by Louise Allen
‘That is the heir’s cradle,’ Elliott said. ‘It is Tudor, I think. You’ll see it in several of the portraits in the Long Gallery. See the coat of arms on the back of the hood?’
Bella shifted round to see. The carving was strong and bold and she could read it easily. A falcon held an arrow in its grip, its head turned arrogantly to face the watcher. ‘I hold what is mine,’ she read. ‘I will have it taken downstairs and polished.’
‘If the child is a boy, that will be his. If it is a girl, she will have another cradle.’ It seemed Elliott held fast to tradition.
‘Of course.’ A cradle was not worth fighting over, but the location of the nursery was. ‘I will have a look at the rooms close to mine and decide on a nursery.’
‘This is suitable. It will be cleaned and repainted and you can choose new furnishings,’ Elliott said.
‘No, you do not understand.’ Bella straightened up and faced him. ‘It is too far away.’
‘We will employ a competent nurse. You will need your rest, not a crying child.’ His face showed no sign of any sympathy.
‘Elliott,’ Bella said, keeping her voice even with an effort, ‘either the nursery is downstairs or I will move up here.’
‘An ultimatum?’ One eyebrow rose. Bella fought the urge to edge away. It was not that she was frightened of him, but there was something else going on here, something more than a disagreement over the position of a nursery and she did not understand it. What she did understand was that she was feeling extremely emotional all of a sudden. It was not grief, it seemed to come from nowhere, filling her with an overwhelming desire to weep.
‘If you like,’ she said. ‘I am sorry, Elliott, but I feel very strongly about this and I am afraid that if we have to stand here arguing about this any longer I am going to cry. I don’t know why. I just feel very…very…’ She gulped.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ he said, striding into the room and scooping her up in his arms. Toby, who had followed them into the room, let out a volley of barks.
‘Put me down!’
‘No.’ He smiled at her ruefully. ‘I expect it is your condition making you feel weepy. I tell you, Arabella, pointer bitches in pup are a lot less trouble than women.’
‘Really, Elliott!’ She tried to struggle, then gave it up as futile as he walked along the corridor and down the winding flight of stairs at the end, the terrier skirmishing around his feet and making him swear under his breath. It was rather pleasant to be held in his arms as though she weighed next to nothing and the shift of muscles as he moved was intriguing. There was something about being carried that made her feel extremely feminine and her head rested against his shoulder in a most satisfactory way.
It was weakening to the will and the constitution of course, being carried about like a child. She must assert herself. ‘About the nursery,’ she began as Elliott reached her bedchamber door.
‘Yes?’ He set her on her feet and regarded her with what looked like resignation.
‘It will be down here.’ They watched each other in silence. He looked unyielding, but he did not actually refuse. ‘Please.’
‘I wondered how long it would take,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Very well—but out of my earshot, mind.’
‘Yes, Elliott.’ Bella felt smug, then saw the shadows in his eyes as he turned away. No, this wasn’t a game, this learning the boundaries of a marriage.
‘And rest,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘Can you do as you are told in that respect at least?’
‘I am going in now,’ Bella said. She opened the door and stepped into the room. Toby shot in before she could prevent him.
‘Good.’
She shut the door and leaned on it. She had said she was entering her room, not that she would rest there. Elliott would be riding out soon, she was sure, and then she was going to explore on her own and find her perfect nursery.
Elliott had wished that Arabella was less compliant; it seemed he was getting his desire. Whether this would prove to be a good thing remained to be seen. One could not dismiss an argumentative wife as one could a demanding mistress.
Elliott swung up into the saddle of his bay cover hack and turned its head towards the Home Farm. Turner was going to wonder what had happened to him today. He had been spending virtually every morning with the estate manager since he had come here, trying to get the land and the tenants’ cottages back into the state they had been in when Rafe had inherited. His brother had shown not the slightest interest in the property that earned him the bulk of his revenues, but neither would he delegate sufficient power and resources to his steward to allow him to do what was necessary in his stead. It seemed he was as unwilling to yield any authority to an employee as he had been to his brother.
Even when Elliott had dealt with the lack of investment and neglect it would still be a long way behind Fosse Warren where he was experimenting with the latest techniques and had been spending heavily for several years. At least Turner was happy now, with authority to lay out money and an employer who was taking an intelligent interest.
Elliott held the bay back to a walk despite its fidgeting. He was in no hurry to discuss the value of turnips in crop rotation or whether they should buy some orchards down in the Vale as Turner was suggesting. Thinking about Arabella was more absorbing and thinking about Arabella and sex kept the other, darker, more difficult thoughts at bay.
She was naturally sensuous, he was certain of that, although after last night, it was hard to see why he was so certain. Elliott shifted in the saddle as he thought. She enjoyed kissing, he could feel her body’s response to him, her innocently provocative exploration. His body was in no doubt what it wanted, uncomfortably so, and whenever he touched her it seemed that this time he was going to have her yielding, completely. But as soon as things became more intense, she either recoiled, or, as she had last night, passively submitted.
It could be that she was responding instinctively to him and then being brought up short when her natural modesty and her duty to him as her husband were in conflict, or it could be something else. Her pregnancy? Something about him? Rafe?
Arabella was proving an infuriating enigma. She was apparently dutiful and meek—and yet she dug her heels in over the location of the nursery and he was sure that, however many sleepless nights they had when the baby was born, she was not going to be convinced that it should be on the upper floor. She knew he did not take more than toast for breakfast, yet she had somehow cajoled him into eating a veritable feast. She was pregnant with his brother’s child, and yet she seemed as nervous as a virgin. She was deliciously, provokingly sensual and yet she recoiled the moment things moved beyond kisses.
And now, just when he’d wanted—no, needed—to have a frank, firm discussion with her she had become weepy. That at least was down to the pregnancy, he was certain; Arabella had seemed as surprised to find herself so emotional as he had been. But even so, it was enough to make him feel like a bully.
Elliott was not given to bullying anyone. Firmness, fairness and an authority he had learned young worked much better and earned loyalty as well as good work.
He was not given to deceiving himself either. There was more to his unsettled mood this morning than an over-emotional wife—it was time to face it. His reaction to seeing that nursery had been visceral, a jolt in the guts that had surprised him. He had not been unhappy up there as a small child. He could recall Nanny White’s smiling face and playing soldiers with Rafe and the taste of porridge with honey in it and the longed-for delight of that hour with Mama before bedtime.
Even when Rafe had moved downstairs he had not been sad, content to play by himself with his toys and in his head. He had missed Rafe, though—he hardly saw him once he had graduated to the world of the schoolroom—and he had looked forward to the day when he joined him downstairs.
But Rafe at almost eight was different from the playmate upstairs and a small brother was, apparently, an inconvenient nuisance. Elliott learned to kee
p his hands off Rafe’s toys and Rafe’s books, not to sit at Rafe’s desk, not to ask for their tutor’s attention until Rafe had received all the assistance he demanded.
When he was twelve he had begun following their old steward around, asking questions, taking an interest in the estate. Everything about it was fascinating and soon he was having ideas of his own that Peters encouraged. One day their father had praised him for his knowledge about the herds within Rafe’s hearing.
‘I am the heir,’ Rafe had hissed at him as soon as he got him alone, twisting his arm painfully. ‘You’re just the spare. This is going to be mine—the title, the house, the land. You’re nothing, Mr Calne, and don’t you forget it.’
And for the first time Elliott had lost his temper, hit his brother, fought him with all the fury and desperation of baffled hurt. And he had won, had routed Rafe, who had taken his split lip and black eye off to their mother so Elliott got a whipping. But Rafe never attacked him directly again and Elliot discovered that he could stand up for himself.
No, it had not been unhappy memories of life in that nursery that had hit him, but the realisation it was Rafe’s child who would lie in that cradle now and not his own. That was why he had wanted the nursery so far away, he acknowledged. It was as petty and shameful as that.
So much for his impassioned declaration to Arabella that in all honour he must be certain that if the baby was a boy it would inherit one day. He had meant it then, he knew that. He had not even had to think it through, he had known it was the right thing to do. It was still right.
So why was he resenting it now? If he and Arabella had a son together, he would leave Fosse Warren to him. Until a few days ago that had been his only ambition for the land, to leave it to his son, a boy who would grow up to be plain Mr Calne, just as he had. So what had changed?
Elliott shook his head, frustrated and annoyed with himself. And ashamed. Damn it, he had felt good about himself for doing the right thing, for marrying Arabella, and now he realised he wasn’t the rational, emotionless man he had thought. ‘You smug devil,’ he said to himself. The bay sidled, confused by the voice and the tightening rein. ‘Come on, let’s do some work,’ Elliott told it, using his heels to urge it into a canter. ‘I’ve wasted enough time on the roof and looking at cradles.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Mrs Knight, are you free to go through some of the rooms with me?’ Bella found the older woman in the stillroom, frowning at a list in her hand.
‘Of course, my lady.’ She put down the list and smiled at Bella. ‘I was just wondering where all the beeswax polish has got to. I could have sworn we’d got enough made up to last another month, but I can see we’ll be raiding the hives before long at this rate. Now, where would you like to be starting, my lady?’
‘The main bedchamber floor, if you please, Mrs Knight.’ Bella picked up her skirts and walked upstairs side by side with the housekeeper. ‘I would like to see what we have available for guests.’ Elliott would have many friends and she was determined that she would be an excellent hostess for him. Surely warm hospitality and goodwill would make up for her lack of sophistication and knowledge of the ton?
The master suites were in the central block of the house with two wings on either side. Mrs Knight led the way along to the far end of the West Wing and began to open doors for Bella to see the rooms. ‘There are six rooms along here, my lady. Best for bachelors, I always think, for they’ve no dressing rooms.’
‘This little chamber at the end would make a good location for a water closet,’ Bella suggested. She had read about such luxurious indoor plumbing and was determined to persuade Elliott to invest in some.
‘Running water, my lady? In the house?’
‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Knight. And more than one of them, if possible. So much more pleasant than the old earth closets, don’t you think?’
‘I wouldn’t know, my lady, I’m sure.’ It was obviously a radical thought, but Bella, although grateful for the indoor earth closets after a lifetime of the vicarage’s privy in the garden, was inspired by the idea of modern plumbing. ‘It will be an awful lot of disturbance, won’t it? All those pipes?’
‘And I think we will need a tank, so that the closets can be flushed.’
‘It’s a good thing his lordship’s a progressive man,’ Mrs Knight said, still dubious. ‘His last lordship wouldn’t have stood for it and that’s a fact.’
‘No?’ Bella was surprised. Rafe had struck her as a man who would have wanted the latest comforts. ‘I hope we will be having house parties here before long,’ she added, changing the subject. She did not want to talk about Rafe any more than it seemed Mrs Knight did.
‘That will be nice,’ the housekeeper said, and sounded genuinely pleased at the thought of all that extra work.
There did not seem to be much wrong with these rooms, they could certainly wait until she had dealt with the pink draperies in her own suite. They were almost back to it now. ‘What is this?’ The door opened onto a sitting room with furniture under dust cloths.
‘A sitting room for guests in this wing, my lady. It was a suite at one time, I think; there’s a dressing room off it that is used for storing things now.’
Which would be perfect for the nurse’s room. And it was next to Bella’s own sitting room. All it would take would be a door knocked through. She had found her nursery. But she could hardly tell Mrs Knight that. Although she itched to have it converted immediately, it must wait until her pregnancy was acknowledged fact.
‘Shall we look at the other wing, Mrs Knight?’
‘There are the rooms we use for married couples and single ladies, my lady. They’ve all got dressing rooms.’
‘There are a lot of rooms,’ Bella commented. ‘But not so many large ones for couples.’ Perhaps some rearrangement could be carried out to create better dressing rooms and make small suites?
‘Oh, yes, my lady. The rooms are rather old fashioned. But his late lordship did not give that much mind—his house parties were mostly single gentlemen and females.’
‘Females?’
‘Yes, my lady.’ The housekeeper fiddled with her keys. ‘Not ladies, if you get my drift.’
‘Indeed.’ My goodness, Elliott might have had a mistress, but at least he does not bring loose women home. Then it struck her that he could have been holding veritable orgies at Fosse Warren and Mrs Knight would not have known. She doubted it somehow, even though Elliott obviously had a healthy interest in sensual matters. ‘Thank you, Mrs Knight. I will go back to my room and rest now. Could you ask someone to bring me up a tea tray?’
‘My lady.’ The housekeeper bustled off, her bunch of keys swinging at her side, and Bella went to her sitting room, making a conscious effort not to drag her feet. Elliott had told her to rest, and she should obey him, she knew. And now she was tired, so there was no virtue in her obedience, she acknowledged wryly. Marriage was not easy, especially if one had a conscience.
The next morning, as soon as Elliott had gone out, Bella went straight back to the room she was already thinking of as the nursery. They had enjoyed a very civilised breakfast together with no reference made to the fact that he had not come to her room last night, saying that she seemed tired and should get a good night’s sleep. How long such forbearance would last she was not sure, but thinking of something else was decidedly more comfortable than speculating on when Elliott might return to her room and demand that she work harder at satisfying him. The very thought filled her with alarm for she knew that nothing had happened to make her any more likely to please him.
Bella stood in the middle of the space and half-closed her eyes, imagining the chairs and tables replaced with a cot and a nursing chair. There would be light curtains at the window and soft rugs on the floor. Toys would be scattered about…‘Perfect.’
‘Perfect?’ said Elliott’s voice behind her.
‘This room, for a nursery,’ Bella said as she turned. But it was not Elliott, it was Daniel Calne standin
g there in breeches and riding coat, looking windswept. And almost handsome, she thought, making the comparison with Elliott and finding that Daniel did not quite match up to his cousin in looks.
‘You sound so like Elliott.’
‘People often remark that we sound alike—he and Rafe and myself.’ Daniel came into the room, big and amiable and smiling. He was restful to have around, she thought. She felt quite safe with Daniel, a friendly man who wanted nothing from her she could not give. ‘A nursery, two days after the wedding? You are obviously a planner, Bella.’
She knew she was blushing, knew her hand had gone betrayingly, to her stomach. ‘I…’
Daniel Calne’s face changed from cheerful greeting to what, under other circumstances, would have been amusing astonishment. Then he had his expression under control again. ‘You are with child?’
‘Yes, I am. And I would be obliged if you would keep that in confidence, Daniel.’ All she had to do was be calm, he could not possibly guess it was Rafe’s child, Bella told herself. ‘You may imagine I am a trifle embarrassed about it, as well as delighted, of course. I will not be able to conceal it for much longer.’
‘I will be discreet.’ He had gone positively pink. ‘I was momentarily taken aback. I was convinced Elliott was cour—convinced he had no notion of marriage in mind…I am delighted, of course.’
What had he almost said? Not courting, surely? Elliott had told her he was not in love with anyone. She felt uneasily that it had not been the entire truth.
