Page 49 of Lady Audacious
‘I didn’t come here to create problems.’
‘It seems to me that the only problems here are products of her own jealousy. Mind you, word reached me already that the earl drove you through the village when he need not have gone that way, and that will have infuriated her highness.’
‘I said something about that to him; asked him why he thought it was necessary. He didn’t really give me a proper response but I think he was being thoughtful. He knows there will be more people like Brigstock, attempting to take advantage of my inexperience and…’
‘And he was making a public declaration that you had an influential friend. That was considerate of him.’
‘It was. Miss Farquhar has nothing to be jealous of but I didn’t feel inclined to reassure her on that score. I dislike being talked down to.’
‘Quite right too. We are all equals in the eyes of the good Lord.’
‘We made some headway this morning,’ Odile told her new friend. ‘At the records office, I mean. A man by the name of Quintin Smythe lived in this property at the time of the 1801 census. Does it mean anything to you?’
Mrs Blaine shook her head. ‘Sorry love, no. As you know I was working up in London, making my name as a cook to a rich gentleman and nursing my broken heart.’
‘What made you come back?’
‘My gentleman died. I was offered another position but I’d grown tired of pandering to the whims of the idle rich, so I came home. I didn’t intend to take paid employment again, but I’d already started to get bored with idleness. Then this position came up and it seemed like the ideal compromise. Harris told me to come straight here and be direct with you. Said it would be the best approach.’
‘He’s an astute man, our Mr Harris,’ Odile observed.
Mrs Blaine leant forward to pinch Odile’s cheek. ‘The moment I set eyes on you, I could see that you needed someone here to protect your interests rather than exploit your good nature.’
‘And it would be a crime to waste your skills as a cook,’ Odile added, feeling a little emotional when Mrs Blaine admitted to her mothering instincts. Taking another biscuit, she closed her eyes as the sweet combination of cinnamon and sugar exploded on her tongue. ‘I am very lucky to have you.’
‘Well as I say pet, you need someone to take care of you and I need a purpose. As to your Mr Smythe,’ she added, picking up the tea pot and refilling their cups, ‘if he was reclusive then he wouldn’t have wanted anyone living in—especially if he was up to no good,’ she added, rolling her eyes and making Odile smile. ‘But someone locally would have had to come in daily to cook and clean, much like Doris and the others do.’
‘That is what the earl thinks. He is going to have someone ask questions in the Portcullis.’
‘Aye well, if there’s answers to be had that’s where they’ll likely be found.’
‘One assumes so.’ Odile drained her tea. ‘Anyway, I’d best go and see how the girls are getting on. The roof repairs seem to be coming along nicely, which is a good thing. They have told me they’ll be finished by the end of the week.’
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. Odile fell into her bed that evening, feeling exhausted and yet satisfied with the progress she had made, both with the house and with her investigation.
She lay awake long after the old house had fallen silent but for the occasional creak of a beam and the sound of nocturnal animals prowling about her gardens. She absently stroked Willow’s head as she relived her morning’s excursion with the earl, still surprised by the lengths he was prepared to go to on her behalf—and still captivated by his sophistication, the potency of which had left her feeling giddy and a little breathless.
Odile vowed not to make an almighty fool of herself by allowing her imagination to get the better of her, as it so easily could if she allowed it free rein. Inventing all sorts of increasingly unlikely scenarios behind her abrupt arrival as a bewildered ten-year-old at Miss Mackenzie’s academy had developed into a habit. When she’d become sufficiently mature to consider the point, it had seemed very odd indeed that she could still remember how to read and write, what books she had read, how to add up a list of figures, how to point at Patagonia on a map…all things that she must have learned before the accident that changed her life in the most dramatic fashion.
Everything except what was most important to her.
Odile returned to her garden early the following morning, encouraged in her back-breaking work by all the wonderful beds of herbs she had begun to uncover. With the weeds that had taken them over cleared she could see that the thyme, coriander, mint and foxglove—to name just a few of the treasures she had found—would now thrive.
She paused as a tingling sensation rippled through her body and she sensed a presence that this time wasn’t visual. She glanced around but other than the father and son working on the roof, there was no one in sight. She didn’t feel alarmed since the presence was both unthreatening and reassuring. She hadn’t sensed it in the house or anywhere else before. Only in this particular garden—a garden that she was increasingly convinced she had visited before.
‘Oh heck!’ She drew her hand back at the last minute and contemplated the attentive Willow, who cocked her head to one side when Odile addressed her as though she understood what was being said and was formulating a reply. ‘That’s deadly nightshade and it got its name for a reason. I wonder what it’s doing here. It can’t have seeded by accident since the entire bed seems to be dedicated to it. How odd.’
‘Talking to yourself?’
Odile whipped her head round at the sound of Reuben’s deep voice. Willow wagged her tail but was wary of Chase, who was at Reuben’s heels, and fell to her belly in confusion, unsure if she should defend her new territory or remain subservient in the presence of her father. Chase trotted forward, sniffed at her and then transferred his attention to Odile, who welcomed the distraction while she struggled to gather her scattered wits.
How could the appearance of one man—albeit such an elegant and self-assured individual—have quite such an unsettling effect upon her? She was again obliged to remind herself that she had not previously had any male acquaintances, other than the man who delivered supplies to the school kitchen, who knew better than to speak out of turn to her. And since he was fifty if he was a day, with half his teeth missing, a stooped back and rancid breath, it wasn’t the same thing at all.
‘Oh, good morning. I did not know you were there.’
‘Mrs Blaine said I would find you here.’ He glanced at her uncovered herbs. ‘Precious discoveries?’
‘And further proof that the house was inhabited by apothecaries at one time. They grew deadly nightshade,’ she replied, pointing to the offending bed.
