Marriage of Inconvenience (12 page)

He had felt such a deep connection to Rebecca. He had hoped to awaken the passions he knew resided within her. He’d been foolish enough to believe she would also feel the connection, but she obviously did not.

Had she, she would have revealed to him her authorship.

Why was it his lot in life to be saddled with women who were intrinsically dishonest? He had thought Rebecca would be different. He had hoped theirs was to be a true partnership.

But she didn’t even trust him enough to admit her alter ego. That had been eating at him like acid on rock, slowly yet decisive.

The farther he walked away from the main house, the guiltier he felt for his rash behavior to Rebecca. He supposed he’d already been on edge before she’d even come into the library that night. Because he’d brought Rebecca into his home, he was losing his cherished daughter. He’d always enjoyed an excessively close relationship with Emily, but the morning they had ridden, even though Rebecca was not with them, his wife sliced a rift between them that he feared would never be repaired. Emily had been solemn and distant, not the laughing, playful girl she had always been.

He’d made the mistake of bringing up Emily’s presentation in London, and she’d launched into an angry attack at him—and Rebecca. “
She
wants to be rid of me, no doubt!” Emily had said.

“You do your stepmother a great disservice. She wants only what will make you happy, as do I,” he’d told her.

“Then I beg you don’t make me go to London.”

His lips in a grim line, he’d told her he would give consideration to her feelings.

He loved Peter, really he did, but he loved Emily too much to wish her married to a wastrel.

The house was so far away now he could no longer see its lit windows. He had best turn back. The cold air stinging his cheeks, he continued to think about Rebecca. Before her, his life had been less conflicted. Utterly lonely, but peaceful nevertheless. Through her, he had glimpsed a sliver of potential happiness, and had rushed toward it like a blind old fool. And what had he gotten for his imprudent act? A deep chasm with his beloved daughter and a wife who thought to boss him as if he were a misguided child. A dishonest wife, at that!

He tried to tell himself this marriage was not bad. Rebecca did have a way with lads, and he truly believed she cared deeply for Chuckie and Alex. Against his will, he pictured her in the coach that morning after church, holding his youngest son on her lap. No one could have seen her and not believed she was Chuckie’s natural mother. He could have wept with joy.

And now he could weep for altogether different reasons, reasons he himself could not fully comprehend.

As he came closer to the house, he wondered if he should ask Rebecca’s forgiveness for his rude conduct. But with a certainty born of resolve, he vowed he would not. Though he knew his actions unpardonable, he felt even more strongly her meddling ways could not be tolerated. Early in this marriage, he must show her he was not some simpleton to be led around by a domineering wife.

It was still hard to credit that he’d married Rebecca. What had possessed him?

Long after he entered the house, long after he climbed the stairs, and long after he lay in his bed unable to sleep, he asked himself the same question. Why
had
he married the bossy Miss Peabody?

* * *

Rebecca, too, lay in her bed hour after hour pondering this marriage. When Aynsley had so angrily left her in the library, she’d been stunned. More than that, she’d been hurt and humiliated. Though she was irritated over his stubborn support of child labor, she had not been angry with him. She would never have mentioned the silly wager had she known he would have so violent a reaction to it. She’d meant it only as a jest.

The anger she had elicited from him could only have arisen if there were other, underlying impediments to them enjoying a smooth marriage. Her husband must already be regretting that they’d wed. But why now? There was, of course, Emily’s disapproval. Had she said something to her father the morning they had ridden? Had he come to believe their marriage had been a mistake? Spencer, also, seemed to resent her. Twice now he’d snapped that she wasn’t his mother. Though she must own, the rest of the time he’d been a perfect angel, the dear boy.

Did Aynsley regret the bedroom arrangements? Did he think her an unfeeling prude of a woman who could never love a man?

He obviously thought her a manipulator, and she could understand that a certain type of man would be resentful of such a woman.

But did he not know she was willing to make compromises? She wanted most keenly for this marriage to be a true partnership.

A deep melancholy had seeped into every pore of her body and robbed her of the ability to sleep. Since she had stood before the fire with Aynsley that night in Warwick’s library, she had felt the Lord guiding her to this man and his children.

Had she been mistaken?

No, surely not! She recalled the words she said to her bridegroom before the priest on their wedding day.
I take John to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.

She had felt God’s presence in the church that day. Her vow was not only to John but to God. Had both of them forsaken her now? She began to weep.

Chapter Eleven

A
ynsley was not in the morning room when Rebecca went down for breakfast. She had hoped to see him, to offer an apology. She could not remember a time when she had been more upset, and knowing that she was the source of their conflict increased her suffering tenfold. Why could she not hold her tongue? Why did she have to be possessed of such strong opinions? She was sure Aynsley must be wishing he’d married a meek, compliant woman. Certainly, he must be wishing he’d never married her.

She went to the cherrywood sideboard and poured herself a cup of tea. She eyed the toast and jams, but she had no appetite. In her state of agitation, she doubted she could keep anything in her stomach.

As was the family custom, the fast was broken each morning at a table that was only slightly larger than a game table and was situated against tall windows that afforded a view of the lake. Perhaps looking out over the rolling, peaceful landscape of Dunton would soothe her after her miserable, sleepless night.

Far in the distance toward the apple orchard she could glimpse her husband riding with another man, a man she assumed to be his steward.

“Have you seen Peter?”

Rebecca spun around to face her stepdaughter, smiling. “No, I haven’t.”

Emily did not return the smile. “I can’t find him anywhere. One of the footmen said he left early this morning. Surely he’s returned.”

Rebecca shrugged, though she had a very good idea where Peter could be found. She was not at liberty to reveal that information to the lovely blonde. “I’ve just come down. Have you eaten?”

“Not actually. I’d thought to join Peter.” Her glance skipped to the rack of toast.

“Why don’t you join me? I cannot think of a lovelier place to eat breakfast.” Rebecca’s glance swept over her stepdaughter. “How pretty you look today.”

Emily wore a simple muslin gown sprigged with tiny blue flowers and tied under the bodice with a pale blue satin sash. Rebecca thought she looked like an angel.

Still, no smile was forthcoming from Emily. “But you’re not eating!”

Rebecca sighed. “I have a digestive complaint this morning, but the tea’s still nice and hot—and most welcome.” It helped to clear her groggy head.

Emily helped herself to a piece of toast and patted marmalade on it before she came to sit across the table from Rebecca.

“I’m so happy to see you this morning,” Rebecca began, “because I shall beg that you do me the most tremendous service.”

The girl’s fine golden brows arched. “Pray, what could I do for you?”

“I should like the lads—as well as you and Peter and possibly even Uncle Ethelbert—to stage a performance in the nursery.”

“What kind of performance?”

“That’s the rub, you see. I thought perhaps you could write a short play especially for the family.”

“I cannot write a play!”

“I believe you can. Your father says you’re a terribly clever writer. I will presume to suggest a topic, but bear in mind, it’s only a suggestion.” If only she’d been as diplomatic on the previous night.

Those fair brows of Emily’s lowered. “What?” She did not appear to be in the least agreeable.

“I had hoped you could take one of Jesus’s parables and possibly even give it a modern-day treatment.”

The girl gave no reaction for several seconds. Rebecca feared she may have angered Emily with her presumptiveness.

“You know,” Emily finally said, her eyes glittering like the sapphires they so strongly resembled, “I do believe I could do that! We could do the prodigal son. I would love for Uncle Ethelbert to be the father, but I daresay the poor man would not be able to remember his lines.”

She was likely right. “I have every confidence you’ll figure out something.”

Emily’s lips pursed with contemplation. “Perhaps I will. It will be such great fun for the boys. I believe I’ll go start in the library. Is Papa there?”

“No, he’s riding.”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s Monday. He always rides with Mr. Stanley on Mondays.” Rebecca remembered now that Stanley was the steward’s name.

When Emily swept from the room, she almost collided with a footman who was bringing Rebecca the morning post.

Nothing could have been calculated that could get Rebecca out of her funk as easily as a letter from Maggie. Well, there most certainly was one thing, but a proud earl like Aynsley was unlikely to ever come apologizing to her. Her delighted gaze fell on the Lady Warwick seal, and she hurriedly tore open the first letter she had received from Maggie since she’d left London.

My Dearest Becky,

I’m not going to be selfish and fill these pages elaborating on my own misery over your absence, nor will I go into long, heartbreaking descriptions about how thoroughly your nephews miss you. I am, however, writing with glorious news! I have located for you a wonderfully capable housekeeper by the name of Mrs. Cotton. She’s run Lord and Lady Bermondsey’s London home for the past five years, but after visiting her sister in the country recently and learning that her asthma complaints completely disappeared upon leaving London’s sooty skies, she is quite determined to take a position in the country. I took the liberty of engaging her on the spot. Lady Bermondsey, I must tell you, is prostrate. Unless I receive a negative response from you immediately, I will put her on a post chaise for Birmingham tomorrow. Aynsley could send his carriage to pick her up on Tuesday, the 16th.

Well, my dearest love, I’ve got to get this letter off by the next post—which is just outside our door.

M

It was, indeed, glorious news. And the sixteenth was the following day! By Wednesday, they would have a capable housekeeper in place. She so hoped Aynsley would be proud of her. Not that she’d done anything more than beg Maggie to assist.

Now, if only she could engage a governess. Surely then she would have accomplished something that would make her husband proud. She perused the rest of the mail and was delighted to find a letter from her old friend Verity, now Lady Agar.

How gratifying it was that both Maggie and Verity had been thinking of her during her short absence from London. She broke the Lady Agar seal and unfolded the letter. Like Maggie’s, this one was brief.

My Dear Lady Aynsley,

I have every reason to hope this letter brings you welcome news for it’s my pleasure to tell you I believe I’ve found just the person to serve as governess to your stepsons. Allow me to tell you a bit about her. You will remember my brother Will and his bride, Lady Sophia. Well, Lady Sophia’s old governess has just finished up with the last of the Devere children (you recall Lady Sophia was a Devere before she married), and being just in her middle forties, the governess is too young to retire. As it happens, she has been looking for a post.

Lady Sophia is uncommonly attached to her. Of course, Lady Sophia is such a dear she treats that maid of hers as if she were family. I thought it quite interesting that her maid, who is well into her forties, has just married my brother’s longtime valet, who’s of a similar age. Is that not romantic?

But back to the governess. All the Deveres adore her. In addition to being possessed of a sweet temperament, she is said to be terribly clever. She is fluent in French and displays a high degree of talent with both music and penmanship and spelling and arithmetic. She is the daughter of a rector, now deceased. Her name is Miss Mary Seton. She’s currently still residing with the Deveres, and you can write her at their home on Half Moon Street.

I cannot believe my dearest friend in the world has deserted me to live in faraway Shropshire. When, my dear friend, can I expect to see you again in London? I pray that by now you are madly in love with your husband. Lord Aynsley, which I’m sure you’ve learned by now, is a most honorable man. I cannot recommend marriage enthusiastically enough. But, then, I am blessed to have the most wonderful husband God ever created. I do pray you will come to feel the same toward Ld A.

I eagerly await a nice, long letter from you telling me everything about your new home and family.

Affectionately,

V.

How wonderful! Rebecca reread the letter again. Miss Seton sounded perfect in every way. It was so nice to personally know a person who had actually been educated by the prospective governess. Lady Sophia, a perfect dear, was a high recommendation, indeed, for any governess. She seemed so very well brought up.

Rebecca raced to her chamber, sat at the gilded desk that she continued to think of as Dorothy’s, then dashed off a letter to Miss Mary Seton, imploring her to come to Dunton Hall at her earliest opportunity. She also described the situation, as well as telling her a little bit about the lads and about Dunton Hall. Rebecca herself still marveled that she was mistress of such a grand house, still marveled over Dunton’s grandeur. She hoped the new governess would enjoy living there half as much as she.

She was inordinately impatient to see her husband’s reaction to her two pieces of good news.

After she posted the letter to Miss Seton, she returned to her chamber to write both Maggie and Verity nice, long letters describing her life at Dunton. That her desk was situated in front of a window delighted her. Aynsley had told her the lake was man-made under the direction of the landscape designer. She could almost believe it had been designed to be viewed from the many tall casements in her oversize bedchamber. But, then, she felt exactly the same when viewing it while sitting at the little square table in the morning room, and she would imagine the same gratifying view was available from Aynsley’s bedchamber next to hers.

Completely unsummoned, she began to wonder if Dorothy and John—now why was she thinking of him as John?—freely went back and forth between each other’s bedchambers. She understood they had often shared a bed, and the very thought of him with Dorothy made her feel...bad. This was an altogether unfamiliar experience for her.

Oh, my goodness! It was that wretched jealousy again! Never in her eight and twenty years had she experienced jealousy, and now it was consuming her on a daily basis! What in God’s wide, wide world had gotten into her?

She forced herself to return to her letter writing. After nearly two hours, she had filled several pages that described to Maggie her life at Dunton Hall. When she realized that Verity’s letter would contain the exact same information, she decided to add a little note to Verity on the end of Maggie’s letter and beg that after Maggie read the letter she send it along to Lady Agar.

Just as she was signing the letter with much love, a knock sounded at her door. She could think of several reasons why it wouldn’t be Aynsley, the most obvious being his anger toward her. He usually came from the interior rather than the corridor, which he felt would indicate a level of formality not appropriate for a married couple. It could not be Pru, either, because she always entered the chamber concurrently with her knock. Rebecca certainly could not expect any visitors since she did not really know anyone within a hundred miles from here. Exchanging names on the church steps did not count! “Yes?” She remained seated in front of her desk.

“May I come in?” It was Aynsley’s voice. And it no longer sounded angry.

She threw down her pen and swept toward the door. “Of course, dearest!”

His face was solemn when he met her in the eye. “You’re not angry with me?”

She set a hand on his sleeve. “No. I feared you’d be angry with me.”

“Come, let’s sit at the settee.”

They sat before the comforting fire, facing one another. “I must apologize—” he began.

At precisely the same time, she blurted out, “I must apologize—”

They both began to laugh.

Thank You, Lord.

He took both her hands in his. “I’ve been beastly, barking at you simply for expressing your noble opinions.”

“But I was much too overbearing. Understandably, no man wishes to be dictated to by a woman.”

“You certainly have the right to express your opinions—even if they are in opposition with mine. A solid marriage must be based on being honest with one another.”

Being honest with one another.
Sweet heavens! Had he learned about P. Corpus? She felt wretchedly guilty for withholding something from him when he was making every effort to make this marriage a true partnership. How she wished she could open up to him about P. Corpus, but what if he forbade her to continue? She would be forced to obey his command. On the day of their wedding she had vowed to obey her husband.

Now she was withholding two important things from her husband. Why had she not refused Peter’s request to keep silent about his management of her farm? How she would have enjoyed telling Aynsley about it. She thought he would approve.

“As your wife, I should honor your beliefs.” She had started to add, “even if they’re wrong,” but had, for once, exercised the good judgment to keep her mouth closed.

“Oh, John, I hope we never again have such a dreadful disagreement. I cannot tell you how wretched it made me.”

He squeezed her hand. “Me, too. As Stanley and I rode the property today, I felt as if a heavy gloom were hanging over my head even though the sun was sparkling.”

“You have described my very feelings! I haven’t eaten a bite all day.”

A look of concern swept over his face. “We must remedy that. I propose a picnic at the folly.”

It was as if the sun had suddenly broken through the darkest day.

As they neared the folly, she realized this was the closest she’d been to it. Corinthian columns—with no walls—supported its domed copper roof. The interior floors, as well as the bench they came to sit upon, were constructed of the same marble as the elegant columns. Her first thought upon sitting was that if this marble were in London, it would no longer be such a pristine white.

Like most everything at Dunton, the bench was situated to take advantage of a view of the man-made lake.

“How long has the folly been here? she asked.

There was amusement on his face. “What would be your guess?”