An Unlikely Countess (22 page)

Prudence longed for tea, but there’d be no such luxury here. Brandy would do, but pulling a flask from her pocket might make them suspect.

She sank onto the settle, slipping off her shoes, feeling at home, perhaps because this room reminded her of Hetty’s kitchen. Hetty, like this farmwife, knew how to make a comfortable home out of a bleak structure. Prudence and her mother had never been able to do that.

Why blame it on the house?

She rubbed her feet, sighing at her soiled stocking, accepting that she might lack the ability to create a comfortable home in a bleak structure, and that something like this might be all Cate had to offer. Everyone had been skeptical of his claims to property and money and they’d doubtless been right. His shirt was threadbare and mended in a number of places. Why wear it if he had better?

She’d still choose him over Draydale a hundred times, but why could her life never be smooth? In truth, she asked little of it. She was suddenly teary and pulled out her handkerchief, but when she raised it, she saw blood on her hands.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?”

The farmer’s wife stood there with two pots of ale.

“No. My husband was. By glass when the carriage tipped over. Can I wash my hands?” The rain was coming down now, but she said, “Perhaps in the stream?”

“No need for that,” said Mistress Stonehouse. She put down the ale and went to dip water out of a cask into a basin. “We always keep water inside.” Again she spoke with pride, but she apologized when she put a wooden bowl of flaked soap on the table. “It’s not fine stuff, ma’am, such as you’ll be used to.”

It was harsh soap, probably made of sheep’s fat and lye, but a few weeks ago it had been the sort she’d used.

“It’ll clean my hands, which is all that matters.”

As she washed her hands Prudence resolved to give their hostess a gift. She had a pot of sweet soap in her trunk.

“That’s a nasty bruise you ’ave on yer face, ma’am. Come up fast, that ’as.”

Prudence dried her hands, wondering if the woman was suspicious. She might know the look of a blow a day old. “It happened earlier,” she said, and went to Cate smiling, hoping to remove any suspicion that he’d hit her.

Cate toasted her with his ale, but he was standing, not sitting.

“Uncomfortable?” she asked.

“I’m not going to try it. Sooner or later I’ll have to sit again, in carriage or on horseback, but no need to rush it. How are your bruises? The new ones, I mean.”

“Minor.”

But then Mistress Stonehouse cried, “The rain’s here full pelt. Quick, the shutters!”

The four small windows didn’t have glass and they all hurried to slam shutters closed; then Mistress Stonehouse ran through a door by the hearth and they heard more shutters slam. Her smocked toddler stood in the midst of the flurry, thumb in mouth, staring at Prudence.

“Good day to you,” Prudence said.

The thumb came out; the child said, “Day,” and shoved it back in again.

His mother came back. “There’s a good lad, Jackity.”

“A very clever boy,” Prudence agreed, making the mother beam.

All mothers loved praise of their children. Except that she didn’t remember hers showing pride in her, and it seemed Cate’s mother didn’t appreciate his qualities. His unappreciative mother was at Keynings and wouldn’t approve of him any the more for a bride who turned up bloodstained and dirty, her hair a bird’s nest.

A carriage accident was excuse for her tattered condition, but all the same she wanted to present herself to her mother-in-law in as respectable a state as possible. Before they left here she’d change into something else, though she had nothing else as fine.

Farmer Stonehouse came in then, sacks over his head. “We need the rain,” he said, as if daring anyone to criticize anything here.

His son toddled over to him and was lifted proudly. “There’s my grand lad!”

“Sit you down and rest a moment, me love,” said his wife. “I’ll make the griddle cakes and we can eat.”

“And you’ll eat well,” the farmer said. “A fine housekeeper, my Peg is.”

“I can see that, sir.” Cate raised his ale. “You’re a fortunate man.”

“I am, sir, I am,” said the young farmer, sitting down, and simmering down as well.

“Do you have good land here?” Cate asked, and that led to a conversation about rich land and poor, and the uses it could be put to. Talking of such matters, the men seemed almost equal, but Cate seemed well-informed for a soldier. Perhaps he’d inherited a farm and was learning about it.

Perhaps that was what he’d been about to confess—that he couldn’t take her to a manor house, but only to a farmhouse. She didn’t mind too much, apart from the fact that she lacked all the skills. A farmer’s wife had to know about pigs and poultry, and about making butter and cheese. She might have to help at harvesttime, and then there were the other skills, such as making wine, cordials, and cream for the hands.

She considered her clean hands, so smooth and ladylike. She’d better see if she could get the recipe from Hetty’s mother. She might also need to know how to make bread on an iron griddle, for a small farm like this one wouldn’t have an oven.

Then she remembered that Cate had promised her servants. He wouldn’t have lied to her, and good servants would know how to make bread, oven or not. She could do this. She could be Catesby Burgoyne’s goodwife and make him comfortable, even on little money.

But first she had to survive their visit to Keynings.

She didn’t understand why they had to go there so quickly. Perhaps it was some sort of obligation in the aristocracy that a bride must be presented to the head of the family. Perhaps he was even expected to ask permission. She’d heard officers in the army had to have permission of their general before marrying.

She picked at the bloodstains on her green silk skirt, as if they could be scratched off. Her next-finest outfit was stylish, with braid and frogging, but of sturdy cloth intended for travel. She’d have put it on this morning except that it had seemed too military for a wedding dress.

There were three day dresses in her trunk, one of white with a yellow stripe, one of cream with small printed flowers, and one of a bright chintz. All were lightweight, however, and odd garments to wear on a journey. The only other gown was her blue, which she hadn’t been willing to discard after doing so much work on it. It was definitely unsuitable.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mistress Stonehouse said. “Call the lad, Jonny.”

The farmhand soon raced in and they all sat down. Farmer Stonehouse said grace, and his wife then ladled a thick stew into wooden bowls. It was mostly vegetables but very tasty, and the griddle bread spread with butter was delicious. There was even a dessert of stewed pears, probably from fruit dried the autumn before. A provident housewife could do so much with so little.

She would learn to be a provident housewife.

She’d felt differently in White Rose Yard, and in the places they’d lived before. She’d had no heart for learning such skills and looked only toward the day when she would return to her rightful place. Now she’d cast her lot in with Cate Burgoyne, and she certainly had the heart to try to make their home comfortable.

She offered to help with the cleaning up after the meal, but Mistress Stonehouse said, “Sit y’self down, ma’am. I’ll scrub the dishes in the stream later. It’ll be a pretty afternoon when the rain’s passed.”

Cate went to crack open a shutter. “There is some clearing in the distance.”

Prudence went to look for herself. There was a hint of brightness, but she realized how tucked away this farm was. She couldn’t see road or carriage.

“What if my trunk is stolen?”

Cate looked at her. “Then it’s stolen, but it’s unlikely on such a quiet road. And someone would have to force open the boot.”

“The rain might get in.”

He shook his head at her. “Then it gets in.”

“But I’d have to travel on in this gown.” She turned. “Mistress Stonehouse, do you have salt to spare to try to remove the bloodstains on my gown?”

“Aye, but is that silk? Salt could damage silk.”

“If the stains won’t come out the gown’s ruined, so I’d best try.”

The farmer’s wife provided water again, a box of salt, and a rag to clean with. Prudence dabbed salt on the worst stain.

“You’d do better out of it,” Mistress Stonehouse said. “I’ve spare clothes in t’other room if you want.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Nay, get on with you. My things’ll be a bit short, mind.”

“It’s only for a little while. Thank you.”

Prudence was truly impressed by such easy generosity. When had she known the like? From Hetty, she supposed. As she went to the small door alongside the hearth, she remembered Hetty saying something about people being best off in their place. Perhaps it was easier to be born to a simple life and be content to stay in it all one’s days. She’d been raised up, cast down, raised up again, and now she didn’t know quite where she belonged.

There wasn’t even firelight in the bedchamber, so Prudence opened the shutters a crack. The rain had perhaps slackened, and there might be brightness in the distance, but at the moment its steady fall suggested that it liked it here and intended to stay.

She turned to consider the room, which was clearly the only other one. Beyond the end wall must be part of the farm buildings, perhaps a barn of some sort.

This room held a big bed, a small one, and a cradle in a corner, waiting for the new arrival. The bed was crudely made, probably by the farmer himself, but covered with a patchwork coverlet in bright colors. A similar one covered the child’s small bed, and a third lay in the cradle. Despite poverty and sometimes hardship, the babe would arrive into a loving, pretty world.

She would manage to create the same for her children.

There was no clothespress here, only hooks on the wall and a couple of wooden chests. Two hooks held clothing covered with unbleached cloth. Curious, she raised one cloth and saw a man’s suit. It was made of rough brown wool, but would be Farmer Stonehouse’s finery, reserved for church and other special occasions.

Beneath the other cloth she found a yellow gown embroidered with colored flowers made of simple hook work, perhaps done by Mistress Stonehouse herself. It would be the woman’s wedding gown, again reserved for church and special occasions, but strangely similar to the dress Prudence had worn to marry Draydale. It was a world apart in elegance and price, but this one was more valuable by far. It had been made with love for a loving marriage and spoke of shining hope of future happiness.

She dropped the protective cloth back over the gown. Her marriage to Draydale had carried no such hopes, but what of her marriage to Cate? She did hope for happiness, desperately.

She looked at her wedding ring. It was a tawdry thing, but she might want to wear it all her days. It symbolized forever, which was a treasure beyond price if only she could be worthy of him.

And if only, if only, he came to love her too.

She quickly chose the simplest clothing available—a skirt of pale blue linen and a bodice in a deeper shade. She took off her stained gown and checked her petti-coat. No stains had penetrated. Her stays were also unblemished. She stepped into the skirt, pulled it up, and tied the laces at her waist. When she looked down, she saw inches of ankle. It must have already been short for working wear, and now it was too short. She might not have minded, except that it exposed dirty stocking and battered shoes.

She felt like a slattern, but this was only for a little while. If she could restore her green to some sort of decency, she’d be ready for Keynings. If not, she hoped her trunk was still in the coach and undamaged by the rain. She’d be able to change into clean stockings, sturdy shoes, and the rust-red traveling gown.

C
ate leaned on the wall by the slightly open shutter, watching the weather not improve to any appreciable degree. He knew Yorkshire rain. It could sweep by quickly, or settle in for days.

The rain would have put off any coach or cart coming to rescue them, so what to do when it cleared? Wait or walk? He’d walk if he had to, but the wound in his leg didn’t make it a pleasant prospect.

If a vehicle did turn up, how was he going to pay for it? The few coins in his pocket wouldn’t be enough, and he doubted Prudence had much more. He had the earl’s signet ring and Roe’s mourning ring, but couldn’t consider trading either for transportation. A ridiculous situation, all in all, but his wife was worth the price.

Impulse had served him well for once. He’d recognized Prudence Youlgrave’s qualities from the first, and the past days’ events had confirmed them. She might not have been born to be a countess, but she’d make a wonderful one.

What would Artemis, or his mother, or Bland, Bumble, and Fizz have done if faced with today’s events? Been uselessly terrified during the action and thrown a fit of the vapors afterward, ending up good for nothing but a bed with people fussing over them. Instead, his wife had fussed over him. He didn’t remember anyone doing quite the same.

She was quick, clever, and in all ways admirable.

Then she came out of the other room, the green silk gown over her arm, looking like a peasant.

“Was there nothing better to wear?” he asked.

She frowned, shooting a meaningful glance at their hostess. “This will suit very well.”

She spread the skirt of the gown over the end of the table and set to dabbing at it with water and salt. The child toddled over to touch the embroidered silk, batting at it, chuckling. Prudence smiled and teased, but Mistress Stonehouse came over to chide her child.

Prudence said, “Let the child play. He’ll do no harm.”

“He’ll make dirty marks.”

“Of the sort easy to remove. I’m not so sure about the blood. I’m only spreading the stain.”