Love Among the Spices Read online

  Love Among the Spices

  By Laura Briggs and Sarah Burgess

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “An Observer of All Nature”. Altered digital art photo. Used with artist’s permission.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  During the fall season, on the rural grounds of an English estate, a young girl could be observed running across the grass with a butterfly net. In pursuit was a governess, whose call for the child was in vain given the distance between them and the young girl's swift movement through the tall grass.

  Picture the same scene upon these rural grounds–except the girl is a child no longer. Skirts lengthened, hair flying, she is as carefree and boisterous as before, despite the five years which passed since the original pursuit of the governess–a pursuit which continues to this day as a prim figure calls in vain from the grounds of Donnelly Hall.

  The girl is Marianne Stuart: more interested in bugs and history books than learning the art of painted fire screens or the London etiquette behind the now-fashionable waltz. Never happier than when the hem of her dress is damp with dew from the fields and her nails are grimy from climbing trees.

  Pausing in the middle of the field, she surveys the grass rolling in waves golden and ripe for harvest. She brushes the leaves aside, caught in her dark hair from the wind. Ahead, the flutter of another object holds her gaze. A flash of orange and black, soft velvet wings moving swiftly on the current of the wind.

  "There you are," she whispers. Hoisting the butterfly net in her hands as she races after it again.

  There is no one to observe her except for a stranger along the roadside, a young man in a faded hat and shirtsleeves who carries with him the trappings of a fishermen bent upon sport. His walk slows as he watches the young girl running across the field with her black curls flying behind her, a tangle of white and blue printed muslin and straw bonnet dangling from its cords.

  His eye remains fixed on her until she disappears through the tall grass. Then he continues on his way, although his glance now and then turns back, as if hoping to see her once more.

  *****

  "I am beginning to despair of Marianne," Mrs. Fitzwilliam declared to Sir Edward regarding his daughter. "She's a positive hoyden compared to Flora–who was at least proper in her behavior in the drawing room if not the garden."

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam was not wrong in her estimate of her great-niece, for while Flora's little writing career may have temporarily jeopardized the family's name, it did not hinder her from making an advantageous marriage to Lord Roger Easton in the end. In fact, it might have encouraged it–something Mrs. Fitzwilliam would never understand, even if she were made privy to all the details of their unusual courtship.

  But Marianne was not interested in making a smart marriage by her aunt's standards. Her mind was more occupied with escaping lessons on becoming a demure young lady in society, be it in the form of a ladies' academy or the ever-changing parade of governesses in Marianne's past. For it seemed impossible for any governess to stay long in Sir Edward's household, regardless of age, temper, or experience.

  "It has been a most trying experience–I really cannot remain in this place any longer." Miss Havis was positively pale as she clutched the doorway to Sir Edward's library, upon the same morning as her discovery of Marianne's vast spider collection in the nursery room.

  "Miss Marianne knows almost nothing of needlepoint–and cannot be taught anything of pouring tea, it seems," bitterly declared Miss Totty, whose grim visage had grown considerably older during her year in the Stuart household.

  "She is the most impossible young woman!" These spirited words were the last uttered in the house by Miss Lingley before her departure after the unfortunate pond-wading incident–Marianne's final governess, it would seem, as if proving Sir Edward's declaration that it would be a richer man than himself which paid the salary of whatever sufferer was charged with his youngest daughter.

  After the departure of Miss Lingley, Mrs. Fitzwilliam charged him with the importance of someone proper to look after Marianne–who, after all, was at a very delicate age for a young girl.

  "She cannot be left without female guidance, Sir Edward–she positively cannot!" said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, the reticule dangling from her arm swinging like a pendulum with each gesture. "Think of what it shall mean–Marianne running wild in the park, climbing trees and reading books about Cromwell–"

  "I am aware of my daughter's habits, thank you," Sir Edward interrupted, curtly. "It is simply a matter of finding someone willing, Madam. And the city of London does not afford such luxuries as a suitable instructor willing to be exposed to Marianne's habits on a daily basis."

  "She has a reputation," scolded Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "This is the fault of letting her run wild in the countryside and having only Flora's outlandish ideas to guide her–"

  "Her reputation precedes her," Sir Edward continued, harshly, "and so no eligible governess within twenty miles will come." He lifted his teacup in hopes of signaling for silence on Mrs. Fitzwilliam's part.

  "Then we must find her a suitable companion elsewhere," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Perhaps she should be sent to Lady Flora for a time–after all, Lord Easton would hardly allow Marianne's willful ways in his own household."

  "I wouldn't be quite so certain of young Roger's actions," Sir Edward replied, with a hidden smile behind the rim of his cup."

  "If not Flora, then perhaps the Miss Bartons might be persuaded to take her as a companion when they go into the country in another week–Marianne! For heaven's sake, pray put on your bonnet!"

  This last part was directed through the window open to Evering's gardens, where Marianne was visible seated on the bench beneath the rose arbor, reading a novel. Her black curls were unruly above her shoulders, only half-pinned as her bonnet dangled by its strings.

  "Look at that," Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued, in a lower voice, "no doubt reading a novel–or one of those books from your library. I have never seen such a young woman for reading subjects beyond her sphere."

  "Marianne's mind is determined upon the same subjects as her brother Giles," answered Sir Edward. "I believe, given the chance, she would prefer a tutor over a governess and a term at Eton over the promise of Almack's fine rooms."

  "With such a permissive attitude towards her faults, no wonder she continues this way," retorted Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Sir Edward, you really must take a firmer hand in her future before she
becomes impossible. Think her debut–her presentation is but–"

  "I am aware," Sir Edward answered, "of Marianne's debut. Also of her presentation and all the consequences attached to it." It was evident from his tone of voice that these reminders were beginning to wear on him. Outside the window, Marianne was visible as she settled herself more comfortably upon the bench–cross-legged "like a native of the Americas", as Mrs. Fitzwilliam would say.

  "Well," said the good woman, "I suppose that there is nothing more I can do except warn you of what this will mean for her future prospects. Someone must look out for the future of that poor motherless girl."

  "Many do," Sir Edward assured her. With a final stern glance of warning, Mrs. Fitzwilliam bid him farewell before sending for her carriage, intent upon returning home to manage her own household, for a change.

  Sir Edward sighed. It was difficult to be widowed many years after a happy marriage; still more difficult to raise three children, two of whom were headstrong–and neither of whom happened to be a son. He was painfully aware what sort of reputation preceded Marianne; heedless, headstrong Marianne, not yet mellowed by womanhood in the ways he had hoped.

  On the subject of Marianne's social debut, the young lady herself possessed a great many concerns, none of which mirrored her aunt's. They were similar to her viewpoints on fine dresses and making polite conversation in drawing rooms and at formal dinner parties. Which is to say, they were unflattering in the least.

  "I don't see why it is so important for anyone to appear in one particular place before they visit any other," she complained. "Why would it make me any better behaved to mince about in feathers for an hour or so when there are better things to be doing?"

  "Because in society, the feathers are a rite of passage," Sir Edward answered. "And until you please society–and, more importantly, your aunt–there shall be no peace on the subject of you stirring abroad from Evering House."

  "You let me go into all the society I care to see without the proper debut," Marianne answered. "I only care to see you and Flora and Giles ... and, of course the Miss Bartons and the Eastons. But I daresay they would all welcome me without a visit to court."

  "Nevertheless," said Sir Edward, in a tone which Marianne knew was not to be argued. With a sigh, she betook herself upstairs to her chamber, taking care not to stomp–for more than one complaint had been made by Sir Edward (based upon the whispers of his servants) about Miss Marianne ascending like a string of horses at full gallop.

  The nursery of Marianne's childhood was largely unchanged. Resembling the chamber of a little girl more than a young woman eligible for the marriage market, with a great many drawings pinned untidily on its walls and a great many books piled upon its tables and mantel. Sketches of butterflies from Marianne's "collections" imprisoned during her brief tenures in the countryside, watercolors of plants cut into pieces according to the instructions in a little book of botany she had borrowed from her father's library. Birds's nests and chrysalis broken by moths, wasps's nests and bits of shell and stone. The possible exception to this atmosphere was the prayer-book of Marianne’s mother, with Lady Stuart’s worn little volume occupying a place of honor beside her daughter’s bed with the night-time candle for its companion.

  Such a chamber at large seemed a boy's room, any household maid would declare, except for those employed by Sir Edward. More than one had encountered live birds or bugs, living creatures concealed beneath pails and pots and pans in Miss Marianne's room. Longsuffering Madge the housekeeper had learned to bite her tongue on the subject after years of service, whereas the young maid Dill had found an excuse to leave and be replaced by Letty, a niece of the household cook.

  It was here that Sir Edward found her, when he repented for his slightly harsh tones but an hour later. Rapping gently upon the door, he pushed it open, an apology upon his lips at the thought of his harsh words before. Marianne was but a young girl, he reasoned; still too young to be aware of the consequences of her rash opinions.

  She was sprawled across the bed, her boots still on despite the whiteness of the counterpane and the evident muddiness of her soles from the garden's lawn. A tangle of dark curls tucked behind her ears as she flipped through the pages of an open volume on Alexander the Great's geographical conquests, her eyes eagerly devouring the descriptions within.

  His glance flickered to the broken mossy branch displayed upon her nightstand, the driftwood decorated with fragments of bird shells, the brilliant sketches of butterflies fluttering in the breeze from the open window.

  "Papa?" Marianne looked up from her volume. "What is it?" She seemed completely oblivious to the unladylike pose she was presenting, the general untidiness of her appearance after a long afternoon in the garden, he noticed.

  He cleared his throat. "How would you like to spend a few weeks' pleasure in the country?" he asked.

  She frowned. "But we have no invitations at present," she answered. "And Flora is still resting after her confinement–"

  "Yes, well, I was thinking of you visiting someone else. A few friends who would like a pleasant companion for the summer," he answered. A few genteel friends, he desired to add, whose influence might induce you to behave properly. These words, however, he did not add.

  "Oh, we should dearly love to have Marianne join us," declared Miss Catherine Barton. "She's such a lovely girl. And so clever! As much so as her sister, I think. We should have no end of pleasure in chaperoning her in Kent." Her kindly face beamed upon Sir Edward with these words; beside her, Miss Eliza Barton wore an equally pleasant countenance despite the pince-nez spectacles perched low upon her plain face.

  This was how Marianne came to accompany her old friends away from London for the weeks of summer before the Season and her inevitable debut–for the best way to avoid any unpleasantness before the event was to allow Marianne one last pleasant romp in girlhood, Sir Edward decided.

  Perhaps Mrs. Fitzwilliams was right. The lack of feminine example for Marianne might be the reason she resisted society's confinement so firmly, something which might change when her mind was occupied by a small sphere of influence, with two pleasant and genteel ladies as her constant companions. There would be no hoyden scenes in London to worry Mrs. Fitzwilliam's finer feelings; and nothing of consequence could happen to Marianne in the quiet countryside of Kent, under the watchful eyes of two good-natured spinsters.

  Nothing of consequence was meant to happen under such circumstances. But it happened, nonetheless, to young Marianne Stuart when she left the watchful eye of London's society and its stifling heat behind.

  Chapter Two

  The Miss Bartons did not possess a country estate, but a cottage in the countryside of Kent. It was a modest dwelling rented by a well-to-do uncle to his unmarried nieces of limited fortune, allowing them to escape the oppressive heat of the London summer and the general expenses attached to life therein. Here the Barton daughters were content to stitch new cushions for their drawing room, paint small landscapes for their breakfast parlor, and give a card party or two for other genteel folk from London and local gentry of their acquaintance, as if practicing for their inevitable descent into this society permanently.

  "The view from your room is of the duck pond–it's quite the nicest in the cottage," Miss Eliza informed Marianne. "We have goose eggs every morning at breakfast, for Mrs. Greerson is so obliging to her neighbors..."

  "And such currant jam," declared Miss Catherine with a sigh. "You care for currant jam, do you not, Miss Marianne?"

  "Oh, yes," Marianne assured her, although her mind was distracted by the scenery flying past the window, with all the charms of Kent's countryside. Already, she caught glimpses of sprawling wood lines, of trees no doubt rife with interesting insects and specimens of every kind.

  The Bartons's cottage was near the village road, bordered on one side by the fields of the prosperous Greerson of local gentry, by the woods belonging to a Lord Cumbley's estate where the resident nobleman preferred shooting an
d sport whenever the Season was not its brightest in London. From her window, Marianne could see the duck pond previously mentioned, its surface covered as thickly with lilies as its banks were occupied by the good Mrs. Greerson's fine flock of geese.

  She surveyed the view with an eager eye, the square of countryside framed by walls of lavender paper and thin curtains no doubt stitched by Miss Eliza's hands. Below, Miss Catherine's voice was audible, fluttering like a bird as it gave instructions to the housekeeper and the cook.

  Slipping her traveling cloak from her shoulders, she opened her trunk and withdrew a book from beneath her muslin gown and shawl. Its cover flapped open, revealing sketches of insects dissected with diagrams, paragraphs like a scientific diagram as opposed to the verses of poetry or instructional prose to which Marianne's reading was supposed to be confined. A set of drawing pencils wrapped in brown paper, a little journal–not the reflective kind–in which Marianne's drawings and observations of flora and fauna were evident followed from beneath a stained apron and gown whose skirts were shorter than a girl of Marianne's age was expected to wear.

  "Tea, miss." A maid curtseyed in the doorway, a country miss in a cap and apron almost too big for her figure.

  "I shall be down directly," Marianne answered, placing the books upon her bed. She reached for the formal gown she had been coerced into packing by her aunt, pulling from beneath its folds a long handle and hoop, delicate silk netting secured about its circumference to form a butterfly net.

  If Sir Edward believed these things were safely at home in Marianne's wardrobe where they belonged, he was much mistaken; and the knowledge that they were among her luggage in Kent would have troubled him greatly.

  *****

  The net closed over a pale green moth moving languidly over the stream. Marianne's fingers were swift in drawing it back, careful in coaxing it into the glass jar in the whicker basket beside her.