Daff came back, proudly bearing her chicken tail, and Caliban smiled at the little dog.
Which reminded her.
Lily cleared her throat as she tore off a bit of her bread. “I noticed yesterday that you laughed.”
He looked up, his head cocked in obvious inquiry.
“It’s just…” She gestured with the bit of bread before realizing and placing it carefully on her plate. “Well, it was out loud. I wondered, well, if you can laugh…”
He was still staring at her, his expression hard to decipher.
She inhaled and just blurted it out. “When was the last time you tried to speak?”
He reached over and picked up his cloth bag, opening the flap and taking out the notebook. He bent to write and then showed her the notebook. Months ago. I assure you nothing happened.
She licked her lips. “How long ago did you lose your voice?”
He frowned and wrote. Nine or so months ago.
“So recently!” She looked up in excitement. “That’s less than a year. Don’t you see? Your infirmity might not be permanent.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Indio asked, scrambling to his knees. “What’s a ’firmity?”
“It’s like an illness or a sickness.” Lily glanced at Caliban and saw that his face had closed. His eyes flicked to her and then to Indio and she took the hint, though she was determined to continue the discussion later. “What are you digging the hole for?”
Caliban sat up at that, and Indio edged closer to look at his notebook as he wrote. I intend to plant an oak tree here.
She looked between his writing and the huge hole. “That’s a big hole.”
His mouth quirked as he wrote and she knew even before she read his words that he’d had a quick rejoinder.
She was correct: It’s a big tree.
“But how can you plant a big tree?” she asked as she cracked her egg. “Won’t it die when it’s dug up from where it originally grew?”
He began to write furiously at her question. She ate her egg as she watched him, marveling at how deeply involved he was in his profession. Indio lost interest in the discussion and delved in the basket for a jammy tart.
o;What do you want, Montgomery?” Makepeace all but growled.
The duke shrugged delicately. “As I’ve said: to employ an architect of my own selection to design and build the theater and musician’s gallery and various other follies I might like in the garden. I shall, naturally, be paying him from my own pocket. Come now, it’s not as if you have a choice.”
At that, Makepeace did growl.
“Fascinating,” Montgomery drawled, cocking his head as he watched Makepeace simmer. Apollo wondered if the man had any sense of self-preservation. “But I shall take that as agreement.”
He turned and strolled leisurely away.
“We can’t trust him, ’Pollo,” Makepeace said, abruptly and low. “We couldn’t trust him before, but now he knows your name.”
And Apollo couldn’t help but agree.
“HE’S JUST A gardener,” Maude muttered later that day as she watched Lily dither over the picnic luncheon she was packing. “Well, that’s what he told you, anyway.”
“Do you think he’d like roast chicken or boiled eggs better?” Lily had spent the morning frantically writing so that she might take a few hours’ break in the afternoon, which meant she had only minutes to pack the picnic luncheon. “And he isn’t just a gardener, he’s the head gardener—he’s designing the entire pleasure garden, as far as I can tell.”
“Hinney, a man as big as that, working hard all day, will eat anything and everything you set in front of him,” Maude opined. “If he’s the head gardener and such an important man as all that, why is he livin’ rough in the garden and wearing such common clothes?”
“I don’t know, Maude.” Lily put both the eggs and the leftover roast chicken securely in the basket. It was normally used for Maude’s knitting and she’d been none too pleased to have her work dumped out on the table so Lily could commandeer the basket. “Perhaps he’s down on his luck. Or maybe he likes to stay at the garden he’s working on. Or…” But her imagination had run out. There really wasn’t an explanation for Caliban’s many strange habits.