Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride

by Annie Burrows

  Since she had determined to be the kind of wife he wanted, she checked her natural urge to demonstrate her feelings of delight whenever she saw him and merely curtsied politely, though she hated being so reserved when what she wanted was to. She shook her head impatiently.

  This was a convenient arrangement. Her marriage to Septimus was only the same as very many others entered into by the aristocracy, where the husband dashed about all day being important, whilst the wife stayed within doors, recouping her strength for her main duty. The breeding of an heir.

  She shivered.

  When she had agreed to such a marriage, it had not sounded quite so … demeaning as she was now finding it.

  She took herself to task. What did she have to complain about, really? On the face of it, she had everything she had thought she ever wanted. Respectability and security. A husband who demonstrated both enthusiasm and expertise every night in her bed.

  Why complain because … she pushed herself to face it … he did not love her?

  It need not matter. It should not matter. She had not married for love either! She had agreed to marry Septimus because she had seen he could provide her with the stability she had craved all her life. Because she had thought marrying a man who could provide all the material things she had always longed for would make her happy.

  Instead, she was becoming increasingly unhappy, because she was learning that there was more to life than having food on the table, and a roof over your head that did not leak, from which nobody could evict you.

  She could even see, for the first time in her life, why her mother had run away from her sheltered, indolent existence with a man who had whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

  What would she not give, to hear Septimus whisper words of love?

  As the days passed, and became weeks, Aimée felt increasingly useless.

  She supposed she could climb on her high horse and insist that the Dowager and Lady Fenella moved to the Dower House—which was what they should have done voluntarily, the moment Septimus had brought her here—and take up the reins of household management herself.

  Only she felt that would be an extremely cruel thing to do. Running Bowdon Manor was the Dowager’s raison d'être. She would not know what to do with herself occupying a more restricted sphere. Aimée could see her expending all that pent-up, unused organising ability upon hounding poor Lady Fenella. The timid girl seemed content enough, keeping to her little routine. Having that torn away from her, and exposing her to the full force of her mama’s displeasure, would distress her.

  And what did she care about any of it anyway? She had never had any ambition to be mistress of such a vast and complex establishment, nor to cut a dash amongst provincial gentry by throwing lavish dinner parties, or county balls. It was no great hardship to leave all that sort of thing to the Dowager, to whom it meant so much.

  Besides, she did not want to take any sort of stand, unless she was sure it was what her husband wanted her to do.

  Though the longer she was married to him, the more she began to think that he simply did not care what she did with any part of her day, as long as she welcomed him into her bed at the end of it.

  By the time she had been at Bowdon Manor three weeks, even Lady Fenella’s pleasure in sharing her company was beginning to pall, in spite of the fact that during her lonely childhood she had dreamed of being able to stay in one place long enough to make a friend.

  The truth was that she and Lady Fenella had nothing in common, apart from their love of good food. Last night, as she had been undressing for bed, she had noted how this was affecting her figure. The reflection she saw in the mirror no longer had hollow cheeks. There was a layer of satiny smooth skin covering her formerly protuberant hipbones, and she could hardly make out her ribs at all.

  ‘I am putting on weight,’ she said to Lady Fenella, whose head was bent over her latest piece of whitework. ‘When I got dressed this morning, it was all I could do to fasten the buttons.’

  Lady Fenella’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, you really ought not to be attempting to fasten your own clothes. It is high time you settled upon a lady’s maid.’

  Aimée shrugged one shoulder. She did not want to admit it to Lady Fenella, but she had not felt able to trust any of the Bowden Manor girls who had professed an interest in filling the position. Mrs Trimley had trained all of them, and, she was convinced, they would be expected to report her every movement. On the whole, she would rather manage for herself until she could hire somebody who did not owe any allegiance to the Dowager. If Septimus would agree.

  She thought he would. He had been very generous with her so far. And had he not promised she should have servants? She could have anything that money could buy.

  But not his love.

  She sighed heavily and pressed her face to the windowpanes. The view from up here was marvellous. If she walked around the inside of the cupola, she could see the entire estate. There were formal gardens close to the house, giving way to shrubberies intersected with winding paths, and, further afield, a wooded hillside that looked incredibly inviting. And it was a lovely sunny day.

  ‘Do you never go out for walks?’ Aimée asked Lady Fenella. ‘Apart from those little strolls we take through the gardens, to select the blooms to arrange for the house?’

  Lady Fenella tilted her head to look at the sky and shook her head.

  ‘Far too sunny,’ she observed. ‘I should ruin my complex ion.’

  ‘Well, I need some exercise,’ Aimée declared.

  ‘Well, if you cannot fasten your dress, what does it matter? You look much better for putting on a little weight. When you arrived, you looked as though you had been unwell. I know!’ she said, looking genuinely pleased with herself. ‘We must go into town, and choose some material and have some new gowns made up. There are one or two dressmakers I know of that are quite capable. Oh, not up to London standards, of course, but adequate for making things for you to wear while you are in the country.’

  ‘But I like going for walks,’ Aimée protested, hoping she could make Lady Fenella understand that it was not the fit of her clothes that troubled her.

  She sat down on the chair opposite Lady Fenella’s, and tried to explain how bored she was. ‘I am hopeless at the kind of stitchery you do. And I have no souvenirs to paste into scrapbooks. Nor can I sketch very well.

  ‘I hope you do not think me rude in leaving you on your own, but I am going to go outside and explore a little. I want to make the most of the privilege of living in such beautiful surroundings.’

  Lady Fenella put her work to one side. ‘Oh, but …’ she faltered and blinked, then lifted her chin and took a deep breath. ‘That is, I do not know what habits prevail abroad, but I could not let you go out without warning you that in England, titled ladies do not go wandering about on their own.’ Her face was turning crimson, but she gamely persisted. ‘I am only saying this because I am your friend, and I do not want you to give Mama any more reasons to criticise you. And she would think it most odd if you did not have a footman in attendance.’

  ‘A footman?’ Aimée nearly burst out laughing. When she thought of the places she had lived, it was absurd to think she now needed to have a footman accompany her for a walk on private land!

  But, since she had no wish to wound Lady Fenella, who was, after all, only trying to shield her from the sharp end of her mother’s tongue, she decided not to argue on that point.

  ‘Very well, I shall try to find one.’

  ‘And a parasol?’ called Lady Fenella anxiously as Aimée strode to the door.

  ‘Yes, if that will make you happy.’ Aimée twinkled over her shoulder.

  It was a great stroke of luck that just as she reached the foot of the spiral staircase that led back to the upper floor of the house, she spied Jenks, strolling up and down with his shoulders hunched, and a pained expression on his face. He always seemed to be hanging about the place, looking as though he did not know what to do with himself.
r />   She knew exactly how he felt!

  ‘Ah, Jenks! How would you like to take a walk up to the top of the hill to the east of the park?’ He was not exactly a footman, but she thought it would do him the world of good to feel useful for once.

  ‘Me, miss? I mean, my lady?’ He turned beetroot red. ‘Well, I don’t know as how I ought to …’

  ‘Apparently, it is not safe for ladies to venture out of doors in these parts without the presence of a footman,’ she quipped. ‘Would you not like to be a footman, just for an hour or so?’

  The perplexed creases in his face turned to a look of resolution. ‘I ain’t no footman. But I can keep a weather eye out for trouble, my lady.’

  ‘Excellent!’ She was glad to see her request had put heart back into this simple-minded fellow.

  He waited outside her room while she put on her boots with the daisy motif picked out on the sides. They made her smile just to look at them. But actually lacing them up and taking them out for an airing lifted her spirits no end.

  She had thought that Mrs Trimley had shown her all over the house, but Jenks led her downstairs via a back staircase that was clearly only used by servants. It brought them out right next to the flower room, which was only a few yards from the kitchen door.

  He did not stop talking as he led her through the kitchen gardens, and then through a gate that took them into the park. She realised she could not have hit upon a better choice of escort. The poor man was as eager for occupation and companionship as she.

  ‘Is there no proper post for you to fill here?’ she asked him.

  He snorted in derision. ‘Every job as I could mebbe learn to do is filled by some toffee-nosed youngster, wot’s related to one of the higher-ups.’

  Her empathy for the man redoubled. There was no real position for her here, either. She was feeling more and more like one of those silhouettes that Lady Fenella had pasted into a page of one of her London scrapbooks. Except that it was Septimus who had pasted her into the corner of his life. Just a shadowy outline of the Countess of Bowdon. Without discernible features, or any real depth.

  She pushed her own concerns to the back of her mind, by suggesting to Jenks a number of jobs she thought he might be able to do. It quickly became evident that he had no skills that could provide him with gainful employment on land. Not even in the stables.

  ‘Not many sailors do know much about horses,’ he pointed out. ‘Even some of the officers can barely stay in the saddle. Capting’s different, o’ course. His pa learned him to ride as a nipper. And soon as he wor big enough to hold the reins, his grandfer learned him to drive his delivery wagon. Can handle a team like one of them Four-Hand Club nobs.’

  That snippet of information instantly wiped the smile from her face. It hurt to hear about his childhood from one of his crew. They should be discussing things like this together. Getting to know each other!

  ‘Anyhow,’ said Jenks, brightening, ‘it ain’t as if I’ll be kicking my heels here for much longer.’

  ‘Oh, are you leaving us, then?’

  ‘We’ll all be leaving, won’t we? Capting’s going to start looking round all his new houses, to see if he can’t fit one of them up as a kind of refuge for old sailors. I’m to help run it.’

  ‘Is … is that so?’ she managed to squeak through the shock of hearing such news from a man like Jenks. The crew member all the others seemed to hold in least regard. It had not taken her long to see why Septimus had kept the other four men. Mr Jago had book learning and brains, Nelson had brawn. Billy had a great deal of medical expertise, and the cook … cooked. But Jenks was the living embodiment of the phrase ‘good for nothing'.

  Her stomach clenched into a knot. Septimus had told her she would make an able lieutenant in his new life. She had looked forward to becoming a valued member of his crew. Yet while he had made sure even Jenks knew what his future held in store, he had not bothered to keep her informed of his plans.

  ‘This is a grand spot!’ Jenks was saying, as they reached the crest of the hill. ‘You can see for miles and miles. Just like being up in the crow’s nest, it is. Only without the swaying.’

  ‘Crow’s nest?’ she gasped stupidly, clutching at a cold pain that had sliced right across her midriff.

  The crow’s nest, Jenks explained, oblivious to her discomfort, was the vantage point at the top of the mast, from where a man with a telescope would be sent to keep a lookout.

  She stood there, only half-listening, as Jenks droned on about things he had seen when he had been on lookout duties. She did not think anything would help her to recover from the blow this man had just dealt her. She had finally run out of excuses to account for the way Septimus treated her. She could not put it down to the strain of taking up his new role in society. Or the fact that he already had so many demands upon his time and energy that he just wanted to relax with her. Her husband could not feel even the smallest scrap of respect for her if he could manage to find time to confide in this, the lowliest member of his crew, but not her!

  ‘Did you ever see a view so grand?’ Jenks said now.

  She joined him at the crest of the rise, and took in the vista spread below them. It was very different from the view she had seen from the rotunda. She could see the stone walls that marked the border of the park, the lane that ran along its length, and the turning to the main road that went into Burslem. Beyond that were fields, and beyond them, darker smudges staining the valley bottoms that indicated the presence of industry. Turning round, she could just see the glass dome of Bowdon Manor, rising like a crystal island from the deep green woodland they had just traversed.

  She sighed. From up here, she had a different perspective. Of the land, of the manor.

  Of her marriage.

  Not three weeks ago, she had decided she would do her utmost to be the best wife she could be. Since then she had poured herself out for Septimus, in countless ways. Whatever he wanted, she gave without stinting. Whatever he decreed, she obeyed without complaint.

  Because she, she realised with shock, had fallen in love with him. When had that happened? The night he had reined in his anger to tend to her injuries, and she had marvelled at meeting a man with such self-control? Or their wedding night, when she had realised that in giving her his name he had truly rescued her, and would for ever keep her safe? Or was it the nights he had spent at Bowdon, reducing her to mindless ecstasy, over and over again? Or the cumulative effect of all that? What woman could possibly guard her heart against such overwhelming odds?

  But she would be naïve to think anything would move him from the stance he had taken right from the start. Septimus had no need for the sentimental kind of love she was, she had finally admitted, craving with every fibre of her being. He would never let her close. Would never love her back. His heart might as well be hewn from the solid oak of the ships he’d served in all his life.

  Jenks, she realised, had finally shown her that she had no excuse for clinging to any sort of romantic fantasy involving her husband.

  Seeing her shiver, he said, ‘It is a bit blowy up here, ain’t it, my lady? Do you want to head back now?’

  With a nod, she turned back towards the luxury of Bowdon Manor.

  And as they headed down the path, and gained the shelter of the woods, she wondered how she would cope with this new insight into her future. She knew she had promised herself to Septimus for better or worse. But somehow, she had imagined the ‘worse’ would perhaps consist of financial hardship.

  Not the sheer loneliness of falling deeper in love every day with a man who had no intention of doing anything so feeble as loving her back.

  Her mother had often said that it was better to go hungry sometimes than to be shackled to a cold intolerant man, which had been the fate of Aunt Almeria.

  She shook her head at herself, angrily. Septimus was not cold and intolerant. He was good and kind and …

  She sighed. He was good and kind to everyone, indiscriminately, that was the trouble. She
was not special to him. He had advertised for her in a newspaper, for heaven’s sake! She could be anyone. Anyone at all! She had to face facts. All Septimus wanted from her, all he had ever wanted from her, was her name on the marriage licence and her body in his bed. Anything else was surplus to his requirements.

  It was a long walk back to the house. Far longer than it had seemed coming out. For she was tired now, and cold, and dispirited by the bleak vision of her future as an unloved wife. Every time he offered her some slight, either real or imaginary, it would take on immense significance, because of the tender state of her heart, while he would remain completely impervious to her misery. How was she to bear it?

  Though she had no right to complain. She had agreed to his bargain. It was not his fault that his convenient bride had fallen headlong in love with him. He had not even done anything to encourage her! No, any misery she experienced would be all her own, stupid fault.

  They went back into the house by means of the mudroom, where they both left their boots. They were just passing the flower room, when Lady Fenella, who was fiddling with some foliage at the sink, looked up and said, ‘Oh! I am so glad to see you. Do you have a minute to help me with this periwinkle?’

  She looked really worried. Aimée was not sure how on earth she could be of any help with a flower-arranging crisis, but she smiled, dismissed Jenks and went into the little room.

  ‘Oh, thank heaven I caught you!’ Lady Fenella cried, the moment Jenks had sauntered off in the direction of the kitchens. She shut the door firmly, and whirled round, her hands clasped before her.

  ‘Once Mama hears you are back, she will be sending a footman up to fetch you down to the gold sitting room, as though she needs to tell you something. But she has someone there from London. Someone who knows you!’ She went across to the workbench, and fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief. ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

  Someone who knew her. From London.