Christopher came into the chamber, holding her little son in his arms. The child was intensely interested in his little sister, but was wary of this strange woman who tried to hug him.
The little boy had changed so much she would never have recognised him; she could scarcely believe he was her son at all. When she went away, she left behind a young baby, but that baby was gone forever. She would never see his first steps, hear his first words; that joy had been stolen from her and as the thought flitted across her mind, she glared at Christopher in anger.
She took the child in her arms and hugged him, but he did not return her embrace, only squirmed away. She felt sad, felt that she had lost him for good.
At last her husband called the nurses to take him and little Rose away. Felice was reluctant to let her go; the thought entered her mind that this was some kind of trick to convince her to part with the child, that she would never see her again. He would foster her out to some peasant family, because she told him she was not of the nobility. She began to wonder if that was such a good idea after all.
She sat on her bed and looked up at Lord Christopher where he stood towering above her, and as she did so sudden panic overcame her and she jumped to her feet and hurried after the nurse, half expecting her husband to stop her. She returned with Rose in her arms.
"Let the nurse feed her, Felice," he said. "She must be hungry."
Felice stood and held the little girl tighter to herself. The door opened and the nurse appeared.
"My Lady," she said. "Would you rather give the baby her supper yourself?"
She made no reply for a few moments, her eyes moving between the nurse and her husband suspiciously. At last she passed the baby back to the woman, feeling so drained of energy she did not think she could hold her much longer.
She sat down on the edge of the bed once more and Christopher came to sit beside her.
"I have told them to send our supper up here," he told her. "So we can be private."
“Ah,” Felice challenged him angrily. “You are no doubt anxious to return to my bed. You think that by saying you are sorry, I should welcome you. Well, My Lord, although I am your wife and I know you will not be refused, you should know I will not welcome you. You may take me, that is your right, but you will have nothing for which to thank me.”
He had been about to put his arm around her, but now he moved away, shaken by the venom in her words, by how much they hurt. He moved even further away, leaving a space between them, and as he did so he choked back an ache in his throat.
"I may never be able to make it up to you," he said quietly. "You may never forgive me for not trusting you, for not believing you. I have missed you, and I do yearn for you it is true, but I swear I will not return to your bed unless I am invited. On that you have my word."
She returned his gaze, still unsure whether to trust him. The servant brought their supper and they sat at the small table beside the window to eat. Felice said nothing; she had nothing to say to him, nothing at all.
“Felice,” he said at last, “I cannot tell you how much joy it gives me to know you are alive, to know you are still in this world. I thought I had lost you and I have never been so unhappy in my entire life. I knew I loved you before; that is why I ended my relationship with Immeth, but just why I failed to tell you I have no idea.”
She drew a deep breath. His words made her angry, knowing as she did that he could not really be in love with her, not when he had thought so badly of her. She was still afraid of him, but her need to speak her mind was too much to resist.
“Perhaps you were confused, My Lord,” she answered savagely. “Perhaps you could not quite equate loving me with wanting to hang me.”
He caught his breath in a gasp but made no reply and they continued to eat in silence. Her words hurt, but he knew he deserved them and he also knew he might never persuade her to believe him.
She looked out at the half forgotten landscape of the Waterford grounds, looked beyond the meadow to the little village where she had last seen Immeth, lying on the dirt floor of her hovel, where she had seen her husband with the hands of his two small children in his own, and she felt panic rising up to choke her once more. This man did not even acknowledge his own children, could not wait to dump them on to their aunt. What could she expect would be his treatment of the daughter of a peasant who died of the pestilence? She should never have let him persuade her to allow the nurse to take Rose away.
"Where is Rose?" She demanded.
"The nurse has found her a crib," he answered.
"She sleeps with me," Felice argued with fear in her heart. "She will not be able to sleep otherwise, neither will I."
"She will have her own bed."
"No, she sleeps with me," she said, jumping to her feet. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"
He stood up and went to the door where he called for the nurse. Felice heard him whispering with her on the threshold and wondered frantically what he was saying, wondered if he was telling her to dispose of the child somewhere while she had the chance. She stared at him warily when he returned to the bedchamber.
"She is being fetched," he said. "Did you think I would hurt her?"
"How do I know? You neglect your own children, so what consideration can I expect you to give to Rose?"
He had no time to answer before the door opened and the nurse came in, holding a sleeping Rose in her arms. Felice directed her to the bed, where she laid the child beneath the covers and tucked her in.
Lord Christopher watched her go then closed the door behind her.
"Do you really need her with you?" He asked. "Or is she insurance against your husband raping you in your sleep?"
She made no reply, only stared at him. Foremost in her thoughts had been the fear of losing Rose, of him spiriting her away to some foster family, but somewhere deep within her innermost thoughts she had been thinking just what he suggested.
He looked as though she had physically hurt him, then he opened the door and left her alone, closing it behind him.
***
Felice slept soundly that night. She had not realised how insecure she had been in the manor house, with its rickety doors and shutters. She tucked little Rose up against the wall so that no one could whisk her away while her mother slept, and she tucked herself close to her. Her bed was warm and soft, a luxury after the months spent shivering on that straw mattress. The scent of roses from around the room reminded her of the many passionate nights she had shared with Christopher in this bed and the memory brought tears of sorrow with it.
In the morning she reluctantly allowed the nurse to take the baby and feed her, but she would want her back straight after breakfast. She did not trust her husband with the child, not when he ignored the two he knew were his own flesh and blood.
It was a bright day and she found a gown of light material in her boxes as Daisy was unpacking them for her.
"My Lady," she said worriedly. "Is all well now?"
"Is what all well, Daisy?"
"Forgive me, it is really impertinent, but it would be nice to see you and His Lordship happy together again."
"Again?"
"I remember the first few weeks after you married. He seemed so happy then; so did you."
Felice eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. Before her banishment, she would never have dreamed of confiding in a servant and she would never have allowed one to speak to her with so much familiarity. Now she thought of Daisy more as a friend than a servant. She sighed softly, memories of that time rushing back to hurt her.
That was before Christopher came home and found Thomas climbing down from her chamber, before she asked him about Immeth, before he found his peasant dead. What contempt must he have held her in to think so badly of her?
"I do not think things will ever return to that, Daisy," she said at last. "How can I trust him? How can I trust a man who believed me capable of such a heinous crime?"
Daisy quickly looked at the floor, h
er cheeks flushing.
"All the servants are excited to see you back, My Lady," Daisy told her. "They thought we were all dead and they were all saying, last night at supper, how Lord Christopher has changed since you went away."
"How changed?"
"They say he is not so fearsome as he was, that he keeps his temper. They say he is calmer, as though nothing matters much to him."
Felice wondered if it was true, if he really had changed or if his despondency would soon cure itself now he had her back, now he knew he had not been responsible for her death. Was it likely he had changed completely because he had lost his wife, or was it more likely he was angry to have lost the opportunity to avenge his mistress?
"I am sure they are all happy to know it," Felice replied. "I wonder if His Lordship is so happy about it." She turned to face her maid with a little frown. "You have something to ask me?"
"Well, My Lady," Daisy said timidly. "I was just wondering what my place will be now. I was never one of Your Ladyship's servants, neither were the others."
"I want you to be nurse to Lady Rose," Felice answered. "Will you do that for me? Keep her safe."
"Of course My Lady," she agreed at once, a delighted smile on her face. "I would love to."
"It is just that I am so afraid he will steal her from me."
"I know, My Lady," Daisy said soothingly. "But when are you going to tell him she is his child?"
"I am scared, Daisy. I thought if he did not know she was his daughter, he would have no interest in keeping her from me. Now I am afraid he will foster her out to some peasant family because he thinks she is an orphan of a lower class." She gazed at her maid with fear in her eyes. "There is also the danger that if he knows I am her mother, he will not believe she is his child. We have been away a long time; he might well think someone else has been in his place."
She knew what he would do about that, she had already tasted his wrath in that direction, his punishment for that particular crime. She would not disclose those thoughts to a servant; she had not fallen that far and she still had some pride.
Daisy put her arm around her and held her close. Neither of them even guessed that Lord Christopher heard every word.
***
Christopher would never have believed the words of a woman could hurt so much. He had mourned her for more than a year, grieved for her loss and that grief had changed him. His temper no longer flared at the slightest thing because he did not care about anything enough to lose his temper over it. Nothing mattered any more, not without Felice.
During that time of mourning, he missed her smile, her laughter, her conversation, he missed the sight of her, so beautiful with her smooth, satin skin and her beautiful blue eyes, her exquisite figure. He was so proud to call her his wife, so enchanted with every little thing she did and heartbroken when he believed her guilty of poisoning his mistress. How could he have thought that? How could he have suspected her of doing such a thing?
She was wrong – it was not only her body and her bed he missed. He had lain awake at night and remembered how he had threatened her when he thought her guilty of adultery, how he would have carried out his threat had she not argued with him, given him doubts. And he silently thanked her for that, because if he had harmed that gentle woman, he would never have forgiven himself and he doubted very much that she would have ever forgiven him either.
She was alive, and he would have known that a long time ago, would have saved himself a lot of heartache, had he not made her so afraid of him she hid herself away.
All his life he had only to want something and it had been his. Immeth had been his for the taking, even Sonia, whore that she was, had meant nothing to him, but Felice? She had the power to hurt him. She loved him and he rejected that love in the cruellest possible way, and now he would have to prove himself to her, have to win her love again, if he were ever to get her back. And he had to ask himself honestly why he so badly wanted her back. Was it because she was his wife, his property, because he had paid a fortune to win her hand? No. It was because he could not bear to think of her being in this world and not being with him. It was because he loved her.
What he overheard tore him apart. The little girl was his own child, and his wife was so afraid he would take her away, she pretended she was nothing more than an orphaned peasant.
Now he wondered if his own mother had felt the same, if his own father had stolen him away from her, if perhaps she had not willingly abandoned him after all.
He decided to keep Felice's secret for now, until he had time to think about it. He did not want her to be afraid, and if he let her know he had overheard, that he knew Rose was his, she might take the child and run away. If that happened, he might never find her again. She had lost all trust in him and whatever assurances he gave her, she would likely not believe them.
She thought he would accuse her of adultery again, thought he would flog her as he threatened to do before. He was deeply ashamed to admit that she had every right to think that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Stranger to the Boy
“I have sent word to your father,” Christopher said as they sat for breakfast. “I thought you would want him to know as soon as possible that you are safe.”
“Thank you, My Lord. That is a relief. I would like to visit him later, if that meets with your approval.”
“Of course. I will accompany you.”
“To be sure I do not escape?” She demanded.
His eyes closed briefly and he took a deep breath, telling Felice he was trying to control his anger. What did that mean? That he had not changed at all, as she suspected?
“I would like to apologise to him,” Christopher said at last. “He told me I was wrong, but I refused to listen. He deserves an apology and an explanation.”
She made no reply. She did not believe for one moment that was his real reason for wanting to accompany her.
.After breakfast, Felice left Rose in the care of her new nurse and went for a walk around the grounds. It was a beautiful day, the fresh sweet summer smell of cut grass something she had forgotten and part of her was pleased to be back. But only part of her; the other part was terrified, terrified of giving her love to this man again, of having her heart broken again and afraid she would not be able to resist him. No matter what he had done to her, she still loved him and always would. And she was so, so scared of what to do about little Lady Rose. If he knew she was his child, when he turned against her again, he would take her from her as he had her son. If he did not know, he would foster her out to a peasant family, perhaps Immeth's sister even, so she could grow up with his children, with her brother and sister, never knowing who they were or that she had a rightful place in the castle.
She followed the path around the castle wall, making her way to where the hothouse once stood, wondering where the flowers in her chamber had been grown. She stopped suddenly at the sight before her, catching her breath. She was looking at a garden, a beautiful little garden covered in glass and full of lovely, sweet smelling roses. How? When? Before yesterday, Christopher had no idea she was still alive and he could not have put this here since then.
She drew closer and caught sight of the serf she had seen before, the one who had kept the roses in the hothouse.
"My Lady," he greeted her hurriedly, bowing. "We heard you were back. We all thought you were dead."
"Yes," she replied. "So what is this for?"
Suddenly she had a horrible suspicion this garden had been built for some other woman. Perhaps he had used his wife's love of roses to enchant some other lady; perhaps he planned to remarry. And if he did, what then? Would he find some new excuse to get rid of Felice, to make way for a more suitable wife?
"Lord Christopher had this built last year," the serf replied. "He thought you were dead of the pestilence. He built this for you as a memorial."
A memorial? Like a tombstone for someone whose remains were lost. Quick tears rushed to her eyes and she turned away but
only for a moment. She could not resist stepping in among the flowers, could not resist breathing in their sweetness.
He had built this for her, while his first wife lie in a pauper's grave on the edge of the churchyard.
She wondered where he was. She wanted to seek him out, to thank him, but part of her knew that would be bringing down her guard and if she once did that, she would get hurt all over again.
***
When Felice left the table, Christopher followed. He was afraid to let her out of his sight, afraid she would slip away and he would never see her again. But as long as the baby was here she would not go far, would she? He remembered last night how afraid she was to let the child out of her sight and now he knew why.
He followed at a distance, wanting just to see her, to gaze upon her beauty, even if he could not touch her. As he watched he noticed for the first time the frayed hem of her gown, the ingrained dirt in the lace of her sleeves, the patched up tear in the bodice. He had never had to concern himself with such fripperies before; as his countess she had in the past arranged her own clothing, sent for her dressmaker when required, just as he had told her to do at the beginning of their marriage. But those times were no more; he had damaged that confidence. What had she said? Immeth would not have told him she was dying; she would have hoped for him to see it for himself.
Well, he would see things for himself from now on, and he would start with her wardrobe.
He approached her as she left the rose garden. The lovely smile that lit up her face vanished when she saw him and she stopped walking and took a step back.
"My Lord," she said, dropping her gaze. "I wish to thank you for the rose garden. It is beautiful."
PESTILENCE: The Scent of Roses Page 16
