavian looked surprised. “I’d toss that back if I were you.”

He dropped the stalk into its bed. “Such a lovely flower possessing such sinister qualities … ”

Steering her away from the patch of daffodils, he brought her to a square of herbs. “Now, come tell me everything you know about the rest of these innocent looking plants.”

“That would be a very long conversation, indeed,” Claire said.

He hesitated, seeming to consider something. “You’re to make your come out this season, aren’t you?”

“Oh dear, yes.”

“Don’t you want to?”

Claire’s palms grew moist. “The truth is, crowds unnerve me. I’m not looking forward to London at all.”

He laughed. “Then you don’t mind stopping with me for a little while?”

“I feel as if I’ve won a reprieve, temporary though it may be,” she said, sensing the heat spreading to her cheeks. “I’m disinclined to be on display.”

“It’s unnerving for both sexes.”

“Ah, but the men hold all the cards.”

He scratched his chin. “That’s funny; I always feel the women have the power.”

“But the men do the asking.”

“And the women do the refusing.”

They laughed together, and Claire sensed their emotions loop one around the other in a combination as sweet as butter and honey.

Feeling as fully blossomed as a peony, she eyed Flavian, tucked a hand beneath her chin, and swayed back and forth. If she didn’t say something soon, she’d kiss him. For the sake of modesty, she looked down, but couldn’t stop the gentle sway of her body. “At any rate, the idea of parading about trawling for a husband … ”

“I quite understand,” Flavian said, huskily. The hum of insects, busy in the hot sun, grew in intensity. He pivoted away, exhaled, and then bending down, snapped a single flower from a blue hyacinth.

“How about this flower and its healing properties … ? Actually, that’s not of interest right now. Come with me a moment.” Taking her arm, he led her into a secluded alcove. A corset of lilac and forsythia shielded the area completely from the household windows. “Would you care to sit a moment?” he asked.

Claire noticed that his breath had quickened and his movements grown choppy.
Nerves?
She wondered.
Was he about to ask permission to court her?
Heart fluttering, she sat on the cool marble bench and laid the peony across her lap. He positioned himself next to her, his body so near she could feel his nervous energy.

“Let me look at you first,” he said. Obliging, she turned towards him, but couldn’t face him for the pounding in her heart. He took her hand — his fingers, dry and callused. Claire lowered her gaze and smoothed her skirt. “Claire, it’s so wonderful to see you again. You’ve been in my thoughts constantly these two years … ” He broke off, shaking his head and releasing her hand.

Fear clamped her chest. Healing was a concern to him. What a fool she’d been to admit to it. The
ton
never opened its doors to a woman with serious interests. “What a silly goose I am,” she said.

“You?” Surprise registered on his face. “If anyone’s the goose in this garden, it would be me. No, I’ve brought you here because … of course … I enjoy your company.” He cleared his throat. “And … and I’m hoping you can help me.”

A thin stream of disappointment darted through her bones.
You had no right to expect a request
, she scolded herself.
You’re just dismayed you still have to go to London
. She lifted her chin and heartily replied, “If there’s something I can do, it would be an honor.”

“What a grand lady you are,” he said. He took a deep breath and turned away. All at once, he seemed deeply shaken. Could that be water pooling in his eyes? Whatever would bring a man like Lord Monroe nearly to tears?

In her gentlest tone, she coaxed, “What is it, my lord?”

“I must seem ridiculous.” He pressed his fingertips to his forehead.

“Please … let me help.”

Rubbing his face vigorously, he recovered himself. “There is someone here who is troubled. Your knowledge of herbs and medicine … ”

Claire laughed. “Oh, what a comfort! I thought you disliked me because I practice healing.”

“Not at all,” he said, “In fact, just the opposite.”

“Oh, you’re very different indeed. Mrs. Gower has been so worried you’d think ill of me.”

He clutched her hand, rubbing the back fervently. “Nothing could induce me to do that. You are the finest young woman it’s ever been my privilege … Well, the fact is, I’m at a loss where to turn … for this patient because it’s a complicated … perhaps, bad situation.”

Claire took his hand and stilled its impassioned motion. “I’ve seen people die. I’ve seen the worst of sores and broken bones. Whatever your friend’s disease, I won’t shrink away.”

He appeared so desperately worried. She prayed the patient wasn’t suffering the way Mrs. Optkin did — the blood and the baby, so still and blue. Her hands started to sweat and she withdrew them from his. Swallowing, she looked directly into his face and smiled reassuringly. “Everything will be fine.”

He studied her carefully. “This is a strange sort of sickness. You may be shocked.”

“My … ”

“I can hear you,” said a girlish voice behind them. A peal of giggles, and then a pretty young lady jumped from the path into the alcove. “I’m like a little cat — sniff, sniff, sniff, and then I pounce!” she declared.

“Abella, this is Lady Claire Albright. Lady Claire, my ward, Abella Carmencita Vargas-Duarte.”

“I pleased to meet you,” Abella cried, her voice tinged with a Spanish accent. “Vav, he talk about you. He say you … precocious?”

Claire didn’t know how to respond. Flavian had never mentioned he had a ward. Why did he harbor such trivial matters as secrets?
How strange.
But the girl’s lively good spirits swept all thought aside. About sixteen-years-old, her dark curls framed skin the color of freshly cut wood. Her smile lit the heart from the inside out. It was impossible not to smile back. “Precocious?” Claire said, chuckling, “my family finds me quite dull.”

“Oh, they don’t know you as I do,” Abella said, with a cascade of giggles.

Claire laughed too, caught in the giddy tide of Abella’s humor.

“
Precioso
,” Flavian corrected. “‘Lovely,’ in your native tongue.”

“Ah. Forgive me, Lady Claire. I make these mistakes, but I make up to you. Come hear me sing.”

“I was speaking to Lady Claire privately,” Flavian said gently. “I do hope you weren’t eavesdropping.”

Ignoring him, Abella widened her large brown eyes. “You on coach a long time,
si
? Oh, I make fresh like a child soon. You hear me sing.” She stroked her throat like a shopkeeper displaying his finest wares. “
Muy bueno
. Forget all about that old coach.” Taking Claire’s hand she pulled her down the pebbled path.

“Actually,” Flavian said, following them, “the birds stop chirping to hear Abella sing.”

Abella, cooing with delight, pulled two chairs to the center of an airy music room with floor to ceiling windows, and placed them near the pianoforte. “
Sentarse, por favor
,” she said. Flavian sat and Claire followed his example.

The girl pulled her skirt aside and gracefully perched on the bench before the instrument. Her hands hovered above the keyboard, and she raised a black eyebrow with impish suspense.

She’s utterly charming,
thought Claire.

With a bolt of energy, Abella’s fingers descended on the ivory keys. They danced over them, striking bright, happy notes. She played with mesmerizing ability. Then she started to sing — notes clear and sharp as mountain air. There could not be a more glorious sound.

“
Of all the girls that are so smart, there’s none like pretty Sally
” Abella sang, “
She is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley
.”

Claire sat forward and stared at Abella’s face. As the singer’s lips moved, the muscles of her throat worked while sound emanated in crystalline trills, but her voice seemed almost disembodied — as if God himself were singing instead of the shiny-eyed girl.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry ‘em;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy ‘em

Music skipped in Claire’s heart, tugging her gently side to side with its rhythm. She felt unimaginably happy. Before she could leap to her feet in wild applause, however, Abella began her next song — a ballad so slow and wistful, Claire’s eyes instantly filled with tears.

“
But my kisses bring again, seals of love, though sealed in vain
,” the girl sang, while visions of graveside partings filled Claire’s mind. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from weeping. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she brushed them away praying Flavian wouldn’t notice. An involuntary sob shook her, and Flavian pressed a handkerchief into her palm. “Enough, my little songbird,” he said, “You are destroying our guest.”

“Oh goodness, I play a pretty tune. That will cheer you.”

“Forgive me,” said Claire, pushing words through a choked throat. “You have the most extraordinary voice. Absolutely brilliant.”

Abella clapped her hands. “You so nice.

“Shall I sing, Ruggleton’s Daughter of Iero?”

“I think not,” said Flavian, looking uncomfortable, but Abella began plinking the keys of the pianoforte.

O if your dinner you must have,

Then get it yourself; I am not your slave,

Said Ruggleton’s daughter of Iero.

Instantly, Claire’s heartbreak dissipated, replaced by euphoria. Decorum couldn’t keep her from laughing outright, but it perturbed her that her emotions could be so easily manipulated.

O you shall brew and you shall bake,

Fal lal lal lal lal li-do,

And you shall make your white hands black,