Edith Layton (9 page)

“I’d be delighted,” she said. “I used to garden too.”

“You amaze me,” he said, bowed, and went to talk to the gardener.

And you astonish me
, Annabelle thought, watching him stride away. How kind he’d been to her. When she’d woken from her sickness and saw his worried face, she’d been aware of a deep feeling of content to find him there. When she’d seen her own face the next terrible morning, she’d thought he would be repulsed by the sight of her and she wouldn’t see him again. But he’d remained at her side, showing her nothing but patience and charm.

Now she watched him walk away and appreciated the sight of him. He moved with easy grace, the sunlight turning his brown hair the color of ripened wheat. He was a very handsome man, she realized. It was surprising that she hadn’t particu
larly noted it before. He’d been only one in a crowd among the fashionable gents in London, but here she could see her new husband was indeed a very good-looking man.

He was dressed casually, but he wasn’t a man who confused relaxation with slovenliness. He didn’t wear baggy, dirty clothes the way some rusticating gentlemen and country squires did. His boots were kept polished, he wore a neckcloth tied in a relaxed style, but it was clean and white. He wore subdued colors, today a brown jacket, with dove gray breeches. Everything was fashionably fitted, but not extremely so; he had room to move in them.

He’d have looked well dressed walking in Regent’s Park, but she wouldn’t have noticed him there, where all the fops and dandies in their high neckcloths, tight jackets, brightly hued pantaloons and glistening boots caught the eye. They would look absurd here, she thought. And then, for the first time, she wondered if they didn’t look absurd where they were.

Odd, she mused, watching Miles. She’d thought a sailor would have a rolling gait, like the old salts one saw near the docks in London. But Miles walked like a man used to covering distances on foot. Fashionable breeches showed every line of a fellow’s legs, and so some gentlemen padded out their calves. Miles didn’t have to, she could scarcely forget that.

She remembered those muscular legs, the furze of hair that covered them, and how strange that had felt against her own—and then, between her own. Sitting there in the mild and pleasant air, drowsy and warm, she allowed herself to remember that night without the anxiety she’d felt then. In fact, as she recollected those moments, she began to feel weak and languorous again, but not sick in the least.

Now she remembered that light hair covered all his limbs like the nap on a peach’s firm skin. He had soft hair on his chest too; she recalled how odd, yet thrilling, it had felt against her breasts. He had hair
there
too; she’d felt it. Now she wished she’d seen it and more. But everything had been done beneath the covers, and she’d been too occupied with how startling it was to notice more. Now too she remembered his kisses, and what he’d done before disappointment ended the stirring of pleasure she’d felt. She remembered too the look in his eyes, and what he’d said…

“
Milady,
you feelin’ up to snuff?” a strange man’s voice asked. “Pardon my sayin’ it, but you looked like you come over queer all on a sudden.”

“Oh no, I’m fine,” she said, looking up to see the old gardener standing beside her, a worried look on his seamed face. “I was only resting my eyes.”

“Well, you looked suddenly red-like. Do you want me to get someone from the house to carry
you out of the sun? Or would you let me? I’m stronger than I look. Have to be, what with bendin’ and plantin’ and pullin’ roots.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said quickly. “But the sunlight doesn’t bother me. I’m enjoying it. So rare these days. An English spring is lovely, but usually damp.”

“Well, you have the right of that, milady,” he said enthusiastically. “I disremember such a long fine string of spring days…no, I lie. The spring of ’07 was just such a spring, would you believe that the daffodils poked up in January and then wasn’t it a shame when the cold came back and froze them?” He went on to talk about spring-times he remembered. He was a very old man, so he recalled many of them.

Annabelle let her mind roll on, following the trail of something indescribably sweet. What was it that had so fascinated her a moment ago? Ah, yes. She’d been remembering when she’d made love to Miles, or rather, when he’d made love to her. Because all she’d done was submit, and feel. But there’d been so much to feel. And so much to hear; she wouldn’t forget the gratified sigh that came from deep in his chest as he drew her close to his own warm body. And what he’d said to her…

She stopped. She sat, half hearing the gardener now talking about the terrible hailstorm of ’03, and felt cold as that day must have been. Because
now she remembered Miles hadn’t said a thing to her as he’d made love to her. He’d taken her gladly and had very generously tried to give her some of the pleasure he’d obviously felt. But he hadn’t said a word.

What could he have said, after all? Never “I love you.” That was a fiction they didn’t even try to maintain. Not “How I want you,” or even “How much pleasure you give me,” or anything sexual, because she supposed that was the sort of thing a man said to his mistress. Sudden bitter laughter rose in her throat like bile.

What could he have said, after all? “I married you because it was expedient, as you married me, but isn’t this pleasant?”

What would it have been like if he’d loved her? If she’d loved him? Would she ever have the chance to know, or would he shun her in the future except when he needed an heir? And if he did only use her for breeding, should she seek out a lover? But if a husband had been hard to choose, how much harder to find someone handsome, kind, generous, and discreet, someone she was attracted to, someone like…Miles?

Annabelle’s eyes widened. Could a woman find pleasure without love? A man certainly could. As for that, when the inevitable day came, would she really feel nothing but relief when he went off to his mistress, as her mother had said would be the case?

“Well, here comes His Lordship,” the gardener said, cutting into her thoughts. “Been good chattin’ with you, milady, and I hope you feel more the thing soon as may be.”

“Thank you,” she said absently, looking up at Miles.

He carried a heavy tartan shawl. “Thank you for taking such good care of my lady,” he told the gardener. “Now,” he said, looking down at her, his eyes alight, “This is how we do it. I arrange this shawl in my arms, pick you up, wrap you like some kind of Scots sausage, and carry you off. Then we take this worthy shawl, spread it on the ground, and voila! It becomes a blanket for you to sit on while you admire my choice of fishing spots. We’ll see if we can find a grandfather trout to rival your Uncle George. Shall we?”

She didn’t answer at once. She’d been charmed, but suddenly realized that he was talking to her as if she were a child. Was that just the way people always spoke to invalids? Or had her sickness changed his attitude toward her?

She couldn’t bear to look at herself now, but she didn’t have to. He did. Now that he’d seen her this way, there was the chance he might never again look and speak to her as a man speaks to a desirable woman—or find her desirable again. Surely, when she regained her strength and her looks, they’d go back to the way they’d been…

The way they’d been? They’d been married
strangers, having conversation merely to fill the time. Making love without love. It was acceptable then. But now to face a lifetime of it seemed unendurable. She shivered though no cloud passed over the sun.

“Are you well? Would you like to go back?”

“No! Never that!” she blurted.

He looked at her curiously.

She realized what he’d really been asking. “No, please,” she said, “I don’t want to go back to the house yet. I feel fine, really. I’ll feel better after meeting your grandfather trout.”

“Your wish is my command.” He arranged the shawl over his arms, picked her up, wrapped her well, then smiled down at her. “Ready?”

“Lead on,” she said. “I have no choice but to follow.”

T
he servants at the lodge stared at the elegant carriage with four outriders as it came clattering up the drive. They hurried to tell their master when the door to the carriage opened and a very irate-looking gentleman quickly stepped down and marched toward the house without even waiting to see the lady behind him alight.

But Miles was already coming down the stair. The sound of the coach’s arrival had been heard upstairs in the bedroom where he’d been keeping his wife company.

A footman swung the front door open. Earl Wylde stood on the step, slapping his gloves against his hand. That was the only thing to show his agitation, because his expression was stiff and cold.

“Your note said my daughter was ill,” he immediately said when he saw Miles. “You wouldn’t have written to tell me if it was a slight indisposition. Naturally I came at once. Newlyweds or not, it’s hardly a thing I could ignore.”

“Nor should you,” Miles said. “I’m happy to tell you she’s recovering. But she was quite ill for a time.”

“For how much time?” the earl demanded.

“Ten very bad days, and nights. It was the influenza, which can take some people very badly. She’s out of the woods now.”

“Oh, what a relief!” Annabelle’s mother breathed from behind her husband. “Thank God! And what a pother! We threw our belongings into bags the moment we got your message, and scrambled to get here. My husband wouldn’t even stop on the road to refresh…”

“Ten days,” the earl said coldly, cutting his wife off. “Then why weren’t we informed sooner?”

“Forgive me,” Miles said. “That was wrong. I didn’t want to send word until I’d lost hope, and I refused to do that. I wrote when she was on the mend.”

“Laudable sentiment,” the earl said through gritted teeth, “but you’re here in the middle of nowhere. I could have brought first-rate physicians from London.”

“She had one,” Miles assured him. “Dr. Selfridge, from London, a consultant to the Prince
himself. He only left yesterday. And she was tended by an excellent local herbwoman whom he has utmost confidence in. In fact, Mrs. Farrow is with her right now. They’re reading together; Annabelle’s eyes grow tired quickly, so we’ve been doing it for her.”

“May we see her?” the earl asked tightly.

“Certainly. At once, if you like,” Miles said, gesturing to the staircase. “Or would you prefer refreshments first?”

“Thank you, but we couldn’t eat a thing until we see her,” her mother said, as they headed for the stair.

But it was Miles who went into the bedroom first. He moved to block the earl and his countess. “I don’t think it would be kind to shock her,” he said. “Let me tell her, please.”

The earl reluctantly agreed. Miles slipped into the room. “I’ve a surprise for you,” he told Annabelle, closing the door behind him. “That noise was your parents arriving. They’re just outside, eager to see you. And they’re angry with me for not telling them about your illness sooner.”

“Why did you have to tell them at all?” she asked.

“Because it will be some time before you’re fully restored to health, and because they are your parents.”

She wet her lips. Her hand went to her cap. “Do I look all right?” she asked nervously.

“You look fine to me,” he said, and then striving for honesty, added, “Much better than you did a week ago, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Farrow?”

“Very much so,” Mrs. Farrow agreed. “You’ve color returning to your cheeks, you’ve eaten more each day and have lost that gaunt look. No question, you’re much improved.”

It was true, Miles thought, but he and Mrs. Farrow had only been looking for the improvement in her. Now he allowed himself to see Annabelle as her parents would: pitifully thin, hollow-cheeked, pale as whey, wearing a huge white lace cap to cover her bald head. Her parents would be expecting the beautiful bride they’d last seen. He tried not to wince. Still, he hadn’t lied. She looked much better than she had a week ago.

“Shall I let them in?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said, sitting up straighter. She turned to the door, and smiled.

Her smile faded, she grew even paler, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Not from the joy at seeing her parents. But because she saw their expressions when they saw her.

It took a day to calm her. Yet even after they’d stopped her from constantly wringing her hands, Annabelle’s mama finally fled Annabelle’s room in tears. “I don’t know what to do!” she cried to her new son-in-law. “If I say she’s looking better and promise her she’ll regain her looks, she says I
only care about her looks. If I don’t mention her looks, she asks me why not? I can’t please her, what shall I do?”

“Wait a bit,” Miles said. “She’s naturally upset at her condition. It makes her prickly with you, and herself too, believe me. Give her some time. She’ll recover in her own time.”

“He’s right,” the earl said.

Miles noted that it was the first time the earl had directly addressed his wife since they’d arrived. The two weren’t angry with each other, at least not that he could tell. They just seemed to lead adjacent lives. Their daughter’s illness brought them together in mutual concern, but not much else.

“We can do nothing but upset her now,” the earl went on. “She’s mending. That’s enough for now. She’s getting good care, and we can’t help with that, so we should go back to London.” He looked at Miles. “I’d like to visit her again after you get to Hollyfields. You’ve said you won’t go until she’s ready to travel. So I’d assume she’ll be more herself by then.”

“Yes, and we’d like that,” Miles said. “This is a momentary reaction; illness has made her cranky, and who can blame her? By the time we get to Hollyfields I’ll wager she’ll be in better spirits, and will gladly welcome you.”

“I’d like a word with her before I go, though,” the earl said.

“Yes, do that. She won’t fly up at you,” the countess said on a watery sniffle, dabbing at her eyes. “Tell her I do love her…in spite of how despicably she treats me.”

The earl sighed, exchanged a quirked smile with Miles, nodded, and went to say good-bye to his daughter.

Annabelle sat in a chair by the window, wrapped in a blanket, a shawl over her shoulders.

“So,” her father said when she didn’t look up at him, rocking back on his heels as he watched her. “We’re leaving. It seems the best thing to do. You’ll get better, perhaps faster without us to plague you. You’re getting good care, that’s all I was concerned about. I haven’t changed my mind,” he said when she didn’t react. “Miles still seems like a good man to me. He gives you utmost care. But that’s all I can see. Tell me, do you agree?”

“I have no complaint of him,” she murmured, still not looking at him.

He nodded. “I haven’t changed my mind about him, as I said. Have you changed yours?”

Now she looked straight at him.

“I’ll be honest with you, I always have been,” her father said bluntly. “You took him because you couldn’t find anyone better. I also believed you didn’t care much for him one way or the other. I’d like to know if that at least has changed?”

She shrugged. She was so dejected, so much a shadow of herself, that it was hard for him to read any other emotion. But then her bright blue gaze met his and he recognized a glimmer of the woman he knew.

“He’s been better than I expected,” she said. “Better than I deserved, I think. It was madness to marry a stranger, I know that now, too late, of course. But yes, he’s a good man. You were right. Does that make you happy?”

“Only if it makes you happy,” he said, frowning. “I wish it did. I wish many things…He said we must give you time to recover. I think you have to give yourself time to see if other things mend as well.” He hesitated, then added, “And I see that I must give you time to understand that I’ve always and ever only wanted your happiness. I wish you’d see that as well.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “Your mama sends her love and claims you don’t understand her.”

They exchanged bright looks.

His voice softened. “She does love you too, you know.”

“I do.” She sighed.

“I’ll tell her you said so. Now I can leave. Be well, my Belle.”

He saw tears start in her eyes. “You used to say that when I was a child.”

“You’re still my child,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “Remember that. Now, take care
of yourself. And remember too that nature can only do so much. You must do the rest. You have to fight, refuse to give in—to your own doubts as well.”

She bit her lip to keep her composure. “Why couldn’t you have been like this before, Father?” she asked, raising her chin. “This concerned, this caring, this warm? You were when I was a girl. You haven’t been since then.”

He glanced away from her and looked down at their hands. “You didn’t need me before…or so I thought.” He drew himself up and stepped away. “Forgive me for that. And remember, if ever you need me again, for anything, you’ve only to let me know. I don’t make the same mistake twice, you know. I make new ones,” he added to make her laugh.

But she didn’t.

Annabelle felt as lighthearted as she did light-headed. She came downstairs all by herself. Mrs. Farrow watched her, proud as a hen with one chick. Annabelle refused help, held on to the stair rail like grim death, and made her slow way downstairs. Servants standing hidden in alcoves held their breath, Mrs. Farrow never left her side, and even though Annabelle knew she was moving like syrup, she exulted.

Here she was, she had done it, she came down on her own!

“First you must be healthy. When your body’s mended, your appearance will be too,” Mrs. Farrow had told her. “Fresh air when the weather permits and exercise when you can. You also must take other remedies along with the excellent medicines Dr. Selfridge left for you. Don’t worry, I told him my plans for your recovery and he approved.”

“Remedies apart from his medicine?” Miles asked.

“Of course. Some of our medicines are the same, but mine will heal the body and nourish it at the same time. Cod’s liver oil for your bones, my lady,” Mrs. Farrow told Annabelle, “will also improve the sheen on your hair.”

Annabelle sniffed. “What hair?”

“The hair that will come in lustrous and shiny,” Mrs. Farrow answered calmly. “A drop of golden maidenhair can do wonders too. We’ll give you wild thyme for the headache, which will also improve your appetite. Rue may be useful for that too. Poultices of Solomon’s seal for the bruises remaining from cupping and leeching will soften and clarify your skin, as will marigold, costmary and chamomile. In fact, a tonic with chamomile when you feel sad is also good for the complexion—there are a host of goodly herbs that serve dual purpose. Those, a diet with eggs, milk and berries, and you’ll be surprised at the results.”

“‘Round about the cauldron go’ indeed,” Miles
commented. “Mrs. Farrow, if you weren’t too pretty to be a witch, I’d worry about you.”

“Pretty, indeed, my lord. I might be a crone, how do you know I haven’t taken a concoction to change that? Please don’t tell my husband I said that or I’ll never hear the end of it!” Miles laughed, and the older woman added, “Just be sure your lady takes her medicine, and whether I’m a witch or not, you won’t have a thing to worry about.”

“I won’t worry,” he’d said.

But Annabelle had, and still did. Still, here she was, ten days later, standing in the front hall, determined to make it all the way to the salon on her own so that when Miles left the library he’d see her there.

He saw her sooner than that. He strolled out of the library and stopped when he saw her standing in the hall. She was gray-faced and wavering. She wore one of her enormous lacy caps that made her head look larger than her body, and that body was clad in a long-sleeved high-necked blue gown that hung and floated in folds around her. She looked so small, thin, and insubstantial that his first impulse was to catch her up in his arms before she fell down. He took a step forward. Then he saw Mrs. Farrow behind Annabelle, frowning at him. She gave him a palm down signal with one hand.

Let it be.

He looked at Annabelle again and noticed her eyes: bright, filled with life and joyous expectation.

“My lady,” he said as understanding dawned. “Did you have a footman carry you down? You should have called me.”

“I came down by myself,” she said.

She raised her head high because the words suddenly sounded childish to her own ears. What a fool she must seem! Only a pathetic invalid would take pride in such an infantile accomplishment. She was Lady Annabelle Wylde—Pelham, she remembered. The belle of London society. And here she was pleading for applause for coming down a stair?

“Did you?” he said with every evidence of real surprise and delight. “Wonderful! By yourself? Soon we’ll be running foot races. I’d better get in practice. Now come, sit down and tell me about it. Or would you rather go out dancing?”

“I was going to the salon.”

“What a coincidence, so was I.” He offered her his arm.

Gratefully, she took it, trying not to lean as hard as she wanted to. But his arm was rock solid. She gave in and leaned on him as he escorted her to the salon, one of her favorite retreats since she’d been able to leave her bedchamber. The room was cozy, rustic, yet elegant, with rich carpets and comfortable old furniture. Furnished in tones of brown, red, and gold, it looked warm and wel
coming in spite of the sudden chill that had set summer back another day. Sunlight poured through long lettered windows, and the glow from the fire that spat and sang in the great stone hearth added to the easeful atmosphere.

He settled her into a chair and smiled down at her. “This is very good,” he told her. “I wasn’t joking, it won’t be long until you’re fit again. Don’t you think?” he asked Mrs. Farrow. But when he looked up, she wasn’t there. “Wanted to give us some time alone, I suspect,” he told Annabelle. “The woman is the soul of discretion as well as a ministering angel. I don’t know how we’ll repay her. She won’t take money. Harry said her husband is warm in the pocket so she doesn’t need any. Just donating to her favorite charity as she asks doesn’t seem enough. She’s been our salvation, but I’m told she does her healing out of a sense of duty as well as adventure.”