A Wildflower for a Duke, page 5
“Father, may I present Zachariah Evans?” Nora said with practised ease. “Zachariah, my father, Gabriel Anson, the Duke of Northam”.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Gabriel studied Zachariah, whose eyes remained fixed to the floor as if driven in by nails. One paint-splattered hand rose to his temple and grabbed a fistful of scruffy hair.
“He is … shy with strangers.” Noting her father’s alarmed expression, Nora rapidly continued her explanation. “We met a little over a month ago and he's been teaching me the most splendid things.”
Gabriel’s stomach lurched uncomfortably. I’m sure he has.
“He’s an artist. You should see his landscapes! And he knows about nature; which tracks are made by which animals, how to make a whistle from an acorn, and which birds sing which songs. He even knows about the weather … although, clearly, he has more to learn since he allowed us to be nearly washed away in this nonsense.” Nora glanced at Zachariah with a teasing smile, but the jest fell unacknowledged at his feet.
“His mother taught him. She’s brilliant! Last week she even tried to meet with the stone mason to show him a test he can perform to help predict curing time. Something about how the …” She looked to Zachariah for help but he remained disconnected from the conversation, the palms of his hands pressed into his eye sockets. “I don't remember. Something about how the humidity in the air can make the concrete fail to harden. Irritating, close-minded man wouldn’t even meet with her, simply because she's a woman!”
“Evans. Relative humidity,” Gabriel parroted. The memory of another Evans from weeks past sprang to his mind. As Zachariah's identity snapped into place, he found his anxiety ebb, much as the rain was mirroring outside. In his sliver of an acquaintance with Mrs Evans, he had liked her. It seemed impossible that such a cheerful, if endearingly awkward, woman would have a monster for a son.
“I believe I had the pleasure of making a brief acquaintance with your mother.” The rhythmic squeezing of the boy’s fists in his hair stopped, but that was the sole indication that he had heard Gabriel at all. Despite his initial influx of paternal distress, Gabriel found it difficult to see this sad, withdrawn sapling of a boy as much of a threat to his daughter.
“Come along, you two. Let’s move inside to get dry, and then we’ll have a carriage hitched to see you home. Zachariah, was it?” The adolescent gave a stilted nod. Nora shuffled a few tentative steps towards Zach, but halted in her approach as he stiffened. It appeared and receded so quickly Gabriel thought he may have imagined its occurrence.
“This is the perfect opportunity to show you my skeleton collection,” Nora beamed. Zach responded with one fast jerk of his head to the negative but Nora’s smile didn’t so much as flicker at his decline. “Yesterday, I found an entire wing from some kind of bird of prey. Buzzard maybe? It's massive. So much bigger than they look from a distance!” Nora paused, but her chattering continued into the silence.
Just as Gabriel was about to insist that his daughter come indoors, Zach’s body began to relax by tiny fractions. His eyes searched out Nora’s like a plant leaning toward the sun, holding her gaze with such intensity and care that, had they been two adults, Gabriel would have removed himself and the intrusion of his presence. There was tenderness there, genuine intimacy and friendship where communication didn’t require words. Zach’s gaze lowered to her chattering teeth.
In a barely audible voice, he spoke, “You’re freezing. Let's go.”
With an approving nod, Nora turned to follow Gabriel out the door and into the last fighting remnants of the dwindling afternoon storm.
Chapter 5
G abriel peeled off his topcoat, relieved to find that Bennett had already obtained a stack of towels and was awaiting their return. Nora was quick to intercept and offer up the plush material to Zach. Nearby, Keene stared mournfully at the puddles left in their wake.
“Not a word about the blasted floors, Keene,” Gabriel growled.
Keene cleared his throat, tugged once on his jacket sleeves, then attempted to shepherd Nora towards the stairs. “You have a nice hot bath prepared, and we’ll see to your friend.” Despite Keene’s coaxing, Nora remained determinedly adhered to Zachariah’s side, her stance unmistakably protective.
“I will see him home myself, poppet,” Gabriel interjected, employing his softest tone. “Bennett, show young Mr Evans to the library if you will. I understand he has some interest in Nora’s skeleton collection; he can examine her findings there by the comfort of the fire.” Gabriel inclined his head in Zach’s direction. “I will be with you presently.” Turning his squeaky leather Hessians on the floor, he swiftly made his way up the stairs, Keene trailing behind.
Dry and hastily dressed, Gabriel entered his library and headed to the sideboard to pour himself two fingers of scotch. Zachariah was absorbed in his examination of the assortment of bones, holding a smaller one up to the light of the window.
“Some kind of rodent?” Gabriel inquired.
Studying the gnarled bone from various angles as he rotated it in his long fingers, Zachariah answered. “No. It's hollow. A part of the wings of a smaller bird. Metacarpus maybe? They’re lighter to help them with flight. I'm sure Nora could explain it better.”
Gabriel swirled the deep amber liquid around in his glass as he pondered how best to go forward. His much-needed wardrobe change had given him time to consider a few things, and while he was still a bit baffled by the young man's behaviour, it was clear that Nora's attachment was earnest and that he would have to proceed cautiously.
“Would you care for tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“How old are you Zachariah?”
“Fourteen, sir.” Gabriel watched the column of his throat work with a hard swallow, then he corrected, “Your Grace.” Zachariah's attention remained on the bone as he traced the tips of his fingers along the mottled edges, his face pinched with intense concentration. “She introduced herself only as Nora, but I don’t think it would have changed anything even if I had known all along that she was your daughter.”
Zach’s voice was devoid of guilt or even a real spark of recognition that he understood the complexity of this situation. More to the point, the verbal exchange seemed to be background noise to a more interesting private conversation between him and the bone.
Not changed anything? Gabriel was bewildered. “How exactly did you come to befriend my daughter?” It seemed like a safe enough place to start. At this point, Gabriel was considering balancing the bone on his nose like a trained circus animal just to capture the youngster’s attention.
“She wouldn't go away.” His response was so crisp and unrehearsed that Gabriel felt the corners of his mouth tip in amusement. That did seem very much like Nora.
Experience had taught him that silence was a formidable weapon in inquisition, but the tick of the pendulum was beginning to make him strangely nervous while he waited for Zach to continue. Conversely, the passage of empty moments appeared entirely irrelevant to the boy. Zach reverently placed the specimen onto the shelf in exchange for another, then continued his wordless perusal.
“And …” Gabriel encouraged him to continue.
“And she seemed lonely.”
The observation plucked at a raw place in Gabriel’s chest. Failure. His mother’s accusations chimed like a gong through his heart. Gabriel continued to allow the silence to fill the room, but apparently, that was to be the extent of the explanation offered. Clearly, a shift of tactics was required. A direct assault.
“I don't know that I should allow my daughter to spend her days gallivanting about with you.” There. Ignore THAT.
Zachariah’s jaw tightened, gaze darting towards the library door like a general overwhelmed on the battlefield and fervently wishing for reinforcements to come over the hill. Gabriel felt a swell of remorse at the naked distress that flared across Zachariah's face. He had cast a stone into Zach’s seemingly placid waters hoping for a ripple of response, and blast it, he had caused a tidal wave instead.
Gabriel watched the stricken boy withdraw further, the tenuous thread of conversation snapping entirely. A muscle began to jump on the left side of Zachariah's face, and he covered it with his hand as if to hold it still. The other was white-knuckled, still clutching the forgotten bone.
“I’m odd. I know.” The admission tumbled out on a rough exhalation.
Gabriel had to clasp his hands to keep from reaching out. Had Nora exhibited a similarly bedraggled self-worth, it would have torn him in two. This was someone's child, and more than just an anonymous someone. Despite having met Mrs Evans only briefly, he suddenly felt a sense of camaraderie, from one struggling parent to another.
“No.” Well, yes. “NO,” he repeated more emphatically. “You’re a fourteen-year-old boy. She's an eleven-year-old young lady.” For the briefest flash, Zachariah's eyes connected with his, exuding helpless despair in nearly-palpable torrents.
Nora had not been the only lonely one. This young man, who, no doubt, had been mocked and shunned by his peers, had found a friend in his daughter. And she in him. Gabriel’s words had been meant to force engagement, but they had inflicted wounds instead. And now he had to do what he could to make it right again.
“You should come here to see Nora.” The invitation was out of his mouth without a second thought. “You are welcome here, Zachariah.” And he found he meant it. “If you want to fish or explore, I will come sometimes. I like to fish. Or, Nora can take a groom. But she cannot go without a chaperone.” His voice was low, reassuring, almost … paternal.
Zach offered only a small nod but he had begun to unclench. His shoulders slumped from relief or emotional exhaustion or possibly both.
“Now. Your mother will be worried. Let's get you home, son.” He set down his empty glass and held out his hand to indicate the way.
The ride to Zachariah's home was brief, which was a relief since any attempt at conversation was met with a polite but stilted response. The rain had stopped, but heavy grey fog made everything feel thick and murky. Gabriel had grown accustomed to the attention garnered by the sleek lines and imposing size of his ducal carriage. Even in the dreary weather, curtains slid surreptitiously to the side and children ran outside to gawk openly … one of the many reasons he preferred his horse to the grander conveyance.
Pulling up to the residence, he was met by a gaggle of chickens who flocked to him in a chorus of soprano clucks, and a goat who was dining on a flowering shrub. She refused to shift even the slightest inch out of the way, a pink petunia dangling from one side of her furry lips and a patently bored expression on her face, despite the cacophony of activity that surrounded her. Shuffling slightly to the side, she swished her feathered tail, then carried on with her meal as if his carriage and four were easily ignored.
A pair of plump, white ducks also took an interest in his arrival, attempting to waddle their way up the steps and through his carriage door like a pair of entitled dowagers. His driver hastily shooed the nosy little beasts away.
Gabriel was distracted from any other barnyard antics by the most unique structure he had ever seen. Was it a chicken coop? A barn? It was … Gabriel wasn't sure how to classify it. Built into the limbs of two massive oak trees, its uneven stairs climbed up one corner where three more goats were perched like pirate lookouts in a crow’s nest. All along the roof, where a gutter might be in any sanely-designed structure, were clusters of wildflowers. A vibrant mural of painted horses raced across the entire east wall.
His gaze swept greedily about, like a butterfly in a blooming garden overwhelmed with too many options for pollen. Dispersed about the gardens were cleverly-constructed rain barrels, some kind of miniature windmill with chicken feed scattered about it, and a broken wagon repurposed with nesting boxes built haphazardly on top. Each item was intricately painted in vibrant blues, greens, and reds.
Even a pile of eggs that had been collected and placed in a hay-filled wooden crate were decorated with the same amazing finesse. Gabriel’s memory shifted to the egg from earlier that day, bleeding watery paint down the arm of the young man beside him. “You paint remarkably.” He thought of Mrs Evans, with her glowing exuberance and natural curiosity, and it made everything about this place make sense. Its own little universe where everything was upside down and inside out, but somehow exactly right. It made the rest of the world grey by comparison.
***
By the time Violet’s brain noticed that her skin was soaked, it was well and truly a downpour. Much of her hair had slipped loose of its simple plaited twist, and streams of water followed the course of the waterlogged strands like tiny branching creeks, soaking her shoulders and bodice. Abandoning her work to the English spring weather, she raced back indoors to dry off and find Zachariah.
She poked her head outside the door. “Zach!” Only a goat bleated in response. After several more minutes without a response, worry had begun to seep in. The storm was aggressive, and although Zachariah knew the land and woods intimately, she couldn't quiet the anxiety that rippled through her. Securing Nathan's old brown hat to her head, she ran out into the cold rain.
Violet found no sign of him at the river, the McTash’s barn, or in the cherry blossom orchard where he had been painting. As the rain lessened its temper tantrum, first to a drizzle, then to mist, she followed the path toward the road that would lead her home. Stepping through the trees, she watched as a midnight black carriage stamped with an intricate crest slowed to make the turn which would lead only to her home.
Her skirts felt like half-melted cheese sticking to her slippery legs as she increased her pace. In the distance, she could make out Zach’s familiar form next to a man who must surely be the Duke of Northam. Their backs were turned to her and they appeared to be examining the nesting box. A broody hen was perched atop, flapping her wings aggressively in an attempt to detour the nosy aristocrat, but he paid her little notice.
Naturally, the Duke of Northam should come by when I’m drenched and covered in mud! She tucked her arms across her chest protectively, recalling all of her flippant jests. Specifically, how she would be amused—pleased even—to see his reaction to their whimsical little corner of his lands. Oh, she would gladly eat every one of those words to avoid whatever was to occur in the next ten minutes! She thought it would be a lark, but what she felt was slightly queasy and threatened. Their safe haven, fanciful and free of judgement or recrimination, was under siege by expensive wool and sardonically lifted eyebrows. She wanted to load the catapults and raise the drawbridge. Where was a good trebuchet when you needed one? They could hurl chickens …
Violet cringed as her sodden boots squelched with every step, announcing her approach and alerting the pair, who turned in unison.
Instant recognition seeped cold into her bones. The man from the woods. Embarrassment sparked and climbed up the nape of her neck, only to be smothered almost immediately by a flash of annoyance. Other than the hint of dampness clinging to his dark curls, the duke was every bit the consummate aristocrat.
“You’re a mess,” Zach stated flatly.
She gave a resigned little shrug. “Yes, well, you know how well the fish-skin cloak worked, and I haven’t yet had the time to put the finishing touches on the duck-feather model.” Peeling off her felt hat, she wrung it savagely and dropped it, wrinkled and shapeless, back onto her sopping head.
“Hello, Your Grace. How nice of you to mention that you were, in fact, the Duke of Northam last time we met.” Grimacing, Violet imagined how blissful it would be if she could simply wash away with the rain. Why did caution and common sense always arrive twelve seconds after her impetuous candour?
He flashed an obnoxiously disarming smile. “Fish cloak? You cannot introduce sea life apparel into the conversation and then carry on without explanation.”
He removed his topcoat and wrapped it snuggly about her shoulders. Violet had to fight the urge to step out of his reach. It engulfed her petite frame, like using a horse trough as a vase for a single daffodil. Smooth satin and the cosiest wool she had ever touched, still warm from his body, enveloped her suddenly over-sensitised skin. Goosebumps popped up like daisies down her arms as if eager to experience this bizarre decadence. What the deuce was this man doing? What kind of a duke wraps a goat farmer in his coat? Some bewildered, suspicious part of her wanted to thrust the offending garment back into his hands, but instead, she found herself nestling deeper into its inviting softness.
Zachariah’s quiet mumble caused her attention to lurch back to the present. “You don't want to know all the materials she’s tried,” he said before blurting a quick farewell and dashing into the house.
Violet watched her son’s retreating form. “Who would figure that fish scales aren't, in fact, entirely waterproof? And they were freshwater varieties, mostly trout. Not that it's relevant to the conversation. And we were discussing your quite intentional avoidance of introductions when we last met.” She shot him a vaguely accusatory glance. Despite the edge to her words, she couldn’t quite reign in the accompanying dimpled grin that spoke of swordplay with sticks instead of blades.
He parried with a smile of practised ease. Gone was the half-attired anonymous gentleman who wandered the woods, vulnerable and haunted by his homecoming. In his stead stood an impeccably polished peer of the realm, who donned charm and confidence as a second skin. Why he was wasting it on her, she could not fathom.
From his embossed buttons to his polished boots, the man shined with an almost startling perfection. In her youth, despite her family's long gullies of destitution, she’d had occasional contact with a few impoverished peers, but never anything close to a duke. Nevertheless, she would not give his elevated rank authority over her bearing. She raised her chin and squared her shoulders.
