The Heart's Companion

Jane Grantley scanned the blackberry hedge. It was early in the season, though many branches near the top of the verdant growth already sported large, deeply colored berries. Not enough, perhaps, for jam making, but far too many to leave to the birds alone. Blackberries with cream would make a nice treat for the children’s tea, and the idea of picking the ripe fruit reminded Jane of her happy childhood. It was funny how life took so many odd twists and turns, quite in the manner of the maze at Hampton Court.

It was eight years since she’d been without a care and had the freedom to pick berries. Not since her mother died shortly after Mary’s wedding. Afterward, it took a long time to pick up the pieces of her life, to sail ahead, ready to meet new experiences with assurance. Luckily, or unluckily, the semblance of confidence was easily donned until, with time, the true article came to cloak her.

Jane sorely missed her mother when she’d had her come out. Perhaps if she’d been alive, Jane’s life would have run differently. She doubted she’d be worrying Lady Elsbeth with fears of spinsterhood. Unfortunately, without her mother’s calm good sense and guidance, it took her a painfully long time to learn to believe in herself. At least those days were long past and she could once again enjoy life.

Jane glanced down at the empty basket she’d set by her feet, then glanced up toward the sun, screening her eyes with a slender hand as she evaluated that fiery orb’s position in the sky. She hadn’t tarried long at the parsonage. Mrs. Chitterdean was too distracted for stimulating conversation, her thoughts on the sick housemaid and her husband’s susceptibility to infection. She’d thanked Jane effusively for the herbs and questioned her closely on their proper usage, then her mind seemed to drift away toward the tiny upstairs room the maid occupied. After hearing a protracted fit of hacking coughs from above stairs, Jane gracefully took her leave, promising Mrs. Chitterdean that Lady Elsbeth would brew more of the decoction should it prove necessary.

She judged that it still wanted the hour of noon, and she would not be expected back at Penwick Park for some time yet. It would be no great matter to delay her return in favor of harvesting some of summer’s early bounty. She picked up her basket and studied the ground leading to the ripe berries. She would have to step carefully, but she decided the goal was worth the effort. Smiling in delight at her enterprise, she stepped through the tall grasses and wildflowers and began filling the basket with berries. Not far away a lark sang, accompanied by a gentle breeze soughing through the trees and bees buzzing as they moved from flower to flower in the fields and on the tiny white blossoms remaining on the hedge.

Jane realized she was filled with a serenity she’d not felt in years. She found she could even look on her aunt’s and cousin’s proposed visit with a modicum of amused equanimity. That knowledge surprised her, for the last house party she’d attended with them had been an unmitigated disaster. Though, she reflected, it had proved educational, even if it had cost her a prospective groom. Months afterward she considered it a turning point in her life.

She paused, remembering those mercurial days. How she admired and liked David Hedgeworth! She wove such schoolgirl dreams about him. He embodied for her the ideal gentleman: refined, considerate of others, gentle, organized, and intelligent. Those were the attributes she saw and most admired. What she failed to consider was his wealth. But who would blame her, as plump-in-the-pockets as she was herself? She failed to understand how desperately people sought gold’s glitter.

Jane sighed. Thanks to her aunt and cousin, she’d been well educated, and it was the Honorable Miss Millicent Tipton, rather than Miss Jane Grantley, who married David Hedgeworth. She shook her head dolefully, trying to dispel the old memories. Mr. Hedgeworth was dead now. Perhaps it was time to heal the breach with her mother’s sister. Lady Serena Tipton was no lady, but she was family, so perhaps that should count for something.

Jane smiled mischievously, her eyes sparkling. Three years ago she’d proved an apt pupil, and now she had plans to make. Elsbeth was correct, she thought with a hint of smug satisfaction. This game would be hers. Impulsively she leaned farther into the hedge, stretching to gather the plumpest and ripest berries from the top.

She popped a fat, sun-warmed berry into her mouth, then reached up to gather more fruit. A stinging sensation on her arm halted her. Looking down, she discovered blackberry briars clinging to the sleeve of her dress. She pursed her lips at her own carelessness and twisted slightly so her other hand could free the delicate fabric and save it from harm. Her turning tugged and raised her skirts. She glanced down at the blue and red patterned muslin dress and bit back a cry of dismay. With chagrin she realized what her impetuous foray to reach the topmost berries had accomplished. She was caught in brambles and every move she made caused thorns to sink deeper into the fine muslin fabric. Freeing herself would be a slow, laborious process else the dress would be reduced to tatters.

Muttering and calling herself every kind of fool, she carefully set the basket of berries down and began to work free her captured sleeve.

"Madam. I am aware the philosopher Montaigne wrote that the path of true virtue demands a rough and thorny road; nonetheless, I do not believe one need take the man’s words quite so literally."

Jane started and looked toward the owner of the deep, sardonic drawl. She found herself staring up at a gentleman dressed in the first style of fashion seated casually astride a large bay horse. Her cheeks stained a deep pink. Several thoughts sailed through her beleaguered brain: first was amazement that she had not heard the animal approach; second that she should be found in so embarrassing a plight; and all the rest centered on the unknown gentleman and the sudden riotous trembling in her limbs. The last so dismayed her that she abruptly drew cold dignity about her like a cloak and disciplined her wayward nerves. Only a faint tinge of high color remained in her cheeks when she finally met his amused gaze and raised one black brow in arrogant inquiry.

"Tall, graceful, black hair, blood-freezing glare...." the man murmured. "Ah! I have it now, you’re the Ice Witch!"

He swung easily out of the saddle, missing the brief spasm of pain that twisted Jane’s features. He led his horse over to a sapling, tying the reins to its sturdy trunk. By the time he turned to face Jane, she had marshaled her emotions and her face once again held the cool, expressionless mask.

"I take it I have the dubious honor of addressing the Earl of Royce?"

"Miss Grantley, you disappoint me. I would have thought you would have returned like for like."

Jane repressed a smile. "By that I gather I should have addressed you as the Devil’s Disciple?"

"Since we have not been formally introduced, the use of informal names seems fitting, does it not?"

His gaze held hers, his eyes so dark they reminded her of night and the wild creatures that roamed in its sheltering darkness. She had never seen the man before, but she felt she would have known him even if she hadn’t been forewarned of his presence in the neighborhood.

He was not a handsome man. His face was tautly lean with high cheekbones and a fierce blade of a nose. Lines of world weariness bracketed those haunting midnight eyes as well as his firm, thin-lipped mouth. His marsh-brown hair was cut unfashionably short with silver lights glinting at the temples and other touches threading its thick depths. No, he was not a handsome man, but there was that within him that would turn a woman’s head no matter her age or station in life. The Devil’s Disciple. He was well named. She shivered involuntarily, her gaze slid away.

"I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not agree with you," she said, cool dismissal in her voice. She directed her attention back to the thorns holding her captive, though she was only too aware of the man's tall, lean presence.

His deep answering laugh made her want to gnash her teeth, though she gave no sigh of perturbation. It was a restraint perfected in her days of uncertainty that she found useful. Few people knew that the confidence she possessed was not carried from birth.

"Confess, Miss Grantley, you are not sorry at all."

She looked up at him then, hauteur shimmering in the hint of a smile she bestowed on him. "You have such a ready understanding, my lord, that my words are superfluous."

He gave a wry smile and bowed elegantly, in a manner that somehow belied the courtesy of the action. Instinctively he admired this tall, slender woman who stood at her ease as if in the middle of a ballroom rather than caught in a blackberry patch. Her piquant face was featured too sharply for beauty, with its thin, straight nose, defiant chin, and prominent cheekbones. Her most arresting feature was the pair of slanting, silver-green eyes that held speculation, intelligence, and coolness in their depths. Meeting her, he now understood the sobriquet Ice Witch, the name bandied by gentlemen who felt her cool green gaze. It was, however, a false description. She was not all cold female arrogance. She was filled with a quiet, yet intractable, womanly self-confidence. She didn’t give a damn about him. Neither his title nor his reputation affected her. He’d met men with a similar self-assurance, but never a woman. He granted she was not his normal flirt; nonetheless, he felt a perverse desire to shake her out of her complacency and see passion melt her green-ice gaze.

"Seeing you standing there, thus, Miss Grantley, I find I am consumed with a desire totally alien to my nature. I would play knight gallant to your damsel in distress." He paused to stroke his chin with one tan-gloved hand. "I am awed by the novelty."

Jane bristled. "I assure you, my lord, I would not have you do anything untoward. It might be too damaging to your sensibilities."

"Oh, you may rest assured on that note, my dear, for I have none," he returned languidly.

Jane compressed her lips to keep from laughing at his sallies. It would not do to encourage this man, and she was confident that any relaxation of her guard would do so.

"Now, let us see how badly Mother Nature wishes you rooted to this spot," he said, striding to her side and bending down to reach the brambles entangling her skirt.

His large hands had a surprisingly light touch as they gently worked her skirt free from the grasping thorns without damage to the fabric. Jane scarcely dared breathe with him standing so close to her; his light touch was somehow too intimate. When he was done and stood up, a deep sigh escaped her. She smiled at him.

"Thank you. Oh!" she screeched as he swept her off her feet and into his arms. "What are you doing? Put me down! How dare you!" She kicked her feet, squirming frantically against his rock hard form. Her struggles only served to tighten his grip.

He laughed at her quick anger. "Calm down, you little witch. I am only assuring myself that my handiwork is not for naught," he said, smiling easily, his dark eyes glinting with devil’s fire. Privately he congratulated himself on piercing the wall of her icy reserve.

He set her down by the side of the road, his hands moving up slowly, decisively, to cup her slender shoulders.

The pulse in her neck began to jump, and she stared bemusedly up at him, caught between indignation and a strange excitement.

"And now I claim my right to reward," he murmured, his voice low and resonant.

"I beg your par—"

Her haughty words were lost in a searing kiss, his fingers tightening about her shoulders as he claimed his prize. Jane, too stunned to resist, bobbed adrift in a wild sea of sensations. When at last he let her go, she staggered backward, her cheeks flaming. But she was mistress of herself, and though her eyes glittered, her manner was cold, clothed in a mantle of aloof dignity.

"You, my lord, are no gentleman!" she pronounced softly.

"Yes, I am aware of that," he said easily, and the raffish smile he returned sent warning shivers down her spine.

Though nettled as much by his cavalier manner as her reaction to him, Jane was determined not to reveal her lack of composure. Aware of a faint warmth in her cheeks, a lamentable mute testimony to the man’s disturbing influence, her black brows came together and she continued to glare at him.

The earl crossed his arms over his broad chest and cocked his head, studying her. "You do that very well."

"My lord?" she asked, chafing at his urbane countenance.

"Have you ever considered a theatrical career? No, of course not," he drawled, lowering his arms to rest his hands on his hips and flashing her another of his relaxed, devilish smiles. "Ladies of fashion and privilege confine their thespian instincts to that greater theater of human comedy: the Bon Ton."

"And gentleman of fashion and privilege confine their brains to the lower half of their bodies!" Jane returned with asperity, then bit her lip in exasperation for allowing herself to be so drawn. Her father and sister often teased her for the sometimes unladylike cast of her mind, but it was a tendency that she had, until now, kept carefully hidden from society.

His dark eyes flared wider, then sank to their habitual heavy-lidded gaze as he burst into appreciative laughter. "A hit! There is fire in our Ice Witch! Well done. But beware, my dear, when and to whom your temper betrays you lest you melt away. Now shall we cry quits and be friends?" he inquired affably.

Jane stood rigid with rage and embarrassment, her skin now blanched white save for two bright flags of color flying high on her cheeks. "Friends implies a commonality of interests and taste. I hardly think that a possibility between us," she regally assured him. "And I remind you that we have not been formally introduced. Therefore it would be the height of impropriety to embroider upon this chance and slight acquaintance," she added repressively.

"Ah, an Ice Witch with cold menace. Or is that your witch’s familiar, complete with claws? I say again, you may find you are out of your league. After all, what is a witch in comparison to a devil? Good day, Miss Grantley," he said curtly, his face a sudden study in granite hardness. He tipped his hat, then turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode away without a backward glance.

The earl rounded the bend in the road and was lost from sight behind a tall hedgerow before Jane felt her breath expel in a long, pent-up hiss. She hadn’t even been aware of holding it in. She pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed as she continued to look down the empty road.

So that, she mused, was the infamous Vernon Morecaster, fifth Earl of Royce: rake, betrayer of innocents, and inveterate gambler. The Devil’s Disciple. There could not be a less contemptible person. Millicent was welcome to him.

For the remainder of the afternoon Jane brooded over her meeting with the irritating earl. The man lacked any sense of social nicety. In person and manner he was the complete antithesis of Mr. Hedgeworth. It was just as well that he remained on the continent for so long for, despite his rank, the earl did not belong in polite society. But perhaps, she thought with asperity, she should foster his acquaintance. That way when Millicent arrived, Jane could include him in their social engagements and pair him with her cousin. It was obvious the two deserved each other; a more self-centered couple she’d yet to meet.

So caught up was Jane in her ruminations that Lady Elsbeth had to address her twice before she was aware of her aunt’s presence.

"All afternoon you have been glowering at the world. I know you are not happy at the prospect of Serena’s visit, but please dear, do not let her put you in queer stirrups. If her coming bothers you that much, I will write to her to see if there may be some way of dissuading her from visiting," Lady Elsbeth said.

Jane smiled. "I’m sorry Elsbeth. I suppose I have been frightfully bearish today. But you do not need to write to my aunt. In truth, I am beginning to anticipate her visit."

She laughed and drew Lady Elsbeth over to a yellow damask settee, urging her to sit beside her. "It would be best, I suppose, to confess that I have met the infamous Earl of Royce, and if I have been brooding today it’s because I have been attempting to stratagem a way to throw the earl and Millicent together. "

"Throw them together?"

"Yes, for when I met the earl this morning I determined that he is well deserving of my cousin and she of him. They are like bookends, equally full of their own self-worth and equally ready to do anything to achieve their goals."

"Gracious!"

"Exactly," Jane said dryly. "I will allow that in normal society I would steer a wide path around the man for I sense a wildness in him. He’s like a storm ready to break, a storm that if it did break would leave destruction in its wake. His looks, coupled with that underlying turbulence is, I will admit, compelling. That is until one has the opportunity to take the measure of the man. Lady Tipton and Millicent will be intrigued and shall not look behind the surface image, that I can assure you. I shall be certain to include the earl on our invitation list during their visit. He shall keep them busy and so they will spare little thought for me or my marital status. Particularly if I pretend an interest in the earl myself."

Lady Elsbeth tsk-tsked and tried to look severely at her niece, but without success. Her own lively sense of fun appreciated Jane’s plans, though her position as chaperon demanded that she protest. "I believe you are espousing Machiavellian principals, which is very unladylike. I cannot help but wonder what your mother would say. "

Jane laughed. "Elsbeth, it is about time you learned that I do not possess a well-disciplined mind; however much I may try to conceal that deplorable circumstance. In truth, I also possess my share of pride, and that pride demands I serve Lady Tipton and Mrs. Hedgeworth some measure of a trick as they would me. "

Lady Elsbeth pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. "I don’t understand, Jane. Won’t you please tell me what happened between you and Serena and Millicent?"

Jane looked at her aunt with deep regret swimming in her liquid green eyes. "I’m sorry, Elsbeth, truly I am. Perhaps it is best if we drop this subject. It is too fine a day to talk of gloomy things. And it is nearly teatime. Do you know where the children are? I picked some blackberries today especially for them."

"Blackberries? This early?"

"First of the season, I believe, but very juicy nonetheless."

"I don’t believe they would care to miss fresh blackberries. They’re outside, no doubt getting as filthy as pigs. Nurse Twinkleham sent them out with one of the maids, young Becky I believe, while she helped Mrs. Phibbs and me inventory the linens."

Jane, amused, rolled her eyes. "Not, perhaps the best of choices. Bertram and Edward hardly ever mind her."

"I know, but she would only have been underfoot here. Becky is worse than useless as a maid, though she does try hard. Sometimes I wonder how Mary can see fit to keep her on, even if she is Mrs. Phibbs’s niece."

"I believe she hopes that Becky’s multitude of good intentions will one day help her to compensate. I’ll wager Bertram’s talked Becky into going to the Folly. I’ll go and see if I can’t urge them to return home with a bribe of blackberries."

Jane carelessly tied on a plain straw bonnet and set out purposefully across the park toward the Folly in the distance. The day had become very warm. When she came to the man-made lake about halfway to the Folly, she stopped to loosen the buttons of her dress at her neck and wrists, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. Screening her eyes from the late afternoon sun, she looked up the hill toward the miniature replica Greek temple that sheltered a telescope. Bertram loved that telescope. He spent hours using it to scan the park, spying on the servants’ comings and goings or on the wildlife of the wood. But there was no sign of children or maid there now. A concerned frown pulled at Jane’s lips. Where could they be? Jane scanned the park, searching for any sign of movement. The boys knew it was near to their teatime. Their aunt didn’t put it past them to engage in a game of hide-and-seek in order to prolong their time outdoors. She started to walk back toward the house. The only thing to do was to send the grooms out in search of them. She hoped they had not talked Becky into letting them explore too far afield. The maid had a poor sense of direction and was often lost. One day she had been sent to the village, only to end up circling the town five times before she came upon someone who could direct her way. That memory brought with it a shiver of uncertainty. Jane picked up her pace, walking quickly back toward the house.

"Miss Grantley! Miss Grantley!"

Jane sighed thankfully. The high, strident voice was Becky’s. She turned toward the sound, which was followed a moment later with Becky bursting out from the shadows of trees surrounding the park. Her mobcap was askew, and leaves clung to her dress.

Becky ran up to Jane and seized her arm. "Oh, Miss Grantley, it is reet sarry I is. I can’t git him down. The tyke’s just a hangin’ there. I didn’t think it would be no harm, truly I didn’t. I tried, miss, I did try. Now only it’s a cryin’ he is."

"Calm down, Becky, calm down. It’s all right. Tell me slowly. Where are the children," Jane asked firmly grasping the hysterical maid by her shoulders.

"Like I been sayin’, miss, uppa tree! Leastwise, Master Bertram insisted he stay with his brother."

"Edward is caught up in a tree? Where is he?"

"In the ol’ orchard, miss. Near the lane to his estate. I’m that wurrit lest he sees them. He eats children, ya know, miss," the little maid finished in an awed whisper.

"Do not be ridiculous, Becky," Jane said, prying the girl’s fingers loose from her arm. "Go on up to the stables and fetch one of the grooms. I’ll go on to see if I can’t be of some assistance. At least I may be able to get Edward to calm down."

Becky shook her head, clinging like a leach to Jane’s arm. "But miss, I heard tell he does even worse to young ladies!"

"Becky, that will be quite enough! Do as you’re told!" Jane said with exasperation.

"Yes, miss," Becky’s face screwed up in anguish, tears threatening to fall. She meekly bobbed a curtsy before running toward the stable.

Jane watched after her for a moment, then picked up her skirts and ran through the forest toward the orchard. Poor Edward! He could not understand that he was too little to do everything his elder brother did. She hoped he was not too badly frightened and had the sense to stay still until help arrived.

Jane tripped once over a root, ripping the hem of the same dress she had worked so hard that morning to keep from harm, but she scarcely noticed. Her hat fell back off her head and bobbed up and down on her shoulders with each step. Strands of black hair curled as perspiration ran down her face and neck.

"Bertram! Edward!" Jane gasped when she reached the edge of the orchard. She stopped for breath, her sides heaving.

"Here, Aunt Jane!" came Bertram’s clear, high voice.

She followed his call, relieved not to hear panic in his voice. When she finally spotted him, he was on the ground, peering intently up through the branches above his head. "Bertram, where’s Edward?"

"He’s up here, Miss Grantley. I’ll have him down to you in a moment," drawled the sardonic voice of the Earl of Royce, coming from above.

She looked up in time to see the earl free Edward from his tightly wedged position high in the tree. He swung the child onto his back and ordered him to hold tightly around his neck so he could carry him down.

Jane bit the knuckle of one hand as she watched them descend, terrified lest one or the other lose his grip. When they reached the ground, she rushed to pick up Edward and clasp him to her. "Are you all right?" she asked, anxiously searching for fresh cuts and scrapes or any sign of broken bones.

"Aunt Jane!" protested Edward, squirming to get out of her arms.

"Mind your manners, young man. Your aunt was worried about you," the earl remonstrated. At the same time he reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair.

Edward grinned cheekily.

"You must thank Lord Royce for his effort on your behalf," Jane ordered Edward as she set him on the ground.

"Lord Royce!" ejaculated Bertram. He cuffed his younger brother on the shoulder. "Make a leg, you clodhead."

Royce and Jane stifled laughter as a very serious five year old bowed and stammered his thanks.

"It is I who should be giving you thanks, Edward," said Royce. He laid his hand on the child’s shoulder. "I haven’t climbed a tree since I was in short coats. I’m glad for the excuse your little contretemps afforded me. I’d forgotten how appealing the sights are from high up in a tree," the earl said, his gaze resting on Jane.

A slow blush transfused Jane’s pale complexion. She was suddenly aware of her own disheveled appearance. With trembling fingers, she smoothed the long sleeves of her dress, buttoning them at the wrist. "Bertram, Edward, it is nearly teatime, you know. I have a special treat for you, too. Blackberries. But you’ll need to get cleaned up first. Though whether you should have any or not, I don’t know." She was babbling and knew it. She avoided the earl’s gaze as she leaned down to straighten Edward’s jacket and brush grass from Bertram’s sleeve. It was a useless, nervous endeavor, for the children’s clothes were too disheveled to be set to rights.

"Fresh blackberries! Did you hear that Edward? I’ll race you home!" Bertram cried, tearing off through the trees.

"No fair!" declared Edward, taking off after his elder sibling.

Jane and the earl laughed again as they watched them scamper off.

"So all your efforts this morning were for those two scapegrace boys," he said.

"Yes. The Littons, my sister and her husband, are out of the country. Their governess wished to be relieved of her duties, so my aunt and I came down to Penwick Park to care for the boys in their absence," she found herself explaining.

The earl nodded, his expression solemn. "They are lucky boys to be surrounded by people who love and care for them," he said gruffly, a faraway expression in his dark eyes. Then he looked back at her, his devilish smile returning. "I am beginning to believe, Miss Grantley, that you need a keeper. First I find you ensnared in a blackberry bush, and now I discover you threatening that flawless complexion," he said, lifting her hat from where it lay dangling by its ribbons on her back and resettled it on her head.

Conflicting feelings surged in on a tide of embarrassment. Was that a touch of sorrow she’d seen in his face? Why? By all reports he did not care for children. Rumors abided concerning a child born to him and a woman he fled to the continent with more than ten years past. Still more speculation was raised as to why he never married the woman, for she was of good family. Conflicting tales of the fates of those two innocents still circulated society, lessons for young women flattered by another rake’s attentions.

Suddenly Jane doubted all she’d heard about the earl. She looked up at him, a curiously intent expression in her eyes.

"My lord, would you care to join us for tea?"