by Sarah Winn
That was unfair. He'd sent her here. “Isn't that what you want me to do?”
“Your duties as my wife include attending social engagements, especially those with my political colleagues. Great changes are on the horizon and this is a perfect time to let it be known I'm serious about my career.”
“But won't the gossip about me do you more harm than good?”
“I married you. I made you a countess. If I accepted you, they cannot do otherwise.”
“But—”
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Who are you?”
What a silly question. “Prudence Crump.”
He shook her hand. “No! Who are you?”
She began to feel irritated. “Prudence Crump Fairchilde.”
He squeezed her hand again. “No!”
“You're hurting my hand.”
He didn't lessen his grip. “Then tell me who you are.”
“I am,” she said loudly and gave her head a toss, “the Countess of Malvern.”
“Very good.” Cradling her hand gently, he lightly kissed the back of it and gave her a roguish smile. “We'll practice again tonight. Now I must change my wet boots.”
Prudence watched Malvern stride from the room, and for once, saw some value in his arrogance.
Several days later, Prudence again sat at her desk, adding a few more items to her shopping list. She now had a full page and doubted everything could be purchased in one trip to York. Hearing a trunk snap shut in her bedroom, she rushed to see if Hazel had packed properly. As the maid worked on one of the leather straps that secured the trunk, Prudence asked, “Finished already?”
Hazel glanced up at her. “Yes, ma'am, Mr. Victor kindly showed me how to use tissue paper between the folds of yer dresses to keep ‘em from wrinklin'.”
“That was good of him,” Prudence said while she frowned with irritation. She should have explained the intricacies of packing, not the valet. After all, Hazel was now her personal maid. Then she noticed the stiff white apron and mobcap Hazel wore, thanks to the insistence of the new housekeeper, Mrs. Fossey. Just another example of how Prudence was losing control of the house she supposedly managed. Like those two footmen Malvern had just hired. She had no idea what to do with them.
Finishing with the trunk, Hazel turned to her. “Would you like to get ready for bed, your ladyship?”
“Yes, I suppose I should. The earl wants to get an early start in the morning. Have you done you own packing?”
Hazel giggled. She was obviously excited over accompanying her mistress to York. “No, ma'am. Don't ‘ave much to pack, just a change of my unmentionables.”
“You do have a wool petticoat, don't you? It will be cold riding in the coach.”
Hazel nodded. “My mam gave me ‘ers. Said she didn't want me embarrassing you and ‘is lordship by not being properly dressed.”
“Oh, Hazel.” Prudence felt a sudden wave of guilt over the hardship her need for a maid was causing these good people. “You should have told me you needed warmer clothing.”
“No need to bother ye about such, my lady.”
Maybe she should add yards of wool to her shopping list. Raising her arms so Hazel could remove her bodice, she then stepped out of her petticoats one after the other.
Once she was into her gown and robe, she sat at her dressing table so Hazel could remove the pins and brush her hair. The girl's gentle strokes caused some of the tension across Prudence's shoulders to melt. “Have you met the new footmen, yet?”
“Yes, ma'am. They took their supper in t'kitchen tonight.”
“Was anything said about what they'd be doing tomorrow?” Prudence asked.
“Victor said William, he's the fair-haired one, would be driving the carriage tomorrow. Alfie is to stay here and trim up the yew around the front of the house and anything else Mrs. Fossey says.”
“They can work outside the house, then?” They'd never had footmen at Primrose Cottage and Prudence hadn't paid attention to what the individual servants had done when she lived in Manchester.
“I guess they do whatever needs doin'.”
Remembering something that had been said at the dinner table, Prudence jumped to her feet. “Oh, dear, I wonder if the earl has come up yet.”
“Yes, ma'am. Victor went to attend him.”
Prudence moved toward the connecting door. “I need to speak with him before he goes to bed.”
After Malvern called, “Come,” she entered his bedroom and found Victor helping him into a robe.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “I can come back later.”
He turned toward her as he tied the satin sash around his waist. “No need. Victor is about to leave.”
The valet made a slight bow, gathered up several pieces of soiled clothing, and left.
Malvern sat casually on the side of his bed and gestured for her to join him. “This is a nice surprise. I always call on you.”
“I remembered what you said tonight about the footmen needing livery.” She perched lightly beside him. “Where do I get it? Should I put it on my shopping list?”
He smiled and shrugged. “I have no idea.”
A worried sigh escaped her. “Well, what shall I do?”
He patted one of her tightly clenched hands. “Tell Mrs. Fossey or Victor to handle it. I'm sure one of them has encountered the problem before.”
She frowned at him. “I should know about such things.”
“Why? That's what servants are for. If you had a butler he'd automatically take care of such matters.”
“I really don't think Aysbeck is large enough to need a butler and a housekeeper.”
“That's why I haven't hired one, but this is a good example of the kind of thing he would handle for you.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“If you're worried about the money, don't. A butler's wages won't ruin me.”
“It's not that...”
“What then?” He gazed into her eyes, seeming genuinely interested in her answer.
“All my life there's been someone telling me what to do—my mother, my aunt Agatha, your mother. When I came here, this house was all my responsibility. Even though it was dusty and cold, I could do whatever I wanted with it. Now Victor hires new servants, and Mrs. Fossey tells the girls what to wear and how to talk.
“I felt like crying when I had to give her the household keys. I know that was foolish. I should be glad for her help, but I had the feeling that the grown-ups were taking over again.”
His smile broadened, but it seemed sympathetic. “You don't have to worry about age anymore. You're a countess, so you outrank everyone in the house.”
“Except you.”
“That's right, and don't you forget it.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose and then nuzzled her cheek. “And the earl would like for the countess to sleep in his bed tonight.”
“Oh, Malvern! You want to start for York early in the morning and I've been running all day.” As if to prove her words a giant yawn forced her to throw her hand over her mouth.
He chuckled and slipped an arm around her. “I asked you to sleep with me, nothing more.”
She pulled her head back so she could look him in the eye. “But we never just sleep together.”
“Well, I think it's time we do.”
“Won't we be more comfortable in our own beds?”
“We can keep each other warm after the fire burns down. Please stay with me, Pru.”
She didn't quite believe his promise to let her sleep, but knew she couldn't refuse. With a sigh of resignation, she gestured toward the connecting doorway. “I'll just go put out the candles.”
He kept his arm around her and called out, “Hazel?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you snuff out the candles and bank the fire? Her ladyship will stay in here tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Prudence pulled free of his embrace and removed her robe. She tried to hide her irritat
ion at his lack of consideration, reminding herself that a wife had to comply with her husband's demands no matter how exhausted she might be from preparing for his trip. She slipped under the covers and watched him put out the candles in the wall sconce and close the connecting door.
He removed his robe. As she'd expected, he was nude. So much for his promise to just sleep.
After blowing out the last candle, he hurried under the covers and moved toward Prudence. He threw an arm around her and fit his body against hers spoon fashion. “Hmm, I really need warming up.”
She sighed. “Don't you ever wear a nightshirt?”
“Not since I left my mother's house. Are you going to insist I start wearing one again?”
“I—I don't have the right to say what you sleep in. But you would be warmer.”
“I find this a far more pleasant way to warm myself.”
She lay stiffly, waiting for his hands to start moving about on her body, but nothing happened. Needing to straighten her nightdress, she twisted a bit and felt his firm manhood against her backside. Yes, he definitely intended to have his way tonight.
She yawned again, doing nothing to stifle the size or sound of it.
He raised himself, kissed the edge of her ear, and softly said, “Go to sleep, dear wife.”
She felt him relax and heard his breathing grow deeper and more regular. Did he really mean to keep his word? Was he denying himself out of respect for her? Oh, she shouldn't let her imagination run wild. Most probably, he was tired too.
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Chapter 19
On their fourth evening in York, Prudence and Malvern were invited to the home of Lord and Lady Bumfrey for dinner. The butler at the Bumfrey mansion led them to a salon and loudly announced, “The Earl and Countess of Malvern.”
The sonorous tones of the butler's voice as he said “Countess” sent a shiver down Prudence's back. She had gotten used to the courtesies paid to her title by the common folk in Aysbeck, but tonight she must face other peers who were more deserving of their titles than she was of hers.
Lord Bumfrey introduced his wife, and she led them around the thickly carpeted salon, introducing the other guests. She explained, in a somewhat apologetic manner, that many of their friends were in the country hunting at this time of year.
Prudence nodded with understanding but wondered if some of those friends had refused an invitation to meet her.
When the party of twelve gathered around the table in the formal dining room, the men quickly took charge of the conversation. The older gentlemen all seemed eager to impress their political views on Malvern. Prudence didn't mind this male domination, for it saved her from having to do more than smile and nod at her fellow diners. The dessert course was finally completed, and the ladies retired to the salon for tea, leaving the gentlemen to enjoy their cigars and brandy.
As she arranged her skirts on a small sofa, Prudence could feel the other women's eyes turning to her. To be polite, they asked her several questions about what she'd been doing while in York. Then Lady Bumfrey got down to their real interest. “I believe you are a Crump—from Manchester?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Mrs. Clinton, on her left, leaned closer. “Would that be the cotton Crumps?”
Judging from the woman's loudness, Prudence guessed her hard of hearing, so she replied loudly, “My father was Horace Crump.”
“I knew your mother,” Mrs. Clinton announced.
Prudence turned toward the woman in surprise.
Mrs. Clinton wagged her finger at Lady Bumfrey. “You must have known her too. Lydia Summersby, Agatha Becton's sister.”
Lady Bumfrey gasped and then explained Prudence's connection to the Duke of Litton. The other women smiled and nodded in approval.
Prudence was amazed. To these women she was a person in her own right. Apparently, in the more industrialized north, her father's success in business alleviated some of his commonness.
“Well, how did you and the earl meet?” Lady Finnes, a sweet-faced woman on her right, asked.
Her brief euphoria died. “Ah—my half-brother introduced us. He and the earl have been friends for some time.”
“Her brother is the nephew of Viscount Weathersby, by Lydia's first husband,” Mrs. Clinton loudly explained.
“Were you in London for a season?” someone asked.
Prudence decided to rely on the truth as much as possible. “No, my mother passed away in February of last year after a lengthy illness. So I never had a season in London. I was just there for a short holiday with my brother.”
“And you met the earl and fell in love. Isn't that a wonderful story?” Lady Finnes beamed at her.
Prudence smiled back. It was indeed a wonderful story; too bad it wasn't the truth.
“But why did you marry so quickly?” Lady Bumfrey asked in an unnaturally sweet voice. “With all your connections, your wedding could have been the affair of the year.”
“We would have had to wait for six more months due to the mourning period for my mother, and with both my parents gone, I was interested in establishing a new home for myself.” Prudence looked the woman squarely in the eye, daring her to push beyond the bounds of good taste.
Mrs. Clinton chuckled and lightly touched Prudence's hand. “I can certainly understand why you were eager to marry a handsome man like Lord Malvern. Unlike some here, I've known a bit of passion in my lifetime too.”
The other women smiled indulgently at Mrs. Clinton and the conversation drifted into other areas.
Later, when the men, accompanied by the lingering smell of tobacco, joined them, Malvern looked across at Prudence with a questioning expression. She nodded and smiled to let him know she had survived her inquisition. Then it occurred to her that she and he had just communicated without words. As a child, she'd seen her parents do that and thought the ability came from their great love for each other. Apparently, it had just come from familiarity.
In the carriage, on the way back to the hotel, Malvern listened to Prudence's excited description of her triumph in the salon. He saw her pride over the role her own background had played in winning the ladies’ acceptance and was glad. Believing herself worthy of being a countess would do her more good than all the encouragement he might give.
She teased him about how taken the elderly Mrs. Clinton had been with him. He played along, pretending embarrassment and finally saying he hoped the dear lady did not go into a decline from pining for him. For a second, she looked shocked by his vanity and then laughed and tapped his hand as though punishing a naughty child.
Back at the hotel, they went through the awkward process of preparing to retire with two servants in one suite of rooms. Prudence endured the inconvenience of undressing in the dressing room, and Malvern had to wear a cursed nightshirt as a sop to Hazel's modesty. It would have been simpler to get two suites, but Malvern liked having Prudence beside him all night.
After they were in bed, and before he could turn down the bedside lamp, Prudence twisted toward him and propped her head up with her hand. “What are the Corn Laws the gentlemen kept talking about tonight?”
He could see she was still excited by the evening, so he pulled his pillow up against the headboard and leaned back, content to indulge her. “They are tariff laws that protect our grain farmers from cheap imports.”
“That sounds like good thing. Why should anyone want to change them?”
“The disease that has attacked the potato crop this year will likely cause a scarcity of food. Some in the government think the Corn Laws should be suspended to lower the cost of bread.”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Why were the gentlemen at dinner tonight so opposed to that?”
“They are mostly large land owners whose rents come from farmers protected by the tariffs. They fear if we admit the tariffs keep the cost of bread high, the people will demand the laws be repealed, not just suspended.”
She mulled o
ver that information. “But if the laws do, in fact, make bread more costly, wouldn't it help the poor if they were repealed?”
He sighed over her naivety. “Prudence, the poor will always be with us, so we must consider other factors.”
“Such as?”
She was worse than a dog with a bone. “When did you become so interested in politics?”
“I want to understand what the people around me are talking about.”
“This issue has a lot to do with the rights and privileges of the aristocracy. We've lost a great deal of those rights in recent years. Many feel the Corn Laws should be preserved as a matter of principal.”
She wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something unpleasant. “People must go hungry to make a point?”
He huffed with impatience. “As you just admitted, this is something you don't understand.”
She sat up and placed her fists on her hips. “I understand that it's wrong for those who have so much to obtain more from those who have so little.”
“You sound like a Manchester liberal, my dear.”
The sharp downturn of the corners of her mouth made him realize their discussion had degenerated into an argument. He leaned forward and slipped his arm around her. “Let's not argue about dull old politics, when we could be enjoying other pursuits.”
He tried to kiss her cheek, but she moved away, coming from under the covers and out of his reach. “Why do you always do that?” she asked as though he'd just committed some crime.
“Do what? Kiss my wife?”
“Stop our discussions with kisses and such?”
He shrugged. “Because I much prefer kisses and such.”
“To talking with me?”
“Yes, when the talk turns into bickering.”
She began to wave her upturned palms as she spoke. “What is bickering? Whenever I have an opinion that differs from yours?”
Obviously, she was determined to have an argument, so he'd give her what she wanted. “Are you expressing an opinion or a prejudice?”
That let a little steam out of her righteous indignation. “What do you mean?”
“Despite the excellent progress you've made in learning to act like a countess, you still bear ill will toward the upper class you feel has slighted you. So is your concern really for the poor or is this just another reason to denigrate the aristocracy?”
