Edith Layton (10 page)

“She told me it’s a family tradition,” Annabelle said. “If the world were different, she’d be a doctor, or so she said.”

“Aha! Have we taken a bluestocking into our midst?”

“I don’t think so,” Annabelle said thoughtfully. “She doesn’t bury her nose in a book all day. But she’s as learned as any man and more than most. She doesn’t dislike men either; she adores her husband and sons. But she says men treat women like children—until they get sick, and they turn
into children themselves. I’ve never met anyone like her before…but then, I haven’t spent much time with women.”

“Why is that?” Miles asked, taking a chair opposite, leaning forward to listen.

Annabelle hesitated. The subject was one that had often puzzled her, even made her feel slightly shamed—for no good reason, her mother always assured her. But he had asked.

She cocked her head to the side as she thought about her answer. “I had friends when I was a child, of course,” she said. “But they fell away as I grew older.” She looked down at her hands and then up, fixing Miles with her great blue eyes, defiance and entreaty in her gaze. “Girls—women—begin to compete rather than cooperate when they come to the age when they start looking for husbands, you see. That age is very young. Why, I went to my first ball, in the countryside, when I was sixteen. But the other girls started to react differently to me then.”

“Because the men flocked to you?” he asked mildly.

She nodded, looking down again. “Mama said I shouldn’t take it personally, but I did. I was hurt. Then—I suppose I tried to repay them by attracting the men and boys even more. And I did! I gathered offers like flowers in springtime. Especially from those gentlemen I knew the other girls were consid—But why am I running on like
this?” she asked gaily, trying to cover her sudden embarrassment. “How foolish I must sound, how pathetic, when all I can attract now are physicians.”

She bent her head to hide her tears, fumbled in her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “Drat!” she said on a watery sniff. “I hate this! But these easy tears are part of recuperation, or so Mrs. Farrow says.”

He waited until she recovered herself, and needed the time to recover himself as well. This was more unwelcome news. Not the tears, he understood that. Her lack of friends. Most women, even the great beauties, had women friends. Another blow to his ambitions, more proof of his folly in marrying so fast. He’d done it to help his mother and sister, and had chosen a bride who didn’t get on with other females. Wonderful, he silently congratulated himself. He was well served. His beautiful bride had lost her looks and really didn’t seem to have anything else to offer.

But that wasn’t fair or right, and he knew it. She had a vaunting spirit, determination, and courage. She’d never whined once, even when she was really sick. In fact, when she was at her worst all she’d done was blame herself. She was bright and perceptive, she had a lively, unquenchable sense of humor, she liked fishing; who knew what else he would discover? And he’d better get on with discovering it, he thought ruefully, because
he had to salvage something from this marriage, for her sake as well as his own. They might have made one capital mistake, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t yet find some good in it.

He didn’t know her any better than she knew him. At least he could try to do something about that. The best way would be to tell her about himself, and hope it would stimulate her own reminiscences. Then he’d wait and listen close, and pray that when she spoke about herself, he’d find something they could build on.

M
iles sat and listened to the fire crackling in the hearth, until Annabelle became composed. When she tucked her handkerchief back into her sleeve, he leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands, and said, “You say you didn’t have many friends when you were younger? As for me, I had too many.”

“Did you?” she asked, diverted.

“Yes, too many friends, or so my mother said. I was brought up in the countryside. Not at Hollyfields, that’s my late uncle’s manor house, much grander than where I was raised. No, I grew up at a smaller estate in the West Country. I’ll take you there one day. I love the place, but I know living at Hollyfields will give my family more prestige and influence in the social world, and that’s what they
need now. Ours was a neat little holding, a remote gentleman farmer’s manor.

“My father let me run wild there,” he went on. “‘Wild—with judicious supervision,’ as he put it. He said that since I’d be a man who’d go out into a changing world, I should know more of that world than just the estate and my school. So he let me run with all the local children; blacksmiths’ sons, farmers’ sons, anyone I pleased. It pleased me, all right. I spent my summers and vacations romping with every boy on the estate and in the village, learning from them. I learned more than my father thought—but I think he knew, and that was precisely what he wanted.”

He wore a reminiscent smile. “My father took me fishing too, but it was the gatekeeper and his son who really taught me how to do it successfully. Just as it was a farmer’s son who first told me the truth about women and men and the mysterious things they could do together, and the smith’s two sons who showed me where to see the local smugglers unloading the district’s wine. They and the other children in the neighborhood were my close companions and best friends, and they showed me the way of the world, the good and the bad. Fittingly enough, it was a vicar’s boy who was my truest friend when—” His expression changed. He cleared his throat and went on, “In times of trouble.”

She’d forgotten her tears at his words, and now her attention was riveted. “What trouble?”

He took a deep breath and studied his clasped hands. “Much trouble. When my father died, and then after my mother remarried. She married a cad; you must know that. She married as hastily as Hamlet’s mother did, only thank God Peter Proctor was no blood relation to us. Nor did he kill my father, though I don’t doubt he would have if he’d known him and knew how he’d profit from marrying his widow.

“And just like that unfortunate young Danish prince,” he went on, his voice too bright for the venom underlying his words, “I came home from school to console my mother, only to find she’d married again. I was appalled. But I dared be hopeful. He seemed a good enough fellow, at first.”

Miles rose, paced to the window, and looked out as he spoke. “Proctor was a handsome man, if you like big, hearty florid types. He was genial, he was confident, I suppose he looked like someone she could rely on. Mama doesn’t do well by herself,” he said with a glance at Annabelle. “She’d been a great beauty and was used to men doing everything for her. My father did. The only thing he asked of her was that she sit like a lovely flower in a vase, decorate his life, and be happy with him. She’d been trained to be nothing else by her own father, after all.

“How many men of our class ask more of our daughters or wives?” he asked with a smile that was almost a grimace. “She thought Proctor was the same kind of man as her father and mine were, I think. She made a huge mistake, of course.”

Annabelle sat upright in sudden alarm. Did he realize his description of his mother sounded like a comment on herself? And so was he criticizing her? But he seemed lost in his narration.

“Proctor wanted that of her too,” he went on, “and he wanted my father’s money. Then when he’d gone through it, in staggeringly short order, he found another use for my mother, or rather, her name and standing in society. He used her as an entrée to the best houses, because though he had some family connections he wasn’t of any particular rank, and he wanted to move in society so he could swindle more people out of their money.

“I suppose his beggaring us could have been borne. But his shaming us was insupportable, at least for me.” He paused. “An inadvertent joke. Insupportable, indeed. Unsupportable, more like. I left the country because he couldn’t and wouldn’t support me any longer, and it began to look like he couldn’t support the family either. His fraudulent investment schemes were being discovered, it was rumored the stable of Thoroughbreds he was so happy to sell at an exorbitant price really belonged to someone else, his cheating at cards and dice was being whispered about.
It was getting harder for him to live in the style to which he’d become accustomed, on our money. And that money was running out as fast as his luck at the gaming tables.

“My mother’s parents were long gone, and her father left his fortune to their son, as is customary. My uncle was a skint. So I joined the navy. I hadn’t the money to buy my colors in the army, and I’d been told that in the navy a man could move up in the ranks by dint of his efforts. I did. I worked very hard.”

He opened his clenched hands and studied his palms. “The calluses have faded, but I had my share. It was well worth it. I worked hard and it eventually made me a man, and a rich one. The years away were a small price to pay,” he said softly, then smiled. “Funny little rhyme, but true. I like sailing and the open sky above me, so the job suited me well.”

“But the danger!”

“The danger?” He laughed. “I was young, unhappy with my life on land, and patriotic too. The danger was almost the best part of it. No, I didn’t mind my service but I could have lived very happily without all those years away from England, those years following the wind, away from home and family—” He stopped.

He saw Annabelle’s expression. “Please don’t weep for me. I survived and profited, mind, body, and bank account. In fact, my worst problem with
His Majesty’s Service was that I couldn’t wait to get home to show Proctor how very well I’d done and how little I’d do for him. But when I left the quarterdeck I was sent on other business for His Majesty, and was out of touch with home for a spell. When I finally did get home I found my prize had been snatched from me. Proctor was dead and gone. All I had left was my fortune and my family.” His grin was sardonic. “Poor me, eh? I’ve got more than most men and absolutely no right to complain.

“So,” he said, on a sudden laugh. “Look what I’ve done! I ask about you and spend the time talking about myself. That will never do, but at least I’ve shown you the way. Now,” he said, sitting opposite her again and looking at her expectantly, “tell me more about yourself. What do you like to do? What don’t you like to do? We may not be spending our honeymoon in conventional fashion, but surely we can use the time to get to know each other better.”

She relaxed. This was conversation. This she could do well. Polite chatter was something she thought she might be able to do on her deathbed…She started to speak and paused. The thought about her deathbed stopped the words in her throat, until she saw Miles’s startled look and saw him starting to rise to his feet.

“Don’t worry, I’m not having any kind of
seizure,” she said, waving her hand to get him to sit again. “I just had so many things to say I couldn’t think where to start. I was about to make ‘conversation,’ you see. Then the thought came to me that though I could chatter all day, it wouldn’t be what you asked. I know how to make the most enchanting, the very smallest talk. One must if one wants to succeed in society. But none of it would tell you a thing about me except that I can do it. I think the best way to know about me is to spend time with me. Time, I think, will tell you what you want to know.”

His expression became quizzical. “Excellent answer. The best obfuscation I’ve ever heard. No wonder you’re so exalted in society. So,” he said over her laughter, “you want me to live with you? All right. I think I can do that.”

She gave him an arch look that once would have devastated a roomful of men, “You think you can live with me? That’s something you really can’t know yet, isn’t it?”

“Then I look forward to finding out.”

She smiled, but her spirits suddenly sank. Because charming as this wordplay was, it was an absurd conversation for a couple to be having on their honeymoon. It was what they should have discussed during their courtship. This was a honeymoon, when a couple were together as they’d longed to be all during that courtship. That was
when a couple got to know and to love each other, this was supposed to be the time when their bodies did that.

That reminded her there was something else that needed to be said, something very difficult. She always paid her debts, and now she couldn’t. She forced herself to speak up, though she had to cast her eyes down to do it.

“I’m sorry our honeymoon has come to this,” she said woodenly. “One day soon I’ll be able to be your wife—in all ways—again.”

She raised her gaze and saw his slight recoil before he could check it. “Are you apologizing?” he asked, his expression now bland. “But there’s nothing to apologize for. I could as easily have been the one to get sick. About your duties as a wife, please believe I’m content to wait until you’re well.”

His fleeting expression had already told her more than that. He’d been horrified at the mere thought of bedding her.

“Ah! I didn’t mean to start you weeping again.” He took her hand. “Tell me, are you weary? I wouldn’t be surprised. You did too much in too short a time. Shall I take you upstairs again?”

She nodded.

He scooped her up and carried her to the stair. She held on tight, her arms around his neck. Not because she thought he might drop her, but be
cause she didn’t want to weigh too heavily on him…and because, she realized, it felt so good to hold on to him.

He was so careful of her it brought those damnable easy tears to her eyes again. She hid her face against his chest. She felt the hair at the base of his neck under her fingers, soft and clean. She breathed in the scent of him too: lemon soap and his own indescribable, fascinating essence.

He was so carefully watching his step as they went up the stair that she found she could look at him unobserved. His eyelashes were dark and short, but very thick. She hadn’t noticed that before. She’d never gazed at him this closely or directly before either, maybe because she’d gone through their engagement numbly, waiting for it to be ended, never allowing herself to imagine she’d actually marry him. Maybe too, she admitted now, she’d been uncomfortable meeting his bright, knowing blue-gray gaze.

He was a very attractive man, she thought again, before she caught herself, marveling at her folly. Of course she found him attractive! There were no other men around. But he was, and more than that, he was a good man and she’d never fully realized it. How lucky she was…or was she?

“What, weeping again?” he asked huskily. “There, there. Mrs. Farrow will brew you up one of her marvelous elixirs, and you’ll feel fine again
in no time. You’ve come so far so fast, it’s only a little setback. Hush,” he crooned to her, “don’t weep or you’ll wash us both downstairs.”

She obliged him with a chuckle. But it was false. He spoke to her as though she were a child. How long, she wondered, before he looked at her as a woman again? If ever?

“I like dancing as well as fishing,” she said.

He paused mid-step, looked down at her, and raised an eyebrow.

“And the theater, as you know, and reading Minerva Press novels, as you don’t. And I like marzipan pigs, and speaking of pigs, I make one of myself over Banbury cakes, or any cakes with currants in them. Ask me anything, Mi—”

She was going to say, “Ask me anything, Miles.” But she stumbled over the word, realizing she’d never called him that. She never called him anything. She’d wed a stranger and bedded one, and he might forever remain one. He might never bed her again either, although surely duty would one day outweigh his reluctance to make love to an ugly woman.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head violently, not trusting herself to speak, choking back sobs. For all that was true, she was disgusted with herself, shamed at how weepy she was. That made even more tears gather in her eyes.

“That settles it!” he said, striding up the stair
with her again. “Time for bed for you, my lady. Soon you’ll be feeling better and soon as you do, we’ll go home. This was never meant to be more than a visit anyway. Trust me, you’ll feel better once you’re at my—our home, with my family.”

That stopped her tears.

It frightened them away.

“I repeat, you’ve color in your cheeks now and your bruises have faded,” Mrs. Farrow told Annabelle, “You can look at yourself without flinching. You’re doing much better than you seem to think.”

Annabelle turned from the mirror and silently held her gown away from her body, showing how loose it was.

“It hardly pays to take it in, as you’ll fit all your gowns again soon,” Mrs. Farrow said calmly.

Annabelle stared at the older woman, then defiantly whipped off her lacy cap. Her well-shaped skull was covered by a fine dark down that looked more like shadowing than hair.

Mrs. Farrow’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, it’s growing in. And it is even now beginning to curl.”

“Yes, very attractive. It looks exactly like the hair I have down there, only not as lush,” Annabelle said bitterly, casting her glance down to her abdomen as she pulled the cap over her head again.

“Your hair is growing,” Mrs. Farrow said. “You can walk without being winded. You went fishing yesterday—”

“I sat on the bank and watched him fish yesterday,” Annabelle corrected her. But she paused, remembering. It hadn’t bothered her that she couldn’t fish, she’d had too much fun watching.

Miles was an excellent fisherman, casting perfectly, but that wasn’t what had pleased her. They couldn’t speak, not wanting to frighten the trout away, but they’d communicated. He’d seen to it, even though it meant he couldn’t catch a thing. He’d entertained her instead, pantomiming what he was trying to do until she had to stifle giggles. He pretended he was slipping on a rock and about to fall into the water. He’d acted chagrined when he deliberately set his cast wrong, and had feigned outsize joy turning to horror when he supposedly felt a tug on the line—and lost the lure.