~ A Sweeter Revenge ~

by

Joan M. Fox

During the next few weeks, Jordan spent most of his time with Ben and Marigold and little with the senior Calloways and the younger Calloway girls, who were cloistered in the schoolroom with their teacher. The month of July was an opportune time for him to acquaint himself with his new relatives since after that he would leave for America. There was no certitude if, or when, he would return to England’s shores.

The men relaxed and unwound, enjoying a respite before seeking business pursuits. They joked, dreamed, and argued about everything under the sun. They rode into the village and explored the rolling countryside. At times Marigold was asked to go along, but not if the men sought their censored, masculine amusements. During some days, Bennett and Jordan played billiards, draughts, or chess. They lazed on chaises on the sun-warmed, stone terrace attached to the rear of Highcrest Farm’s manor with a cool drink of ale or wine in hand while they conversed or argued like intimate friends. Marigold often sat nearby listening or quietly sketching. She was totally infatuated by her dark-haired step-cousin.

Rose had warned Marigold not to intrude upon the men, so Marigold was careful not to be a pest. Nevertheless, she cleverly probed for Jordan’s feelings about her. Frustrated because he treated her like a sister the way Bennett did, alas, she was never able to fully read his mind.

One day she noticed that Jordan carried a dog-eared epistle in his jacket pocket. When they were alone, he sometimes read poetry to her from it. If she were allowed to comment, she was pleased and surprised that her ideas were considered, although he never really praised her for them.

Marigold knew she was bright, but she had learned from her mother it was unwise for a female to flaunt her intellect. Rose warned her that a woman should hide her knowledge under a basket until such time she was firmly wed, or it would be difficult to snare a proper husband. Women were supposed to be simply decorative non-entities, but should a family crisis arise, Marigold firmly believed her mother’s strength and sagacity could handle any problem.

Now Marigold simply listened to whatever Jordan had to say. He was everything wonderful in her eyes. She hugged absolute certainty to her breast and daily dreamed of marrying him.

Meanwhile, Jordan thought Marigold amusing and lively, and found she loved to talk. He politely listened to her girlish prattle. Her witty stories were often childlike, but always entertaining.

Neither Rose nor Malcolm were concerned about Marigold and Jordan’s solo encounters. They were always in full sight, never closeted behind closed doors. And they were cousins, if not through blood ties, by close familial connections.

One day the pair was on the terrace alone. “Let me relate the tale of a barnyard duckling that adopted one of our hounds for his mother,” Marigold said. “He snuggled amongst the litter of new pups tight against the bitch. I guess the dog was so surprised, she let him stay.” Marigold giggled. “Soon he grew bigger, but it took a while before the mother dog realized something was amiss. She finally growled at him fiercely and chased the duck away, nipping at his tail feathers.”

“What happened then?” Jordan asked.

“The drake waddled around the yard after the hound, quacking morosely as if he’d lost his best friend ever. It was quite pitiful.” She paused, rolled her eyes, and said wistfully, “I have a feeling we had him for supper. I failed to ask Mrs. Fortune if that was the same duck Cook stuffed and roasted a few weeks ago.”

Lounging back in the chaise, his dark, tousled locks falling over his brow, Jordan laughed long and loud. When Marigold joined in, her laughter was as engaging as a soft summer breeze or new as a copper penny. He loved listening to its musicality. Never having a sister, he visualized Marigold as being his. He found himself growing very fond of her. She was so alive, so vibrant, her hazel eyes shining when she spouted silly stories. But, she also listened intently with what seemed genuine interest, soaking up what he said and thought. He felt comfortable and at ease with her, which meant a great deal to him. He had never come across a female with whom he felt so compatible.

Jordan fascinated Marigold. She loved to listen to him, hanging onto his words as if enthralled, poking at and prodding him with persistent curiosity, convinced that he was the man fated to be her mate.

Near him, Marigold was hard pressed not to reach out and brush his dark curls off his forehead, run a palm down his smooth, shaved cheek in a gentle caress, or trail her fingers across his wide, luscious-looking bottom lip. Wanton thoughts regularly besieged her at night. Wicked for a naïve girl her age, Marigold’s wildest fantasies were, at first, loaded with guilt. She’d never felt that way before, but the fantasies persisted. She felt a definite need to kiss his mouth, suck on his lips, taste his skin. As she lay in bed, she shivered when contemplating doing them. She hungered, too, for the time he would enfold her in his embrace and kiss her the way she hoped to be kissed.

On other days she giggled with him, content by the deep sound of his masculine laughter. Her deep attraction to her brother’s friend and her-sometime-cousin burrowed into her heart and took root. She was convinced it was true love that she felt for him.

Lord, I felt it the moment I saw him. Emotional excitement, natural and quite wonderful, bloomed inside me so I know what love feels like now.

Another day she told him about her father’s hobby

“Did you know that Father was writing a book, Jordan?” She turned her bright-eyed gaze on him where he lay on the chaise, a half glass of wine clasped in his manicured fingers while he aimlessly twisted the stem.

“I heard something about it, Mari. But why don’t you tell me, hmm?”

“Well, Papa’s horticultural tome is really only a hobby of his, you know, but he’s hoping one day to publish it. And when that happens, Jordie, my drawings will be in there, too. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

Introduced to him only a short time ago, it was brave and outright scandalous of Marigold to call Jordan by a pet name. But he didn’t seem to mind since after all, he had used hers.

“Is that your one goal in life, Mari?”

She felt her cheeks turn pink. “Well, of course, that’s not all. Like every girl I wish to marry and have children,” she replied. “Soon, I hope.”

A black eyebrow arched, and he made no comment about her marriage plans. Instead, he said, “I believe your drawings are quite good, Mari, but then I don’t know much about art.”

“Well, when Papa’s book is published it will probably be the only time anyone sees my work other than the family. Women can’t compete in art shows, you see. And although Mama lets me dabble because I’m helping Papa, she doesn’t want me to boast about my work. I suppose she’s worried I’ll join that scandalous artistic society based in London--Intellectations.” Marigold threw a sideways glance in Jordan’s direction. “Aunt Henrietta used to belong to it, did you know that? It is peopled by writers, artists, and thespians.”

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Aunt Henny formed a notorious salon for creative people several years after she left the stage. My aunt is different from my mother, Jordie. She is quite well known in Town, you understand.” Marigold glanced down at her sketchpad, wondering if she should tell Jordan more about his stepmother or let him find out on his own.

“ I hoped to stay with my aunt in Town, but then Aunt Henny married your father, and well...” Mari’s gaze wandered out over the terrace at the green, scythed lawns sweeping downward behind the house. “I imagine her life with your father changed quite drastically. I’ve been told when one marries, a number of things are quite different.”

“Do you know your aunt well, Mari?”

“Oh, yes. I think she is quite wonderful. I love her dearly.”

“I met your aunt--my new stepmother--only once at Oxford before she married my father. As we speak, they are on their honeymoon and due back at Bensonhurst before I exit from my visit here. My father told me he met your aunt when he came to Town for a session of Parliament. It was love at first sight, I’m told. Can you believe that?”

He lounged on the chaise, his gray eyes glinting with male contempt behind the thick, black lashes. “Who ever heard of such nonsense? What a faradiddle! Who believes in romantic love these days? Every wise man knows that marriages are contracted to further ambitions and wealth.” Jordan had stretched his long legs in highly polished boots crossed at the ankles while he played with the stem of the wineglass in his fingers.

“Oh no, Jordie, that isn’t true at all! All that talk of love and happiness is quite unparalleled, and their meeting was accidental, although very romantic. Your father swept Aunt Henny off her feet in a matter of weeks.” Marigold’s glance slid sideways to see if Jordan contemplated sweeping her off her feet. “I’m sure you’re a Knight in Shining Armor just like your father.”

Jordan sat up abruptly and shook his head. “No way, Mari. Marriage is not for me. A wife is not in my plans for the near future. There’s too much excitement, too many adventures waiting for me to explore.” His sharp bark of male laughter sounded resolute. “No, Mari, I’m afraid not. I won’t marry for a very long time.”

Well, I suppose I can wait a while longer.

She experienced subtle twinges of panic, but she was nonplussed by his firm statement and didn’t argue with his response.

As long as he doesn’t forget me, she thought.

Jordan rose from the chaise and abruptly walked toward the railing that skirted the terrace. “Excuse me, Mari, I think I’ll stretch my legs.” He was already down the stone steps, flinging the words over his shoulder at her. “Perhaps later you’ll challenge me with a game of draughts.”

Marigold stayed where she sat, flipping through her portfolio of drawings. Some were of Jordan and Bennett together. Others showed Jordan alone, reading a book or perusing the morning papers. Like other things that made him desirable, Jordan’s fingers were long and strong, and his hands fascinated her. She watched his movements, for instance, if he brought a glass to his lips. She once saw him puffing on a cheroot outside on the terrace, and quickly made a sketch of him when he wasn’t aware that she had drawn it. His classic profile was another of her favorites. She had an artist’s eye for detail, capturing his moods--his restlessness, his quiet times, or a quick flash of merriment when he joked with Bennett. There were other times, too, when she caught him on paper, seemingly lost in thought about his future--the future she planned to spend with him.

Teetering on the brink of womanhood, Marigold’s month with Jordan seemed heaven sent.