Seasonal Fruit from An Author’s Organic Garden
September 2, 2009 by rosemary2morrisMurder Most Foul – A Tale from Ancient India
May 15, 2009 by rosemary2morris
Murder Most Foul
When the sun retired on cool evenings, purple shadows crept across the fields and villagers sat in stout, mud-brick houses either gossiping or telling stories. The elders sat closest to slow burning fires of cow-dung cakes dried during summer’s ferocity, and whenever they mentioned King Chitraketu’s name, they praised him.
Yet the king found his life more barren than a desert because he had not received a son from any of his wives. Whether he resided in his capital city Mathura, in the Indian province of Surasena, or whether he travelled by horse, elephant, camel or chariot he lamented.
Whenever he saw a man with a son, he asked himself. Which sinful action in my present life or my past lives prevents me from having an heir?
He put this question to ambiguous brahmin priests who replied. “Do your subjects complain there is any lack in the kingdom. Aren’t there enough grains and pulses, vegetables and fruits, nuts and spices, herbs and cloth?
The king sighed, listening to rain drumming on roofs where people sunned themselves during spring’s pregnant promise or slept during summer’s ripening heat.
The priests assured their pious king there would be no lack. Even the grass Mother Bhumi produced for cows and oxen made dung to nourish her and provided fuel for cooking and warmth.
When his spies confirmed his subjects were contented, he again asked himself. Why don’t I have a son? In my kingdom even racketeers can’t find black market goods because my people lack nothing.
Despite his country’s and his personal prosperity, Chitraketu grew thin. To have a son, he would gladly renounce his education, his health and his treasury filled with chests of gold and precious stones
His golden skin paled, his long black hair lost its shine and his moustache drooped mournfully at the edges of his unsmiling mouth.
The more wives he accepted the more he suffered from anxiety and the less he ate. Brahmin cooks made his favourite preparations, wafer thin unleavened breads, fluffy rice, tit-bits of vegetables fried in chick pea flour batter served with spiced sauces or yoghurt, and rice simmered in condensed milk with honey and almonds. Obsessed by his desire to hear his son’s laughter within the marble walls of his palace, he only ate enough to keep himself alive.
He never gave up hope. He accepted wife after wife and provided each one with a soft bed to lie on, silk clothes, gold girdles, earrings, nose rings and bracelets. Each queen consort sported in water gardens, crops were harvested, and although the still autumn air over-heated the blood he never dived into swimming baths of clear water to splash, tease or play with his consorts.
Until the day when Sage Angira, master of mystic knowledge, visited Chitraketu, each queen, famous for her good qualities and beauty, witnessed his self-pity, heard his lamentations and prayed to become mother of the heir apparent.
The king bowed his head, pressed his palms together as though he was praying and gestured to his gold throne set on a dais. “Please sit there, Sage Angira.”
In silence, the courtiers watched the ascetic go up the short flight of steps and sit down.
Sage Angira’s skin rippled over a spine disdaining to lean against the cushion furnishing the back of the throne.
Everyone, including the king, knew how indifferent sages were to comfort. At night their arms, with which they pillowed their heads, satisfied them as much as pillows as soft as swansdown.
Sage Angira did not bend his head topped with lustrous, black hair partly arranged in a bun and partly falling to his waist, around which was tied his only garment, a pleated, ankle-length, saffron cloth. In silence the holy man scrutinised his host, who circled a slipper-shaped brass dish containing a lighted ghee wick before him.
Following the custom, Chitraketu worshipped God’s representative. To the accompaniment of a tinkling bell and chanted hymns he continued the ceremony by offering incense, flowers, clean cloth and water to the sage and concluded it by blowing a conch shell.
He then sat cross-legged on the floor and Sage Angira the yogi, the master of all five senses addressed him. “My dear king, words are insufficient for me to express my appreciation of your hospitality and humility.”
The king stared at the ground while waiting for his visitor to continue.
“Are you in good health? Is your mind troubled? I hope that just as the earth receives showers, Lord Krishna’s delegates, the demi-gods and goddesses, shower you with blessings. In other words, I hope there is neither anything lacking nor any problems in your kingdom.
Chitraketu knew the sage used conventional phrases while piercing the fleshy veil of the body with omniscient eyes.
“My dear king, are you in complete control of your mind? Are you in control of your family, the courtiers, provincial governors, merchants who, with your permission, deal in silks and wool, spices and jewels? Can you control tax collectors, farmers and labourers?
Feeling the weight of his jewel-embedded, gold crown Chitraketu bent his head, stared at the sage’s feet and listened attentively.
“Have you no reply to make? Has someone let you down or have you failed to achieve something? Your pale face reveals you are distraught.”
The king took a deep breath. “My dear sage, you are a great personality, who neither rejoices over happiness nor laments over distress because you understand each condition is temporary. Nevertheless, you understand someone like me who alternates between cheerfulness and misery.”
He broke off, then, with tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, he continued. “A traveller is dissatisfied when his host puts flower garlands round his neck and gives him fragrant sandalwood pulp to cool his body. He wants food and drink. A king is discontented without an heir. An heir to light his funeral pyre and save his ancestors from hell by offering them sweetly perfumed flowers and flower garlands.”
Instead of replying, Sage Angira first offered Lord Krishna, The Supreme Personality of God, sweet rice and then gave it to Kritayouti, King Chitraketu’s senior wife. After she ate it, he said. “My dear king, your queen will present you with a son who will cause laughter and tears.”
The royal parents assumed Sage Angira’s words meant their son would play childish pranks and sometimes be disobedient.
After the sage left, rain impregnated the earth, the seeds within her swelled and the queen received a son into her womb.
As the days of her pregnancy passed Chitraketu observed Kritadyouti progress from moon-sickle slenderness to harvest moon fullness.
On the evening of the prince’s birth, the queen looked out of the latticed windows at the night sky, admired spangled points of light dispersing velvet darkness and said. “My dear husband, I rejoice because our son’s spark of life vanquished your melancholy, which was as black as the sky during a lunar eclipse.”
As soon as Chitraketu announced the heir’s birth, the townsfolk rejoiced. In the palace the prince’s male relatives bathed and dressed themselves in silk tunics worn over trousers fitting tightly at the ankles. They adorned themselves with elaborately wound turbans, ropes of pearls, diamonds and other precious stones, gold belts, earrings and arm clasps. When they were satisfied with their appearance, the king, the uncles, great-uncles, first, second and third cousins and other relatives assembled before going to see the child.
After everyone admired the prince, a brahmin astrologer named him Harshasoka. Delighted, Chritraketu rewarded all his brahmin subjects with gifts of gold, land on which villages provided incomes, horses, elephants, mountains of grain and thousands of cows.
Every morning, as happy as a beggar finding a fortune, the king loved Harshasoka more than he did on the previous day and his love for Kritayouti increased until his interest in his other wives dwindled.
The queens observed their husband’s devotion to Kritayouti and yearning to receive children from him did not sleep well.
All of them hoped to regain the king’s attention. They wore the finest silk, satin and velvet clothes. Some accentuated their shapely figures with saris, others either wore long tunics over trousers gathered into cuffs at the ankle or figure hugging blouses and swirling skirts.
But the beautiful wives were not puppets to dance at the end of a string. They were well-educated women qualified to raise heroic sons and give their husband advice about the government of nations.
Immersed in her personal happiness, Kritayouti neglected her duty to her co-wives. She neither behaved as a mother or a loving elder sister and had no time for them. They felt like insignificant servants within their husband’s palaces. Frustrated, because they neither had sons nor felt protected by a husband qualified by his character to have many wives, they complained to each other.
“Oh! A woman with no son whose husband and senior wife ignore her should live in the forest instead of being humiliated by neglect,” exclaimed the blonde daughter of a northern prince.
“Our husband accepts the services of Kritayouti’s maidservants and thanks them politely but doesn’t speak a word to us,” stormed the raven-haired daughter of a desert prince.
Anger and envy burned in her charcoal black eyes and was reflected in the eyes and expressions of all the consorts.
*
Kritayouti wondered why Harshasoka slept for so long. She went to the nursery, bent over his intricately carved sandalwood cradle and decided to let him sleep for a little longer. An hour later, uneasy because Harshasoka still slept she commanded the nurse. “Bring the prince to me.”
The woman padded into the nursery, approached the cot, saw the pallor of Harshasoka’s face and screamed. “I’m cursed.”
The queen ran in and saw her dead son. But she did not suspect her rock-hearted co-queens of conspiring to poison the prince.
The murderesses entered the nursery, wailed louder than anyone else and made no attempt to comfort their husband or Kritayouti.
The fire of lamentation grew in Chitraketu’s heart, raged and consumed everything else. His hair was disordered and his tunic twisted. When he fainted the physician remarked. “His breath comes unevenly.”
In the presence of his ministers and priests, the king regained consciousness and repeatedly tried to speak.
Seeing her protector in such a condition Kritayouti sat next to him and wept. The flowers tucked into her hair fell to the ground and black eye make up smudged her face. Soaked by the waterfall of her tears red kum-kum powder decorating her breasts stained her thin silk blouse.
Kritayouti clutched a bar of the cradle. “Why has this happened to me? My husband never harmed anyone. Why did God take our son? I’ve never hurt anyone. I’m a virtuous woman, a merciful queen, and a kind mistress. Why did this happen to me?”
Forgetting the laws of karma applied to millions of her past lives, lives during which every good and bad action led to a favourable or unfavourable reaction in her present and future lives, she only saw and thought of her dead son.
Seeing Kritayouti shared his grief, Chitraketu moved closer to her. “Harshasoka, my son, my dear little prince, why have you gone away? Please don’t go with Yamaraja the demi-god who presides over death. Hear me and return to me.”
When he paused to wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic, his queen continued. “Dearest of children, your friends want you to play with them, wake up and let me feed you, you must be very hungry. I beg you to open your eyes and smile at me. Please speak to me.”
With open mouth Chitraketu sobbed and everyone in the court wept.
*
Sage Angira understood the king was drowning in a death-like ocean of lamentation and came to court with the sage of sages, Narada Muni.
When he saw the king lying on the floor as though he was dead he abandoned the formalities he employed on his previous visit. “My dear king, do you believe you and the dead body in the cot have anything to do with each other? Why do you and your queen think he is your son? Was he your son before he entered the queen’s womb? Is he your son now the body he lived in is dead? Do you have any relationship with the dead body you are mourning? Will it be your son tomorrow, next week, next year?”
His words shocked the king, the queen and the courtiers. They stopped weeping and remained silent.
Sage Angira continued. “Seaweed clumps together on the ocean’s surface, rising and falling until waves toss it apart forever. People meet during the waves of time and no matter how much they grieve they are separated by the laws of nature.”
King Chitraketu propped himself up on his left elbow and wiped his eyes with the back of his right hand. “Sage Angira, please save me. I’m a man more ignorant than a village dog scavenging for scraps. Please give me scraps of real knowledge.”
“Your majesty, material life is an illusion. It is a dream because it is temporary. When I last visited you, I could have spoken of spiritual matters, but you were preoccupied with thoughts of your unborn heir. So, I gave you a son and warned you he would cause happiness and distress.”
The king sat up, did not, could not look at the dead body while remembering he had not paid much attention to Sage Angira’s warning. He’d been happy on the child’s Naming Day and given no consideration to the literal translation of Harshasoka, jubilation and lamentation.
He crossed his legs, straightened his back, folded his palms together and thought. This lifeless body is my enemy. It causes me so much anguish.
Narada, an eternally handsome, celibate young sage, stood up. With compassion he first looked at the king then addressed the inert body in the cradle. “Dear soul, may you receive good fortune.
“Enter this inert body. See your parents, your relatives and friends who are in mourning.”
The queen consorts looked uneasily at each other. What would happen to them? Too frightened to whisper of their crime to each other the murderesses clustered together and stood with clasped hands and downcast eyes.
Narada continued. “Dear soul, you departed prematurely from your last body. Now permission is granted for you to return to it. In due course of time, you may inherit your father’s throne.”
Colour filled the infant’s cheek and the faint smell of decaying flesh dispersed. Harshasoka stretched, yawned and sat up. He regarded everyone and asked. “Who is my father? What kind of father is he? My soul has transmigrated to many bodies. Should I look for a plant, insect, fish, bird, animal, human or spirit father?”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti embraced the child.
“Ah!” said the soul through the vehicle of the body with which he no longer identified himself. “You think you are my parents. You don’t understand you’re swept along by the river of existence in which souls sometimes surface as kinsfolk, friends or enemies.”
Chitraketu and Kritayouti glanced at each other and accepted their son was dead to them although his indestructible soul would transmigrate to another body.
End
Tangled Hearts Chapter Three
February 10, 2009 by rosemary2morrisChapter Three
Richelda hurried along an overgrown woodland path, which meandered through Bellemont, her neglected estate, to a disused charcoal burner’s hut where Dudley Wynwood waited for her.
‘Thank God you are safe. Now, tell me what Lord Greaves said,’ Dudley called when she drew near him.
Her mouth quivered. ‘I made a sorry mull of my business. I presented the petition to the wrong person.’
Dudley glared at her. ‘I wish you had taken my advice when I asked you not act like a madcap.’
For a moment, she feared Dudley’s bad temper and tried to placate him. ‘I beg you not to scold me. You know my reasons. Now, I must change before he reaches the manor.’
‘Who is going to Bellemont?’
‘The man I mistook for the tax collector. He took me up in his coach. After I handed him the petition and stated my case, he said he is not Lord Greaves. Dudley, what am I to do?’
‘If you are beggared, apply to your relatives. I doubt they would be willing to suffer the shame of one of their relations being forced by circumstance to live in the poor house.’
Richelda stared at Dudley, whom she had expected to marry since they first shared the schoolroom at his father’s vicarage. She looked at his curly, dark brown hair, expressive green eyes and oval face. Two years her senior, in her eyes he resembled a handsome angel with his regular features and slender, well-formed frame, a little above average height.
The corners of Dudley’s mouth turned down. ‘I should have made more effort to stop your foolery.’ He glanced at her censoriously. ‘I will escort you back to Bellemont.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned towards a path over which brambles crept. ‘I apologize, Dudley.’
‘What for?’
‘For failing you. If I cannot make Bellemont productive, you must make your way in the world before we marry.’
‘Marry?’
His sudden pallor amazed her. ‘What is wrong? Why do you look-look –’
‘Surely you do not think I will marry you?’
‘Dudley, what do you mean? Did we not plan to wed? Now I am eighteen I thought you…’
‘Forget your childish prattle about our marriage.’
Wounded to the core, she stood still and squared her shoulders. ‘Foolish? I have loved you for as long as I can remember.’
Dudley opened the lichen-stained wooden gate. They entered the weed-infested drive, on either side of which only the hardiest of the untended ornamental plants survived.
Back straight, head held high, Richelda strode past parallel orchards towards Bellemont House. Embarrassed because she declared her love, she battled against the urge to weep.
‘Richelda, sentimentality has naught to do with marriage. I intend to court our school friend, Kitty.’
Shocked, she staggered. ‘Y-you want to marry Kitty Carlton?’
After a moment or two, Dudley replied in an unnaturally high tone, his fingers biting into her arm. ‘Yes, I must make my way in the world and beggars cannot be choosers.’
She pulled away from him. ‘If I was still an heiress I am sure you would marry me’
Dudley’s expression remained indifferent. ‘You are not an heiress and you dress like a rumpscuttle.’
How merciless of him to say that. Yet he was wrong. Poor quality clothes did not make her a hoyden. And Dudley knew she was not to blame for her poverty. If Father had not followed James II and if – oh, useless to blame her father. Impossible to alter the past! She hurried past the herb gardens and skirted a huge ornamental urn.
The cost of her father’s honor had been hard to bear. After Father went to France, Lord Greaves wanted to purchase Bellemont and lodged false charges of spying for the exiled king against her mother. Thanks to providence, Jack’s mother, the late Duchess of Hertfordshire, helped to prove Mother’s innocence.
Dudley drew her attention to the present. ‘My love, I do you no disservice by stating the truth. Lord knows everyone pities your penniless state.’
My love! Dudley called her his love. Did he love her or were the words meaningless? Her eyes widened. Perhaps he had sacrificed his love for her in the mistaken belief that their marriage would be folly? She suppressed a sigh. Whatever his reasons, she did not want Dudley’s pity. In fact, she did not want anyone’s pity.
Pride prompted her to address him formally. ‘Master Wynwood, as you pointed out, children say many foolish things. For now, I wish you well and am glad your father paid your debts and rescued you from debtor’s prison.’
They halted outside the mediaeval front door. Dudley’s angelic cheeks reddened. His exquisitely shaped mouth tightened. ‘There is no need to mention the gambling debts I incurred at Oxford,’ he snapped.
‘May I remind you some of us are unfortunate? We rely on our wits to aid us. I lied when I said I love you. I merely sought the protection of marriage.’ She bent her knee like a court lady who curtsied to one of equal birth. ‘Good day to you.’
Inside, Richelda rested her head against the wall in the dingy hall. If only Dudley’s love matched her own, he would marry her. She trembled, tears pouring down her cheeks. She fumbled for her ragged kerchief, blew her nose and sank to the floor. Elsie’s voice shattered the silence of the house and filtered through her misery. The sound drew closer until Elsie stood in front of her.
‘Where did you go, child? Lord, I have such news for you.’
To hide her tears, Richelda covered her face with her hands and put her head on her knees.
‘Do get up, Mistress.’
Richelda wiped her face but did not stand.
‘How many times have I told you not to roam alone?’ Elsie asked. ‘Why are you crying? Why didn’t you take your dog with you? Puck’s howled all morning.’ Elsie crouched down to put her arms round Richelda’s shoulders. ‘D-did someone assault you?’
‘No one assaulted me and to answer your question, Master Wynwood dislikes Puck so I did not take him with me.’
‘Haven’t I warned you over and over again about the young gentleman’s true nature?’
‘Despite your opinion of Dudley, I think well of him, Elsie. Indeed, today he waited to raise the alarm if harm came to me while I met Lord Greaves at the inn.’
‘What!’
‘By mistake, I approached another man who put up there.’ She sighed. ‘On the way home I told Master Wynwood…’
‘Master Wynwood? He’s always been Dudley to you.’
Richelda hung her head. ‘Now I am no longer a child, it is not fitting for me to use his Christian name.’
Elsie stood. She narrowed her eyes.
Richelda looked down at the floor. ‘I made a fool of myself. I thought Master Wynwood wanted to marry me. He does not. He wants to marry Kitty for her fortune.’
‘Oh, Mistress, don’t break your heart over a man who…’
Richelda put her hands over her ears. ‘Yet again, do not repeat spiteful gossip about him.’
‘Some of the rumors about Master Wynwood might be exaggerated. Those about his insolence, excessive drinking and gambling are not,’ Elise persisted.
‘They are lies.’ Richelda did not believe the worst about Dudley. Anger boiled inside her.
The sour taste of bile rose to the back of her throat. ‘Elsie, for his sake I wanted to make Bellemont profitable. Now, I am tired of struggling. I will sell all but a snug cottage and a few acres of land for my own use to live in to Jack.’
‘Sell Bellemont to His Grace!’ Elsie shifted her bulk from one foot to the other and twined her work-roughened fingers together. ‘Lord above, my wits have gone begging? I’ve forgotten to say a visitor awaits you.’
Richelda wiped her face on her coarse apron. ‘Visitor?’ She forced herself to her feet.
‘Yes, a fine gentleman, Viscount Chesney by name, is waiting for you in the parlor.’
Heavens above, the gentleman must be the man whose identity she mistook for Lord Greaves.
A long male shadow fell across the dark oak floor before the parlor door closed. She caught her breath. Either Elsie left the door ajar by mistake or her uninvited guest had opened it and eavesdropped.
After washing and changing, Richelda went down the broad flight of oak stairs, looked at Elsie and raised her eyebrows.
Elsie nodded her approval and pointed at the parlor door. ‘He’s still in there. I’ll fetch some elderflower wine.’
‘No, come with me…’ she began, but Elsie, with speed surprising in one of her size, bustled into a passage that led to the kitchen.
He will not recognize me, Richelda reassured herself again. She mimicked her late mother’s graceful walk, entered the room and coughed to attract attention.
The gentleman turned away from the window and gazed at her intently. ‘Mistress Shaw?’
Richelda curtsied and wished she also wore exquisitely cut black velvet and silk instead of the threadbare gown fashioned from one of her mother’s old ones. He bowed and extended a perfectly manicured hand.
Ashamed of her rough hands, she permitted him to draw her to her feet. ‘You have the advantage of knowing my name.’ She looked into gray eyes reminiscent of still water on an overcast day.
‘Lord Chesney at your service, Mistress.’
‘I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lord. Please take a seat.’
He laughed. ‘Mistress Shaw, although I did not introduce myself to you earlier, I hoped you would say that you are pleased to renew your acquaintance with me.’
She tilted her chin. ‘You mistake me for someone else, my lord.’
‘I do not. Your eyes and voice are unforgettable.’
‘What can you mean?’
‘Why are you pretending to misunderstand me,’ he drawled. ‘Shall we sit? No, do not look at me so distrustfully. I did not seize the opportunity to manhandle you earlier today and promise you that there is no need to fear me either now or in the future.’
Somewhat nervous in spite of his assurance, Richelda sat opposite him. While she regained her composure, she arranged her skirts and put her feet side by side on a footstool.
‘Confess and I will not tell your aunt.’
‘My aunt?’
‘Yes, at her insistence I am here to make your acquaintance.’
Her mother’s family shunned her. They feared the taint of her late father’s politics. The viscount must have referred to father’s only close relative, his sister Lady Ware.
‘Aunt Isobel?’ she queried suspicious because she knew her mother, born into a family with slightly puritanical inclinations, despised Aunt Isobel’s frivolity.
He nodded.
‘But my aunt…’
Burdened by a tray, Elsie entered the room and served them elderflower wine, before she sought Richelda’s permission to withdraw.
Chesney eyed his glass of wine with obvious mistrust. ‘Why did you sigh, Mistress Shaw?’
Richelda refrained from explaining she longed to eat something other than the daily fare of coarse bread and boiled puddings. In spite of the flavor of herbs, mixed with vegetables and served with or without game birds or rabbits, which Elsie sometimes snared, she longed for a change of diet.
Bowstring taut, Richelda drank some of the pale wine. She looked at the viscount, whose posture depicted a man at ease. ‘Please taste the wine, my lord, although you might not be accustomed to home brewed beverages, I think you will enjoy the flavor.’
He sipped some. ‘An excellent tribute to the housewife’s skill. Now, tell me, child, how long have you lived alone with Elsie?’
‘Since Mother died nearly a year ago.’ The pain of her mother’s death always made her mouth tremble when she spoke of her.
‘Why did you remain here?’
‘I hoped to improve the estate. Oh, I know everything has deteriorated, but if I could …’
He concluded her sentence. ‘transport oak to the shipyards?’
She widened her eyes. ‘Thank you for your excellent advice, my lord, I daresay you noticed my valuable stands of oak when you approached Bellemont?’
Although he chuckled, his eyes remained serious. ‘Never forget I do not allow anyone to play me for a fool, not even a rumpscuttle of an actress as pretty and worthy of note as you are.’
Outraged by being called a rumpscuttle for the second time that day, she stood. ‘Please leave.’
Chesney rose and approached her. The muscles across the breadth of his shoulders rippled beneath his coat, a testament to his tailor’s skill. When he put a hand on either side of her waist, she trembled. His lordship was tall, taller than Dudley. Her head only reached his throat. She looked up at Chesney and trembled again when his breath warmed her forehead.
‘Child, if my lightest touch frightens you, imagine the effect of Lord Greaves’ greedy hands on your person. I took this liberty to warn you not to endanger yourself. Who knows what harm might have befallen you in Lord Greaves’ company? He is known for his dishonor.’
His proximity unnerved her but as though a spell had been cast over her she remained still. ‘Are you known for your honor?’
‘Though I had the opportunity, I did not assault you and will never do so.’
His eyes darkened and a curious light flickered in them. ‘Although I cannot resist the temptation to tease you, do not be frightened of me.’
‘I am not afraid of you.’
He chuckled. ‘A good start.’
‘You are impertinent to hold me close.’
‘Does Master Wynwood hold you closer?’
Oh, he had overheard her discussion of Dudley with Elsie. Her cheeks burned. ‘Dudley does not-I mean you cannot know much about Master Wynwood.’
‘Perchance he is a fool and you are a country innocent. The question is, do I prefer nature to powder and patch?’
Surely he did not prefer her to sophisticated ladies? ‘Please do not address me as a child. I cared for my mother after she became ill when I was fourteen.’
‘My apologies, I did not mean to offend you. Poor Mistress Shaw, I will not call you a child again.’
Richelda twisted free of him and forced herself to breathe slowly. She resented any man’s pity. After she sold Bellemont, she would dress so elegantly that no one would ever taunt her in the future.
She curtsied. ‘Good day to you, my lord. I doubt there is more for us say to each other.’
‘Your performance is suited to the playhouse where the actors – like courtiers – deceive. But believe me, if Master Wynwood cannot separate gold from dross, he is unworthy of you.’
‘You have not the right to insult him.’
He applauded. ‘Let no secrets lie between us, Mistress Shaw. I overheard you when you confided in your servant.’ His expression hardened and his eyes glittered like ice. ‘No gentleman worthy of his name allows a slip of a girl to endanger herself. Instead of playing the coward’s part, he would be prepared to lay down his life to prevent her accosting a man of Lord Greaves’ ilk.’
Her temper rose. Yet she wanted to be a lady of her mother’s fine caliber and refrained from childishly stamping her feet and raging: Dudley is not a coward. ‘My lord, you are an eavesdropper and in spite of your fine clothes you are not a gentleman.’
‘Mistress Shaw,’ he said, his tone icy.
Ashamed of questioning his breeding, she apologised. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord.’
‘We will not refer to the question of my honor again.’ He smoothed his coat sleeve ostentatiously. ‘Alas, I am ashamed, for I hoped to impress you.’
Richelda ignored his comment. She peeped at him through her lashes. Ready laughter lurked in the depths of his eyes. Her lips twitched. The wretch did not look contrite. Did he know the meaning of shame? Did he have even the smallest understanding of the miseries of loneliness and poverty?
‘How rude you were to listen to a private conversation, my lord.’
‘Do not be angry, Mistress Shaw. I said I would help you and I will. Allow me to express my sincere admiration of you.’
Did he mock her? In spite of her harsh words, she thought him fine, very fine.
He raised her hand to his lips and warmed her skin with a kiss. Unfamiliar tingles ran up her arm and down her back. ‘I must leave.’ His tone caressed her. ‘My horses have waited long enough. I do not doubt we will meet again.’
He bowed and departed too quickly for her to ask.
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