‘And now your friend is dead,’ Pavia empathised softly. He’d spoken of that friend once before and she’d sensed the deep grief he carried over that death, a grief he held on a tight rein. She’d forgotten that in the whirlwind of their marriage. Perhaps he had, too, and today had brought it all roaring back to the surface. The grief was still there, the pain still there.
‘Yes, dammit! Fortis is dead because a stupid man gave stupid orders and no resignation can change that.’ Cam winced against the pain, this time clearly a physical pain. Her stubborn husband had a headache.
Pavia rose and went to the console acting as a dressing table. She might not be able to cook, but she was good with herbs and medicine. She opened a small travelling kit and took out a vial. She pulled the stopper and sniffed, then tried another one until she found the oils she wanted. She mixed droplets in with the water in the basin, a pleasant smell filling the air as she soaked a towel. She wrung it out and brought it to Cam, placing it on his brow. ‘This will help. It’s lavender and rosemary with a hint of basil mixed in.’ She sat down again and took up his hand. ‘Basil is supposed to bring happiness. It seems like you need some of that today.’
‘Do you know what else would make me happy?’ Cam asked, eyes shut. ‘You, laying down beside me. Tell me how it is you know so much about herbs and oils. I don’t want to think about war any more.’ Or his friend, Pavia divined. He needed to talk about it, though, or it would continue to haunt him. But perhaps not today. Perhaps he’d suffered enough for one day. So Pavia loosened her gown and lay down beside her husband, running her fingers through his hair.
‘In the court of the Raja of Sohra, the women are very beautiful and skilled in the ancient arts. I learned them at my mother’s side. I learned to distil oil from flower blossoms. I learned that it took one thousand orange blossoms to make neroli.’ She regaled with him tales and uses: that the precious neroli oil soothed nerves, that lavender relieved stress and soothed skin burnt by the sun. ‘And frankincense helps with meditation,’ she ended softly, noting the smooth, slow rise and fall of his chest. He would have some peace now and so would she, snuggled against his side. A wifely peace. The kind that came from caring for another.
This was a new kind of intimacy for them, one that didn’t involve sex. They’d relied heavily on the pleasure they found in bed to establish common ground. There, they knew one another. It was outside the bed that they were most exposed, most vulnerable, where they knew the least of the other. Today had been a first test of sorts for them as husband and wife. Not just the public appearance, but what had happened afterwards. He’d been the vulnerable one then. This was the first time since she’d known him that Cam had allowed himself to need her.
Since the day she’d told him about the baby, Cam had been in charge, shouldering the burden of their situation. He’d been the one to make arrangements: the hotel, the special licence, the train, the house. He’d even been the one to get food supplies and do the cooking this first week. He’d donned his uniform and given her every social advantage he could offer today should she need it. But this afternoon, he’d needed her and it had made her feel good, like a partner in this unlooked-for marriage instead of something fragile to always be protected and cossetted.
‘This is just the start,’ Pavia whispered to her sleeping husband. ‘I will show you that I can be a wife worthy of your efforts. I will learn to clean for you, to cook for you, to keep your clothes, so that when you go out, everyone will know you have a good wife.’ It would be hard. Her failed attempts at toast were proof housekeeping wouldn’t come easy, but she’d have help. This wasn’t the sort of housekeeping she’d been educated for at Mrs Finlay’s, but she would learn. It would be her gift to him, in return for all he’d given her. Many marriages were built on less.
Chapter Thirteen
Cannon ripped like wildfire through the valley. Around him, horses and men fell with shrieks and cries. The Light Brigade had chased the Russians back to their lines, but now the survivors manned the guns once more, firing anything they could lay their hands on, not caring if their makeshift ammunition hit the Russian cavalry that still fought in the field. Yards from him, Fortis waved his sabre, gathering his riders to him. Cam did the same, spying Paget riding towards him, urging retreat. He wheeled his horse about once, looking for his men. Cannon boomed again, spraying the ground with grapeshot. Twenty feet from him, Fortis’s horse reared and fell, taking Fortis with him. The Russian cavalry surged towards his fallen friend. Get up! His mind shrieked. Get up and fight! But Fortis didn’t rise.
‘No, Fortis!’ Cam tried to turn his horse, tried to push through to his friend, but Paget was there, forcing him back, blocking the route to where Fortis had fallen.
‘Don’t be a fool, man, look to yourself!’
‘Fortis!’ he roared, but even his horse knew better than to stay on the field where there was only indiscriminate death...
‘Cam! Wake up!’ A hard shake called him back to the waking world. ‘You were having a nightmare.’
Not a nightmare—the nightmare. He was covered in sweat, his breathing uneven. He recognised the symptoms. It was the first time since their wedding that he’d dreamed of Balaclava.
Pavia was beside him, the room flooded with the light of early evening, concern etched on her face. ‘I’m fine,’ he mumbled grumpily. His mind had betrayed hm. He was a soldier. He was supposed to be strong. Others counted on him.
‘How often have you had this dream? Is this what keeps you up at night?’ Pavia placed another cool towel on his brow, this one scented with lavender. ‘Don’t deny it. I see you pacing at the window, Cam,’ she censured him when he said nothing.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’ Cam deflected a direct answer. He felt exposed, ashamed. He hadn’t wanted her to know. This was his private burden, his private guilt to bear.
‘I wasn’t bothered. I want to help. I can mix you something that will help you sleep, some herbs perhaps.’ Pavia reached for another cloth. He pushed her hand away.
‘I don’t want another cold cloth.’ He wanted to be strong.
He wanted things to be different that day at Balaclava.
‘Lie still, then. Just for a moment and let yourself settle,’ Pavia instructed. ‘You are a terrible patient, Cam. I hope you never get truly sick.’ She laughed softly to put him at ease. ‘Do you want to talk about it? My mother used to tell me that bad dreams can’t come true if you tell someone about them.’
How he wished that was the case. ‘It’s no use. This one already has.’ Why hadn’t he stayed closer to Fortis that day? Surely, he could have done something. At the very least, he could have taken him up on his own horse and carried him to safety. He tried to sit up, but Pavia pushed him back on his pillows.
‘I see I’ll have to come up with a more creative way of keeping you down.’ She straddled him and pulled loose the ribbon of her chemise.
‘What time is it?’ Not that it mattered. His body couldn’t care less. It had other things on its mind, like making love to his wife.
‘Nearly seven. You slept the afternoon away.’ And she had, too. Cam remembered her taking off her dress and lying down beside him, whispering herbal remedies to soothe his headache. She pulled the chemise over her head, her breasts lifting with the motion. He took them in his hands, revelling in the feel of them, their fullness, as they filled his palms. He ran his thumbs over the dusky peaks, watching them pebble. Pavia moved against him, teasing him with her hips until he thought his trousers would burst. When she released him from their confines, he was more than ready for her. But she was not done. She reached for the vial beside the bed and pulled the stopper. The room filled with the scent of sandalwood. She poured some into the cup of her hand and blew on it. ‘To warm it, for you,’ she explained in a husky voice. Oh, sweet heavens, she meant to put that on him.
She scooted back and reached between his legs, stroking hi
m with her oil-slick hands until he was slick, too. ‘Is this another of your remedies?’ It was almost impossible to complete the sentence, so delightful did her hand feel on him.
‘Yes.’ She leaned forward to kiss him, her hips, her bottom, rising above his straining phallus. ‘The ladies in my uncle’s zenana said it was good for a man’s arousal.’ She paused wickedly. ‘You’ll have to tell me if that’s true.’ She slid down upon his shaft, as if to prove her point, and began to move, slowly at first, as if she alone controlled the tempo of their lovemaking. Cam let her believe it for a while. He loved watching her move, watching her pull up the skeins of her hair and let them sift through her fingers, watching her breasts rise with the motion. His wife was intoxicating like this. A thought crossing his mind. ‘Are there concoctions to enhance your arousal? I’d like that. Perhaps we could experiment with that as well.’
‘There might be. I could look them up.’ Pavia reached a hand between his thighs and he shuddered. All potions and herbs aside, her touch was the best aphrodisiac he knew. Cam could only withstand so much temptation before he wanted control. He took her firmly by the hips and flipped her beneath him, taking her at the last.
‘I was supposed to be seducing you,’ she scolded with a breathless laugh, making it clear in the aftermath that she hadn’t minded.
‘Oh, trust me, you did.’ Cam stretched beside her, his head propped in one hand. He was coming to love these moments afterwards as much as the pleasure itself. Here in bed, they were entirely themselves in a place the world could not touch. The darkness of his world was at bay when they made love. The newness of that was still heady even after a week. Would it wear off eventually? How long would this last? Cam traced a circle on her belly. He would miss it when it was gone. ‘I think the baby’s growing.’ He was fascinated with her body. He put his palm over her stomach. ‘When do you think we’ll be able to really tell he’s in there?’
‘Another month. But even then, if I dress carefully, I can probably hide it for another two months. Most women don’t get obviously big until their sixth month.’
‘Why hide it?’ Cam made a mock frown. ‘I am looking forward to that, to seeing the child grow. I fear I am an impatient father.’ He grinned.
Pavia laced her hand over his. ‘We have much to do between then and now. Time will fly.’
Cam kissed her brow. ‘We’ll make the world perfect for our little one.’ It was a heartfelt, if idle, promise. He couldn’t make the world outside perfect. He’d seen that imperfection on display today. Some people had not liked his choice of a bride. Some had simply edged away, while others had chosen to voice their disapproval bluntly. They had a house to prepare and a world to prepare. He could only control the former. ‘Don’t worry, the house will be ready.’ He would have their finances sorted out by then, too. His child, and the mother of his child, would want for nothing. He would see to it, even as his shoulders felt the weight of additional responsibility settle on them.
‘Cam, what are you thinking? You’re suddenly miles from here.’ Pavia reached up a hand to stroke his cheek.
‘That I should get headaches more often if this is the cure.’
* * *
‘Cam, wake up!’ For the second time in twelve hours, he awoke to those words with a jolt and a wave of panic, only this time there was no nightmare. Pavia was out of bed, hurrying into her dressing gown.
‘What is it? Are you well? Is it the baby?’ Cam shook off his grogginess, his mind discarding options at high speed.
‘We have company!’
Cam shook his head. Perhaps he was still muddled. ‘At eight in the morning?’ Then he heard it—the sound of singing: male voices, female voices, a lot of them, joined in a folk tune, coming nearer. He laid back on his pillows and smiled. ‘Yes, we do have company. Get dressed, my dear Pavia, and prepare to work. We are being treated to a house-warming.’
Pavia’s eyes went wide. ‘We can’t possibly entertain. We haven’t any food and we have barely any house to warm, whatever that means.’
Cam was out of bed, reaching for his trousers. ‘That’s the whole point. We do this for newlyweds, to help them set up house. The women will see to the house and the men will see to the other buildings.
‘But the food?’ Pavia protested again.
Cam winked, pulling his shirt on. ‘Don’t worry, there will be plenty of food, you’ll see. Today will be a lot of work, but it’s also a party.’ He gave her a quick kiss on his way downstairs to greet the oncoming guests, ‘Welcome to Little Trull, Pavia Lithgow.’
* * *
She’d never seen anything like it. It seemed as if the whole village had turned out. Of course, that wasn’t true. There were notable exceptions missing from the work party. By the time she was dressed, the front lawn had been transformed with trestle tables while Betty Danson, the Vicar’s efficient wife, oversaw the laying out of breakfast for fifty. There were stone crocks of hot porridge, loaves of fresh bread with butter and urns of steaming coffee. There was even a tray of sweet buns, baked that morning courtesy of the baker.
‘You are too generous!’ Pavia exclaimed to the baker, who beamed at her praise.
Letty Weldon laughed, tossing Pavia an apron. ‘It’s good business to be neighbourly. Now you’ll know where to go the next time you want sweet buns.’ She linked her arm through Pavia’s. ‘You and I are off to the kitchen to work with Mrs Bran this morning.’
Pavia looked around the yard in a panic. ‘But what about everything out here? I can’t just disappear.’
‘Yes, you can. Betty Danson has it all in hand,’ Letty assured her.
Pavia took another glance and saw that it was true. What had looked like chaos had some method to it. Women were grouped in teams and armed with mops, buckets and rags, ready to scrub the inside of the house, while men were busy turning the breakfast tables into work benches. Other men were already carrying out pieces of old furniture from the attic.
‘By the time the rooms are ready, what can be saved of the furniture will be ready, too. Now, come on, we don’t want the kitchen to fall behind.’ Letty ushered her inside.
‘Letty, the kitchen...’ Pavia began to explain the kitchen would be a disappointment. It consisted of a skillet and two knives at present. But the sight before her when they stepped inside made her a liar. Crates of supplies, pots and pans, utensils and plates, were piled on the butcher block, Mrs Bran barking orders to two adolescent boys in the middle of it all.
‘Ah, Mrs Lithgow, there you are!’ Mrs Bran broke from her orders about hanging pots and bustled over to her. Mrs Bran was a large-boned woman with fading red hair and a kindly face. Pavia liked her immediately. ‘It’s almost like being home again, being back here in this kitchen. I was so thrilled when Vicar Danson told me Lady Lillian and Mr Elmsworth’s great-nephew was in residence.’ She barely drew a breath before she was disclosing her history. ‘I was their cook, you know, for years. I remember the Major coming in the summers. He was a big eater then.’ She slid Pavia a sly, womanly glance. ‘He’s grown up well. Looks like he’s still a big eater.’
‘Well, yes,’ Pavia began to say, but Mrs Bran was ready to move on. She cleared a section of the butcher block and set down paper and pen.
‘We must keep feeding him. A newlywed man needs to keep his strength up. I need you to write down the menus, with all of his favourites.’
Menus she could do. At last, here was a task she’d been trained for. But Cam’s favourites? That was something else. She hadn’t a clue what he liked beyond scrambled eggs and ham sandwiches, a reminder that for all they’d shared this past week, there was still so much to learn about each other. There’d been no long courtship, no pre-existing agreement between two families who had known each other for ages. But here were these women expecting her to know her husband. She couldn’t very well tell Mrs Bran they’d married in haste as strangers without a clue as to who the oth
er person was. That wouldn’t help cultivate the image Cam wanted them to project to the village. It certainly wouldn’t help win over the Mrs Brownings and Stiltons of the world who were determined to think the worst of her.
She had to brazen this out. Pavia took up the pen and tamped down on those negative thoughts. She would not be daunted by the task. She would start with menus she knew, menus she’d practised constructing at Mrs Finlay’s. It wasn’t as if she was expected to have a seven-course meal on the table every night. She would figure out Cam’s likes and dislikes by trial and error.
Around her, the kitchen took shape: gleaming copper pots hung from overhead racks, dishes lined the shelves, foodstuffs filled the pantry and Mrs Bran had a giant kettle of soup on for lunch. Pavia handed Mrs Bran her menus, her stomach grumbling that it had been a while since breakfast.
Mrs Bran scanned them, nodding here and there. ‘Very nice, Mrs Lithgow, these should be no trouble, but I see there isn’t any Indian food on these menus.’
The observation took her aback and Pavia hesitated. Was Mrs Bran disappointed by that? ‘I wasn’t sure...’ she said, but in true Mrs Bran fashion, the woman continued on.
‘I was hoping to learn some new recipes.’
Pavia took back her menus and wrote at the bottom. ‘We could make chapatis instead of bread and we could do aloo gobi—it’s a stew dish made with potatoes and cauliflower.’
Mrs Bran nodded encouragingly, surprising Pavia with her excitement over the prospect of new dishes. ‘We have plenty of potatoes. The English like potatoes.’ She slowed down for the first time since Pavia entered the kitchen and fixed Pavia with a smile. ‘My dear, just because most of us never leave the village we’re born in doesn’t mean we aren’t curious about the rest of the world. We might never leave Little Trull, but now that you’re here, some of the world has come to us. For many of us, it is more exciting than frightening.’ She puckered her mouth in a disapproving frown. ‘Mrs Browning and Mrs Stilton might not welcome you, but plenty of us do. It’s good to see the Major settling down.’ She patted Pavia’s hand in motherly solidarity. ‘It’s a person’s heart that matters and I can tell you have good one.’
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