Winter Garden Page 5

She blinked then wavered and turned back to the lake. Baron Rothebury had disappeared into the low trees.

  “I suppose so,” she mumbled, feeling the dull ache in her head again, flustered by her own concerns.

  He stood, offering his arm which she took without thought. She reached down for her empty tea mug then walked silently behind him through the tunnel of foliage, wondering at her confusion, wondering if he was as inexplicably attracted to her as she was to him, wondering if his show of possession was actually something he felt or was only just performance.

  Chapter 3

  Madeleine’s impatience made her uncommonly fitful. For the good part of forty-five minutes she’d been a guest at Mrs. Sarah Rodney’s lavish country home, nibbling dry pudding cakes that certainly lacked pudding, and sipping weak tea, listening to her hostess and four other ladies gossip outrageously while they fairly ignored her presence except for an occasional remark and glance at her person as if she were an unwanted but highly intriguing and colorful insect. Granted, they had little in common with her beyond the social graces one needs to commune in genteel fashion. Madeleine herself had learned her grace not from growing up with discipline and training like these ladies, but by observance, practice, polishing, and then becoming. She was essentially one of them and they didn’t like it, not that they could find anything wrong with her precisely. But she was French, and they simply found that affronting, irrationally unforgivable, feelings they tried only superficially to hide. This made her burn inside. She was half English as well, but that was a secret she couldn’t reveal without also revealing, to some degree, her scandalous birth. Doing so would draw questions she wasn’t prepared to answer, and foster a pity she couldn’t bear. This was primarily why she chose to live her life in France instead of England, despising her French heritage and all that the culture stood for while using her assumed station in life to help the country she loved, and its people who would always consider her an outsider because they didn’t know.

  Madeleine sat on a small, white, wrought-iron chair, straight-backed with a hard, rounded seat, into which her body fit snugly though the others were undoubtedly squeezed painfully. That gave her a fair amount of satisfaction. She helped herself to her second pudding cake—not because she wanted another but because it gave her something to do with her restless hands.

  Together, the six of them had taken their places around the matching wrought-iron table, now covered with a white lace tablecloth, fine pink china, and wedged into the southwest corner of Mrs. Rodney’s sweet smelling, flower-filled conservatory. It was the first sunny day since the afternoon of her arrival in Winter Garden nearly one week ago, and although it was cold outside, the large conservatory windows absorbed the sunlight and warmed the air as if it were summer.

  She sat with her back to the sun, in her day gown of pale plum silk that, although rich in fabric and modest in cut, had a medium full skirt accentuated by two large, flowing bows in creamy yellow near the hem, and a square neckline and tapered waist fringed with lace of the same color. The bodice fit snugly but conservatively, the wide cuffed sleeves were at three-quarter length, and with her plaited hair coiled becomingly at the back of her head, she looked every bit the conventional young widow dressed for an afternoon of calling.

  The Lady Isadora Birmingham sat to her right. She was a vibrant woman in her midsixties, pink-cheeked and lively, softly rounded in figure, probably lovely in her early years, and the only one of the group to allow Madeleine any kind regard, as she’d asked a question or two of her with actual interest in the reply.

  Mrs. Catherine Mossley occupied the next seat, a corpulent woman who continued to stuff pudding cakes into her mouth while she talked, which was incessantly. She was a lady in only the broadest stretch of the word, for she had the table manners of a country hog, in Madeleine’s opinion. But undeniably, making her worthy of an invitation, she also had wealth bestowed upon her by her late husband who realized a fortune in the gas industry before his untimely demise in an industrial fire that fortunately left his money and good name intact.

  Next to Mrs. Mossley, and directly across from Madeleine, rested the sober but erect figure of Mrs. Penelope Bennington-Jones, followed by her daughter, Desdemona Winsett. Mrs. Bennington-Jones possessed shrewd black eyes, coarse brown hair streaked with silver, and a nose like a hawk’s. She was large of stature, though not particularly fat, and not in the least attractive. She was, by far, the keenest of the bunch, however. She looked upon Madeleine’s presence as an intrusion, occasionally glowering at her with a scorn she couldn’t hide. She was the greatest threat at the table.

  Desdemona was entirely different from her mother. A rather homely, fair-haired bride of nineteen, she’d been married only two months to an Army officer now away on duty, but she was already showing signs of pregnancy. This would probably be one of her last outings before socially retiring to await the birth, as her baby, by Madeleine’s estimation, would arrive sooner than the expected and normal nine months of carrying. Of course, the family would be saved from direct scandal by declaring the child early but amazingly strong, large, and healthy, which would likely go unproved but not unheeded as society whispered about it secretly. Desdemona bore a particular shyness of personality that, when coupled with a domineering mother, encouraged pity. And although she’d hardly spoken to anyone beyond initial introductions, Madeleine knew the youngest lady found having a Frenchwoman in their midst strangely fascinating. Desdemona stared at her continuously from across the table while sipping her tea.

  To complete the circle, Sarah Rodney, the acknowledged Winter Garden historian, and their hostess, sat at Madeleine’s left. She personified an Englishwoman in every sense of the word, down to her pale skin, generous bust and hips, soft demeanor, white hair and exquisite manners. Madeleine thought Mrs. Rodney to be outwardly charming and intelligent, but inwardly flawed in that her invitation to a socially acceptable Frenchwoman was predicated not on kindness or hospitality, but on curiosity and the underlying desire to discover flaws.

  The conversation had been about nothing that mattered so far, starting with superficial chatter about the unusually cold autumn weather and everybody’s health, including that of Lady Claire Childress, who had been invited but was feeling too poorly to attend, which apparently had become a frequent occurrence. The topics from there flowed naturally into more confidential gossip regarding Winter Garden residents and those just coming south for the season. Madeleine listened raptly, adding her own comments where appropriate, though being generally ignored where it wasn’t socially required to acknowledge her opinions. Finally, after two cups of tea, filled for her by the ever present but silent servants who stood between the rhododendrons and African violets as if nothing more than decoration for the colorful room, she wanted to turn the talk in a direction to help her.

  Lifting her lace napkin and pressing it gently to her lips, effectively informing them all that she was about to speak, she turned to her hostess.

  “Mrs. Rodney,” she started thoughtfully, “I was wondering who owns the large house on the far shores of the lake? It’s a lovely piece of property, and quite unlike the other homes I’ve seen in Winter Garden.”

  Silence ensued, and Madeleine feigned ignorance to the fact that they all seemed rather taken aback by her audacious interruption and outright turn in conversation. Or maybe it wasn’t the manner of her questioning but the desire to discuss the baron?

  Mrs. Rodney cleared her throat and leaned slightly to her left. “I believe you mean the manor house owned by Richard Sharon, the Baron Rothebury,” she said rather than asked.

  “Such a charming man,” Mrs. Mossley interjected quickly.

  Mrs. Bennington-Jones raised her cup to her lips with delicate fingers and took a slow sip of her tea. “Indeed he is, Mrs. Mossley. I would have been very happy had he chosen my lovely Desdemona to wed, but alas, she had her mind set on marrying Mr. Winsett.” She gave her daughter a guarded, look, hard as steel. Desdemona, flushing scarlet,
lowered her eyes to her lap, fidgeting with the peach lace on her skirt.

  “The baron is Winter Garden’s most eligible bachelor, Mrs. DuMais,” Lady Isadora properly explained. “He is a year-long resident. Of course, he is titled, handsome, and not without a good family name and substantial means.”

  Madeleine smiled and nodded as expected. “A marvelous prospect for any family.” She glanced again to Desdemona now sitting rigidly in her chair. Subduing her irritation at the lady’s mother who, like so many others, including her own, used her daughter as a pawn, she added, “Any lady would be fortunate to marry a baron, I suppose. But young ladies today, and even some young gentlemen, are more often marrying for love instead of financial and social stability. At least it seems to be that way in France.”

  Desdemona’s gaze shot up to meet hers, and Madeleine couldn’t decide if the lady looked frightened or appalled. The others had no idea what to say in reply, which was exactly what she’d anticipated.

  Mrs. Bennington-Jones took the cue. “I suppose you married for love, then, Madame DuMais?”

  The Englishwoman’s use of the title “Madame” instead of “Mrs.” had every intention of reminding them all of Madeleine’s place at the table. But more significantly, she recognized the underlying suggestion that as a Frenchwoman she might somehow be whimsical by nature, perhaps even loose. It gave her the opening she needed.

  “Goodness, no,” she said with some surprise, staring the woman straight in the eye. “My marriage was arranged, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, as my husband was from an excellent family—tea traders all of them—with sufficient means and respectability. I have been most fortunate since my wedding day, although from time to time I miss my dear Georges. He was lost at sea several years ago.”

  “How very sad,” Mrs. Mossley remarked with feeling.

  Madeleine shrugged negligibly, dropping her gaze and reaching for her fork to slice another piece of cake. “Yes, but the sea takes many souls each year, Mrs. Mossley,” she said frankly, “and I was not unaware of the risks when I married him.”

  Ever the practical widow, well mannered and well married. One or two ladies nodded with genuine, growing approval of her.

  After swallowing a very small bite, she turned back to her hostess to revert to her original query. “And the baron’s house, Mrs. Rodney? Has it always been in the family?” If the woman noticed she was pressing for information she didn’t show it.

  “Oh, yes, it’s been the Rothebury estate for…nine or ten generations now. It’s lovely inside, and parts of it are quite old actually. The family has enlarged it through the years.” Her wide forehead crinkled gently as her eyes focused on pink carnations in the center of the table. “I recall that it was once a monastery of some kind, or at least the foundation upon which the house is now built was part of a structure belonging to the church several centuries ago.” She glanced up to her guests again and lowered her voice. “Some records indicate, or rather”—she patted her lips with her napkin—“rumor suggests it was a haven for those not afflicted with the Black Death.”

  Madeleine glanced around the table. Everyone’s attention was now thoroughly engaged, as was hers, but, of course, for different reasons.

  “To hide from those individuals who were diseased?” Lady Isadora asked with genuine titillation.

  “To keep from succumbing themselves, I should think,” Mrs. Mossley corrected with an air of assurance, wiping crumbs from her mouth with her fingertips. “If one secures oneself from the outside world, disease can be avoided.”

  Mrs. Bennington-Jones scoffed. “Nonsense. If God chooses to cast down affliction, nothing can be done to avoid it.”

  Quiet filled the room for a moment as those words were absorbed. Then Lady Isadora shook her head slowly. “But who would take shelter there? Clergy?” Her own answer satisfied her, and she sat back in her chair. “I suppose that would explain who was inside and why they lived through the Death. Men of God would not be afflicted.”

  Madeleine reached for her tea, bringing her cup to her lips. “But men of God are still men. They succumb to temptation, illness, and death as do laymen.”

  Every woman at the table looked stung by that.

  Mrs. Rodney cleared her throat again, this time purposely. “I believe, Mrs. DuMais, that with the good Lord’s help and guidance, men of the cloth would have sense enough to close themselves off from the outside world until the threat of danger is passed.”

  Madeleine took another sip. “You’re suggesting, Mrs. Rodney, that the baron’s home once posed as a fortress of sorts for those seeking shelter?”

  “Precisely,” she returned with a drop of her thick chin.

  “But they would still need to eat and provide for essentials,” she argued pleasantly. “The Black Death lasted for several years. Surely those inside could not go that long without food and supplies.”

  Mrs. Bennington-Jones smiled at her flatly. “Monasteries are equipped with the land and means to provide, Madame DuMais. I should think they are the same in France?”

  Madeleine nodded once in acknowledgment, holding her tongue graciously of a retort that food alone wouldn’t be the only thing needed for survival, but also firewood and oil among the many, as well as messages from the outside world that would allow those inside contact with others. She didn’t need to say anything. Everyone else knew it, too.

  Mrs. Mossley stuffed her mouth with the last of her cake. “Maybe they all died.” She smiled broadly at her own sense of humor as she chewed. “What I mean is that it’s just a story. Mrs. Rodney even said it’s more rumor than fact. The Black Death occurred five hundred years ago. One cannot be certain of events that took place so far back in history.”

  There was silence for another long moment, then Desdemona offered softly, “I’ve heard…rumors of lights in the night and ghosts on Baron Rothebury’s property. Maybe they’re all dead clergy—”

  “Oh, for heaven sake, Desdemona,” her mother interjected, annoyed. “There are no ghosts. Clergy do not become ghosts. Your imagination is beyond the incredible.”

  Desdemona sank lower in her chair, looking sufficiently scolded. Mrs. Rodney attempted to clear the air.

  “I really think there is little fact behind it after all,” she admitted, sitting straighter in her seat and reaching for a third slice of cake. “I don’t know if anyone even lived in the Winter Garden valley so long ago. Records are vague at best, and only kept through the church that far back. One could trace the history, probably, but Baron Rothebury likely only has information regarding his family after the time of purchasing his estate.”

  “I should think Winter Garden existed then, being so close to Portsmouth,” Lady Isadora remarked with drawn brows. “That the baron’s property is as old may be in some doubt, but I imagine there were people here.”

  “Perhaps, Madame DuMais, you could ask the gentleman with whom you are living if he knows,” Mrs. Bennington-Jones murmured with a calculated twist of her mouth. “I’ve no doubt the two of you are…sufficiently acquainted by now. And he is, after all, a scholar, is he not?”

  An awkward pause followed. A servant shifted feet on the creaking wooden floor, someone dropped a fork to her plate clumsily. All but the Englishwoman who had so brazenly asked the question looked elsewhere—to their tea, to the flowers, anywhere but to her.

  So that was it. She lived alone with Thomas in a small cottage, and in less than one week speculation as to the depth of their relationship had started. Quicker than she’d expected, or than it would have in France, she had to admit, and probably with more scrutiny and concern. In France, Thomas would be considered fortunate to have an attractive widow in his company; she, at the worst, would be ignored. Here, in this small village, he would be snubbed and she would be scorned, at least by respectable women. He had been right. They could never pose as lovers. Already these ladies questioned her scruples. But they also, for now, had nothing more enticing to go on than assumption.

  Madeleine folded her
napkin in her lap, meticulously, thinking with care as she spoke. “Mr. Blackwood is a scholar, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, but he is not from Winter Garden. I am uncertain whether he knows anything at all of its history.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Rodney inserted with interest.

  Madeleine smiled dryly. They were all certainly aware of this and yet they chose to carry on as if ignorant. “He is also a rather quiet individual. I know very little about him other than what I have learned while translating his memoirs.”

  “And how on earth did he ever find you among all the translators in France?” Mrs. Bennington-Jones asked with pointed meaning. “Naturally I don’t mean to be insulting, but surely there must be other individuals who are better able to do the work.”

  Madeleine gazed at her directly, pretending innocence as she clutched her napkin with both hands. “How so, Mrs. Bennington-Jones?”

  The woman shifted her large body in her chair. “Well, I’m sure there are men—”

  “Ahh…I’m sure that there are,” she cut in, composed and in flawless form. “But I’ve always wanted to travel to England, and this seemed a prime opportunity to spend some time here. I am, of course, well-qualified for the position as I was extensively educated in the language during the six years I spent in a Viennese finishing school for young ladies, run by the very famous Madame Bilodeau. I’m sure you’ve heard of her?”

  Mrs. Bennington-Jones blinked, taken aback by a question she had not foreseen. “I imagine so, yes.”

  Madeleine lowered her chin, smiling tightly. “When I read Mr. Blackwood’s advertisement in a Parisian newspaper requesting aid from a person of skill and good breeding to translate his memoirs, I wrote him with recommendations and a list of my credentials, and he chose me from among several. I left France only a few days after receiving word. As I am widowed, Mrs. Bennington-Jones, and without children, my time is my own. And now I am here.”