by Gayle Callen
But she didn’t want to share Sir Edmund with the ghost of her cousin. Then realization struck, and she looked about her in sorrow. This was Elizabeth’s chamber, the best in the castle. She’d spared no expense on the fine tapestries that kept out the drafts, while the rest of the household suffered.
Was there supposed to be a dark message in Sir Edmund’s giving her this chamber? Did he want her to understand that she’d never measure up to his first wife? But she’d known the shallow, self-centered woman Elizabeth had been. If only she knew more about what kind of marriage they’d truly had.
Perhaps Sir Edmund was only grateful to be given another chance and wanted his second wife to have the best comforts the castle had.
Or maybe he didn’t care one way or the other.
Gwyneth hugged herself and watched Lucy exclaim over each new garment and accessory. Finally the girl looked excitedly over her shoulder, but her smile died when she saw Gwyneth’s face.
“Milady?”
“Pack them away, Lucy. I cannot accept them.”
“But why? Surely I never knew such lovely things existed.”
“They were his first wife’s garments.”
Lucy gave an apologetic shrug. “Such things are done, milady.”
“I know. But she was my cousin too. Would you mind putting them away? Then we’ll just close the coffer and have someone remove it on the morrow.”
Lucy nodded, her shoulders drooping, and finished the task while Gwyneth hung her own small selection of gowns on pegs in the wall.
When she was done, Lucy straightened and said, “I guess ’tis time to send for hot water for a bath, milady. I see a tub over there in the corner.”
For a moment, Gwyneth sighed at the thought of finally being clean after such a long journey, until she remembered the state of her new household. “I can’t. There are no servants to carry up the water.”
“I’ll do it,” Lucy said indignantly. “’Tis your wedding night. He should have seen to it.”
“None of that.” Her voice was stern, but she finished with a small smile. “And I’ll not have you hurting yourself carrying buckets all over this castle—and probably getting lost too.”
Lucy reluctantly grinned. “I was beginnin’ to wonder how I would find me mornin’ meal.”
“Then that’s settled.” She walked to the fire, took a small kettle of water from the floor near the hearth, and hung it on a hook above the flames. “There’s already water here, and I can wash as I usually do. From now on, when I want a bath, I’ll have to see to it in the middle of the day.”
“Gwyn!” Lucy said, scandalized.
She laughed. “Help me unbutton my gown, and then you can go to your bed.”
When Gwyneth was wearing only a smock, she smiled and handed a candleholder to Lucy. “Off with you, now. Sleep well.”
The girl hesitated at the door. “Are ye sure ye don’t want me to stay?”
“He’ll probably be here soon.” Her breath caught a little. “I’d best be alone.”
Lucy nodded, opened her mouth as if to say “good luck,” but seemed to think better of it and just smiled before she held the candle out above the stairs. “I’ll likely break me bloody neck.”
Gwyneth heard the whisper and smiled as she closed the door. It was suddenly very quiet in her new bedchamber. But it wouldn’t be for long. Her husband would be here soon, and she didn’t want to start her marriage with his disappointment.
Quickly she stripped off her smock, then stood on a towel before the hearth to wash herself. Though it was summer, there was an ancient coldness in the castle that made her shiver as the water ran down her skin. Or maybe it was only her nerves making her teeth chatter.
She toweled herself dry and dressed quickly in the new night rail her mother had given her. It was plain, gathered at her neck and wrists, but of a delicate, sheer fabric that quite made Gwyneth blush at how much it revealed. But her mother had promised that a man would like it.
Next she had to decide where to wait for her husband. For only the second time, she let her gaze slide to the large bed, with its four high posts, heavy bed curtains, and a canopy over the top. It was so big, there was a set of little stairs to climb up to it.
It was big enough to fit a man like her husband, and she shivered as she imagined lying in it with him. Or would he go to his own chamber to sleep, as some men did? Her parents shared a room, and she so wanted to enjoy the kind of love they had.
She almost giggled nervously as she went back to the question of where to await her husband. In bed? No, it would seem too obvious. Yet to sit in a chair before the fire felt ridiculous, since she wore so little clothing.
She settled on a perch at the edge of the bed, with her feet resting on the steps. Once she stopped moving, she could hear the absolute quiet of the castle. She was at the highest point, and below her it was almost empty. She had never felt much stillness in her life, because her parents’ cozy cottage was always full of running feet and laughter. But that life was gone, and it was time to make her own.
Several minutes passed, and she shifted into a more comfortable position. Surely Sir Edmund knew Lucy had retired to her own chamber. Or was Gwyneth supposed to send for him?
But no—he would have asked. He must want her to wait. When he was finished with his work, he would come to her.
But an hour passed, and she found herself pacing the wooden floor. Soon she was looking through another coffer for needlework, anything to pass the time as her nervousness melted into a sick dread. She’d foolishly left her own embroidery in the coach. But there was nothing useful to occupy her hands, no books to occupy her mind.
Where was he?
Finally, when Gwyneth had watched the moon rise into the night sky and it was well past midnight, she blew out the candles and crawled up into the bed she’d avoided. Lucy had thoughtfully turned down the covers, and she now slid beneath the icy sheets and pulled the blankets and coverlet up beneath her chin. She huddled there, her back against the headboard, her face pillowed on her knees, and tried not to cry.
Her husband wasn’t coming.
When she finally admitted it to herself, a single tear fell from her welling eyes, and she angrily brushed it away. She would not cry. Surely there was a reason why Sir Edmund did not come—maybe he’d drunk too much, celebrating with the soldiers, as men were wont to do. Or maybe he’d fallen asleep going over the castle accounts; he seemed so diligent in his work.
Or else, once again, he’d just forgotten her.
It was so difficult to imagine such a thing, yet he’d spent the day forgetting he had a wife. But without consummation, she didn’t feel married.
Had he already changed his mind? Would he send her home in disgrace, with nothing to help her family?
No, she was letting her imagination run away with her. He didn’t know her well enough to decide such a thing, not after just one day. But maybe he was biding his time, waiting for her to prove if she was worthy of him. Then she had a chilling thought—was this how he had treated Elizabeth? Was Gwyneth’s marriage destined to follow the same pattern as her cousin’s?
She fell asleep with that awful thought making her restless and haunting her dreams.
Edmund stood leaning against a tree in the courtyard, staring up at the tower where his new wife slept. He could tell when she blew out the last candle, for the window darkened, although because of the fire, the gray emptiness still glowed. As a chill wind hinting of autumn swirled around him, he told himself not to imagine what she was doing.
If Gwyneth was anything like her cousin, she was probably relieved and already sleeping peacefully.
He wondered if she would confront him in the morning. What would he say? Not the truth, for that would lose him the dowry fast. Perhaps he would say he was respecting her feminine sensibilities, letting her get to know him first before forcing intimacies on her.
What rot. Perhaps he should just avoid her.
But still he remained
in the courtyard as the moon rose high above him, looked at her window, and imagined being between her warm thighs, holding her in his arms.
Once he was in bed, he couldn’t sleep, of course. There was a woman waiting for him, and everything in him rebelled at staying away from her. He finally flung the blankets off him and paced before the hearth, but he could not erase the image in his mind of Gwyneth in that big bed. He wondered what she looked like, and before he understood his motives, he pulled on breeches and wandered up through the levels of the castle.
He carried no candle; he knew every corridor and chamber. It was all his, and he had walked it with pride for so many days and nights. When Elizabeth was alive, he had walked it to remind himself of the only good that had come from his marriage. After her death and his recovery from his wounds, he had walked it to heal himself, to understand and accept that Wintering was all he had left. He had vowed to make it a success, no matter what he had to do.
The earl’s challenge had given him a second chance, he thought, as he began his limping climb up to Gwyneth’s chamber. He stood outside the door for a moment, listening, but hours had passed since she’d blown out the candles. She had to be asleep.
Carefully he lifted the latch and leaned his head inside. The fire had died to a few glowing sticks, but he could still see well enough. On silent feet, he approached the bed and stared at his bride. She lay on her side facing the hearth, her brown lashes half-moons across her cheeks as she slept. Her lips were slightly parted, and her cheeks seemed to glow with that healthy color he’d thought so remarkable when he’d first seen her. Her golden curls were scattered behind her across two pillows, and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from testing the silkiness with his fingers.
She was all soft loveliness, testing his vow of celibacy as his imagination never had. He wanted to slide in beside her, to see if she was as brave as she’d seemed.
But he would not touch her. Turning away, he limped to the door, then out into the corridor. If anything, this visit had proved his resolve.
Gwyneth awoke so suddenly, she thought someone must have startled her. She sat up, hoping to see her husband, but she was alone. She’d never slept alone in her life; she’d always had her sister Caroline to confide in as they drifted into sleep. The fire had gone out, the sun was already rising in the morning sky, and she had slept too long.
What would Sir Edmund think of her lying abed so late? Though her mind was back to wondering and worrying over why he had not come to her in the night, she could not allow her thoughts to be distracted now. She would be a pleasant, helpful wife in hopes that he wouldn’t change his mind about their marriage. Somehow she had to prove he’d made the right decision.
She flung back the blankets and jumped to the cold floor, ignoring the little stairs. She dressed quickly in a brown homespun gown that had little rolls at her shoulders and a starched collar that angled out from her neck. She thought it flattered her and could only hope her husband approved. Lastly she pinned an apron to her skirt, then set off to learn about her new home.
When she left the tower, she tried Lucy’s bedchamber first, but the girl must have been awake long before now—the morning was half gone. Gwyneth took only one wrong turn on the way to the great hall, but she found it soon enough.
The first servant she saw was a maid, who was diligently cleaning the large oak table. The girl looked up with wide eyes when Gwyneth entered, but she relaxed and gave a stiff curtsy.
“Lady Blackwell?” the girl said hesitantly.
Gwyneth gave her a friendly smile. “Aye. And who are you?”
“Nell, milady.”
She started to curtsy again, but Gwyneth shook her head. “There is no need for such formalities here, Nell. I am pleased to meet you.”
“I’m to take ye to Mrs. Haskell, milady. Would ye come with me?”
That was the housekeeper’s name, Gwyneth remembered. She followed Nell down another corridor to a large open chamber filled with spinning wheels and looms. A single girl was carding wool by hand, with an older woman standing over her.
“Mrs. Haskell?” Nell called, “The new lady is finally awake.”
Gwyneth wanted to close her eyes and groan. What must they all be thinking? Probably that she’d had an exhilarating and exhausting wedding night, she thought with an inward sigh.
Mrs. Haskell was easily her mother’s age, with a crown of gray braids and deep lines about her mouth. Maybe that indicated she laughed a lot, but right now her smile was perfunctory and her eyes assessing.
“Lady Blackwell,” she said coolly, “I wasn’t sure when you’d be down. Allow me to assemble the servants to meet you.”
“No, please, that will not be necessary. I don’t wish to interrupt their work. If you don’t mind giving me a tour of the castle, you can introduce me to everyone as we come upon them.”
That seemed to be the answer Mrs. Haskell wanted to hear, for her smile became more genuine. “Thank you, my lady. It would be a pleasure.”
Gwyneth spent the next several hours in the dawning realization that the castle was much larger than it had seemed but little was actually being used. There were roughly a dozen servants working inside, and most seemed nervous, as if they’d rather be anywhere else. But all were friendly enough once she smiled at them. She knew from personal experience that her cousin had not treated servants well. And then there was the rumor about Elizabeth’s death. How had such nonsense spread this far from London? It seemed suspicious to her.
Never once on her tour did she see Sir Edmund. She kept expecting to run into him when she turned a corner or held up a candle in a dark room, as if he were hiding from her. It was a foolish thought. Mrs. Haskell casually informed her that the master went about his estate duties every morning and usually returned for dinner, which he took alone.
“Alone?” Gwyneth asked, as they stood in the kitchen and watched the cook and scullery maids work.
“Though I shouldn’t be saying so,” Mrs. Haskell said in a low voice, “Sir Edmund is a private man, my lady, not given much to socializing.”
“But I have been told there’s a village nearby, and surely Castle Wintering’s tenants visit.”
The woman shook her head. “It is not done, my lady,” she said with finality in her voice.
Gwyneth couldn’t imagine not entertaining neighbors, especially when one had the means to do so. For a moment, she imagined her social cousin being told she could not give parties. Surely that must have caused a huge problem in the marriage. She wished she understood her new husband, but that was not going to happen if they continued barely exchanging sentences—and not sharing a bed.
But dinner came and went, and she ate alone in the winter parlor, her husband’s private dining chamber. It was the first full day of her marriage, and she was trying not to feel alternately angry and confused at how Sir Edmund ignored her.
But she could only do her best as a wife, so after she finished eating, she found Mrs. Haskell in the pantry, where Gwyneth dodged strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling.
“Aye, my lady?” the housekeeper said as she looked up from counting barrels.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering who I should see about a tour of the rest of the estate.”
Frowning, Mrs. Haskell made a mark on the paper she was carrying, then glanced again at Gwyneth. “The old steward, Martin Fitzjames, would be the man I’d suggest, but I understand that Sir Geoffrey Drake will soon be taking over those duties.”
“Where would I find Mr. Fitzjames?”
“In the steward’s office. Ask Nell to guide you.”
But in the steward’s office, which was in a corridor off the great hall, she found an angry Mr. Fitzjames confronting Geoffrey. Mr. Fitzjames was a small, wiry man, with gray hair that circled his bald head like a horseshoe. Both men turned and stared at her when she knocked on the open door.
Gwyneth walked boldly into the room, though she felt anything but bold. “
Hello, Geoffrey.” She turned to the other man. “And you must be Mr. Fitzjames.”
He subdued his anger enough to take her hand and bow briefly over it. “Lady Blackwell.”
“I’m looking for someone to guide me about the estate for the afternoon.”
Mr. Fitzjames jammed a cap on his head. “Since I am no longer the steward, it would be inappropriate, my lady. ’Twas nice meeting you.” After a heated glare at the other man, he skirted her and went out the door.
Gwyneth turned back to Geoffrey. “I hope my interruption did not made things worse.”
The knight gave her a smile. “You have given no offense, Lady Blackwell. Martin was the Langstons’ steward, and there are still bad feelings about him among the villagers. Edmund thought it best if I took over.”
She had so many questions about what went on in this castle when Elizabeth was still alive, but she would not embarrass her new husband by questioning his friends behind his back. “And are you a steward as well as a soldier, Geoffrey?”
He grinned. “I’m also a very good guide. I’d be happy to show you everything about your new home.”
They spent a pleasant afternoon out in the sunshine, walking through the orchards and looking out across pastures full of grazing sheep. Some of the farm fields seemed neglected, and Geoffrey explained that this was one of the areas Sir Edmund was working on. There would be more money for grain now. The unspoken conclusion was that this was because of her marriage, and Gwyneth was grateful to have helped. But was her husband perhaps angry that he couldn’t help his estate without her dowry?
Within the broken-down walls of the courtyard, she walked past the kennels where her husbands’ dogs now lazed in the sunshine. Mrs. Haskell must have sent them from the castle first thing in the morning. The dairy seemed especially busy, and plenty of men moved about the stables and barracks. Geoffrey escorted her to the tiltyard, where the soldiers did their daily training on a long, narrow field of dirt and sparse grass. Remembering her husband’s limp, Gwyneth didn’t think she’d find him here. But she did see Lucy talking with Hugh Ludlow, one of the soldiers who had escorted them on the long journey to Yorkshire. He was a short, brawny man with a shock of red hair. Her friend seemed particularly happy as Hugh smiled down at her.
