Authors: Kieran Kramer
He’d climbed in haylofts all over the world, he said, as far away as the Orient and Mexico. So once they were done with that required bit of travel up a sturdy oak ladder and back down again, they wandered to the lake, where Pippa enjoyed exploring the folly.
“It’s lovely,” she said, stretching out on one wall on her back, her hands folded under her head.
Mr. Dawson didn’t linger there. He went down to the lake where he picked up some smooth skipping stones.
Pippa basked in the warm sunshine, finding herself on the precipice of a lovely nap. As she was falling into that comforting state—she was still truly exhausted from both the daytime and nighttime adventures of the previous day—she heard her companion call to her. Sitting up, she shook herself back to alertness, clambered to her feet, and followed him to the water’s edge.
“So,” he said, flinging a rock across the water’s smooth surface, “what’s going on with you and Lord Westdale, Harrow?”
Pippa’s heart nearly burst from her chest. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Dawson turned to look at her full on. “Come, now. The faces you made at him in the breakfast room made it very clear to me that something peculiar is brewing.”
“Faces?” she said weakly.
“Yes. Awful faces.”
Pippa sighed. “Sometimes I hate him.”
“And?” Mr. Dawson threw another rock.
“Sometimes … oh, Mr. Dawson, may I speak truthfully? Will you reveal my secret if I share it with you?”
He chuckled and went to sit on a log. “Come here.” He patted it.
She sat down and wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t. She thought of how if she could only get to Paris, Monsieur would help her find true happiness.
True happiness was not relying on anyone else but only on her own skill with almond paste and nougat, marzipan and spun sugar.
“The only secret of yours I’d ever tell is if you were plotting to kill someone,” Mr. Dawson said. “And even then, there are a few people I’d allow you to murder quite ruthlessly.”
“Mr. Dawson.”
“It’s true,” he said. “The Thurstons’ butler, for one. He sets a nasty tone in the house. But somehow, I don’t think you’re an assassin.” He shot her a wry look. “Although this morning, you appeared as if you wanted to kill Lord Westdale.”
She laughed. “I did, didn’t I?” Her laugh trailed off, and there was an awkward silence. At least it felt awkward to her. Mr. Dawson looked perfectly at ease.
“Why?” he asked.
She bit her lip. The question was framed so simply, and it was such a complex answer! Where to begin? She scratched her nose. Then turned sideways on the log to look directly at him. “Mr. Dawson, I’m a woman,” she said in her normal voice.
“I know,” he replied.
She gasped. “Are you serious?”
He nodded complacently. “Everyone will guess by week’s end, I’m sure. Twice now you’ve spoken in a woman’s voice. The first time was in the carriage when Marbury was asleep and I was drifting off.” He inclined his head toward her. “You spoke to Lord Westdale as you normally would, then remembered your disguise and stopped yourself. You had a refined accent, I noticed.”
“Oh, dear.” She gazed out over the glassy water. “My name is Lady Pippa Harrington. My late father was the fifth Earl of Claxton.”
“Ah. I believe your mother’s an actress? She used to be a fairly well-known one.”
Pippa blushed fiercely. “Yes.”
He smiled fondly at her. “And the other time you gave yourself away was when we were looking at the geese.” She loved that he didn’t seem to care about her parentage on either side. “You were obviously excited, and—”
“I forgot. I forgot my disguise for a moment because I love geese.”
“And the way you climbed into the hayloft? My dear, you were so dainty, it was almost laughable.”
Pippa frowned. “You mean you really haven’t been in haylofts all over the world? We climbed that ladder so you could test me?”
“No.” Mr. Dawson laughed. “It’s still true that I’m the Hayloft King. And I wasn’t testing you at that point. I already knew.” He patted her hand.
“I take great comfort in knowing that we’re still friends,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Do you think—do you think anyone else knows?”
“I doubt it. No one has spent as much time with you as I have. Except Marbury. He’s come close.”
“Oh, God, I’d hate for him to find out.”
Mr. Dawson stood and pulled her up. “I think he will, my dear. Your days here as a valet are numbered. Any moment now, one of the footmen is going to pummel you for being so cheeky. Boldness in a valet isn’t approved of belowstairs.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to do. I was already thinking I’d like to leave.” And she told him everything, all about her history with Gregory and Uncle Bertie’s birthday, and of that horrible day in the garden at Eliza’s house. And she told him how she hated Lady Damara, even though she had no right to and would probably go to hell for it. She also explained exactly why she’d refused to go home to Plumtree and how sugar sculpting was everything to her, apart from the moor and home.
“You’re not going to hell,” Mr. Dawson said. “And you
will
get to Paris. By hook or by crook.”
“Did you really just say that?” she whispered. “It’s one of my favorite phrases.”
“Yes,” he said, “I did.
I’ll
go with you to Paris—and I’ll stay long enough to establish you there—”
“Even six months?”
“Yes, I have a sister who makes her home there—”
“You
do
?”
“She married a French shopkeeper, and they live in a lovely home in a charming part of Paris.” He reached over and turned her chin toward him, gazing at her with a serious expression. “But we can’t have you dressed as a valet. You’re going to meet Monsieur as a woman. And if he’s a true artist, then he’ll recognize the artistry in your own soul and want to help.”
“Do you think so?” Her heart was nearly bursting with hope.
“Yes. We’ll even hire a maid to take with us so you’re properly chaperoned.”
She hugged him. “Oh, thank you, you dear man.”
“No need to thank me,” he said, pulling her arms off.
“Oh, yes there is,” she insisted.
“Remember that beneath my mild exterior, I’m drawn to trouble. But I’m an even bigger admirer of honesty. So there are two caveats,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“You’ll have to tell your family what you’re doing. We’ll see them before we go.”
Gregory had said much the same thing. She felt a twinge of regret that she wouldn’t be pleasing him with her plan, but going with Mr. Dawson and a chaperone—well, she couldn’t ask for more than that.
“I’d like to go to Plumtree first.” Her heart felt instantly lighter. “They think I’ve run off to marry Gregory … and it’s going to be a very sticky situation when they find out I didn’t.”
“If you go with me, you’ll avoid that angst entirely. I would assure them of your safety.”
She smiled. “That relieves my mind. What’s the other caveat?”
“You have to tell Lord Westdale you love him before we go.”
“What?” A cold pit formed in Pippa’s stomach. “Confess that I love Gregory?” She was shaken to the core at Mr. Dawson’s challenge.
“It’s obvious to me that you do,” he said.
“Certainly, I do.” She sank onto the log, her hands trembling. “And I always have.” It was a fact, like the changing of the seasons. “But I’m not a glutton for punishment. I told you what happened in the garden at Eliza’s when he deduced that I cared for him. He stormed off.”
“And he might do it again,” Mr. Dawson replied kindly. “But I won’t be party to your scheme unless he’s heard the words from your own mouth. If you want to go so badly to Paris—with me to ease the way—you’ll tell him.”
Pippa stared at her friend. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“You can always go on your own.”
She could, and she’d planned to. She’d been prepared to dress as a man every day and spend much of her time as a companion to Uncle Bertie’s friend. But to be able to go with Mr. Dawson would make getting to Paris and staying there easier, less intimidating, and without a doubt much more fun.
Tell Gregory the painful truth—which could be over in thirty seconds—and have an ally in Paris for as long as half a year?
Or keep her pride intact and go it alone in the City of Love?
“I’ll have to think about it,” Pippa confessed. “I appreciate the offer, but you’re asking for something I’m not sure I can deliver.”
“I’m aware of that,” Mr. Dawson said.
She kissed his cheek before reverting to her valet self—which meant she kept a respectful distance from him for appearances’ sake—and they walked back to the house in companionable silence.
* * *
Gregory marched to the stables, said hello to Oscar, who was enjoying some rest and solitude, and asked Lord Thurston’s stable hand for the most difficult stallion. His name was Prince, and he was a piebald.
“He’s gorgeous,” Gregory said, and fell in love with him on the spot when the great animal nudged Gregory’s shoulder with its nose—hard, as if he were testing his mettle.
“The master seldom rides him,” said the stable hand, who was a brawny lad about Peter’s age. “I keep him exercised.”
“You do an excellent job of it,” Gregory said, and felt a twinge of homesickness for Peter, who loved loitering at Tattersall’s.
Prince’s skin rippled with muscles, and his coat had a healthy shine to it. His eyes were clear and alert.
When Gregory mounted the stallion and cantered up the long, winding drive, his spirits lifted. Nothing was as bad as all that when you were on the back of a fine horse. It was easier to remember his purpose: to keep Pippa safe and get her situated happily. That was the great challenge. All the rest—winning the commission for the dog cottage, avoiding Lady Damara, and returning to his busy social life in London—were secondary concerns.
He galloped Prince over several fields and across a stream and past a lone farmhouse, where the overseer lived. At a small road, Gregory turned left and found himself passing a row of cottages, all of them neat and clean.
He slowed Prince to let a gaggle of young girls cross in front of them, five in all. Each of them carried a bunch of weeds mixed with flowers.
“Look!” cried the tallest of them. “It’s Lord Thurston’s finest steed, Prince!”
The girls gathered about with toothy grins and excited chatter. Gregory gave them permission to pat Prince’s nose and stroke his mane. The stallion was well under his control and obviously enjoyed the extra attention, judging from the way he nudged the girls’ shoulders if they stopped petting him for even an instant.
At a nearby doorway, a mother with a baby on her hip waved in greeting. “Come in and visit,” she called to him. “Have a cup of tea and a slice of my new bread and jam with my husband. He’s on his break at the moment.”
So Gregory turned Prince around and tied him to a tree. Two boys ran over and begged to look after him. Their exuberant hoots when he tossed them each a copper coin made him chuckle.
Happy children. They were a tonic. Someday, in the far distant future, he’d like to have his own.
For the next thirty minutes, he enjoyed the company of the farming couple, who were all that was good and generous. Their home was spotless and cheery, although he noticed that the chimney smoked, and the front door hung by its hinges. He’d have to mention those very real problems to Lord Thurston.
The overseer should be more closely looking after these people, he thought as he shook the farmer’s hand and tickled the baby’s pudgy toes.
“Send our best to Lord and Lady Thurston,” the wife said, and placed a small pot of gooseberry jam wrapped in muslin and tied with twine in his hands. Still on his mother’s hip, the baby reached out to grab it, and Gregory let the infant slap his tiny fingers on the muslin top. “This is for their breakfast,” the mother added proudly, “and yours. I hope you enjoy it.”
“I already know how delicious it is.” He raised her roughened knuckles to his lips. “Thank you.”
His heart was touched by the pure and simple pleasures he’d experienced during the unplanned visit. Outside, he said good-bye to the children, put the jam in a satchel behind the saddle, and swung himself onto the piebald’s back.
When he reached the overseer’s house, he’d already made his decision: He was withdrawing his sketches for the dog cottage from the competition. Certainly, the Irish wolfhounds were a grand pack of animals, but it was too frivolous a commission. He wouldn’t be proud of it. There were people on Lord Thurston’s estate living in far less luxury than those dogs would be, and he just couldn’t see himself signing his name to the project.
John Nash would have to be introduced to him another way—which was like asking for the moon. Because for that to happen, Gregory would have to produce an astounding design.
And he didn’t know that he had it in him.
But for now it was enough that he was saying no to the dog cottage. Let someone else design the canine spa.
He couldn’t wait to tell Pippa.
When he dismounted at Lord Thurston’s stables, he saw that another carriage had arrived, and two new horses were being seen to by the stable hand—a pair of matched grays. He conversed with ever-loyal Oscar and the young man who’d helped him earlier. Each of them remarked on the grays’ spirit and beauty.
Gregory then told Oscar and Lord Thurston’s man that he’d enjoy watering and brushing Prince down himself, that neither of them needed to take on the job. He felt at ease in the stable, and for the first time, was truly glad to be at the house party.
In less than twenty-four hours, so much had happened. So much had changed.
Running the curry brush in small but vigorous circles over Prince’s coat, he was admiring the magnificent musculature and sheer strength of the animal when a thought sprang to mind:
You want Pippa to be proud of you
.
Well, so what if he did? He craved his parents’ approval, too, and he enjoyed the admiration of his brothers and sisters and Bertie. Was it such a crime that he’d want Pippa to be proud of him, as well? She was Bertie’s great-niece. It made sense.