“Er, yes,” Tysen said, and Mary Rose saw him blush. Then he shook himself. “No matter. I’m married now, and she will quickly accustom herself. She has probably long forgotten me and is searching out fresh quarry.”
Mr. Strapthorpe was monstrously fat, with gout and at least three chins. He admired Tysen not because he was a devoted town leader and an excellent vicar but because he was the brother of an earl, a very wealthy earl with a great deal of power. Mr. Strapthorpe was still in trade, although he’d removed himself physically far away from his factories in Manchester, and his new status as a wealthy man and the most important man in Glenclose-on-Rowan had made him look to Tysen as a possible son-in-law.
But he was philosophical, if nothing else, and greeted Mary Rose with gallantry while his pinched and meager wife poured tea and complained about the servants that one had to deal with in a small town.
Glenda Strapthorpe made a lovely entrance not three minutes later, her eyes on Tysen as she came into the overly warm drawing room, wearing so lovely a gown that Mary Rose felt suddenly like a dowd. Evidently Meggie agreed, because she moved closer.
As for Tysen, he rose to greet Glenda and said charmingly, “You are in fine looks, Miss Strapthorpe, as is my own lovely wife. When she has settled in, we shall begin entertaining.”
Glenda paid no heed to this or to the vicar’s new wife. She said, without preamble, “I need to show you something, Reverend Sherbrooke. In the conservatory. Mama, we will be back shortly.”
Her mother shot her a nervous look, nearly spilling the tea she’d just poured. Her father looked as if his gout suddenly pained him. Tysen knew Mr. Strapthorpe didn’t like this forwardness in his daughter, but Glenda ruled the house. Her parents were there to serve her, and everyone knew it.
Tysen smiled at Mary Rose and his daughter, and took Glenda’s arm. He said over his shoulder, “No sugar in my tea, Mrs. Strapthorpe. We will be back very quickly.”
Glenda Strapthorpe had no sooner closed the door to the conservatory—it was just a room so far as Tysen could ever tell—than she said in a wonderful, throbbing voice, right in his face, “How could you, sir?”
“How could I what, Miss Strapthorpe?”
“I wanted to marry you, sir, and instead you brought back that creature from Scotland! All you had to do was ask me. I would not have kept you dangling overly. I would have refurbished the vicarage, perhaps added to it, removed some of those worm-eaten old graves and built another wing that would cozy right up to the church so you could be closer to your flock. You would also have greatly appreciated my beauty. You should have already appreciated my beauty. It is remarkable. Just look at me, sir, then at her. There is no comparison.”
Tysen looked mildly interested. “No,” he said, “there is no comparison.”
“Yes, I waited and waited, but you didn’t ask me. What do you possibly see in her? Surely she has no dowry to bring to you. I am nineteen years old. She is old, nearly the age of my mother!”
Tysen decided in that instant that he hated conservatories. It was time to bring this monologue of hers to a close. “Forgive me for disappointing you, Miss Strapthorpe. Mary Rose hasn’t quite gained your mother’s years. Now, what did you wish my advice on?”
“Are you blind, sir? Are you an idiot? Without a brain or any sense at all? I just said that I wanted you, and you were beginning to appreciate me when you had to leave for Scotland. Now you are Lord Barthwick, and my father is more than pleased, and he wanted you for a son-in-law. And you had the gall to bring her back, that foreign creature with no style, no claim to beauty—”
Tysen said slowly, cleanly interrupting her, “Yes, Miss Strapthorpe, perhaps I have been a bit blind. The fact is, however, that I am now married. I was raised with the notion that a person of breeding was always civil, even in the face of disappointment, distress, or regret. If you have no need for advice, then let us return to the drawing room.”
He heard her angry breathing behind him as he opened the door and stepped back to let her pass in front of him.
“Be nice to Mary Rose,” he said, looking at her straight in her lovely eyes. “I would appreciate it very much. It would be the polite thing to do.”
She looked like she would rather gut trout.
“Well, we survived,” Meggie said, when, finally, a half hour later they were walking back toward the vicarage. “Well, Papa, did she try to seduce you in the conservatory?”
“No,” Tysen said. “Meggie, curse you, I don’t want you to know about that word and its meanings. ‘Seduce’ isn’t a good word for you. You’re only ten years old. Contrive to forget it.”
“Yes, Papa. What did she want with you?”
“She wanted to upbraid me,” he said. “She was angry that I brought back a wife when she saw herself as waiting to marry me.” He sighed.
“Oh, dear,” Mary Rose said. “There might be problems.”
“Nothing we can’t deal with,” Tysen said. “We have done our duty. You have met nearly everyone except for Mr. Thatcher, who spends a great deal of his time beneath his table, dead drunk. But he is always sober on Sundays, and you will meet him then, Mary Rose.”
It was strange how they responded to Tysen, she thought—both with wonder and, perhaps, with a bit of confusion. It didn’t make much sense to her. Then she realized that she’d been blind—what had concerned everyone was that most people simply didn’t know what to make of her, a foreigner dropped suddenly in their midst. They very likely wondered why he would marry her, of all the possible women available to him.
Mary Rose brooded about it, at least until dinner that evening.
25
Vivere, amare, discere
Living, loving, and learning
OVER A VERY fresh turtle soup at the dinner table, Tysen announced, “The weather is very warm. We’re going to visit Brighton. I asked Mr. Arden—”
“That’s Papa’s solicitor,” Meggie said to Mary Rose.
“Yes, and he immediately found us a house. I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain we could go. We will spend a week there. What do you think?”
His two boys stared at him. Leo said slowly, “Papa, you have never before taken us to Brighton. You have never taken us anywhere except to visit our uncles. You have always believed that doing nothing much of anything at all is a waste of time.”
Had he really believed that?
“We would love to go,” Max said, frowning a bit toward Mary Rose. “Perhaps having her here isn’t such a bad thing.”
“I agree with you, Max. She is nice to have here,” said his father, and thought briefly about kissing her behind her left ear, breathing in her scent, and maybe then sliding his mouth to her—well, no, that would be rushing things a bit. He realized his children were looking at him. He coughed behind his hand and tried to look blank.
“Oh, I see,” said Leo.
“Dolt,” said Meggie.
The regent wasn’t in residence at the Pavilion, and so Brighton was thin of the London society who dutifully followed the prince here during the summer months. It was late in September now, but the weather remained glorious—sunny and mild. They quickly settled into the small rented house on the Steyne.
Mary Rose saw the young man again on their fourth day. She had seen him before, quite a lot, really. She was sitting beneath an umbrella on the beach, watching Leo, Max, and Meggie playing in the sand.
Tysen had gone off to buy some tea cakes for them all when the young man cast a long shadow beside her. “ Excuse me, ma’am, for intruding on your solitude, but I heard from some friends of mine that you are from Scotland. My name is Bernard Sanderford.”
She remembered that Tysen had spoken to him, that she had seen him about a good half-dozen times now, and so she smiled and said easily, “Why, yes, I am Mary Rose Sherbrooke, sir.”
“Ah, yes, the lovely Mrs. Sherbrooke. Your husband is a vastly fortunate gentleman. One has but to look at you to know that.”
Mary Rose tho
ught immediately of Erickson MacPhail. She’d rather hoped that Erickson was one of a kind. Evidently not. She didn’t say anything, just watched Mr. Sanderford. He was as handsome as Erickson. Perhaps that was the key to a rotten character. She wasn’t the least bit afraid of him, not since she’d had a goodly bit of experience with Erickson.
Even when he came down on his haunches beside her, Mary Rose only looked at him, her face still. He was a bit too close, but she knew she could blight him easily if the need arose. It was odd that there was no one else on the beach, just the children, playing near the breaking waves.
He said, his eyes so intimate that she wanted to throw sand in his face, “Actually, your husband is very well occupied at this moment, ma’am. Does he perhaps bore you and thus you sent him away on an errand? I know you saw me, and so you sent him away. Ah, I have been watching you, and I saw how you looked at me. Perhaps you and I could get to know each other. Perhaps we could meet later?”
“Are you related by any chance to Erickson MacPhail, sir?”
“No, that is a foreign name, ma’am. Surely I would not be related to a foreigner. Now, perhaps—”
“Mama!”
It was Meggie, covered with wet sand, her hair in tangles around her face, and on her heels were Max and Leo, looking windblown, sunburned, and quite alarmed. Meggie planted herself in front of Mr. Sanderford, hands on her hips, and demanded, “Sir, who are you?”
“Meggie, love, this is Mr. Sanderford. He was just paying a bit of a visit.”
Max said, “Our mother doesn’t entertain gentlemen when our father isn’t available.”
“Surely,” Mr. Sanderford said, appalled, “you are not the mother to these children? You are far too young.”
“Mama is nearly thirty-five years old, sir,” Leo said. “She just looks young. She says that we keep her looking young. She’s very happy with Papa and with us. She tells us that all the time, don’t you, Mama?”
“At least twelve times a day,” Mary Rose said.
“I see,” Mr. Sanderford said slowly and rose. Even though he was young, his knees creaked a bit. He dusted off his knit britches, looked at each of the children, and said, “I never loved my mother as you do yours. You are fortunate to have her.”
“Yes, sir, we know,” Leo said, and waited there until Mr. Sanderford had left them. When he was sure the poacher was gone, he sped away to turn a series of cartwheels right down to the water’s edge.
Mary Rose laughed.
“He reminds me of Erickson MacPhail,” Meggie said thoughtfully as she watched him walk back up the beach to the path.
“Odd you should say that,” Mary Rose said. “You three were right here. How ever did you know that he wasn’t being a gentleman?”
“Pompous Max might be a blind looby,” Meggie said, eyeing her brother, “but he knows when a flash cove has the light of wickedness in his eyes.”
Mary Rose could have handled Mr. Sanderford, but she was pleased to her bones that the children had been so possessive of her. “Thank you all,” she said.
Then Tysen was back, his hands filled with cakes and tarts, apples and oranges. “Who was that man speaking to you?”
“Father,” Max said, “that was no gentleman. He was trying to flirt with Mary Rose.”
Tysen blinked at that. Slowly, he lowered himself to the blanket. “What happened?” he said to Mary Rose.
“He is very much like Erickson MacPhail,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I could have dealt with him, but Max, Leo, and Meggie came running to protect my virtue.”
Tysen wanted to bash the man’s face in. He was on his feet in an instant, his face red with outrage, but Mr. Sanderford was nowhere to be seen. Then he cursed under his breath. Meggie heard him and stared, her mouth dropping open.
“I’m sorry,” Tysen said. “I should not have said that.”
“Papa, we didn’t let him do anything at all,” Max said. “Here comes Leo. Just ask him. There is nothing to worry about.”
“Yes,” Mary Rose agreed as she picked up an apple. “Just a small drama. Now, Max, I do believe you have a nasty scratch on your foot. When we return home, you must let me put some ointment on it.”
“Num mihi dolebit hoc?” Max wanted to know.
“What does that mean?” Meggie asked.
“That means ‘It won’t hurt a bit,’” Mary Rose said. “Unless, of course, I want it to.”
“Abeo,” Max said, and ran toward the frothing waves.
“Abeo? What does that mean?” Meggie said, shading her eyes from the sunlight to watch Leo, who was now walking on his hands down the beach.
“He said he was leaving,” Mary Rose said, and laughed.
“Have I told you recently that I love to kiss your belly?”
Her heart was pounding, slow, powerful strokes, waiting, waiting, and she felt his warm breath on her skin, felt her muscles tighten, felt the need for him building, always building, and flowering, opening her, and she managed to say, “No, but I rather believed that you liked it. You seem to spend a goodly amount of time on my belly.”
“And elsewhere,” he said, lifting his head to smile at her. He nearly crossed his eyes when there was a sharp knock on their bedchamber door.
“Oh, dear,” said Mary Rose, her eyes nearly crossed in disappointment.
It was Leo, and he had a confession to make: he and Max had made a new friend, who, it turned out, was a wily gambler, and wicked, and both of them had lost their shoes in a wager.
Tysen didn’t want to know what the wager had been.
Their stay extended for another five days, until finally rain came crashing down upon Brighton, dark clouds and wind whipped up the water, and the temperature plummeted.
Then, because Samuel Pritchert had already prepared the congregation for at least another month of sermons to be written and delivered by himself, Tysen slapped him on the back and told him he was taking his family to visit their cousins.
Samuel Pritchert inquired in his emotionless voice, “How long do you plan to stay away this time, Reverend Sherbrooke?”
“Ah, that remains to be seen, Samuel. I can trust you to keep the spiritual ship on course.” And he laughed and rubbed his hands together. Samuel Pritchert looked over at Mary Rose and the boys, all of them looking tanned and bright-eyed from their extended visit to Brighton, and wondered what sort of a place this once very serious and upright vicarage would become.
They remained two weeks at Northcliffe Hall, and late one afternoon Mary Rose found herself walking in the Northcliffe gardens with the countess. “These are very private gardens,” Alex Sherbrooke said, then sighed. “I suppose, however, that the boys discovered them a very long time ago. The boys can always sniff out anything that perhaps even smacks of a bit of wickedness.” And so it was that Mary Rose saw the endless number of Greek statues, each copulating in one way or another, some so delightfully shocking that she blinked and nearly swallowed her tongue. “Goodness,” she said for the fifth time when she paused in front of a large stone man whose face was buried between the legs of a woman who looked to be in ecstasy. “That is Sophie’s favorite, I believe,” Alex said. “You know, I don’t believe Tysen ever spent any time at all in these gardens. Indeed, I know that he found them dreadful and altogether godless. Do you think he might enjoy them now?”
And Mary Rose, who was still staring, her eyes glazed as she thought of Tysen and her doing the very same things, said on a croak, “I plan to show him as soon as he returns with his lordship.”
“His name is Douglas. He will feel offended if you continue to be so formal.”
“But he looks like he should be treated with great formality,” Mary Rose said.
“Perhaps, sometimes,” Alex said.
“Your sons are the most beautiful boys I believe I have ever seen. Tysen had told me they were identical twins. But to me they aren’t at all alike.”
Alex Sherbrooke sighed. “Most people can’t tell them apart, and that leads to a lot of
mischief. As to their confounded beauty, it’s unfortunately true. It quite drives poor Douglas mad. You see, the boys are the image of their aunt Melissande, and she is the most beautiful woman in all of England. Douglas despairs for womankind when the boys reach manhood. On the other hand, Melissande’s son is the very image of Douglas. Perhaps you will meet my sister and her husband soon. Now, come along, Mary Rose, there are more very interesting, er, presentations for you to investigate.”
And Mary Rose was nothing loath.
That evening, just before dusk, Mary Rose led Tysen to her favorite statues, deep in the private gardens, and they didn’t emerge until a light rain began to fall at nearly eight o’clock.
Douglas Sherbrooke just shook his head, amazed, heart-ened, and very, very pleased.
The Sherbrookes then traveled to the Cotswolds and spent three weeks there. They took both James and Jason with them, who had pleaded on their knees to their earl father and their countess mother to let them see Uncle Ryder and all his children. All in all, it was an excellent performance, and it gained them what they wanted.
All the children stayed in Brandon House, not for the purpose of giving Tysen and Mary Rose privacy but because a house filled with nearly twenty children was bedlam, with an endless parade of fights, laughter, mischief, jests, some tears, and abundant amounts of food.
It was November now, and it should have been cold and dank and dreary, but it wasn’t. There were a few more warm, sunny days remaining before the fall weather made itself known. On those days Tysen enjoyed lying on his back, his head in Mary Rose’s lap, in the apple orchard. The afternoon sun was streaming down through the leaves, and it was warm, the light breeze carrying the smell of honeysuckle.
In the distance they could hear the voices of a good dozen children. But here, they were alone.
Tysen leaned over and kissed her belly. “Too much material between thee and me,” he said, and closed his eyes when he felt her fingers stroking slowly through his hair. He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can drape all your clothes over the apple tree branches?”