The Portrait of Lady Wycliff

by Cheryl Bolen

  When they were more than half way through, he spoke. "It's clear that you detest your father, but what of your mother?"

  She continued washing. "I loved her very much, but she died giving birth to Ellie."

  "So you were almost like a mother to Ellie."

  She nodded solemnly. "I suppose so."

  "Did your father never remarry?"

  "No, which seemed peculiar, given his delight in ordering others to do his bidding."

  "But he was so selfish a man, he probably didn't want to feign affection for another that he did not feel."

  She stopped washing and looked at him. "I believe you're right. He never needed anyone but himself. The only person he cared a fig for." Then she took up her cleaning again.

  "Louisa?"

  "Yes," she answered, averting her gaze from him.

  "Is there nothing I can do to regain the affection I felt from you yesterday?"

  She thought for a moment. "You could show your remorse by giving your money to the poor."

  "You know I can't do that," he said somberly.

  She turned to him, hardness in her steely eyes.

  "It was never about the money," he said softly. "Always it was about family—my family—not only the ancient title and the wealth that had once gone with it, though those things were important to me.

  "It was pride in my family name I wanted to recapture. I want to rebuild what my father had torn down." He dropped the cloth to the counter. "More than anything on earth I have wanted to rekindle the feeling of love I had known so thoroughly as a child. I wanted to reestablish that. I want my old home back. I want a woman whom I can love as my father loved my mother. I want a son who will proudly carry the title of Earl of Wycliff and grandsons and great-grandsons." He turned back toward her. "Are you understanding any of this?"

  She swallowed. "I think so," she said, her voice wispy.

  He felt a closeness to her he had never felt with anyone else. Why else would he have revealed so much about himself and become so vulnerable?

  When the kitchen was spotless, Louisa and Harry said good-night to their host and hostess.

  "Mrs. Winston," Louisa asked, "How did you know we were newlyweds?"

  "My dear, I knew by the way Mr. Smith looked at you. It was the same as Jonah Junior looked at his bride the day of their wedding."

  Louisa's cheeks grew hot. She left the parlor to climb the stairs to their room, grabbing onto the banister to carry her weight from her bad knee. Harry followed, picked her up and began to march up the stairs while holding her to him. How did he expect her to dress for bed with him in the room? A pity there was no tavern for him to go to tonight.

  The taper Mrs. Winston lit still burned on the bedside table. The room was cold. Terribly so. Since there was no hearth in this room, Mrs. Winston had brought extra blankets.

  Now Louisa knew why. "Turn around and close your eyes," she ordered.

  For extra preservation of her privacy, she too turned around, her back to him as she quickly undressed and hurried into her woolen night gown.

  Then she sat on the bed. "You may turn around and remove your shirt. I need to redress the bandages on your arms."

  "Would you like me to come stand in front of the candle as I remove my shirt?" he asked teasingly.

  She bent down to pick up her shoe and throw it at him. "You odious man!"

  The flying shoe just missed one of his bandaged arms. She was all contrite when she said, "Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. Did I hurt your arm?"

  He stood beside her and slowly began to unbutton his shirt, not removing his eyes from her.

  Embarrassed, she turned away until he had removed his shirt and came to sit on the bed next to her. "You called me Harry again," he said gently.

  She was in no mood to be seduced by a thieving pirate. "Let me see your arms," she said harshly.

  She proceeded to remove the bloodied bandages from his arm, gasping as she did so. "I am afraid infection may have set in," she solemnly announced.

  He picked up the candle and held it to his arm. The gashes were still oozing, and his entire arm had begun to swell.

  "No wonder the blasted thing's bothered me so much today."

  Her voice was soft when she spoke. "You never said anything."

  "We weren't speaking. Remember?"

  She looked contrite. "I don't know what we can do for it. What have you learned about such treatment in your vast experience?"

  "To bloody well hope it gets better. I'd rather not lose my arm."

  She winced. "It's all my fault." With shaking hands, she removed clean linen from her portmanteau.

  "I'm sure it will be all right," he soothed.

  She ignored him as she gently cleaned the wound and began to wrap it in a fresh bandage. Then she leaned across him and began to minister to his other arm "This arm isn't nearly as bad as the other."

  "I'm not such a bloody idiot that I don't already know that."

  "Don't be so cross," she scolded. Then she was sorry she had snapped at him when he was obviously in a lot of pain. "I'm sorry if I'm hurting you, Harry. Would you like for me to go downstairs and see if Mr. Winston has some whiskey for you to take to dull your pain?"

  "I don't need it," he said. "I've been through worse."

  She saw by the scar low in his belly that he spoke the truth.

  "Besides," he snapped, "you can't go down those stairs on your knee."

  She stopped what she was doing, met his devilish eyes and began to giggle. "If we aren't a pair for sore eyes!"

  He began to chuckle, his voice low and hardy.

  When they stopped, she gave him a solemn look. "I shall put you in a sling in the morning. Perhaps that will help your bad arm."

  "I'll not be wearing a sling."

  She glared at him, then put the rest of the clean bandage back in her bag. "I suppose we had best blow out the light and go to sleep."

  "I suppose we had."

  She blew out the candle and scooted under the covers, shivering with cold.

  Harry had walked around to the other side of the bed. She heard him removing his pantaloons and was thankful he could not see the blush creep into her cheeks once again.

  Chapter 14

  As he had done the day before, Harry awakened Louisa with a cup of hot tea. "Sit up, sleepy head."

  She sat up and stretched and gratefully picked up the warm cup and drank. "I declare, I have never been so cold in my entire life."

  Harry nodded. The blasted cold had awakened him several times during the night — which was no wonder since Louisa had pulled the blankets from him and wrapped herself in them. All of this, of course, occurred while she slept. Being a gentleman, he could hardly remove the blankets from her. So he had gotten up and fully dressed, and anxiously waited for the first light of dawn so he could go downstairs and stand before a fire.

  He watched with satisfaction now as Louisa curled her hands about the warmth of the cup.

  "Let me have a look at your knee," he said when she finished.

  She obliged him by swinging both legs over the side of the bed and lifting the hem of her woolen gown until both her knees were revealed.

  Her lack of womanly modesty surprised him. This was, after all, the same woman who grew crimson at the mention of bosom. He dropped to one knee and visually examined her swelling first. Then he flexed her leg, first down then up. "You've made great improvement in one day," he told her. "The swelling's half what it was yesterday."

  "Does that mean you'll allow me to walk downstairs by myself?"

  "It does not," he said. "The worst thing you could possibly do is to negotiate stairs." He reached to pull her gown back down, surprised at what an intimate gesture it seemed. "I shall carry you."

  He got to his feet and announced, "I'll tell Mrs. Winston you're ready for breakfast."

  After she had dressed, he rejoined her, lifted her into his arms, and proceeded to carry her down the stairs, then placed her in a dining room chair.


  The cheerful Mrs. Winston, wearing a white apron and carrying a tray of scones, entered the dining room and proudly laid the table with food. "I hope your room wasn't too cold last night," she said.

  "The quantity of blankets compensated for the room's chill," Louisa said.

  Harry coughed.

  Louisa picked at her food, and after a few moments turned to Harry. "I've been wondering about something."

  "Yes?"

  "Where does your coachman sleep and eat while our physical needs are being met?"

  Harry finished slathering the clotted cream on his scone. "Last night he slept in the barn where there were horses and cattle and a wide assortment of blankets to keep him warm — which is what he's used to in London. As far as his meals are concerned, he ate in Mrs. Winston's kitchen not half an hour ago."

  "What about when we stay at an inn?" she queried.

  "I pay for his night's lodgings, same as ours," he said with mock outrage. "Surely you don't expect that I would not make arrangements for his accommodations."

  There was indignation in her voice when she answered. "Of course I didn't think you would forget the man."

  She took a bite of her scone. "I cannot help but to wonder how the truly unfortunate survive in the cold when they have no roof over their heads."

  He lowered his lashes as well as his voice when he replied. "I believe your fears are well founded, madam. Many of them, unfortunately, succumb to the elements."

  She pushed away her plate. "I cannot eat when I think of all the suffering that goes on in the world."

  Mrs. Winston scurried back to the table with another pot of tea.

  "I assure you, my love," he said, "your eating or your not eating will not change the spots on a leopard."

  "The Missus isn't eating?" Mrs. Winston asked with disappointment.

  "Yes I am, Mrs. Winston," Louisa said. "Everything's delicious."

  The matron went back to the kitchen, a satisfied smile on her kindly face.

  "My love, indeed," Louisa mocked. "Must you lay it on so thick? I declare, Lord Wycliff, you have missed your calling on the London stage."

  "Mustn't disappoint the old girl. After all, Mrs. Winston is convinced that I look at you like a lovesick schoolboy."

  "I daresay the woman's vision has gone completely."

  He laughed to cover his embarrassment. For Mrs. Winston's observations had not been far from the mark. The longer he was with Louisa, the fonder he became of her. Except for her ridiculous reforming notions, she was everything he'd ever wanted in his countess. Not only was she beautiful and intelligent and compassionate, but she also had the ability to understand the complex emotions that made him the man he was today. She knew him nearly as well as he knew himself.

  A pity she detested the man he was.

  "If the bedchamber was as cold as it was," he said to change the subject, "one hates to imagine how cold the coach will be today."

  She affected a mock shudder. "It will be easier to bear if we think of poor John Coachman."

  Did she always have to think of others? The woman could grow quite tedious.

  He assisted the coachman in loading their bags onto the coach, gratefully accepted the basket of food Mrs. Winston gave him for their noon meal, paid her handsomely for sharing her hospitality, and they were once again on their way.

  They had to drive through miles and miles of dreary moorland in order to get to the next village. Harry's predictions about the cold in the carriage had, unfortunately, been right on the mark. Though it was not raining, the temperature was below freezing, and the wind howled a lonely wail outside their carriage. Harry was miserable as he watched Louisa wrapped completely in the rug.

  Finally she took pity on him. "I suppose if I can share a bed with you, my lord, we can use this rug together." She made an opening for him, and he quickly and gratefully crossed the coach and sat next to her under the rug. As he had been careful to do every night as he lay beside her torturing presence, he made sure he did not touch her.

  He was sorry she had reverted to calling him my lord again. The intimacy of calling one another by their Christian names had been a balm to his loneliness of the last decade.

  "You know, you took all the covers last night," he said as if he were commenting on the weather.

  She gave him an incredulous stare. "I did not! I would surely know it if I had."

  "I beg to differ, madam."

  "If that is the case, I heartily apologize, my lord. May I hope that you took them back?"

  "That would hardly have been gallant."

  "Do you mean to tell me that you spent the whole of the night in that freezing room with no blankets covering you?"

  "I do."

  "Oh, my poor Harr---" She stopped herself, that blush creeping up her face. "I am terribly sorry, my lord."

  He had heard enough. A woman who hated him would hardly refer to him as my poor Harry. So she doesn't completely hate me, he thought with satisfaction.

  * * *

  The terrain between the Winstons' farm house and the town of Bodmin was much the same. Barren moorland. It was past noon when they reached Bodmin. Louisa would not have been surprised had she turned completely blue from the cold — which made her think of the coatless lad she had seen as they left London. Had the poor boy gotten a coat by now? She rather doubted it.

  At the local tavern, Louisa fairly leaped at the prospect of warming herself in front of the fire while Harry made inquiries about the lord of these parts. Not only did she crave a hot drink, but she also had a mighty wish to stretch her legs.

  Harry desired whiskey to make him warm, while Louisa ordered a glass of warm milk. When the serving woman returned with their drinks, Louisa could barely keep a straight face when Harry, using his most cultured voice, asked, "I say, a chap from my club in London said if ever I was in Bodmin I was to look him up. A Lord Blamey at St. Alban's Abbey. Would you know his direction?"

  The serving woman put down the glasses and pointed west. "It's about five miles from town on the Hopping Road."

  Harry gave the woman a shilling.

  "Oh, thank you ever so much, sir," she said, dropping the coin into her ample bosom before going back to the public rooms.

  "We dare not hope Lord Blamey would be coming to town on so cold a day, do we?" Louisa asked hopefully.

  Harry shook his head. "No, I think not." Then he took a long drink of whiskey. "I'll be back in a few moments."

  His few moments turned into twenty. Louisa had long been finished with her milk and grown impatient when he finally returned.

  "I bought a saddle," he boasted upon entering the private parlor.

  "That is supposed to make me happy?"

  His face fell. "Actually, quite the opposite, I'm afraid." He sat next to her, not across from her as he had done earlier. "I hate terribly to ask it of you," he began, "but since you're the only one who can identify our mysterious lord, you will have to go to his house."

  "That much I had already surmised," she said.

  "Alone," he added.

  She nodded.

  "On horseback," he added.

  Visions of treading alone through snow came to Louisa, and she did not at all like it.

  "We can hardly drive up in a coach and four without attracting undue attention," Harry explained. "So I propose to take you to the hedge nearest to Lord Blamey's house, then saddle one of the horses for you to ride to the front door. Perhaps you won't get so terribly cold since it is just a short ride."

  "Why can you not go, my lord?"

  He looked contrite. "I honestly wish I could, but I fear that since he's a peer he could quite likely recognize me, which would, of course, spoil our plan."

  She nodded. "Yes, I suppose you do know quite a few men of nobility, despite your years away."

  He looked offended. "I see that you don't believe me, but I assure you I do know a number of people. I happen to belong to London's most prestigious club. And I've been at Almack's any number of time
s."

  Though she had never been there, she knew Almack's was where all the young maidens searched for respectable husbands. The thought of Harry looking among them for a prospective bride, quite oddly, disturbed her.

  Though she wanted to protest having to go to St. Alban's Abbey by herself, she realized Harry was right in not allowing the lord to see — and possibly recognize — him. "Very well," she agreed weakly. "But how on earth shall I explain my presence there alone — and on so wicked a day?"

  Harry ran a finger across his lips. "Good point. We shall think on it all the way to St. Alban's Abbey."

  She scowled at him as they left the tavern.

  During the next forty minutes they suggested one scenario after another but found objections to all. She couldn't be asking for a job. She couldn't profess a prior acquaintance. She couldn't be a friend of his wife/child/brother/sister since she had no idea if he had a wife/child/brother/sister.

  Finally they decided to forget about saddling a horse. They would drive up to St. Alban's Abbey in Lord Wycliff's impressive carriage, and Louisa would put her own plan into action.

  * * *

  The carriage securely in front of St. Alban's Abbey, Louisa bundled herself up into her cloak and muff and scurried up the front path, aware that her knee had greatly improved. The abbey was of an age to have survived the Dissolution. Barely. The east and west wings were in ruins. Only the central area, which must have formerly been a chapel, was in good repair — though modestly small for a peer.

  Louisa knocked at the timbered door. A butler answered. Drat. She was hoping for the master himself. "Is your master within?" she asked.

  The butler ran a most disapproving eye over her. "Who should I tell him is calling?"

  "Miss . . .Miss Augusta Marks. I desire to speak with him on a personal matter."

  The balding man raised a bushy eyebrow, turned on his heel, and left her standing in the doorway.

  Louisa had no doubt the butler found her a fancy piece. After all, what decent woman would show up like this on a man's doorstep?

  As she waited, she grew nervous.

  Finally the butler returned, asked her to come in, and showed her to the morning room.