“Indeed one would,” Wilda said. “I thought Prescott had more manners than this.”
“Oh, now sister, don’t get upset. I’m sure there’s a reason.” Rowena's interminable cheerfulness was quite wearing.
“I have no doubt there is,” Wilda said, holding her temper. He probably changed his mind and no longer wanted them here. Suppose he sent them back home, or worse, tossed them out to fend for themselves? She couldn’t bear to think of either possibility.
Simmons and the other men unloaded the last of the traveling valises.
Seething with frustration, Wilda lifted her heavy skirts, told Rowena to wait there and keep an eye on Tyra, and approached the houseman. “We are weary, sir and would appreciate being allowed in the manse. Where is Lord Prescott? He should be here to greet me…us.”
Simmons scarcely glanced her way. “Lord Prescott will join you at the evening meal. I will show you to your rooms. There you may rest and refresh yourselves from your long journey.”
Without another word, he supervised the handling of the bags. A perspiring Mr. Chesshire lent a hand, and they all followed Simmons and his helper toward the entrance.
With a shout, Tyra ran around the corner of the house, ignoring the exhausted Marguerite Chesshire’s call to come back.
“I shall get her.” Rowena hurried off to capture the young, boisterous cousin.
In the distance horses whinnied.
“It’s clear Tyra will need careful looking after now that she’s been freed from the strict confines of St. Ann’s,” Marguerite said.
“With horses in residence, she’ll no doubt sleep and eat in the stable with them.” Wilda placed one aching foot on the stone step. Beside her Marguerite groaned and climbed with her, following the straight-backed Simmons.
The doors of the house swung open when the houseman hammered the lion’s head iron knocker. Without speaking, a tall, thin gentleman led them into an immense entry hall. Cool air embraced them.
“At last,” Wilda muttered.
“I’ve no doubt Lord Prescott will lay down his rules of the household and keep her in check,” Marguerite replied, and arched her neck to peer upward.
Wilda wished him luck with that endeavor. Relieved to be inside out of the wind and sun, she brushed a lock of hair off her sweating brow. “Judging by our earlier experience on the train wild behavior must be acceptable in this place. I imagine that child can be counted on to embrace it.”
“I doubt everyone here is an outlaw. There must be some civilized—”
The butler interrupted her with a silent glower, then led them past upholstered chairs, immense wall hangings, and tables cluttered by all manner of figurines, vases, and the like. Struck speechless, they followed him up an elegant curving staircase to a second floor landing.
At the top, dark hallways branched off in three directions. Wilda hung over the waist high banister and gazed down into a crystal and gold pendant filled with fat candles. A blaze of sunlight through the enormous windows set the crystal afire.
“Miss Wilda.”
At the sound of Simmons’ proper English intonation, she pulled herself away from the awesome sight, stepped forward and bobbed her head at the manservant.
“Follow me, please. I will take you to your room. Someone will fetch your valises shortly.” He disappeared down the dimness of a hallway.
She glanced about, surprised to be alone. The Chesshires were nowhere to be seen.
Ahead of her the thin man’s footsteps whispered eerily along the carpeted dark corridor, and she hurried to keep up. At the far end a round window filtered rays of light through a blue, red, and gold pattern. Her guide was merely a shadow in the glow. He paused, inserted a large key in an enormous door, swung it wide and stepped aside.
Under the toes of her worn shoes lay a dark blue rug splashed with cream flowers. Dear Lord, it was exquisite. Dare she step on it? A canopied bed curtained in soft blue silk and a bedside table with a glass mantled lamp took up one wall. On either side of a fireplace filled with a massive arrangement of sunflowers, sat an elegant armoire and dressing table of a matching scrollwork design. A washstand with china pitcher and bowl occupied a corner beside a privacy screen, all painted with red roses. Blue drapes that matched the bed dressing covered another wall shutting out the brilliant sunlight.
Turning circles, she clasped both hands so tightly they tingled. The door closed softly and the man was gone. With a whoop she ran across the room and leaped into the center of the bed, sank in its delicious softness. She felt like a pampered child, not the lonely little orphan girl who’d lived in a cell at St. Ann’s for the past several years.
How good to lie thus, arms and legs spread, breathing in the vague scent of rose water and a bouquet of wild flowers. The miserable trip, air fouled with smoke and sour body odor and vomit, was behind her. For the moment, she must forget the dreaded marriage that lay ahead. Whooping again, she rolled about on the bed, laughing in a very unladylike manner.
At last she clutched a satin covered pillow to her bosom and lay very still. This luxury was what she had feared? How foolish of her. Here she could be happy, surely. For who wouldn’t? She would lie here another moment, then she would explore. The room was so cool, so still, so peaceful. If only she had someone to help loosen her corset, all would be perfect.
A hammering on the door startled her awake. A voice muffled by the thickness of the wood called her name. Lifting her head, she gazed around, for a moment unsure of where she was. The draperies at the window glowed with the setting sun. Of course. Fairhaven. She stumbled across the room, opened it to find a harried Marguerite.
“Well, for goodness sakes, child. Look at you. All mussed and wrinkled. And your hair is a sight. You must prepare for the evening’s meal. His Lordship has sent for us. I shall come in and help you.”
Wilda gazed at her limp, soiled traveling toilette. It was indeed mussed. She had saved the eveningwear Marguerite had bought for this moment when she would come face to face with her intended husband for the first time in over two years. And now look at her.
In a panic, she gazed around the room. “Where are my bags? I must change. I cannot let Lord Prescott see me like this.”
“Nonsense, there is no time. We shall repair your hair. Then you can wash up and we will go down. We must not be tardy, that would be most unwise. There will be time later for you to make yourself presentable. Besides, Lord Prescott well recalls you at your worst.”
Wilda shuddered, remembering those meetings at St. Ann’s, her hands red from scrubbing the stone floors, her hair like straw from the harsh soap. She had seen very little of him after he moved all three girls to his family home in Devonshire, where they had quickly learned to live a pampered life.
Nothing had prepared any of them for the grueling trip to America. All were now the worse for wear. Surely Lord Prescott would understand.
Standing in front of the full length mirror, she allowed Marguerite’s fingers to work their magic on her coif, and soon a few natural curls hung from the mass pinned high on the back of her head.
At the washbowl she bathed her face and hands in cold water and felt much better, though her stomach clenched into a hard knot at the mere thought of this meeting. Following Marguerite down the long hallway, knees trembling and heart fluttering, in a dress wrinkled and soiled, she went to confront her long-absent betrothed.
At the bottom of the stairs, a servant waited to accompany them into a high-ceilinged dining room with a long wooden table. Its surface reflected light from dozens of candles in yet another elaborate pendant suspended overhead. Gleaming china, silver, and crystal adorned each place setting. A young girl in a work apron, plain dress, and cap stood at the sideboard, hands folded over her stomach. Simmons was also on duty, wearing black trousers and a matching waistcoat.
Wilda’s heart raced at the thought of greeting Lord Prescott. What would he say? What would she reply? She need not have worried, for looking around the table she saw
only the faces of her traveling companions. The chair at the head of the table, obviously reserved for the lord of the manor, remained empty. Disappointment and relief warred within her, but soon turned to anger.
“Wilda, Wilda, sit here beside me.” Tyra bounced in her chair, rattling silverware.
“Miss Tyra, mind your manners,” Marguerite Chesshire said.
There were two empty chairs at the table, one at its head, another to its right. She moved around the table. Simmons caught up with her, taking her elbow to guide her to the chair next to where Prescott would sit. If the rude man ever showed up.
Where was his Lordship? Why was he doing this? How thoughtless of him to allow her to travel all this way and then not be here to greet her. She made every attempt to rein in her smoldering temper. It would be the ruination of her if she weren’t very careful, but blast the man!
Shaking, she allowed Simmons to seat her in the lady of the manor’s chair. Even as she settled her soiled skirts, the door off the far end of the dining room opened, and Lord Blair Prescott strode in. He wore black trousers, an ivory colored shirt open at the throat, a burgundy silk vest and no coat. His thick hair was tousled, as if he had only come in out of the wind. If he had smiled he would have been a breathtaking sight, despite the scar, which only served to prevent his appearing too beautiful. But he remained stoic, glowering at each one in turn, his gaze sweeping past her without recognition.
Her heart plummeted. He had changed his mind, no longer wanted her. What would they do now?
After spending a long moment inspecting each of the new arrivals, Lord Prescott finally spoke to no one in particular. “Good evening. I trust you had a good journey.”
With no apology for being late, he strolled past his seated guests and took the chair Simmons pulled out for him. Then he turned his dark gaze upon Wilda, and her heart might as well have stopped in her chest.
“Madame,” he said in a powerful voice that rumbled about the massive dining room.
She swallowed and offered her hand, palm down. Continued to study him as he pressed her fingers gently, then withdrew without the customary kiss.
There was nothing of pleasure on his countenance. Only a somber regard. The ebony eyes reflected candlelight, but no emotion. Full lips pursed in contemplation, his generous features, like his eyes, held no expression, as if they were crafted in clay and could never show emotion of any sort. The scar from his days of fighting in North Africa with the Zouaves, cut from the corner of his eye along one cheek, and added to the mask-like effect.
Unable to remove her gaze from his, she watched as he greeted each of his guests without a change of expression. Finished with that chore, he raised the delicate fingers of one hand and the girl in the corner hurried off to fetch the first course of a meal that went on interminably.
Hungry as she was, she could scarcely eat a bite. Still no sign whether he wanted her to remain or go. The suspense was excruciating.
He met each attempt at conversation with a nod of the head or complete disregard. Her hopes that his leaving England and coming to this place might improve his moodiness were dashed. Only Tyra, oblivious to anyone’s disposition but her own, chattered and laughed and partook of the food with a voracious appetite. She didn’t seem to notice that most of her direct questions to the lord of the manor went unanswered.
Before they finished, he patted his mouth with a linen napkin and rose. “I will leave you to your dessert. I requested Manchester pudding as a special treat. I have some business to attend to. If you need anything, ask Simmons or Layton. They will see to your needs.” He stood behind the chair for a moment, then addressed Wilda. “Madame?”
Flustered, she dropped her fork speared into a bite of pork. It rattled onto the exquisite China plate. Hands clasped in her lap she glanced up at him. “Yes, my Lord?”
“I shall see you and Mrs. Chesshire in the library tomorrow after breakfast. We have much to discuss regarding this marriage and other pertinent business. I do hope you have more suitable attire than that which you are wearing.”
Embarrassment flushed her cheeks until they burned. How dare he speak to her in that fashion, in front of everyone? A harsh swallow failed to dampen the fire in the pit of her stomach.
He was halfway across the room before she gained her feet and rushed after him. As she stomped the width of the large room, she attempted to hold her tongue, but it was no use. Not even when Marguerite called her name in a warning voice could she halt her headlong plunge toward certain disaster.
“Lord Prescott, sir.”
The room fell silent.
He stopped in the doorway, did not turn, so she was forced to address his back.
“If I may, I would like to speak to you. In private.”
“It can wait, Madame, until morning. I am sure you are tired and, as I said, I have other business.”
“I do not care if you do, sir. If you cannot bring yourself to speak to me in private, then I will have my say in front of everyone.”
By this time Marguerite had reached her side and curled an arm around her waist. “Hush, my dear. This is not the time or the place. I am sure Lord Prescott meant nothing by his remark.”
“What remark would that be?” he asked, and whirled to glare at the two of them. Fury tightened his full lips, starred dimples in the angular cheeks and turned the scar purple.
He actually was not aware that he had embarrassed her. The lout. That realization only fed her anger. Self centered, joyless husk of a man.
Despite Marguerite’s additional warning squeeze, she drew herself up. “I daresay you are an expert on feminine attire, and I am sure you are accustomed to young ladies who wear silk and satin, but I, sir, am not in your class. Surely you were aware of that before you invited me to join you here for the purpose of matrimony. I have worn this dress for countless days on a train that spat smoke and grit and filth, that hammered at my body until it aches, through country filled with dust and stinking horses and endless wind. And that is only a part of what I…what we endured to get here. Were you not informed that we were held at gunpoint and robbed, sir? I should think you would be concerned, yet you make no mention of it. In addition, you have the nerve to be absent when we arrive, and then summon us to eat before we can change and bathe. I want to know, sir, just what you expected of my attire. If I might ask.”
His face blanched white; the ebony eyes glowed like embers of coal. Fists clenched at his sides, he said nothing, for should he open his mouth, he would most surely spit fire.
Behind Wilda a great gasp circled the table. Shaking so hard she could scarcely continue, prepared to do so nevertheless. She had more to say, even though fear quivered like a palpable being in her chest, threatened to squeeze her heart to a standstill.
Before she could speak further, he raised a finger, pointed at her and took one long stride forward. “That will be enough, Madame.” The tone could have stopped the charge of a brigade.
Both she and Marguerite took a step back. She straightened her shoulders and continued to face him, though all she wanted was to run as far and as fast as she could. It was too late for any of that. She could only attribute her foolishness to being exhausted, but nevertheless she would not apologize. She would simply take her medicine as he saw fit to dole it out.
“You are to be my wife, and you will kindly hold your tongue when you are tempted to harangue like a fishwife. Do I have to hire someone to teach you manners, Madame?”
“I…no, sir. You do not. But perhaps your own could use polishing.”
“That is enough,” he roared.
She bit her tongue, not from fear but to keep it still. She had gone much too far, for certain. Time to stop. Now. She was to be his wife. He had said so. All the same, she could not apologize, though he waited as if expecting it. She would do so when he did.
Marguerite tried to do it for her, but he shushed her before she could say more than, “Please forgive the child, she is worn from the trip.”
&
nbsp; “Tomorrow, right after breakfast,” he told her, not so much as glancing at Wilda again. “And see she is attired in a more proper manner.”
Wilda stiffened, opened her mouth. To prevent another breach of etiquette, Marguerite turned her forcibly and marched her back to the table as if she were Tyra. Furious, Wilda stood behind her chair glaring at the door the horrible man had slammed when he left the room.
****
Rowena’s Diary
Tuesday, June 1, 1875
Fairhaven
Saints preserve us, as our dear mother used to say. This evening Lord Blair Prescott treated my sister in such an abominable way I nearly burst into tears. How can he have been so unfeeling toward the woman he soon will marry? Perhaps I have misjudged the man, for I believed that beneath that dreadful countenance beat a wounded heart that only needed love and understanding. And he scarcely spoke to the rest of us. As if we did not exist. I fear that Wilda will not wish to allow this wedding to take place.
What a dreadful happenstance to contemplate, that of being cast out in a country we do not know. Three women alone, with no thought as to where we might go, or how to survive. Surely my sister will not allow that to happen.
Yet, I am so sad, realizing she agreed to marry Lord Prescott for our sakes. So we could be free of St. Ann’s and have a better life here in America. If only he had asked me, I know I could have become a good wife, even to a man as angry as he. Wilda is much too impatient and speaks without thinking. It may well be her downfall.
I will counsel her to be tolerant of him, else she will remain miserable the whole of her life. At all cost, she must learn to hold that tongue of hers. She has always possessed the rebellion of our mother. For two Catholic girls to have left their home in Ireland to marry brothers of the Protestant faith against their parents' wishes must have taken a great deal of courage. Wilda has that kind of courage, but I fear it will steer her away from this marriage and into trouble.
I am ashamed to admit that a selfish concern for myself and Tyra causes me to pray she does nothing so drastic.
Wilda's Outlaw Page 4
