Chapter Ten
The next few days were blissfully uneventful with no sign of Mr. Lester. Tristan and Arabella would spend the mornings in the garden with Mr. Hardwig, planning where the new areas of the garden would go and discussing possible designs for the conservatory and how large it should be. After their time in the garden, Tristan would gather Marcus, Elizabeth, and the children and would take them on walks through the forest around Avondale Manor.
Then, after lunch, while the children stayed with Mrs. Hardwig, Tristan and Marcus would drive Arabella and Elizabeth back to Rose Cottage. While the women tended to their chores or saw to customers, Tristan and Marcus would work on long-overdue repairs to the cottage.
Arabella looked up from where she was mixing dried rose hips, lemon balm leaves, and willow bark into a mixture to form a healing tea for Mrs. Abernathy, the baker’s wife, while Elizabeth stood washing jars in the kitchen sink.
“Have you decided yet whether or not you will accept Sir Tristan’s suit?” Elizabeth asked, pausing in her washing to turn and look at Arabella.
“Not yet, it has only been a few days since he arrived, and I want to be sure that I’m not making a mistake,” Arabella replied. Tristan had arrived Sunday afternoon, and it was now Thursday. True, they saw each other every day, and she’d seen nothing in his character to dissuade, her but she wanted to be sure. Elizabeth had escaped from a truly horrendous marriage with a beast for a husband; she didn’t want to end up like Elizabeth. But every time she looked at Tristan, her heart beat faster; every time he asked for her help or admired her ideas, it reinforced the thought that he would indeed make a fine husband.
“Well, if you don’t accept him, you are foolish, and I know you are not. Sir Howard wanted you to wed; he knew his nephew better than anyone. He also loved you; Sir Howard would not ask you to be together if he didn’t think you would suit. And while Sir Tristan is impoverished, he does have a title, and I can tell you that having a title will open doors to you that are now closed. If you don’t believe me, think how the Belmonts treat you, treat us? Would it not be delicious revenge to marry Sir Tristan and snatch him out from Lucinda Belmont’s claws? And Sir Tristan admires you; if he didn’t, he would not be here now working to repair the spring house?” Elizabeth said, crossing her arms before her as she skewered Arabella with a glare.
Arabella wanted to deny Elizabeth’s claim, but she couldn’t. She remembered her mother telling her that a man often showed his love through actions instead of words. That if a man did something for her without asking because he wanted to please her, it was because it was a sign he cared for her. Sometimes love wasn’t flowers and sweats; it was a man seeing you had proper boots or enough wood for the day to stay warm on a cold winter morning. The fact that Sir Tristan was repairing her home to please her, even if she decided not to wed him, had to mean something.
“It’s just I never thought I’d leave here. I have often dreamed of having a kind husband, perhaps a doctor or a local gentleman, who would not mind me continuing my work. I’m rather intimidated by the thought of leaving here, of going to London. I would not fit in. People would laugh at me.” Arabella was good at listening to others and counseling them, but when it came to her own fears, insecurities, and dreams, she was loath to discuss them or contemplate them. She had a place here at Rose Cottage, a safe place, and she was respected by the people of Wilton. What would people think of her in London?
Since before her mother died, she’d learned to be strong to be the person others could lean on and depend on. Arabella had learned to depend on herself for so much. When Elizabeth had entered her life with the children, she’d welcomed the companionship, and it was a pleasure to have another woman in the house again.
Then there was her heart to consider, it had broken when her mother died and shattered when she’d lost Sir Henry. They had been her only family, and it hurt to lose them. Could she risk giving her heart to Sir Tristan?
“You are right, it’s just I’m afraid if I marry him and give my heart to him. What if he betrays me?” Arabella bit her lip to stop herself from saying too much.
Elizabeth sighed softly and dropped into the chair across from Arabella, and gave her friend a soft smile.
“First, Sir Tristan does not strike me as the kind of man who would betray his wife or hurt you. Second, you have the advantage over most women of the ton; you have the chance to know him, to truly know him before agreeing to wed him. In London, among the ton, when a man courts a woman, they are chaperoned at every stage. Couples meet at dances or card parties and are allowed to take walks in the park or drives in open carriages, but they never get to truly know each other. I was not as fortunate as most girls or even you. I didn’t meet my husband till the day before my wedding, and I had no say in my future. You do, you have a say. Sir Tristan has even asked you to write an agreement to base your marriage on, an agreement he will live by. Do you know how rare that is? That a man would give his intended a say in her life?” Elizabeth reached across the table to squeeze her hand.
“Don’t let fear of loss prevent you from finding happiness. You deserve to be happy, Arabella, you deserve to be taken care of for a change, you deserve to be loved.”
Arabella gave Elizabeth a smile, seeing the wisdom in her friend’s words. She would heed her friend’s advice and give Tristan a chance. “Thank you, Liza. I could give you the same advice.”
“What do you mean?” Elizabeth protested, sitting back in the chair and frowning.
“It is rather obvious that Mr. Marcus admires you. I have noticed that you admire him as well. He is a very good-looking man and kind. He is also wonderful with the children, and they dote on him as well.” Arabella replied.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, no, that is impossible. My husband could be alive still, and searching for me. All that could ever be between us is friendship. And after, well, I don’t think I could stand a man’s touch again.”
Elizabeth rose from the table and stepped back to the sink. She looked out the window and let out a soft gasp.
“Oh my, Arabella, if you don’t accept Sir Tristan’s suit, then you are the biggest fool in all of England, and I know you are not,” Elizabeth said, looking out the window, her gaze transfixed on something while she fanned herself with her left hand.
“Why, what is it, what is wrong?” Arabella asked. Arabella rose to join Elizabeth at the window and followed her friend’s gaze out the window towards her back garden and gasped when she saw the men.
It was an unusually warm spring day, and Tristan and Marcus had both stripped down to their breeches while they worked to repair the wall of Arabella’s spring house. Arabella had thought Tristan was a fine-looking man, clothed but shirtless; he was a master piece, an ancient hero brought to life. There was not an ounce of fat on his sculpted body. She had seen shirtless men before, but none as fine or well-muscled as Tristan and Marcus.
Tristan was lean with every muscle well defined under taught, tanned skin, reminding Arabella of a sculpture of a Greek god she’d once seen in a Bath museum. Marcus was bulkier with bulging arm and shoulder muscles and a body that reminded Arabella of a drawing of a Roman wrestler she’d seen in one of Sir Howard’s history books. Their bodies spoke of hours of hard physical labor.
The only thing that stopped them both from being young gods was the scars that marred their bodies. Arabella watched as Tristan hefted a heavy plank to the top of the wall, holding it in place as Marcus nailed it in. As he moved, she saw thin white scars crisscrossing his back. Scars over scars, and two other thin scars marred his left side.
Arabella wondered where they had come from; the scars on Tristan’s back looked like whip scars. But who would be so cruel to cause so much damage? Marcus also bore scars, a healing wound to his left shoulder and another to his left side that was still pink from healing skin. His arms also bore numerous faint white scars, testimony to a violent past and a hard life.
“Indeed, they are both very fine looking, very fine looking indeed,” Arabella replied, feeling a flush of heat as her heart began to race.
“We should take them something cold to drink. Didn’t you make some chilled mint tea earlier?” Elizabeth asked, grabbing two clean towels from a rack by the sink.
“Yes, I did, it’s on the shelf in the cellar cooling,” Arabella replied.
“Get it, I’ll grab some tankards, we should go thank the gentlemen for their labors,” Elizabeth said, motioning for Arabella to hurry up.
“But it won’t be proper they are without shirts,” Arabella protested softly, and saw Elizabeth shake her head.
“I was married, and you are practically engaged to Sir Tristan, and they are in the garden in plain sight of everyone. Besides, you are a healer, now hurry fetch the pitcher before they put their shirts back on,” Elizabeth said, making more shooing motions.
Arabella nodded and hurried to the door of the cellar to retrieve the pitcher; she was just being foolish and prudish. Elizabeth was right, she was a healer and had seen partly clothed men before, so why was the sight of Tristan partly clothed so unsettling? Because you like him and desire him her, inner voice replied, like him more than you have ever liked any man. Arabella fetched the pitcher of tea and then followed Elizabeth out the kitchen door into the bright sunny garden, her heart increasing in speed with every step.
* * * *
Tristan stepped back, rolling his left shoulder as Marcus finished nailing in the last plank to the side wall of the spring house. Tristan’s lower back and shoulders were screaming at him in protest, and Tristan regretted his offer to carry and hold the heavy planks of wood while Marcus nailed them in. Tristan had offered to do all the heavy lifting, as Marcus’ wounds still pained him, and Tristan had not wanted his friend to reinjure himself.
Despite his aching muscles, Tristan was glad of the physical labor, glad to be working with his hands. He was still furious at the situation his family had put him in, furious that the evil weasel like Mr. Lester had gotten off scot free for breaking into his new home and harming his staff. Then there was the fact that the fiend had insulted and threatened Arabella and Mrs. Riley, two of the finest young women of his acquaintance.
Tristan stretched again, finding that it eased his stiff muscles, as did the warm late-day sunshine. He examined the repairs he and Marcus had finished with a critical eye; everything looked good. The wall would need several coats of paint to make it winter-proof, but otherwise it was a fine repair. Tristan, despite his aches, smiled. It had been another wonderful morning with Arabella. They had breakfasted together and discussed interesting topics from the three-day-old newspaper from Bath that had arrived with the morning mail. Then they had gone into the garden together as was their habit now, and Arabella had suggested increasing the herb garden to include several hard-to-find medicinal herbs she favored. Tristan had readily agreed and Mr. Hardwig had added it to his list of projects, then calmly pointed out that if all the improvements were to be finished before it was summer, he’d need a helper. His previous helper had been let go by Mr. Simmons after Sir Howard’s death. Tristan agreed to hire him more help once things were settled and he had more ready coin.
Then had taken the others down the winding woodland path to Marcus’s cottage so that the ladies could make suggestions on improving it, and along the way, he had pointed out his favorite hiding spots from his childhood. The children had been as delighted with the thick forest as he had as a boy and scampered ahead, laughing and shouting or scooping up treasures from the path to show the adults.
“For a toff, you do good work,” Marcus joked, stepping back to examine their handiwork. Marcus nodded in satisfaction once more and then began replacing their borrowed tools into the toolbox.
“Your grandfather is a toff,” Tristan replied, and saw Marcus shrug.
“True, but neither you nor my father ever acted like one. You never mind getting your hands dirty or helping swing a shovel or the like. One of the reasons the men liked you so much,” Marcus replied, giving Tristan a grin, then he nodded towards the house. “The ladies are coming,”
Tristan turned to see that Arabella and Mrs. Riley were indeed striding towards them. Tristan bent to grab his and Marcus’ discarded shirts; he threw Marcus his shirt before dragging his own over his head.
“Ladies, good timing, you can inspect the repairs. The house will need a good coat of paint before fall, but the house is sound again.” Marcus said as he pulled his shirt into place and then rolled up his sleeves. “We also cleaned out the water channel inside so the water runs clean. If you like, we could install piping inside to run some of the water into basins, so you could submerge bottles in the cold water.”
“We also repaired all the shelves inside; everything is sound now,” Tristan added.
Arabella gave the men a broad smile and a nod of thanks. “Thank you, gentlemen, I greatly appreciate what you have done. We brought you some cold tea.”
“And towels to blot your foreheads,” Elizabeth added, handing first Marcus and then Tristan a towel before handing them each an empty tankard.
“Thank you, ladies,” Tristan replied, taking both the towel and the tankard from Elizabeth. Arabella, with another smile, stepped forward to pour the men tea.
“You do good work, gentlemen. I’m just surprised, Sir Tristan, that a member of the gentry is willing to get their hands dirty and do some real work,” Elizabeth said. “Most gentry would just order their men to do it.”
“Tristan isn’t like most toffs; he enjoys working with his hands. When we were in India, he would build walls, cut lumber and dig trenches with us, one of the reasons the men were so fond of him.” Marcus saluted Tristan with his tankard of tea.
Arabella frowned in annoyance at Elizabeth for the subtle insult she’d leveled against Tristan. Tristan noticed the heated look Arabella had given Elizabeth and shook his head.
“Tis fine, I’m not insulted. Mrs. Riley is correct my brothers would never have considered physical labor, but I enjoy working with my hands. It helps me work out my anger at certain things I can’t change, and I enjoy the exercise.” Tristan replied before taking a long drink of the cold mint tea.
“I meant no disrespect, Sir Tristan,” Elizabeth flushed, then looked down at Tristan’s boots, “It’s just, my husband and father would never break a sweat, much less get their hands dirty.”
“No, truly it is fine, Mrs. Riley; I truly enjoy working with my hands,” Tristan replied giving her a smile.
Mrs. Riley seemed uneasy and like she wanted to say more, but was unsure or nervous, which was odd. She’d always been a very straightforward person before, who seemed unafraid of speaking her mind.
An awkward silence stretched for several minutes while no one spoke, then Marcus held his tankard out to Arabella. “Thank you for the tea, ladies, T’was quite good. Mrs. Riley, I understand that you raise bees, and I was wondering if you would show me your hives and tell me about them. My eldest sister raises bee’s too, and I’d like to know more about them.” Marcus reached forward and plucked the empty pitcher from her hands and handed it to Tristan, then extended his arm to Mrs. Riley.
“Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Berkley, they are this way.” Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, then accepted Marcus’ arm. As they began to walk, away Marcus sent Tristan a look that said you owe me one.
Arabella watched them go, then turned back to see that Tristan was smiling while he drank his tea, and cradling the pitcher against him at the same time. Arabella suddenly wished she was pitcher, and wondered what it would be like to have Tristan’s arms wrapped about her.
“Elizabeth didn’t mean anything you know, she, it’s just her husband wasn’t a good man,” Arabella blurted out when she couldn’t stand the quiet anymore.
Tristan gave her another reassuring smile, “I do not mind, my brother-in-law is a brute. Marcus and I dealt with him before we came to Avondale. I also know from my time in the army that life is not fair to women.”
“Let me take that from you,” Arabella said, reaching for the pitcher.
“Nay, ‘tis fine I’ll carry it back to the kitchen for you, after you, my lady. And as for what Mrs. Riley said, it is truly fine. I’m also more at home in the forest or working with my hands than I am in a ballroom. I’m sure I will make a horrible lord, for I’ll forever be accidentally insulting someone or saying the wrong thing. I also have no patience for cruelty or for snobbery. But if you give me a chance, I shall try my hardest every day to be a good husband.” Tristan saw Arabella flush, then nod.
Arabella swallowed against the lump in her throat, and she caught Tristan’s eyes with hers.
“I think you will make a wonderful lord. You are already a marvelous friend and an excellent master. You actually care about those who work for you.”
Tristan felt warmth fill him at Arabella’s praise. It meant the world to him that Arabella thought well of him. “The kitchen then,”
“Oh yes, Arabella replied. She reached for the pitcher again and saw his left hand was covered with deep bleeding scratches. “Your hand, you should let me wash those and put some salve on those. It wouldn’t do for them to become infected.”
Tristan nodded, “Of course, you are the healer after all.”
Tristan followed Arabella through the light-dappled garden, letting her walk a little way ahead so that he could admire the gentle sway of her hips and how the sunlight played off her bright hair.
When they stepped into the much darker kitchen, Tristan paused in the doorway for a moment to let his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. Then he looked about, noting how neat and clean everything was. Nothing was out of place, pans hung from a wrought-iron rack on the wall near the huge double oven stove, upon which rested a tea kettle. Against the far wall was a huge wooden cupboard that ran almost to the ceiling, filled with neatly labeled jars and pots. Thick bundles of dried herbs hung from strings over the sink and filled the air with a pungent yet pleasing scent.
“Please set the pitcher on the table, then come to the sink so I can wash your hands”. Arabella directed as she hurried to the cupboard to pull open the drawer that contained pots of salve. She pulled one out, then took a clean length of wadding from another drawer before turning to walk back to the sink and Tristan.
Arabella reached for the pump handle when Tristan shook his head and placed his hand on the pump.
“Let me,” Tristan’s hand brushed Arabella’s as he reached for the handle. As his hand brushed hers, Tristan heard Arabella gasp softly, then pull her hand back. Tristan gave her a nod, then began to pump the handle vigorously till water spilled from the faucet into the sink.
Arabella quickly placed an enameled basin in the sink to catch the water. When it was full, she motioned for Tristan to put his hands in the basin. When he did, she took a bar of soap from the kitchen drain board and began to soap and wash his hands.
As Arabella washed Tristan’s hands, she noticed how large his hands were, with long, tapered and well-formed fingers. They were also tanned and well calloused, speaking of years of physical labor, and the back of his left hand bore a thick, raised scar.
“That feels nice,” Tristan said after a moment. He turned to look down at Arabella and their eyes locked, then his eyes lowered to her lips.
“The scar on your hand?” Arabella prompted.
“A knife, a thief tried to rob me in India, I won.” Tristan pulled his hands away from Arabella’s. “We need to stop before I do something I might regret.”
“Such as?” Arabella murmured, searching Tristan’s eyes.
“I kiss you,” Tristan replied, his eyes on her lips.
“Oh, and would that be so bad?” Arabella turned to put her hands on Tristan’s chest, noting how hard it was beneath her hands.
“No, not at all,” Tristan bent to brush his lips against Arabella’s while he slipped his hands to her trim waist.
Arabella didn’t know how she’d gotten so daring or so brazenly forward. All she knew was that she badly wished for him to kiss her. The touch of his lips against hers sent a jolt of pleasure through her. She tightened her hands on his shirt as he nibbled on her lower lip till she opened her mouth under his. When she did the tip of his tongue gently touched hers and Arabella let out a soft mewing sound of pleasure, and Tristan broke the kiss, then pressed his forehead against Arabella’s.
“Bella, my beautiful Bella, what you do to me. I truly hope you say yes.” Tristan said, then kissed her forehead.
“So do I,” Arabella replied, “So do I.” She stepped back, putting space between them, then reached for the salve while she tried to sort out her jumble of feelings. All she knew was her heart wanted Tristan while her head was still fearful of what would happen if she gave in to her desires.