From Waif to Gentleman's Wife

by Julia Justiss

  ‘The letter’s to Lord Evers of Eversly Park, Dorset,’ he instructed.

  Your lordship,

  Being, as I previously informed you, no longer fit to take up the post of secretary you had promised me upon my leaving the army, I write instead to ask that you advance me passage money to the Americas. I pledge to repay this sum within a year, with whatever interest you consider appropriate. Please reply to me care of the Hart and Hare in the village of Hazelwick. Yours etcetera, Jesse Russell.While he watched, she carefully scribed the missive. ‘You were to work as his lordship’s secretary? You must have been well schooled.’

  He smiled. ‘My parents were crofters—skilled weavers in Nottingham. Earned a good wage in the old days, when Nottingham workmanship was famous throughout England. I wasn’t interested in the weaving trade, wanted something different. So they sent me to school. One of the masters recommended me to Lord Evers. But for a Polish lancer at Waterloo, I’d have had a fine job. But no one in England wants a crippled old soldier.’

  His nonchalant tone held an undertone of bitterness. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said softly. ‘But America! Is your family not concerned about your going so far away?’

  ‘Tis partly to help them that I want to go. A few years back, rich men came to Nottingham and set up factories, making stockings on machine looms any untrained fool could operate. Though the quality of their work far surpassed the factory-made hose, my kin could no longer sell enough to maintain their business. Had to go work for the factory owner for a pittance of what they used to earn, losing their independence as well as their livelihood. Finally sold their house, but even so, they can barely feed the family.’

  While she shook her head in sympathy, he continued, ‘I want better for myself than to toil in a factory, but even if there were land to be had, most of the farmers hereabouts barely raise enough to meet their rents. America offers a new start, where every man has a vote and “The Land is the People’s Farm”. As it should be. Not like here, where the nobs control everything and always will—until they’re forced out,’ he finished darkly.

  Though Joanna found it deplorable that a soldier who’d suffered as grievously for his country as the sergeant should be shunted aside like damaged refuse after the war’s end, the angry fervour of his last words made her uneasy. Before she could decide what, if anything, to reply, the sergeant’s expression lightened and he smiled again.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. Here’s a copper for your efforts.’ He pulled a coin from his pocket.

  ‘Goodness, no, I can’t take your money!’ she protested, waving it away. ‘My husband was a soldier, too, remember.’

  ‘You write in a fine hand,’ he said, inspecting the finished document. ‘I bet your man looks forwards to reading your letters—in India he is, you said?’

  A rush of sadness filled her, as it always did when she thought of Thomas. ‘My husband died several years ago,’ she said softly.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Right sorry for your loss. I’ll be heading back to town now, but if I need more letters written, would you be willing to do them?’

  ‘I’d consider it a privilege to assist a man who has served the nation as valiantly as you have, Sergeant Russell,’ she replied.

  A dull flush stained his cheeks and he stood straighter, like a soldier going on parade. ‘Thank you, ma’am, but I did no different than any of the men I served with, many of whom are now faring no better than I. Well, good day to you, and good luck with your school.’

  ‘Good day to you, Sergeant Russell.’

  She watched thoughtfully as he limped back in the direction of Hazelwick. Living as she had for the last ten years, first in India, then in London, then in a remote corner of Hampshire, she knew almost nothing about cloth making and factories. Aside from her observations of the ragged farmers and idle fields at Blenhem Hill, she knew little more about the state of agriculture. She vaguely remembered reading something in the London journals about unrest and the threat of violence. Surely there was no chance of that here?

  Still, if valiant men like Sergeant Russell were being pushed aside, ignored or made to feel useless, if honest yeoman who’d always prided themselves on their independence were forced from their small businesses or their lands, the well-being of their families sacrificed to the greed of wealthy landowners and factory owners, even someone as uninformed about the politics of the nation as she was could see how dangerous the situation might become.

  Troubled, she walked slowly back into the cottage. Though she hadn’t much appetite for eating alone, she ought to make an attempt to consume her provisions, lest she seem unappreciative of Cook’s efforts. She was unpacking the basket when she heard the sounds of a rider approaching.

  She hurried back to peer out the door. Her worry dissolved in a giddy little rush of excitement as she confirmed that this time, the gentleman approaching the cottage was indeed Mr Greaves.

  She paused to watch him ride up. Upright posture, hands just taut on the reins, powerful thighs controlling his mount…yes, he was an admirable horseman. An idea of how else he might employ those hips and thighs invaded her mind.

  Her thoughts coalesced in a series of searing images: a shadowy bedchamber; a strong, broad-shouldered, brown-haired man brushing one lock of hair from his brow as he looked down at her, his tawny eyes molten with desire; her lover crooning sweet words to her as he thrust himself deep into her willing warmth. A tremor shook her to the core, flooding her with wetness.

  She’d been told a widow buried her sensual desires with her husband and, for more than two years, she’d believed it to be true. But with the gradual increase in her preoccupation with Mr Greaves, Joanna was less surprised this time to have her body demonstrate those desires had not in fact been lost forever. It appeared they’d just been slumbering…waiting, perhaps, for the right man to reawaken her to pleasure?

  How disconcerting and inconvenient to have that awakening occur now!

  But as she returned his smile, a wicked little voice whispered that perhaps here and now was in fact very convenient…and Mr Greaves the perfect man for the task.

  Chapter Seven

  H e really ought not to stop…but after working with the tenants to prepare new ground for planting on the nearby Wilkers farm, Ned hadn’t been able to keep himself from riding to the schoolhouse…just as he had the other two days Mrs Merrill had been working there.

  In addition to the sensual pull that irresistibly drew him to her, every day he liked her more. Instead of spending dull evenings poring over agricultural tracts, after dinner he walked her to the salon and coaxed her to tell him about herself and her life in India. With her expressive hands and warm velvet voice, she was entrancing, a natural storyteller as gifted as a Scheherazade.She made him hear the roar of the great beasts and the beating sticks of the trackers during a tiger hunt, the rattle and hiss of a snake battling a mongoose. Feel the dip and sway of the howdah strapped high atop an elephant’s back, the heavy summer air stirred by a servant-boy with a plumed fan. See the mud-brown of villages brightened by the brilliant pattern of ladies in their multi-coloured saris, experience the swirling dust of the markets with their babble of voices and scent of dung, marigolds and spices.

  If she enthralled her students half as much as she fascinated him, they would have to drag the children back to their farms every night.

  Of course, keeping her talking was a good way to avoid having to talk himself. He hoped his reticence to discuss his own history and background hadn’t offended her, she who trustingly offered up her life to him with an openness he’d refrained from reciprocating.

  But the necessity for secrecy wouldn’t last forever. Once he’d uncovered the reasons for the attack on Nicky’s carriage and the extent of Luddite activity in the area, he would safely be able to divulge his identity. Intelligent and reasonable as she was, she would surely understand why the deception had been necessary.

  Though he had to admit, he was glad that revealing the truth had to be put o
ff. Hopefully, before then she would come to understand why her brother had been sacked and the painful memories of the lecherous Lord Masters would begin to fade. A lessening of her current distaste for ton gentlemen along with some time for her to grow to like him for himself, and perhaps she would not then hold his title against him.

  He certainly hoped so. He didn’t know what she would ultimately decide to do about her future, but he was already finding it difficult to imagine Blenhem Hill without her industrious, witty presence. If she agreed to stay on after establishing the school, he might have to remain here for longer than he’d initially expected.

  He’d always thought his ideal helpmeet would be a countrywoman as steeped in knowledge and love of the land as he was. He was beginning to think an enchanting storyteller who could bring the gift of knowledge to the children of his tenants might be an even better match.

  An enchanting storyteller who engaged his mind and made his senses sing every time he saw her, as he did now as he rode up to the cottage.

  He couldn’t help smiling as he approached. Silhouetted in the doorway of the old cottage, fine strands of hair escaping her bonnet to gleam auburn in the sunlight, she looked as warm and appealing as the glow of the bonfire at the end of a successful harvest. How lovely she was, her face flushed from her exertions, her green eyes bright, those lush, smiling lips slightly parted, as if she were thinking wicked thoughts.

  Of course, he was the one with the lustful imagination, he acknowledged with a sigh. He couldn’t seem to look at her without envisioning rapid breathing and tangled sheets. Something about her made the breath seize in his throat and all the blood in his body rush straight to his loins.

  She kept him forever on the knife’s edge between liking and longing, respect and desire. He wouldn’t allow himself even to contemplate the nature of the feelings—if any—he might be arousing in her.

  It was enough for now that they were growing to be friends—good friends who enjoyed each other’s company, could anticipate each other’s thoughts and share each other’s amusements.

  Ned Greaves, you’re a liar, he told himself as he dismounted and walked towards her. When it comes to the beauteous Mrs Merrill, in the treacherous ground between affection and lust, you’re mired deeper than an ox in a bog, no matter how many times you tell yourself that you’re not ready to expose your heart to the danger of a woman’s fickle fancy.

  ‘Dare I hope there’s a bite left of Cook’s bread and ham?’ he asked, struggling to pry his thoughts away from the idea of pulling her into his arms. But, oh, how he wished he might lean down to kiss the luscious lips she now raised to him!

  ‘You are in luck,’ she said, taking the arm he offered her and walking him into the dim cottage while the skin beneath the fingers she rested on his wrist smoked and burned. ‘Let’s fetch the basket and bring it out into the sunlight. As it happens, I haven’t yet consumed a crumb.’

  ‘Indeed! Late as it is? You’ve been entirely too diligent, then. Although you’ve made immense progress,’ he noted, looking around the interior of the cottage. The bits and pieces of rotting rushes, old straw, broken crockery and other debris had been carried off, the floor swept, the cobwebs cleaned from the walls and roofing. ‘Everything looks ready for the arrival of the masons and carpenters. Perhaps tomorrow you can rest.’

  ‘I’d rather come here and observe the workmen. Or perhaps, if you have time, you could ride with me to visit the tenants and introduce me to the children.’

  He nodded. ‘An excellent notion. I’ve about finished my consultations with all the tenants on the placement and planting of the crops. Although I’m afraid it may require a deal of convincing to get some of them to allow their children to come to school. Many of the older folk are suspicious of education, thinking we mean to instil wild ideas in the children’s heads or make them believe themselves above working the fields.’

  ‘They will respect your opinion,’ she said, picking up the basket and strolling back outside with him. ‘Already the folk hereabout are impressed with your knowledge and concern. In fact, ’tis why you are lucky enough to be able to claim half Cook’s good bread and ham. Apparently there’s already talk in the village about the school, for I had a visitor who made me postpone my luncheon.’

  ‘Father of a prospective student?’ he asked, spreading out a cloth on the rough bench one of the workmen must have set out for her.

  ‘No. A former soldier,’ she replied as she unpacked the provisions. ‘Poor man, he lost an arm and part of his remaining hand at Waterloo. He wished me to write a letter for him.’

  Ned shook his head, a ready sympathy welling up. ‘’Twas a dreadful battle. If his injuries were that severe, he’s probably lucky to be alive.’ The food spread out between them, he motioned her to sit. ‘He’s found work in the village, then?’

  Mrs Merrill frowned. ‘No. In fact…’ She hesitated a minute, then said, ‘I must say, his situation leaves me rather troubled. Though the letter was personal, he didn’t forbid me to divulge its contents.’

  ‘If you don’t feel you would be violating a confidence, please tell me about it,’ he invited, tearing off a hunk of the bread.

  ‘He had me write to the nobleman who was to engage him as his secretary—before his war injuries made such an occupation impossible. He wished that gentleman to advance him passage to the Americas, where I believe he hoped to find some good land to settle.’

  Ned nodded. ‘I’ve heard there is rich land to be had for a fair price.’

  ‘I suppose so. What disturbed me, though, was the way he described it. As if America was to be preferred over England, it being a place where—how did he put it?—“where every man has a vote and ‘The Land is the People’s Farm’”.’

  His mind alerted and his whole body tensed, as if he’d just heard again the explosion of the pistol outside his coach on the road to Blenhem Hill. Finally snapped out the sensual haze that seemed to settle over his brain every time she opened her lips, he repeated, ‘“The Land is the People’s Farm”? He said that exactly?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. Are those words significant?’

  ‘They could be. That phrase, worded in just that manner, is a slogan often repeated by the members of the Society of Spencean Philanthropists. A radical group, some of whom seek not just to reform government by extending the vote, but to overthrow it entirely. Did he mention meeting with others of similar views?’

  She looked even more troubled. ‘No. However, he did say something about how in England those who hold power through birth or great fortune control everything and always will—until they are “forced out” I believe he worded it. It…it sounded rather extreme to me.’

  In his mind Ned replayed the afternoon of the attack. Were any of the armed and masked men possessed of only one arm? Ned didn’t think so; even in the tumult of the moment, he would have noted a man who had suffered that drastic an injury. But perhaps there was a radical group hereabouts to which the young soldier belonged.

  He had certainly echoed their rhetoric.

  While Ned remained silent, Mrs Merrill continued, ‘I confess I know almost nothing of the politics, but even in my ignorance, I recognise that such talk could be dangerous. Men of wealth and influence would surely act quickly to demand the arrest—or worse—of anyone who seemed to advocate their overthrow. Still, when a man who has sacrificed as much for his nation as Sergeant Russell is pushed aside—or craftsmen are robbed of their businesses by the establishment of large industries—how can one fault these men for protesting?’

  Ned hesitated, trying to decide how much to reveal to her. Though he understood her sympathy for the labourers’ distress—indeed, he shared it—he did not wish to encourage her involvement in what might be a very perilous cause. And he knew her character well enough now to know she was incapable of dissembling.

  If he warned her about the attack on him, even without revealing his identity—which he hoped not to do until she could evaluate him for himself and n
ot his name—as honest and straightforward as she was, if questioned, she might inadvertently reveal something of the matter—perhaps even putting herself into danger. Until Ned had more answers than he now possessed, he’d prefer that no hint of the attack emerge.

  Telling her nothing about it would probably be safest, he concluded. ‘Talk of open resistance is certainly unwise. You were right to warn me. Though I feel for the soldier’s situation, stirring up a hornet’s nest of protest would only lead to repression—the hangings and deportations after the uprisings a few years ago should have taught everyone that.’

  ‘I find it deplorable poor wretches should be hanged or transported simply for protesting against injustice,’ she retorted hotly. ‘And what of soldiers like Sergeant Russell, wounded or maimed in the service of their country, now facing an uncertain future while the government they fought to preserve does nothing to help? One is hard-pressed not to approve of the Sergeant’s desire to relocate to a nation where ability and individual effort, not an accident of birth, determine a man’s worth!’

  Knowing how she had suffered at the hands of a man of birth, Ned tried to skirt that delicate issue. ‘The way the returning soldiers have been treated is a disgrace,’ he said, trying to turn the subject. ‘My—’ he barely caught himself before saying ‘my friend Nicky’ ‘—ah, friends tell me that some in Parliament have argued for providing assistance to the veterans, perhaps having the government employ on the roads and canal systems those who came home to find their farms or their jobs gone.’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘Indeed, that exact thing happened to Sergeant Russell’s family! They were skilled weavers in Nottingham, he told me, who lost their positions when factories were built in the area.’

  Which made it even more likely the young soldier might be involved with Luddites—and have few scruples about using force to achieve his aims, Ned thought, his concern deepening.