by Cheryl Bolen
Was Aynsley sincere about wanting to be early to bed, or was he eager to have his library to himself—alone?
Chapter Twelve
Aynsley looked up from his desk when his weary wife came to the library after reading another chapter of Ivanhoe to the lads. Gone now was the sparkle he’d observed in her that afternoon when they sat in the folly beside the peaceful lake. He immediately left the desk and strode toward her. “Don’t even think about staying here, madam. You need to go to bed.”
“As do you, but there’s something I must speak to you about.”
The serious tone of her voice disturbed him. Was one of the boys sick? “What is it?”
“Please, let us go sit by the fire.”
Once they sat down, he turned to her. “What’s wrong?”
She drew a deep breath. He could see that she was trembling.
“Is something the matter with the children?”
She quickly reassured him. “No, they’re all perfectly fine.”
“Then it’s you?”
Her face incredibly somber, she nodded. “I must tell you why I’m so disturbed.” She looked at the flames, then drew in another deep breath. “What I’m going to say will make me seem horridly selfish, and I fear I’ll alienate the children, but I have to speak my mind.”
“What’s the matter, Rebecca?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“I cannot believe any other woman in the kingdom must eat dinner every night in her own home beneath a larger-than-life-size portrait of her predecessor.”
Of course she was right! When a new countess came in, the old countess’s portraits were consigned to the attics. How insensitive he’d been not to think of Rebecca’s feelings! “Forgive me. I never thought of it. I’ll have it removed in the morning.”
“I fear Emily will hate me even more.”
He wanted to reassure her, but she was likely right. Emily could be only barely civil to her stepmother. “I won’t let her blame you. The removal of the portrait is my decision entirely. If my daughter blames anyone for the removal, she will blame me.”
“Where will you put it?”
“Nowhere at Dunton Hall. Her portrait can return long after you and I have passed from this earth. For now, it will go to the heir. I’ll send it to Oxford, and Fordyce can keep it in his chambers there.” Aynsley took her slender hand in his. The poor girl. Her hand trembled. “I’m going to commission an artist to do your portrait.”
She shook her head vigorously. “No, I haven’t earned the right to have a portrait hanging at Dunton.”
His brows lowered. “What can you mean? You’re the Countess of Aynsley whether you wish to answer to that title or not. You don’t have to earn anything.”
“What I mean is,” she said in a barely audible voice, “that I shan’t merit a portrait until I could give birth to a child of Aynsley blood.” Her eyes were downcast, as if she were too embarrassed to look at him.
Her words nearly knocked the breath from him. He knew he should say something, but he did not know what to say. At that instant he realized the prospect of having a child with his wedded wife held great appeal. Finally, he thought of a response. “Then we shall wait until then before I send for the artist.” He was sure that day would come even if he didn’t know when.
They both sat in silence, peering at the repetition of rising, flickering and falling flames, then he was aware of a whimpering. He spun toward her and met her watery gaze just before her face swooshed into her palms, and her shoulders began to shake with racking sobs.
He did not think; he only reacted. His arms closed around her as he hauled her into his chest, patting her and murmuring soft words.
“I—I—I am such a pea goose,” she managed between huge sniffs.
“Whatever is the matter, dearest?”
“I don’t belong here. I know you must wish you’d never married me. I’m so sorry.”
He held her a bit tighter while shaking his head to emphasize his denial. “You are wrong. Not for a single minute have I regretted marrying you.”
She began to bawl even louder.
“Have I done something to upset you?”
She shook her head. “I have no handkerchief, and I fear I’m ruining your fine coat.”
He started to laugh. “My dear wife, you may blow your nose on my jacket for all I care. I have many more.”
Sniff. Sniff. Then she, too, began to laugh as he tightened his arms around her, stroking and whispering soft words.
“Never forget, Rebecca, that night in Warwick’s library it was I who asked you to marry me. Nobody can make me do something I don’t want to do.”
“But what have I brought to this marriage?”
“Much.” She obviously confused wealth with intangible assets.
“I can’t think of a single thing.”
His gentle hands swept circles on her back. He rather liked the size of her. She was a bit smaller than average. “But I can. Were you not here, I’d be sitting in my library with nary a soul on earth with whom to share my life. Until we became reacquainted, I thought I’d die a lonely old man.”
“Pray,” she whispered in a soft voice, “I beg that you not talk about dying.”
He smiled. “You see, that’s another very good thing about having a wife. It’s nice to know someone else cares for you.” Now why had he gone and said that? She hadn’t actually ever told him she cared for him.
“I do understand what you’re saying. I thought I should miss Maggie dreadfully, but because I’ve got you—and I must own, your ideas and mine do not clash as mine and Maggie’s do—I feel I’ve gained a best friend.”
Even though having a best friend was not his motive in marrying her, he understood what she meant because he felt much the same. “I don’t think I ever realized until we married how lonely I was.”
She nodded, and he could feel the tension ease from her. “Me, too. Though I love Maggie most dearly, we had nothing in common. With you I feel...it’s like the words at our wedding ceremony a man shall be joined unto his wife; and they two shall be one flesh.”
He was so touched by her words, it took a moment before he could find his voice. “We had much in common before you came to Dunton, as witnessed by our never-ending stream of shared ideas during the journey here. Now, I feel even closer. Because of the children. Raising children by oneself is difficult. I don’t know how you’ve managed it in so short a time, but I know your affection for them is genuine. “
“Oh, it most assuredly is!” She straightened up and offered him a smile. “I was looking forward to being a mother, but I never imagined I would lose my heart so quickly.”
He would not bring up Emily. Her animosity toward Rebecca would only send his wife back into hysterics. He took a good long look at her. The firelight was reflected in the spectacles that seemed to accentuate the red now in those soulful eyes of hers. “You look tired, and it’s my fault you didn’t sleep last night. Come, Lady Aynsley, it’s time you go off to bed.”
He was pleased she did not chide him for referring to her as Lady Aynsley, a title he rather liked.
“You know, another thing that’s better at Dunton now that you’re here,” he said as they mounted the stairs, “is having my uncle back at the dinner table.” Dorothy had forbidden the poor old fellow to even come up to the big house.
“You are making me feel so much better. Two months ago I never dreamed I’d ever have a family of my own, and now I find having a family even more fun than—” She stopped, then shrugged. “Well, more fun than anything in my previous life.”
He knew very well that she almost alluded to her essay writing, but she had stopped short. Why could she not be totally honest with him? This could never be a true marriage until he gained her complete trust.
That she would not be completely open with him once more sent him into curmudgeon mode. By the time they reached her chamber door, the smile that had been on his face was gone, and he brusquely brushed his lips across her c
heek. “Earl’s orders, madam, get a good night’s sleep.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He could not deny it. He liked being referred to as my lord. Another source of friction in a marriage that held much promise.
* * *
She could not fall asleep despite the fatigue that made her body ache, despite the earl’s orders and despite that she and John had repaired the previous night’s rift. The previous night’s melancholy was now replaced with a buoyant feeling unlike anything she had ever experienced.
Rebecca Peabody had always prided herself on her analytic mind. Rebecca, Countess Aynsley, was an altogether different creature. Numbers and theories were things she clearly understood. But these...these feelings were untried, unfamiliar and unwelcome territory. She had actually become a watering pot tonight! She had experienced a jealousy toward Dorothy that was so intense, it had made her feel as if she were the most inferior creature ever to draw breath. And this wasn’t the first time since coming to Dunton that she had experienced jealousy—though in her previous eight and twenty years she could not remember ever having a jealous thought!
Even though she did not understand why she was becoming such a slave to emotions—which she most decidedly had never, ever been before—she rather fancied the pleasant emotions she was experiencing now. Dear John was going to remove Dorothy’s portrait! Dear John did not regret marrying her. Dear John was no longer lonely.
Nor was she. For the first time in her life, actually.
Before she finally did drift off into sleep, she decided she would personally go to Birmingham in the morning to greet Mrs. Cotton. Sending only the driver was too impersonal. Mrs. Cotton must be shown how desperately she was needed, how grateful were the Aynsleys to have her.
Now that Rebecca thought on it, she was rather glad to be getting new servants. Servants of her own. Servants who would not owe their allegiance to the previous countess.
Forgive me, Lord, for being so wretchedly jealous of our children’s mother and help me to be a better person.
When Rebecca awoke the following morning, her sense of well-being was still with her. She rang for Pru. “I wish for you to make me very pretty today.”
“Yer always pretty, my lady.”
Rebecca scowled. “Now what have I told you about addressing me as a lady?”
Pru frowned. “Seeing as that’s how all the other servants refer to you, it seems only right that yer own maid would. Besides, I always fancied being lady’s maid to a fine Lady Something. Yer sister hasn’t ever minded being a countess.” She laughed. “She liked it so much, she married two Lord Warwicks!”
“Her first husband, you will remember, was a counterfeit Lord Warwick, the scoundrel. If I ever return to Virginia, I shall certainly have his grave marker changed.”
“A terrible man he was, deceiving your poor sister.”
Rebecca had come to sit before her dressing table. “You, of all people, must know how unlike my sister I am. I am not attracted to titles.”
The maid proceeded to style Rebecca’s hair, chattering constantly. Rebecca felt guilty that she wasn’t really listening. She was attempting to analyze her sudden interest in looking pretty. Looking pretty had never been something Rebecca Peabody had even spent any time contemplating.
But, of course, the newlywed Lady Aynsley was a different person. This Rebecca had a strong desire for John to think her pretty. There. That didn’t take any prodigiously analytical mind. She merely wished her husband to find her pretty.
What happened to her burning desire to write a book on political reform? She hadn’t even been capable of penning an essay promulgating something she felt very strongly about!
That would come later. Other things were more important now. Things like meeting the new housekeeper. And imparting to the new governess all that she wished for her to teach the lads. And taking time every day to ride with John. And read to the boys. And discuss reform with John in the library each night.
A pity she could not reach out and find some commonality with Emily. The play had been a start, but the little ground it had gained had eroded by last night. She’d felt her stepdaughter’s glare throughout dinner. Hers and her mother’s.
At least Dorothy would be banished today!
But Dorothy was not banished.
And Rebecca’s sense of happiness was destroyed when she came downstairs and met her husband. A frown on his face and a letter in his hand, he asked that she follow him into the library.
“I fear I’ve got some disappointing news.”
Her first thought was that his son had been killed in Spain. She was quivering, so her voice shook when she asked him what was wrong.
He closed the door of the library for privacy. “I have to return to London at once.”
As thoroughly disappointed as she was, she was at least relieved the bad news did not concern Geoffrey or one of the other boys. She collapsed onto a sofa, very much aware that her husband had said I rather than we. He did not intend to take her. “Why?”
“Lord Sethbridge has sent a special messenger to beg that I come at once. He desperately needs me to help him pass the bill to raise taxes.”
“But I thought you’d not made up your mind to support a tax increase?”
“It’s a grave step,” he said, shaking his head. “This war’s been costly, and I cannot help but to wonder how much more of a burden the people can sustain. I know, though, that if we don’t raise taxes, our troops won’t get paid and our government won’t be able to operate.”
“If that’s the case, every Member of Parliament who’s there should feel compelled to vote for it. I don’t see why you have to go. You’re only one person.” One person she did not want to do without. She was—dare she even think it?—afraid to stay on without him, without his support. He was her only advocate at Dunton.
“It may very well come down to one vote. Lord Sethbridge assures me that if I will support him, he will support my franchise bill.”
“He will actually support it? As in voting for it?” That would be a coup, indeed, for Aynsley. “I thought he told you he could not personally vote for it, but that he might consider not standing in your way.”
“He’s always vehemently opposed such a measure—as do a majority of the Lords, but he’s willing to compromise in order to get me back to London. In addition to my vote, he seems to think I may have some influence over other members.” He shrugged, as if he did not credit such an opinion.
Even though social gatherings appealed little to her husband, his intelligence and solidity commanded the respect of other members of the House of Lords. Those same qualities—combined with his dislike of balls and routs—were the ones that had initially attracted her to him. “Lord Sethbridge’s support for the franchise extension would be a very valuable thing,” she said.
So, of course, her noble husband would go and do his duty. She should be ecstatic. Wasn’t the expansion of the franchise one of those reforms she had been so passionate about? Hadn’t the reforms been the guiding force of her entire existence? Hadn’t the prospect of having a husband who was actually in Parliament—who had the power to enact reforms—been one of the huge pluses to marrying John in the first place? Why, then, did she feel as if she were losing her best friend?
Because she was. It suddenly occurred to her that her husband had, indeed, become her best friend. She did not want to be separated from him.
He, apparently, had not given a thought to traveling to the Capital with her. She eyed him as he paced back and forth across the library, the expression on his pensive face inscrutable.
She fleetingly thought of begging to come with him, but she could not. She disliked putting herself in a position to be pitiable. And there was another reason, too, why she could not force her presence upon him. Early on in this relationship, she had been the aggressor. She couldn’t risk alienating him again by being too forward. Hadn’t he gotten angry with her just two nights ago because she’d attempted to tell hi
m what to do?
If he wanted a meek, compliant wife, then she would attempt to be a meek, compliant wife. For the sake of her family.
The very notion of having her own family suffused her with a warm glow.
“I shall go immediately.”
She whirled at him, her stomach roiling. “Why immediately?”
“Because if I go now, I can go in Sethbridge’s carriage. It’s here. I know you’ll be needing ours to get the housekeeper in Birmingham.”
In this morning’s chaos she had completely forgotten about Mrs. Cotton. “How will you return?”
“You can send the carriage for me when I’m finished with my work.”
Her stomach plummeted and her brows lowered. “How long does it take to cast one vote? Do you mean you won’t be back at Dunton right away?” She hoped her voice did not sound as forlorn as she felt.
“Lord Sethbridge says he will try to get the vote this week, but it could take up to two weeks.” He came to sit beside her. “I hate to have to cut short the honeymoon, and I hate to have to leave you here so soon.”
Not nearly as much as I. She vowed to be strong. Hadn’t she—when she was still Miss Peabody—assured him she could competently run his home and care for his children most adeptly in his absence? Isn’t that one of the reasons he needed a wife? A strong, competent wife? “I shall manage most capably.” She offered him a bright smile, even though she felt as if she could bawl. “I shall miss you.”
His eyes locked with hers. There was a boyish quality about him despite the brush of silver in the hair just above his ears. “I will write every day.”
“Every night before you go to bed you must summarize your day for me. If you’d like, I can do the same.”
“I would like that very much.”
There was a rap at the library door.
“That will be my man. He’s been packing my things.”
