Page 77 of Rough and Rugged
I hope I won’t betray my strong reaction to seeing Philip shirtless once we are sitting in the vicarage garden. I give a little shiver, remembering the pounding in my heart, my trembling fingers and curled toes. I must remain aloof. Philip surely recalls how I disliked him because he and my brother attacked my dolls. As pirates or dragon-slayers, they carried off my miniature teacups and made me weep. He won’t assume I’ll be all smiles.
Once the pleasantries are behind us, the duke leans toward me and speaks in a soft voice. “I am pleased to see you again, Miss Bowen. How is your esteemed father?”
I return his smile. “He is well, still devoted to his study of the Romans.” Between his love for reading Cicero and supervision of our tenants, father grows more reclusive with every year. ”And William?”
“I suspect he will join us soon.”
“I surely hope so, as I miss our friendship.”
I remind Philip about their attacks on tea parties for my dolls, how mean they were to tip over the table and knock the dolls to the grass, and to rip off their bonnets. “Just to make me cry,” I finish.
Philip sighs. “We were loathsome indeed. I hope you are not still irritated with me for being such a keen invader.”
“It was a long time ago, the capers of rowdy boys.”
“Yes, we were mischievous.”
There are a few more antics I want to mention, but decide not to embarrass myself.
From a gangly seventeen, Philip has evolved into the very model of a Guardsman, tall and erect, probably haughty and pretentious, now that he is a duke. No matter what he looks like or how fast my pulse runs, I can give nothing away. Revealing how I spied on him would be too humiliating to survive.
Just as we are about to taste our lemonade, William arrives, spouting a weak excuse for missing the church service. My brother aims for the favor of Betsy, who in addition to being pretty and clever, returns his regard. The afternoon unfolds comfortably in the budding garden. When Betsy brings out some old battledore racquets, the duke is reluctant to play, but eventually joins in. The object is to keep a shuttlecock made of cork and chicken feathers in the air. The game is boisterous. We laugh as we try to prevent the shuttlecock falling to the ground with many wild swings and near misses, occasional squeals, and lots of stumbling about. The game is new to me, causing a great deal of hilarity and the occasional clash as some of us bump into one another. Toward the end of our exertions, I reach to bat the silly feathers higher into the air. In the process, I topple sideways into Philip. Together in a froth of muslin, we tumble to the ground with me on top of him, arms wrapped around each other, laughing and winded.
“Why Miss Bowen,” he says with a wide smile, “I did not know you cared.”
Breathless, I have no quick response. He whispers in my ear. “I see those little buds have blossomed quite handsomely.”
I realize my bosom is compressed on his chest. I try to scramble to my feet. My face reddens in full view of everyone. Our eyes meet. In silence, we slowly bring our faces together, then whirl away at the last possible moment and rise to our feet. Did he pull away? Or did I turn abruptly an instant before he did, saved from a stolen kiss. Was it a lucky save? Or the sad loss of a moment never to be recaptured?
Later, he responds to my praise of the game and the exercise, “It’s a child’s game. And for females of all ages.”
How dare you?I want to howl at him. But instead, I smile sweetly. “You looked like you were having fun to me,little boy.”
He frowns, as if he’s about to bluster at me. But then he grins and says, “Touché, Miss Bowen. Hoisted with my own petard.”
“What is a petard, anyway?”
“Something that blows up in the speaker’s face, in this situation. A powder charge.”
“Ah, indeed.” I send him a sarcastic smirk.
The vicar insists we all stay for Sunday dinner. I have no possibility of running home to lick my wounds. What colossal nerve Philip had to refer to my neckline. I wish I’d had an instant retort, a dig at his crudity. But since the moment has passed, if I try to insult him now, it will only call attention to my embarrassment.
Talk at the dinner table wanders into Philip’s impressions of his new world.
“How do you find the affairs of Aberfeld?” Mr. Preston inquires.
“Not at all what I hoped,” the duke replies. “His Grace, the ninth duke, long ago lost his verve for life. The men he relied on were either as old as he was or only too eager to line their own pockets at the dukedom’s expense.”
“You have rid yourself of them?” my brother asks.
“Sent the scoundrels packing. Found two of the faithful retainers a place to live on the estate, with pensions I hope I can fund. Several of the miscreants sold off moderately valuable possessions, but trying to recover anything is not worth the trouble. Nuisances I don’t have time for.”
The vicar continues. “So, what are your immediate goals?”
“Clearing land never replanted after the great frost of the seventh duke’s time. Chopping up old dead trees, cutting down the saplings and underbrush. How about joining in?” Philip nods to William. “Get your muscles working.”
I recall the suppleness of Philip’s sweaty back and its rippling skin as they go on talking with the vicar, who relates the old duke’s story of what he’d heard as a young man. In the winter of 1709, the cold brought loss of crops and near famine to the population. Later, floods finished the job of stripping Aberfeld and the entire country of most of its walnut trees.