The Penniless Bride

by Nicola Cornick

  Yet in its own way it was very beautiful and she was fast falling in love with it. She loved the dew-laden spiders’ webs on the grass, and the tap of the woodpecker in the forest and the brush of the wind through the trees. On one early morning walk she had seen a fox standing at the end of the ride, its nose raised to catch her scent. It had looked at her with unfathomable golden eyes before it turned and sauntered away. Jemima had wanted to share all this with Rob, to learn from him and ask questions, but it seemed he had no time for her. He was racing to beat the coming of winter, to secure Delaval before the seasons turned, so that they could start afresh with more hope in the spring.

  Jemima’s hopes were different. More than once during that first month she thought longingly of a comfortable villa in Twickenham and even dwelt nostalgically on life in the house in Great Portland Street. Jack could not write to her, of course, but her mother had penned a few difficult lines, wishing her well in her new life. As Jack had predicted, Alfred Jewell had washed his hands of his recalcitrant daughter. Mrs Jewell assured Jemima that she had not disclosed her daughter’s address or, more importantly, her title, for fear that Alfred would wish to take advantage of his sudden connection with the aristocracy. The letter, laboured and full of things left unsaid, had caused Jemima some tears.

  She was cross with herself when she gave way to the blue devils. Just because matters were not turning out quite as she had expected, it was no cause for self-pity. So Rob was obsessed with Delaval and not with her. Jemima reminded herself that he had only married her to secure his inheritance, and if she did not like her new place in the world then it was just too bad. She was a Countess, with an ugly manor house and a loyal staff at her service, and in time she would adjust to all the changes about her. Nevertheless, she was not the only one to notice that all was not well between Rob and herself.

  ‘It’s a crying shame,’ she overheard Mrs Cole saying to the first housemaid one morning when Jemima had gone to fetch some fresh water for washing the windows and the servants thought that they were alone together.

  ‘There’s his lordship out working all the hours God sends and her little ladyship in here doing the same, and never the two of them meet, let alone exchange two words!’

  ‘Too exhausted to exchange more than words anyway, I expect,’ the housemaid said. ‘Tilbury says the connecting door is always locked.’

  Mrs Cole tutted. ‘I heard it was a marriage of convenience. That’s what they’re saying in the village. I heard Lady Marguerite is back from London as well. Wonder what she will make of the whole business?’

  ‘Probably tell them to get down to it and produce an heir,’ the housemaid giggled. ‘Beats me, Mrs Cole—him such a handsome man and her ladyship such a pretty little thing! Still, there’s no accounting for the quality!’

  Mrs Cole put her hands on her hips and straightened up with a groan. ‘You tell me, though, Daisy, what’s the point in scrubbing up Delaval for the arrival of an heir if Lord and Lady Selborne can’t get around to providing one—’

  ‘I expect we shall get down to it at some point,’ Jemima said, bustling in with the ewer of water and plonking it down on the window seat. ‘It is at number two hundred on my list of things that require attention, Mrs Cole, after beating the guest-room curtains!’

  The housekeeper gaped and the housemaid turned bright red. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am, didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ Jemima said. ‘It would still be true whether you said it or not. Pray forgive me, for I know that I am supposed to ignore such comments, but I come from a very outspoken family and I could not let it pass.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the housekeeper said, looking fascinated and embarrassed in equal measure. ‘I’ll just get on with polishing the ballroom candlesticks, shall I, ma’am?’

  ‘Pray do,’ Jemima said politely. She waited until the door had closed behind the servants before she burst out laughing.

  Nevertheless the comment had rankled. It did not surprise her that the servants gossiped; that was simply the way of things. Nor could it be expected that they would not have noticed the locked door between her bedroom and Rob’s own. They had probably detected it on the very first night. Jemima knew that a lady would not be concerned about such things. But she was not a lady.

  The news that Rob’s grandmother had returned home also put her in a fluster. It could only be a matter of time before Lady Marguerite appeared to find out how their precipitate marriage was progressing—and to make pungent comment upon it.

  Accordingly, she planned to speak to Rob after dinner that night, but he sent his apologies that he would not be joining her but would be heading straight to bed. Jemima sat in the newly cleaned drawing room, flicking through the pages of an eighteen-month-old copy of the Ladies Magazine and quietly seething inside. When she went up to bed she tried the door of Rob’s bedchamber, rattling the handle quite loudly, but there was no noise from within.

  The following day was very hot, with a strong sun for early autumn. Jemima had spent the day airing the guest rooms in the unlikely event that anyone would ever be invited to come and visit them at Delaval. The furnishings were old-fashioned but of good quality and there was plenty of wear left in them. She knew that decorating and refurbishing the house was the least of Rob’s priorities. All of his father’s money would go on rebuilding the estate and the farms so that Delaval could become self-supporting once again. His grandmother’s money, should he inherit it, would go the same way. Jemima hung the blankets out on a makeshift line between the apple trees in the orchard and reflected once again that at this rate there would be no difficulty in Rob fulfilling the terms of his grandmother’s will. The difficulty would come when the one hundred days were up and they could not remember each other’s names. So much for Rob talking about wooing his own wife. If this was his wooing, then men were even less adept in matters of the heart than she had been led to believe.

  She was still fulminating about this some five hours later when Rob finally came in from a hard, hot day spent in the lower meadow. Jemima gave him ten minutes, then marched up to the bedroom door and knocked very loudly. She wanted to talk to him and this time she was determined that she should succeed.

  After a minute or so the door was opened by Tilbury, Rob’s manservant. Jemima could see Rob standing by the chest of drawers, soaping his hands and arms in the big white basin of water. His face was damp and there were droplets of water still in his hair. Jemima felt her stomach clench at the sight of him. His face and forearms were tanned from spending so much time working outdoors but she could see the line of paler skin at his neck where his shirt had shaded him from the sun. The skin there looked vulnerable and soft. Jemima found she wanted to touch it. She folded her arms defensively and stepped into the bedroom. Despite her nervousness she was not going to go away now.

  ‘May I speak with you please, Robert?’

  Tilbury was sorting out Rob’s evening clothes, moving about the room with the unobtrusive precision that characterised the very best servants. It was the first time that Jemima had seen inside Rob’s bedchamber and she looked about her with interest. The room was a mirror image of her own, worn but neat, but with a few personal touches that her own room did not afford. There were portraits of Rob’s parents above the mantelpiece and on a side table a fine grouping of china dishes that Jemima thought Rob must have brought back when he was serving in India. The realisation that she knew nothing of his tastes and interests made her feel even more hollow and lonely.

  Rob saw Jemima in the doorway, raised his eyebrows slightly and reached for the towel.

  ‘Thank you, Tilbury. Please leave us.’

  ‘My lord,’ the valet said expressionlessly. He slipped out, closing the door behind him. Jemima suddenly found herself confronting Rob in his bedroom with no very clear idea of what she was about say.

  ‘Good evening, Jemima,’ Rob said, drying his hands and rolling his sleeves down. ‘What is it that you wished to say to me?’ />
  Jemima took a breath. It was still there, that hateful distance between them. He sounded as though he was asking his estate manager for a summary of the milk yield. She tilted her chin up towards him. ‘I wished to speak to you without the servants present and this was the only way since I never see you alone.’

  Rob threw the towel over the end of the bed. He looked tired and worn, exhausted no doubt from working outdoors all day. Jemima felt guilty to be troubling him and immediately repressed the feeling. Her concerns were as valid as anyone else’s.

  ‘What is it?’ Rob said quietly.

  Jemima looked at him. She made a slight gesture. ‘Oh, Rob—it is simply that I am concerned for you. You look so tired all the time! Can you not take matters more steadily? You are working yourself into the ground!’

  Rob shot her an irritated look. ‘You do not understand the ways of the countryside, Jemima. This is the time when the hardest work has to be put in. We cannot sit back and simply wait for winter with the sheep byres tumbling down and the hay rotting in the fields.’

  Jemima frowned. The jibe about not understanding had stung when she had spent the best part of the last month trying to learn and Rob had made no effort to teach her.

  ‘Perhaps you are right that I do not know a great deal about life in the country,’ she said, as calmly as she could, ‘since you have not devoted any great time to explaining it to me. When you spoke of us restoring Delaval, I thought that you meant we would be working on the estate together. Yet we might as well be living in different places for all the time we spend together.’

  She saw Rob frown and run a hand over his still-damp hair.

  ‘Jemima, I am very tired—’

  ‘You always are!’ Jemima burst out. ‘When we meet for dinner you are so exhausted you can barely summon the energy to eat, let alone speak to me! And then we retire to our separate chambers with the door locked between us. The servants have noticed it and they pity me!’

  Rob gave a sharp sigh. ‘Is that what is troubling you? You must learn not to regard servants’ gossip.’

  Jemima put her hands on her hips. ‘I suppose that Lady Selborne of Delaval is above such things.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But she is not above scrubbing the floors and washing the curtains! You cannot have it every way, Robert. I begin to feel like one of those very servants you so disregard!’

  There was a stubborn, withdrawn look on Rob’s face. ‘I am too tired to discuss such matters now, Jemima. I wish to wash properly and dress for dinner and I cannot do that whilst you are here.’

  Jemima felt hot and frustrated. ‘Then when can we talk? You have time for everything except me. Over four weeks we have been married and I know as little of you now as I did then!’

  Rob pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid movement and tossed it aside. Jemima looked quickly away from the sight of his broad, muscular chest.

  ‘I thought,’ Rob said, ‘that in London you expressed the wish that we should preserve some distance between the two of us. Have you then changed your mind? Is that was this is all about?’

  The colour flamed to Jemima’s cheeks. ‘Of course not! How arrogant you are! I am not forcing myself on your notice.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Rob said, still in the same odiously polite and distant tone. ‘I thought that was precisely what you were doing.’

  There was a long silence. Jemima could feel her irritation buzzing in her blood like a fever. What was it about men that enabled them to be so attentive, so charming, when it suited their purpose and then to behave utterly differently thereafter? She had heard said that men were April when they wooed and December when they wed but she had not expected to have it confirmed so quickly. Rob had sweet-talked her into accepting his suit and now he had everything that he wanted and she was dismissed while more important matters such as his dairy herd and his flock of sheep took precedence.

  ‘This floor could do with a clean,’ she said suddenly. ‘Since that is what you think that I do best—’ She grabbed the side of the washing bowl and, without another word, tossed the water all over her husband. Fortunately the bowl was not full or she might have ruined the plaster ceiling of the dining room beneath and undone all her hard work of the previous week. As it was, Rob emerged spluttering and shaking himself.

  ‘The devil! You little vixen!’

  ‘I may be sorry for myself, but you are a pompous, infuriating idiot!’ Jemima said furiously. ‘A pity I did not know that before I married you!’

  Rob grabbed her arms. His hands were wet and his torso dripping with soapy water. Jemima’s cotton dress immediately soaked through. She struggled for release and found herself clasped more firmly against Rob’s chest. She could feel the heat of his body against hers as the dress became as flimsy and transparent as a piece of damp blotting paper.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘In a minute,’ Rob said pleasantly. ‘Who would have thought that you had such a temper?’

  ‘It serves you right for marrying a tradesman’s daughter!’ Jemima flashed. ‘If you wanted a bloodless aristocrat, you should have married your cousin!’

  ‘I am delighted with the arrangement I have made,’ Rob said. He held her a little away from him and looked down into her angry little face. Jemima saw the beginnings of a smile in his eyes and felt her legs tremble in response. This was no good at all. She could not remain angry with him when her traitorous body was so susceptible to his touch.

  ‘Let me go,’ she said again, but this time it came out as a whisper. Rob was holding her so lightly now that she could have moved away at any moment and yet she did no such thing. She saw his eyes darken, saw him bend his head as he leaned down to kiss her, and slapped his arm away.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t! Not before you talk to me!’

  Rob laughed and let her go. There was devilment in his eyes. ‘Very well. We talk—and then we kiss.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Jemima said.

  Rob patted the bed. ‘Would you like to sit here, Jemima?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Jemima said. She went across and sat on the window seat. Rob flung himself down on the bedcover. He looked relaxed. He also looked muscular and tanned and rather too dangerously masculine. All the physical labour of the previous weeks had developed in him a physique that the habitués of Gentleman Jackson’s saloon would have envied.

  Jemima removed her gaze from his chest to meet the quizzical look in his eyes.

  ‘So you wanted to talk to me. I am at your disposal. This is not just about the servants’ gossip, I infer.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Jemima fidgeted. ‘I hear that your grandmother has returned from London.’

  Rob looked startled. ‘Has she? Damnation. I had hoped she would stay away as long as possible.’

  ‘Well, apparently she is back at Swan Park and no doubt she will be calling here shortly.’ Jemima looked at him. ‘And I do not doubt that she also hears the gossip, servants’ tales or not.’

  Rob was frowning. He swung himself off the bed. ‘And you think that she will become suspicious about our marriage?’

  ‘She already is,’ Jemima pointed out. ‘Everything that she hears will only confirm her suspicions.’

  Rob walked across to the doorway, then turned back. ‘I suppose that we should share a room, for appearances’ sake at least.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Jemima said clearly. ‘I do not wish to share a bedroom with a man who spends all his waking hours out of my company. Maybe I am insufficiently unfeeling and aristocratic in my way of thinking, but that would make me feel more like a mistress than a wife.’

  Rob’s eyes glinted. ‘There is more to being a mistress than sharing a bedroom, Jemima. Perhaps I should demonstrate—’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Jemima said again. She felt nervous, but she kept her gaze steady. ‘You have effrontery, Robert Selborne. You ignore me every day for the last three and a half weeks and then you expect—’ She stopped as Rob came to a halt in front of her. The
wicked light was still in his eyes.

  ‘I expect…what?’

  ‘Well, you don’t expect me to sleep with you,’ Jemima snapped, ‘since you still have sixty-five days to go!’

  ‘Sixty-four days,’ Rob said. ‘Must you add on additional time?’

  The light died from his eyes. He came to sit beside her on the window cushions and took her hands in his. ‘Jemima, do you have any idea why I have kept apart from you for so long?’

  Jemima’s eyes flashed. ‘Of course I do not know, since you did not see fit to tell me. How am I to know anything if you do not speak to me? I assumed it was because you are obsessed with this ugly house and your estates, Robert.’

  Rob looked hurt. ‘Delaval is not ugly!’ He sounded as though Jemima had insulted his favourite pet. ‘How can you say that?’

  Jemima laughed. ‘It is an ugly house, Robert. You are either blind or in love with it if you cannot see that. Which is not to say that it does not have its own charm, for it does. Even I can see that.’

  ‘I suppose that must be true since you have been working so hard to make it spick and span,’ Rob said.

  Jemima felt slightly mollified. ‘I have been working hard. Thank you for noticing.’

  Rob’s fingers tightened on hers. ‘I notice all sorts of things about you, Jemima.’ He raised his hand to touch her cheek lightly. ‘The way your hair curls when it is damp; the tiny line between your brows when you frown…’ His hand moved to trace the line on her face. ‘…and the way your eyes darken just before I kiss you.’ Rob leaned closer. ‘They go a cloudy blue, and your lashes tremble—’