“I said I admired the roses I’ve seen about the town. They are everywhere. Its effect is pleasing.”
This was the first Mateo was hearing that something had actually pleased Borerro. “You discussed roses with Miss Woodchurch?”
The gentleman colored a bit under his suntanned skin. “Briefly.”
Miss Woodchurch had been in his employ for a week, and she and Borerro were talking about roses and she was making Pacheco laugh? And just like that, his world had turned a bit topsy-turvy.
There was another thing about Miss Woodchurch that he found a little unnerving—moments when he would happen to look up, only to discover her staring at him. She would quickly look away with a blush, and she’d make a sudden show of appearingquitebusy, which couldn’t be possible, given the amount of work he had for her.
The first time, he was naturally inclined to wonder if there was something peculiar about him and self-consciously dragged his fingers through his hair, then rubbed his chin, thinking perhaps his emerging beard had already started to darken. But when it happened again and again, he began to suspect that perhaps she was a bit infatuated with him. It wouldn’t be the first time a young woman had looked at him in that way—wealth and titles could make even a goat appealing.
But somehow, the idea that she was attracted to his titles and wealth did not seem to fit with the woman who sat at the small writing desk each day. But what did fit her? His curiosity about her was growing. Personally, he didn’t speak to her about anything but the correspondence. His mistrust of people in general made it difficult for him. And really, what was there to speak of? Should he ask how she’d made Pacheco laugh?
He remembered something about his brother. One morning, they were riding along the shore, having spent the previous night in the company of a dozen or more of Roberto’s friends. Roberto remarked that Mateo hadn’t said much throughout the evening. “You appear aloof to others,” he’d said.
“I am aloof,” Mateo said. “Not by desire, but by circumstance.” He never intended to be haughty, but his reticence was a result of having been endlessly corrected and chastised by his father. How to change was beyond his comprehension. “What would I have said?” Mateo had asked. “I’ve nothing in common with any of them.”
Roberto had looked at him with exasperation. “They are people, Teo, just like you. Of course you’ve something in common with them.”
It was a fair point—they were all human beings, fueled by the same base desires and wants and social mores. But even so, it wasn’t easy for him. Roberto’s charm came so naturally—Mateo envied his easy way with people. Roberto could look at someone like Miss Woodchurch and strike up a conversation, whereas Mateo couldn’t think of a single thing to say that he thought she would find interesting, or a single question that would not seem invasive.
So he said nothing.
Mateo went about his day as he always did—mostly in silence. Sometimes he would sit at his desk, his gaze on the window, and it would inevitably trail over to where Miss Woodchurch was bent over her writing, her brow furrowed, a soft ringlet of brown hair brushing against her nape. He would study the curve of her neck, the swanlike bend to it, and how luminous her skin looked in the afternoon light. Why hadn’t she married? How was it acceptable to her family that she secured employment? What was the word in English for the blue color of her eyes? In Spanish, it wasazur.
At the start of the second week of her employ, Miss Woodchurch arrived with a small vase of roses. Red and white, he noticed, not unlike the small pin Borerro was wearing.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said cheerily, and dipped into her perfect curtsy.
“Buenos días, Miss Woodchurch.”
She held out the flowers for him to see. “Aren’t they lovely? They come from Mary’s garden.”
Mary.Who was Mary?
“She’s the new scullery maid,” she said, as if reading his mind. “I hope you won’t mind, but Mr. Borerro asked if I might know of anyone and it so happens I did. She was once in my family’s employ and I was terribly fond of her. I don’t know how they manage in the kitchens, not speaking a word of the same language. It’s remarkable, isn’t it, when people want to communicate, they will find a way? Oh, the flowers. Mary has a small garden at home—she has quite the talent with roses, doesn’t she?”
Miss Woodchurch had brought them a scullery maid? He hadn’t known they needed one.
She was still holding out the flowers, clearly awaiting his response. “What’s your favorite flower?”
“Qué?”
“Everyone has a favorite flower, don’t they? Is it a rose? I do adore roses. But I think everyone must, as they grow in abundance here. I also quite like daffodils. Did you know they are the Welsh national flower? Oh, of course not,” she said, and laughed. “Why on earth would you have reason to know that?”
He blinked at her.
“Do you like peonies? I think they may be the grandest flower on earth. They are not yet in season, but when they are, I’ll bring some.”
He had never in his life heard so many opinions about flowers. He didn’t have a favorite flower. He’d have to consult a botany text, have a look at them all before he committed to afavorite. “Ah... We have work to do, Miss Woodchurch.”
“Then we should be about it, shouldn’t we?” She went to her desk and placed the flowers, stood back to study them, then moved them to the other side of the desk. After another moment of study, she moved them back to her original placement. Apparently satisfied, she took her seat and picked up her pen. She looked at him. “Ready, my lord.”
What an unusual creature she was.
The post was unusually heavy this week, several letters having to do with the business of the estate. One had perplexed him and then had annoyed him. It had come from Mr. Callum, who had returned to the country and Harrington Hall, Mateo’s Essex country seat. The majordomo had written to inquire what Mateo would like to do with fifty goats that had been delivered in error. For a second time. Mr. Callum had attached the invoice.
Mateo had stared at the letter for a very long time. What was the matter with Mr. Feathers, the man who kept herding goats over to his property? Was it possible that the wordgoathad more than one meaning in English? The language was so damn confounding! He’d specifically sought the purchase of fiftysheep. And when he’d sent the goats back the first time, he thought he’d made it quite clear in his letter that what he wanted was sheep. For the wool, obviously.
