The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble Page A

friend, but she seems to prefer solitude. Always has.”
    â€œYes,” Leticia said on a sigh. It was somewhat worrying that Margaret’s shyness had fixed her character as “odd” in the town she’d grown up in. There was little chance she’d ever outgrow it.
    Helen’s voice became low, confiding. “I know you will be good for the girl. And Hortense would have liked you, of that I’m sure.” Helen patted her hand. “I’m also sure it must be uncomfortable to be here suddenly, thrust into a new role, but the awkwardness will pass.”
    â€œI’m sure it will,” Leticia replied, a bit clipped. Although she was more certain that her comfortableness was inversely relative to her proximity to John Turner, but Helen didn’t need to know that.
    â€œFor you, for Sir Barty, and for Helmsley. I’d be more than happy to pay calls with you to the ladies of the town, and show Mrs. Emory that she’s making a complete cake of herself setting herself up against you—oh! Oh, look at that!”
    Helen grabbed Leticia’s arm so hard she jerked to a sudden stop. She nodded in the direction of Turner and Margaret. There, she saw that Margaret had picked one of the violets and was pointing to its petals. She was giving some kind of dissertation on the petals—likely the shape or color was of note—but in the process, she invited Turner to lean very close. And in leaning so close, his hand fell to the small of Margaret’s back. A gentle touch. An intimate touch.
    Margaret started when his fingers landed. And if possible, she blushed deeper than ever.
    â€œThere!” Helen crowed. “You were right, Leticia. Any excuse to be closer.”
    While Helen kept her triumph to a whisper, something violent coursed through Leticia.
    He should most certainly not be touching Margaret in that way! A miller? She, a gentleman’s daughter? Leticia had to do something—to protect Margaret, of course.
    And her toe hit upon the answer. One of the potted trees that lined the gravel walk through the flower beds.
    Leticia eyed the tree. “Oh my—Margaret!” she called out. “It seems someone left a bottle in this—”
    â€œNo, don’t!”
    But it was too late.
    Leticia had picked up the bottle, which for some odd reason was buried neck down in the soil—not realizing it was filled with liquid.
    Brown liquid.
    Brown liquid that spilled all over her favorite curry-colored dress.
    Everyone froze. Everyone except . . .
    â€œOh dear!” Margaret cried. “My tea!”
    â€œTea?” Leticia asked, unable to look up from the splash on her skirt.
    â€œYes—well, that’s what I call it, anyway. That bottle is my gravitational fertilizing system. The vacuum created by the dirt and the bottle allows the tea to seep into the soil only as needed. It’s the same as I have in the barrels that feed the flowers.”
    â€œMargaret—” Leticia asked, still as a statue. “What precisely is in your . . . tea?”
    â€œIt’s a specific formula. I soak a burlap sack full of compost in water for several days. I’ll have to get more horse dung from the stables, whip up another batch . . .” Margaret cocked her head to one side, a whisper of a smile on her face. “I guess it is not possible for either of us to walk through the gardens without ruining our gowns, is it?”
    Leticia stopped listening to Margaret. Because a different sound filled her ears. The distinct rumble of male laughter. Her eyes rose and met Turner’s. He was struggling to contain his mirth. No, not struggling—absolutely relishing it.
    â€œWell, I think perhaps we should return to the house,” Helen said.
    â€œQuite—” Leticia replied, planting the bottle back in the potted tree’s soil. “Margaret, come along.”
    â€œOh no,” Helen began to