by Karen Ranney
There were other duties to take her time. She didn’t have any free hours to worry about Mr. Eston. In addition, sparing her staff to look for him meant that other chores were not being done.
Although the housekeeper was diligent in her duties, Sarah also inspected the work of the maids and footmen. In her absence, all the tasks necessary to maintain Chavensworth had been done, but never as thoroughly as when she was present to supervise. Yet her thoughts kept coming back to Mr. Eston. Douglas.
What if Douglas had somehow wandered off the lane and into one of the traps placed by the farm steward? She would never forgive him. It was one thing to agree to marry her but quite another to disrupt her entire schedule by sheer stupidity.
“Lady Sarah?”
She turned to find Thomas standing there, his face marred by a frown.
“What is it? My mother?” Her heart seemed to beat slower, as if wishing to stop in that moment.
He shook his head quickly. “No, Lady Sarah. Mr. Eston.”
Her heart began beating swiftly again. “Has he hurt himself?”
“No.” Thomas hesitated and she began to tap her toe impatiently.
“Well?” she finally asked. “What has happened to him?”
“The stable master says he came and took the wagon that arrived for him. He gave no indication where he was taking it, but he returned the horses a few hours later.”
She blinked at Thomas. His words weren’t any easier to understand the longer she stared at him.
“Where is he now?”
“The stable master doesn’t know.”
One presupposed worry when one cared for another. Why should she worry? She had no connection to the man save that of a legal nature.
I would like to see your breasts bared.
Dear God, what was she thinking?
“Very well,” she said. Life at Chavensworth would hardly change without him. He was a raindrop in a storm.
She finished her tasks by six, straightened her hair, washed her hands and face, and went to sit with her mother.
“Has she shown any change?” she asked.
Hester shook her head, her gaze on the duchess.
If anything, her mother looked even more diminished today than yesterday. Would she simply waste away? If she didn’t wake, at least to take water, there was every possibility that’s exactly what would happen.
“What shall we do?” she asked, but Hester didn’t answer. The older woman had slipped from the room unobtrusively.”
Sarah moved the chair closer to the bed, placing one hand on her mother’s wrist and the other on her hand. Her skin felt so very cold, as if the grave had already claimed her.
Perhaps if Sarah spoke to her mother, she would hear. Would she come back to life? Would she open her eyes?
“The tablecloth was washed today, the one with the wine stain. It’s the fourth time I’ve had the laundress rewash it, and I think the stains will come out in one or two more washings. I also gave notice that the stable should be painted, and it’s time for the hedges to be measured and trimmed. I know you don’t like them to grow too high,” she said, speaking of the ornamental garden her mother so prized.
“I think the youngest scullery maid is with child,” she said, sighing. “I don’t know how to broach the subject with her. I have hinted broadly enough that I was receptive to any confidences she might care to make. I think she would come to talk to you, Mother, more so than me.” She smiled. “That’s an incentive for you to get well,” she said. “Chavensworth needs you.”
She sat silent for a few moments before beginning to speak again. “I am so accustomed to seeking your counsel, but I don’t know what to do when you don’t answer me. I think I know what you would suggest, and I use my own judgment as you’ve taught me. Sometimes, however, it’s important to have your thoughts validated.”
She picked up her mother’s hand and kissed the back of it softly. “I do wish you would wake. I hope you can hear me.” She laid her forehead against her mother’s hand and breathed in the smell of lavender used to scent the mattress.
A moment later, she forced herself to continue, lifting her head and smiling at her mother.
“The Ladies’ Guild has requested the Rose Garden for their annual tea. I’ve approved the date, but I’ve also suggested that we limit the attendance to fifty. Last year was just too crowded, and some of the older roses were damaged.”
She ticked off the other items in her mind, topics that might interest her mother, activities she’d performed today.
“I gave Thomas the duty of inspecting all the footmen’s livery,” she said. “I sincerely hope that we don’t have to incur expense there. But it’s better to be prepared than to be surprised.” An adage her mother had instilled in her from childhood.
“The north wing has some damage to the roof. It’s not major,” she said, trying to recall the steward’s exact words, “but I need to ensure that repairs are made before the next big storm.”
The Duchess of Herridge did not respond.
“What shall I do without you?” Sarah asked in the silence of the room. “Who will give me advice? Or share her stories with me? Who will make me laugh?”
There was no answer, just the barest sound of the duchess’s breathing. Even her breath seemed shallower than the day before.
Sarah bent her head, wishing she could think of a prayer, the perfect prayer, the very one to attract the attention of the Almighty. If she phrased the words in just the correct manner, would God be merciful? Would He stop whatever He was doing and pay attention?
A wall blocked her tears. A tall and thick wall that hid the rising tide of her grief from view. One day, perhaps soon, the level of her tears would reach the top of the wall, and her tears would splash over and be revealed to the world. For now, she was composed. Her servants no doubt saw her dry-eyed and calm, and perhaps they wondered at the coldness of her temperament. This grief, however, this loss, was not for anyone else to wonder at or whisper about. This pain was for the quiet of her chamber, muffled by the sound of her pillow.
She spread her fingers, stroking her mother’s skin, wishing she could warm it somehow.
How strange that she was fixed on this moment, unable to summon a single joyous memory or happy moment. She could not move her hand from her mother’s, and she could not budge her mind.
“I’ve finished Monday’s and Tuesday’s tasks,” she said, gently stroking her mother’s wrist. “I’m only one day behind,” she added. “But we shall make up for it tomorrow.”
She lowered her voice until it was just a whisper. “I haven’t mentioned my marriage, have I?” She paused for a moment, as if giving her mother time to answer.
“He’s quite attractive, Mother. You can almost see him as a knight in armor, holding his helm under one arm. He is very commanding in his way, but he doesn’t seem that way at first. I’ve noticed that he seems to study a situation with some intensity before deciding what to do. Then, once he’s decided, he acts with a great deal of forcefulness. He isn’t arrogant. He isn’t rude. He’s just there, like a boulder, or an oak. You know he will not be moved.”
Sarah traced a pattern on the sheet with one finger. There were so many questions she wished she could ask her mother, but it was not Morna’s illness that precluded her from doing so as much as her own embarrassment. There were so many things she didn’t know. Not about how humans copulated—Chavensworth was a large estate with prosperous farms. She had seen her share of animals in rut, even though she was supposed to have ignored any such behavior and pretended it didn’t exist.
No, the questions she wanted to ask were of a somewhat different nature. Could a woman be curious about the physical aspects of marriage even if she didn’t know the man very well? Could she be interested in copulation, or was even such an interest considered an act of harlotry?
And if a woman happened to find herself lying naked near a sinfully attractive man, should she allow herself to be seduced? Especially if that sinfully a
ttractive man was her husband?
There was no one to ask, and she was left floundering in her own ignorance. She sighed heavily.
“He is very handsome,” she said, lowering her voice again. “But one does not seem to remember that about him. He leaves an impression,” she added. “A very definite impression.”
One of having been close to lightning.
What would her mother think of Douglas Eston? Would she be charmed by him? Her mother had a way of looking for the best in each person, a trait that Sarah knew she hadn’t inherited. She’d begun that way, of course, wanting to believe that every person with whom she came in contact was kind and industrious. She wanted to believe that people had more than their own interests at heart, that they actually genuinely cared for others.
As long as her mother was awake and counseling her, it had been easier to believe in such things. Perhaps there was too much of her father’s cynicism about her.
What would she think of Douglas Eston if she were possessed of her mother’s optimistic attitude?
Unfortunately, she wouldn’t think any differently of him at all, simply because she didn’t know the man. She could only go by his actions, and having been in his company exactly one whole day, there wasn’t much to judge. He had insisted that she sleep in the same room, which wasn’t onerous after all, because he hadn’t touched her. He didn’t insist upon her sharing a marital bed. Nor did he ravage her in any way, except verbally, perhaps.
He didn’t demand that she report to him, that she alter her life in any way. Of course, she hadn’t given him the opportunity to do so. Nor would she. Her life at Chavensworth would go on in the same pattern as it had before. No inopportune husband would have the ability to alter her existence.
Was that too stubborn a thought?
He had been very kind to sit with her mother this morning and talk with her. What had he said? Sarah was her daughter, and she would have been interested in anything that concerned her.
What an odd time to begin to weep. Not that anyone could tell. The tears simply rolled from her eyes without volition. She angrily brushed them away with the back of one hand before bowing her head once more.
Very well, he hadn’t been difficult at all. But then, he’d simply disappeared. What was she to make of that?
She sat with her mother for another hour, without, thankfully, dwelling on Douglas Eston to any great degree. Finally, she stood and bent over the bed, placing a kiss on her mother’s forehead and pressing her cheek against her mother’s.
“Please, God,” she whispered.
She didn’t know what else to ask for. Thy will be done seemed to be the four most difficult words in any language. What did God choose, in this instance? Please, God seemed as good a prayer as any.
Sometime in the last hour, Hester had regained her chair at the end of the bed. As Sarah rounded the bed, she placed her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. Would Hester understand that the gesture meant so very much, conveying words Sarah didn’t have the strength to say?
Please take care of her. Care for her as if she were your own beloved. All she could say as she left the room was a whispered, “Let me know if there’s a change, Hester.”
The older woman nodded.
Chapter 9
Sarah went first to her own bedchamber and gathered up those belongings she needed for the night. Then she walked down the hall to the Duke’s Suite, opened the door, and closed it behind her. Instead of going into the bedchamber, she walked into the bathing room.
Her grandfather had built this addition to Chavensworth. Long fascinated by all things medieval, her grandfather had raided a French castle, appropriating from it a bathtub that had been hewn from solid rock. He’d brought it back to Chavensworth and had it erected in this room, on a wide platform atop a series of steps.
She lit a few beeswax candles, brought three of them into the bathing chamber, and stood for a moment marveling at the faint, almost indiscernible scent. The flickering light from each candle, such a small yet perfect illumination, caused the stone to glow golden.
This small thing, lighting a few beeswax candles, reminded her that she did not often spare touches of luxury for herself.
The bathtub was massive, a rectangular shape heavily carved around the edges with a pattern that had always reminded her of a Grecian key. She turned the tap to allow cold water to pour into the tub. Her father’s house in London had hot-water taps, but here at Chavensworth there had never been enough money to install a boiler. When the tub was half-filled, she left the chamber, glancing at the clock on the mantel as she walked to the door. Just as she had ordered, two footmen stood there, each bearing a hot water urn in each hand.
“Good evening, Lady Sarah,” the taller one said.
“Very punctual, Jamison.”
He smiled, which wasn’t an approved response, but she didn’t chastise him for it. Instead, she stood by the door as the two young men deposited the urns in the bathing chamber and returned. She closed the door after them and returned to the side of the bath, where she emptied three of the urns into the tub. Only then did she undress, taking care to place her clothes in a tidy little pile on the pediment beside the steps.
Naked, she mounted the steps and put first one foot into the tub, then the other, sinking down into the warm water, wishing she had some scented bath salts. Another touch of luxury, but one she could not afford. She laid her head back against the hard stone, wondering as she did each time she bathed in this room about the inhabitants of that faraway French castle. Who had they been? Who had used the stone tub before? Had they only taken pleasure in a luxury of being clean? Or had they mulled over their lives as she was doing right now?
She sat up and bathed her face, reaching for the dish of soap. After soaping her feet and ankles, she made her way up her body with diligence and precision. Habits were a reassurance.
She wrapped her arms around herself and bent forward and laid her cheek against the top of her knees. When she wept, when she allowed herself to do so, it was often here, where no one could see her tears or hear the sound of her sobs. No maids would interrupt her solitude. No servants would think to enter the Duke’s Suite without express permission.
Tears, however, would not come tonight. They were pushed aside by annoyance and perhaps just a tiny bit of curiosity.
She had not wished for a husband. What did she care that he’d abandoned her so quickly? Perhaps he was not returning after all. Perhaps he had gone straight back to London, to tell her father that the bargain was not well-done. He did not want to spend the rest of his life with someone like her.
Where was her husband? And just how long was she not to worry?
She lathered her hands and began to wash her shoulders. Her right hand slid down her left arm to her wrist, then back up again. Her muscles hurt from lifting the heavy feather beds, but the work was healing. She didn’t have time to think or to worry during the day. Only at night, when her activities ceased, did the thoughts cascade into her mind.
Her left hand soaped her right arm. After lathering her hands again, she began cleaning her breasts. He wanted to see her bare breasts, did he? Was that why he’d left her? Because she’d not played the harlot?
They were quite nice-looking breasts, if she had to judge. A little on the large side, perhaps, but they didn’t droop. The nipples were pink more than coral, and tended to point upward, like now. She brushed soap on one experimentally, then smoothed it over the crest of her breast.
Was she supposed to feel wicked?
Her chest was simply part of her, like her nose or her ears. She didn’t feel anything unusual when she placed her finger on the tip of her nose. Was she supposed to feel something different when touching her chest? Well, she didn’t.
Would she feel something different if he touched her? As if she would let him. Good heavens, did he want to suckle her? What on earth would she do if he did? Why on earth was her heart racing?
She stared at the far wall. P
erhaps it was a good thing her husband had left. Better he abandon her than she abandon her good sense.
Sarah hadn’t had time to visit with the carpenter today, so when she finished her bath and returned to the bedchamber, she looked at the cot in resignation.
Her husband was not here. For that matter, she had no idea if he was going to return. Why should she sleep on that uncomfortable cot? Why should she even sleep in the Duke’s Suite at all? She could be just as happy in her own chamber.
She told herself that, but her feet did not make the journey to the door. She’d learned early in her childhood not to disobey. Still, who was Douglas Eston to order her about? The answer came swiftly enough: her husband, legally acquired, if not morally so.
Very well, she wouldn’t return to her own chamber. But she wasn’t about to sleep on that miserable cot, either. Instead, she would be the one to sleep in the ducal bed tonight.
Sarah walked to the door and took the precaution of engaging the latch, just in case her husband did return. He would find the door barred against him, an indication of her displeasure, if nothing else.
She removed her dressing gown and arranged the folds of her nightgown so that when she sat on the edge of the bed, it wasn’t twisted around her legs. In truth, there were times when a nightgown seemed almost a strangling garment. Once or twice, she’d even thought of what it might be like to sleep entirely naked, without clothes of any kind. Now, that would truly be decadent, and decidedly wanton. Still, it was a thought, a temptation to which she’d almost surrendered once or twice. At the last moment, however, reason always returned. What if Margaret summoned her to her mother’s bedside in the middle of the night?
It would not do for Lady Sarah to be thought of as immodest and abandoned.
She sat on the edge of the bed and dangled her feet. A moment later, she leaned over and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table.
In the gap between the curtains, she could see the pale moonlight. She slid from the bed and opened the curtains wider until the room was bathed in a bluish white glow. She bent and opened the windows, not believing the night air noxious. The lavender fields perfumed Chavensworth’s air even in spring, and the early-blooming roses added a note of fragrance of their own.
