Libby tried to scramble down, but the hem of her dress became snagged in the wheel axle and her urgent tugs did nothing to free it. In an instant Michael was by her side, leaning across her and pulling the trapped muslin free. Libby’s eyes widened in horror as his two hands encompassed her waist and she was bodily lifted from the cart and set on the cobblestone street as gently as if she were made of porcelain. “Get your hands off my daughter.” She startled at the venom in her father’s voice and scurried toward the house, but she was no match for Michael’s long-legged stride as he caught up with her at the base of the porch. Didn’t he realize that he was making the situation worse? Michael looked her father directly in the eye. “Mr. Sawyer—” “Professor Sawyer.” “Professor Sawyer,” Michael amended. “Your daughter has been very gracious. Her knowledge of the plants in the area is astounding.” “Her foolishness is astounding! And I ought to have you arrested . . . taking liberties with a mental deficient too stupid to know your motives.” Libby flinched at the fury in her father’s voice and heat gathered in her cheeks. Michael’s brows lowered and he moved to stand between her and the professor. “My English is not perfect and I do not understand what you just called your daughter, but I understand the tone,” Michael said calmly. “You have cause to resent me, but Libby does not deserve to be the target of your anger. I will not leave her in a house where she may be treated harshly.
I want to annihilate that man,” her father growled. “He has taken my house. He has taken my drawings. I swear by all that is holy he is trying to take my daughter.” At Libby’s gasp, her father whirled to fix her with an angry glare. “Yes, my daughter! That man has more tricks up his sleeve than a traveling magician. Don’t think he is fascinated by your charms, Libby. The man only wants to take whatever is mine.
Do you speak English?” she blurted out. “Of course.” And the man’s huge face broke into a smile revealing remarkably white teeth. “My name is Raghib, but everyone calls me Turk.” The man spoke beautiful English and somehow that set her at ease. “Why do they call you Turk?” “Because I am Turkish.
Ignoring her snit, Michael reached over to clasp her hand, holding it possessively. She spoke no words, but returned his squeeze. Perhaps this cloudless, perfect afternoon would be their last day together as allies. The house on Winslow Street was becoming a curse, and she could see no way forward for them. She leaned against his side, and he responded by lowering his cheek to rest against the top of her head.
I am truly an idiot. I should have bargained with a marriage proposal before freeing you.” She leaned her forehead against the rung of the ladder, still shaking too much to trust herself. “No g-gentleman would push a lady in such circumstances,” she said through chattering teeth. “I am not a gentleman. I am a warrior, and we use whatever advantage we can get.” He gave her an affectionate slap on her rump. “What of it, Libby? I think you owe me a little something after this.
You sought out a mercenary soldier from Turkey for advice on courting an American woman?” “It was either Turk or Joseph, and Turk has a way with women. In Europe, they practically fling themselves at him. It is very amusing to watch.” He dragged a hand through his hair in frustration and sent her a sheepish grin that normally would have made her weak in the knees, but all it did today was make her heart ache. “Why don’t you tell me about how these things should be done in America, and I will fix what I have done wrong, yes?
She cast a worried glance at Michael, but a grin had split his face wide open. “You look like a frightened mouse. A little rain will feel good in this heat.
I am Michael Dobrescu, and I apologize for speaking harshly to you. But do not talk to my children or my sister when I am not here,” he said and held his hand out. Libby thought he meant to shake her hand, but when she extended it, he bowed low and brought it to his lips. She snatched her hand back. Well that was a European practice she was not accustomed to. She was thrown off guard and twisted her hand where his lips had touched.
Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, Mercy I ask'd; mercy I found.[684-1]
Why do you dress like a man?” he asked. That made her pause. She glanced down at her smart little suit, the one that always made her feel so sharp. “I don’t dress like a man,” she denied. “I dress in a clean and respectable manner.” His comment hurt, but she would not retaliate. It would be unkind to comment on the battered leather pants he wore or the strange shirts of his children that fell almost to their knees. “No, you definitely dress like a man,” he said. “And your hair is so tightly bound . . . like you don’t want anyone to see it. All of this looks very mannish to me.” She could not let him keep insulting her. Long ago she’d learned that if she did not stand up for herself, the belittling could go on endlessly. “So, you don’t like my name and you don’t like the way I dress or wear my hair. Mr. Dobrescu, is there anything pleasant you can say about me?” He considered the question. Was it her imagination, or did he just sway slightly closer to her? He closed his eyes and he appeared lost in thought, as though he was struggling very hard to come up with something nice to say. At last, he raised his eyes to hers. “I like the way your hair smells.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “My hair?” she repeated stupidly. “Yes.” He leaned forward again and breathed deeply. She took a step back, but the brute followed, sniffing at her in a vulgar display of poor comportment. “I like this scent very much,” he said.
Well, Libby, I have been thinking about our problem,” he finally said. “My boys enjoy your visits, and ever since I met you I have trouble getting the thought of your smile out of my head.” Her eyes widened and her mouth went dry. He looked distinctly uncomfortable as he stared across the field, but he wasn’t finished speaking and Libby would not stop him for all the gold in the world. “I have always thought you very pretty. A man would be blind not to think so, but when you smile! Well, your smile fills half of your face, and it makes the other half beautiful.” Libby was struck speechless. Had he been suffering from the same irrational infatuation she had been battling these past six weeks? A sense of joy started to bloom inside and she beamed a smile directly at him. “Don’t show it to me!” he said with a nervous laugh and turned away from her. “Your smile will distract me, and this is serious business I wish to discuss.” He shifted his weight and stared off into the distance again. “You have a love of the outdoors and for plants, just as I have. You get along well with my children and it is obvious to anyone that you would be an excellent mother. I think we would be a good match. Perhaps you would consider marrying me?
I will find a safer place for Libby to spend the night until your temper has cooled. No woman should be subjected to a man who is under the rule of anger.
She was stunned when he suddenly pushed off the sofa and knelt on one knee before her. “Libby, you have no cause to help me,” he said in an earnest voice. “I have been nothing but trouble to you and your family, but does that mean we are destined to be enemies in all things? Because I think you are a woman of great quality. I watch you march into town armed with nothing but the strength of your compassion for a family in need. You are smart and courageous, and I find this very attractive.
I wish I could have found the red juniper for you,” she said softly. It seemed such an insignificant gift to offer, but finding the tree was important to Michael and the only thing she could do for him. A rustle of fabric and the tread of his boots signaled that he had come to stand behind her, so close she could smell the scent of leather and sweat and man. “I wish I could build a castle for you,” he said simply.
Those stormy blue eyes glowered at her, staring rudely at her smartly matching vest and tie and skimming all the way down to her tightly laced boots. “What kind of name is Liberty?” he asked. “It is not a proper name for a woman, it is a concept. A noun.” She didn’t quite know what to say. She had always been fond of her unconventional name. “It is a perfectly good name.” “I don’t like it.” His statement was blunt and completely unnecessary. “Apparently, they do not teach manners in Romania, but in Massachusetts we wait until formal introductions are complete before hurling insults and seizing houses.
He slowly crossed the barn to squat down in front of her, never once looking away. His callused palm was warm around her icy fingers. “You must never lie to me,” he said softly. “Whatever your story, be it good or bad, I will accept. I am not your father, who will storm and rage at you when disappointed.” And the warmth in his eyes made her believe every word he spoke was true. “You are perfectly and beautifully made,” Michael continued. “You are exactly as God intended for you to be, and I love you precisely as you are.
Are you pulling my leg?” she asked. “Can you really dissect fragrances just by a simple sniff?” He looked befuddled. “Yes, I can tell exactly what is in almost any fragrance, but I am not pulling your leg. I have not touched your leg or any part of your body. I would not do so after the last time you were here and I treated you badly.” He was utterly serious, and Libby had to stifle a laugh as she passed the cake of soap back to him. “I apologize. Pulling my leg is a figure of speech, not something to be taken literally. I was asking if you are teasing me.” Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah. I see. Well, Miss Liberty Sawyer, you seem like the type of person I would like to tease were I free to do so, but I was not teasing you. I think you are a much better artist than the person who painted this soap label. He obviously wanted something pretty, but I think you would want something accurate. Am I right?” She nodded. “You are right.
I see,” she whispered. She withdrew her hand, but Michael snatched it back just as quickly. “I still want to marry you,” he insisted. “I love you and will marry you even though there is no house attached to you.” He tilted her chin so she was forced to look at him. Tiny crinkles fanned out from his troubled blue eyes, and never had she seen such concern in a man’s face. “Do you believe me, Libby?
Women were far more fragile, and if there was one thing Michael could not bear, it was a woman’s tears. Seeing the telltale rim of moisture pooling at the bottom of a woman’s eyes was all it took to make him helpless. When a woman’s voice wobbled with impending tears, all his extravagant strength and courage collapsed like a withered leaf in a gust of autumn wind.
You must make a choice, Libby. I can make you no promises of a fine house or an easy life. I can only pledge that as my wife you will never doubt that I love you and that I will protect you with the last ounce of my strength.
Who is your father?” “The Duke of Vlaska.” There was no hesitation in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. “I thought he was dead,” Libby said. “Are you suggesting you are the current Duke of Vlaska?” This time he looked directly at her, although in the dimness of the barn all she could see was a face carved in shadows and a curious glint in his eyes. “Succession in Romania works the same as in the other European countries. The oldest son is the Duke’s heir.” “And are you his oldest son?” “I am.
Michael sprang to his feet, then she gasped when he swung her up into his arms and whirled her in a circle. Her feet went flying out behind her and she clung to his neck as the yard spun around her. Michael kept spinning her in a circle as peals of laughter sounded from his strong throat. She was breathless by the time her feet landed on the ground, her head still whirling so badly she dared not let go of him lest she fall.
You own this picture?” the man asked. “I painted that picture.” “I don’t believe it,” he scoffed. “You are a woman.” Libby whirled around to look at him, but he was utterly serious. “I have been painting since I was six years old. My hand and my eyes are as good as any man’s.” If she’d said a donkey had painted the picture, he could not have looked more surprised. It was comical, actually, but a smile spread across the man’s wide face. “My family and I have admired the paintings we have found in this house. Never would I have imagined they were done by a woman. This seems very strange to me.
Libby gasped as two hands clamped around her waist. In a mighty heave Mr. Dobrescu hoisted her into the air and spun her around as he carried her from the room. So tightly did he clasp her, Libby could not even draw a breath. “I told you not to speak with her,” Dobrescu snapped. He kicked the bedroom door shut, then tossed Libby back on her feet. The hallway whirled and she braced her hand against the wall to regain her balance.
Why don’t you call me Michael,” Mr. Dobrescu said. “You will damage your throat if you keep mangling our name.
Then let us try teaching you a bit of Romanian,” he said. “You have been mispronouncing our name very badly. The emphasis is on the first syllable. Dobrescu,” he enunciated for her. The way he pronounced his name made it sound entirely different. Musical, even.
Philadelphia is not dull -- it just seems so because it is next to exciting Camden, New Jersey.
An older student came to Otis and said, "I have been to see a great number of teachers and I have given up a great number of pleasures. I have fasted, been celibate and stayed awake nights seeking enlightenment. I have given up everything I was asked to give up and I have suffered, but I have not been enlightened. What should I do?" Otis replied, "Give up suffering." -- Camden Benares, "Zen Without Zen Masters"
Before he became a hermit, Zarathud was a young Priest, and took great delight in making fools of his opponents in front of his followers. One day Zarathud took his students to a pleasant pasture and there he confronted The Sacred Chao while She was contentedly grazing. "Tell me, you dumb beast," demanded the Priest in his commanding voice, "why don't you do something worthwhile? What is your Purpose in Life, anyway?" Munching the tasty grass, The Sacred Chao replied "MU". (The Chinese ideogram for NO-THING.) Upon hearing this, absolutely nobody was enlightened. Primarily because nobody understood Chinese. -- Camden Benares, "Zen Without Zen Masters"
But these distinctions were far from compensating the serious inconveniences of his position. Having been taken up by the king and the bishops, he had to share in their rising unpopularity. The courtiers looked with a jealous eye on a pensioner who enjoyed frequent opportunities of taking James I. on his weak side--his love of book talk--opportunities which they would have known how to use. Casaubon was especially mortified by Sir Henry Wotton's persistent avoidance of him, so inconsistent with their former intimacy. His windows were broken by the roughs at night, his children pelted in the streets by day. On one occasion he himself appeared at Theobalds with a black eye, having received a blow from some ruffian's fist in the street. The historian Hallam thinks that he had "become personally unpopular"; but these outrages from the vulgar seem to have arisen solely from the cockney's antipathy to the Frenchman. Casaubon, though he could make shift to read an English book, could not speak English, any more than Mme Casaubon. This deficiency not only exposed him to insult and fraud, but restricted his social intercourse. It excluded him altogether from the circle of the "wits"; either this or some other cause prevented him from being acceptable in the circle of the lay learned--the "antiquaries." William Camden, the antiquary and historian, he saw but once or twice. Casaubon had been imprudent enough to correct Camden's Greek, and it is possible that the ex-head-master of Westminster kept himself aloof in silent resentment of Casaubon's superior learning. With Robert Cotton and Henry Spelman he was slightly acquainted. Of John Selden we find no mention. Though Sir Henry Savile ostensibly patronized him, yet Casaubon could not help suspecting that it was Savile who secretly prompted an attempt by Richard Montagu to forestall Casaubon's book on Baronius. Besides the jealousy of the natives, Casaubon had now to suffer the open attacks of the Jesuit pamphleteers. They had spared him as long as there were hopes of getting him over. The prohibition was taken off, now that he was committed to Anglicanism. Not only Joannes Eudaemon, Heribert Rosweyd and Scioppius (Gaspar Schoppe),[1] but a respectable writer, friendly to Casaubon, Andreas Schott of Antwerp, gave currency to the insinuation that Casaubon had sold his conscience for English gold. Entry: CASAUBON
LONDONDERRY, CHARLES WILLIAM STEWART (VANE), 3RD MARQUESS OF (1778-1854), British soldier and diplomatist, was the son of the 1st marquess by a second marriage with the daughter of the 1st Earl Camden. He entered the army and served in the Netherlands (1794), on the Rhine and Danube (1795), in the Irish rebellion (1798), and Holland (1799), rising to be colonel; and having been elected to parliament for Kerry he became under secretary for war under his half-brother Castlereagh in 1807. In 1808 he was given a cavalry command in the Peninsula, where he brilliantly distinguished himself. In 1809, and again in the campaigns of 1810, 1811, having become a major-general, he served under Wellington in the Peninsula as his adjutant-general, and was at the capture of Ciudad Rodrigo, but at the beginning of 1812 he was invalided home. Castlereagh (see LONDONDERRY, 2nd Marquess of) then sent him to Berlin as minister, to represent Great Britain in the allied British, Russian and Prussian armies; and as a cavalry leader he played an important part in the subsequent fighting, while ably seconding Castlereagh's diplomacy. In 1814 he was made a peer as Baron Stewart, and later in the year was appointed ambassador at Vienna, and was a member of the important congresses which followed. In 1822 his half-brother's death made him 3rd marquess of Londonderry, and shortly afterwards, disagreeing with Canning, he resigned, being created Earl Vane (1823), and for some years lived quietly in England, improving his Seaham estates. In 1835 he was for a short time ambassador at St Petersburg. In 1852, after the death of Wellington, when he was one of the pall-bearers, he received the order of the Garter. He died on the 6th of March 1854. He was twice married, first in 1808 to the daughter of the earl of Darnley, and secondly in 1819 to the heiress of Sir Harry Vane-Tempest (a descendant of Sir Piers Tempest, who served at Agincourt, and heir to Sir Henry Vane, Bart.), when he assumed the name of Vane. Frederick William Robert (1805-1872), his son by the first marriage, became 4th marquess; and on the latter's death in 1872, George Henry (1821-1884), the eldest son by the second marriage, after succeeding as Earl Vane (according to the patent of 1823), became 5th marquess. In 1884 he was succeeded as 6th marquess by his son Charles Stewart Vane-Tempest-Stewart (b. 1852), a prominent Conservative politician, who was viceroy of Ireland (1886-1889), chairman of the London School Board (1895-1897), postmaster-general (1900-1902), president of the Board of Education (1902-1905) and lord president of the Council (1903-1905). Entry: LONDONDERRY
Built on the horns of a sheltered bay, Hartlepool (Hertepull, Hertipol), grew up round the monastery founded there in 640, but was destroyed by the Danes in 800 and rebuilt by Ecgred, bishop of Lindisfarne. In 1173 Bishop Hugh de Puiset allowed French and Flemish troops to land at Hartlepool to aid the Scots. It is not mentioned in Boldon Book as, being part of the royal manor of Sadberg held at this time by the family of Bruce, it did not become the property of the see of Durham until the purchase of that manor in 1189. The bishops did not obtain possession until the reign of John, who during the interval in 1201 gave Hartlepool a charter granting the burgesses the same privileges that the burgesses of Newcastle enjoyed; in 1230 Bishop Richard Poor granted further liberties, including a gild merchant. Edward II. seized the borough as a possession of Robert Bruce, but he could control it very slightly owing to the bishop's powers. In 1328 Edward III. granted the borough 100 marks towards the town-wall and Richard II. granted murage for seven years, the term being extended in 1400. In 1383 Bishop Fordham gave the burgesses licence to receive tolls within the borough for the maintenance of the walls, while Bishop Neville granted a commission for the construction of a pier or mole. In the 16th century Hartlepool was less prosperous; in 1523 the haven was said to be ruined, the fortifications decayed. An act of 1535 declared Hartlepool to be in Yorkshire, but in 1554 it was reinstated in the county of Durham. It fell into the hands of the northern earls in 1563, and a garrison was maintained there after the rebellion was crushed. In 1593 Elizabeth incorporated it, and gave the burgesses a town hall and court of pie powder. During the civil wars Hartlepool, which a few years before was said to be the only port town in the country, was taken by the Scots, who maintained a garrison there until 1647. As a borough of the Palatinate Hartlepool was not represented in parliament until the 19th century, though strong arguments in its favour were advanced in the Commons in 1614. The markets of Hartlepool were important throughout the middle ages. In 1216 John confirmed to Robert Bruce the market on Wednesday granted to his father and the fair on the feast of St Lawrence; this fair was extended to fifteen days by the grant of 1230, while the charter of 1595 also granted a fair and market. During the 14th century trade was carried on with Germany, Spain and Holland, and in 1346 Hartlepool provided five ships for the French war, being considered one of the chief seaports in the kingdom. The markets were still considerable in Camden's day, but declined during the 18th century, when Hartlepool became fashionable as a watering-place. Entry: HARTLEPOOL
Anne was much devoted to horse-racing, and not only gave royal plates to be competed for, but ran horses for them in her own name. In 1703 Doncaster races were established, when 4 guineas a year were voted by the corporation towards a plate, and in 1716 the Town Plate was established by the same authority to be run on Doncaster Moor. Nearly a century, however, elapsed before the St Leger was instituted. Matches at Newmarket had become common, for we find that Basto, one of the earliest race-horses of whom we have any authentic account, won several matches there in 1708 and 1709. In the latter year, according to Camden, York races were established, the course at first being on Clifton Ings, but it was subsequently removed to Knavesmire, on which the races are now run. In 1710 the first gold cup said to have been given by the queen, of 60 guineas value, was run for by six-year-old horses carrying 12 stone each, the best of three 4-mile heats, and was won by Bay Bolton. In 1711 it was increased to 100 guineas. In 1712 Queen Anne's gelding Pepper ran for the Royal Cup of £100 at York, and her Mustard, a nutmeg-grey horse, ran for the same prize in 1713. Again in 1714 her Majesty's bay horse Star won a sweepstake of 10 guineas added to a plate of £40 at the same place, in four heats, carrying 11 stone. In 1716 the Ladies' Plate at York for five-year-olds was won by Aleppo, son of the Darley Arabian. Racing and match-making continued to be a regular sport at Newmarket, and at York and Hambleton, and we also find a record of a race at Lincoln in August 1717 for a silver tea-board, won by Brocklesby Betty, as was the Queen's Plate at Black Hambleton in the year before. Entry: GREAT
No special biography of Leicester has yet been written except in biographical dictionaries and encyclopaedias. A general account of him will be found in the Memoirs of the Sidneys prefixed to Collins's _Letters and Memorials of State_; but the fullest yet published is Mr Sidney Lee's article in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ (London, 1888) where the sources are given. Leicester's career has to be made out from documents and state papers, especially from the Hatfield MSS. and Major Hume's _Calendar_ of documents from the Spanish archives bearing on the history of Queen Elizabeth. This last is the most recent source. Of others the principal are Digges's _Compleat Ambassador_ (1655), John Nichols's _Progresses of Queen Elizabeth_ and the _Leycester Correspondence_ edited by J. Bruce for the Camden Society. The death of Dudley's first wife has been a fruitful source of literary controversy. The most recent addition to the evidences, which considerably alters their complexion, will be found in the _English Historical Review_, xiii. 83, giving the full text (in English) of De Quadra's letter of Sept. 11, 1560, on which so much has been built. (J. Ga.) Entry: LEICESTER