The Lady's Disgrace

by Callie Hutton

  He nodded. The guilt at having brought her to a place where she’d had to rescue a child from a charging pig, then suffered a bullet wound, sickened him. Dear God, what she must think of him and his village? The rage that rose up when he’d first heard about the shooting threatened to engulf him again, twisting his gut, causing his hand to itch, wanting to punch his fist into something. Or someone.

  “I spoke to the constabulary and the decision was that a careless hunter let go a poorly aimed shot.” He held the glass of water to her lips. “Easy. Don’t take too much.”

  The constabulary’s announcement did not sit well. The road he’d found Abigail on was not a place where hunters would be found. It was a well-trafficked path used by villagers going to and from town. In fact, the place where he’d found her might not even have been where she had been shot. Well off the beaten path, it was quite possible the shooter had dragged her farther from the road.

  Abigail took a few sips and wincing with pain, eased back down again. “I’m quite cold. Can you see about building up the fire?”

  Joseph leaned down to kiss her forehead, the method his mother used when he was a youth to determine if he had a fever. Her skin was dry and warm. No doubt infection had set in, rendering her chilled. “I’ll send for more coal, but in the meantime, I’ll bundle you up with blankets.”

  “Th-th-ank you.”

  After covering her with more bedding, he notified the footman to bring additional coal and asked that he have Mrs. O’Neill prepare more of the elixir for infection.

  For the next couple of days, Abigail shivered and demanded more heat, then threw off the many blankets he’d tucked around her and attempted to remove her night gown.

  Joseph vacillated from pacing the room in agitation to sitting by her side, just staring at her. He rarely left the room, snapping at Mrs. O’Neill when she suggested she take a turn with Abigail, and allow him to sleep or eat other than from a tray brought to the room twice a day by the footman.

  Manning showed up each morning to shave and admonish him—by forceful looks—on his disarray. He didn’t care. When he grew too fatigued to even keep his eyes open, he’d crawled onto the bed and lay alongside his wife, holding her close when she shivered, and wiping her with a cloth when she perspired.

  How frightening to watch someone you cared about toss and turn, mumbling incoherent words. She begged for water, which he ended up spilling all over her nightgown as she thrashed about in her fever-induced frenzy. He’d soon given up having Sanders change her, and did the chore himself, wincing each time he saw the bullet wound. Evidence of his neglect. Keeping her quiet became difficult, and he worried that she would break open the stitches.

  On the fourth morning, he stood alongside the bed, taking in her wax-like countenance as the sun rose slowly over the horizon and bathed the entire room with light. Never in his entire life had he felt so helpless. He’d attended many a sick bed in his time as rector. Always, he would leave the distraught patient’s loved one with words of comfort. He now realized they meant absolutely nothing. No words of comfort would relieve the fear of losing Abigail.

  Weary to his soul, he removed his boots and stockings and crawled in alongside his wife.

  …

  Abigail opened her eyes to a disheveled Joseph lying alongside her. It appeared he’d had scant grooming or a change of clothing for days. His cravat and jacket were gone, and several buttons down the front of his linen shirt had been unfastened. He wore breeches, but his feet were bare of stockings and boots.

  She had memories of him forcing liquid down her throat and wiping her with a cloth when she would have preferred to run naked in the cold. Her body itched with dried perspiration, and she had a horrible feeling she actually smelled.

  Lightly she ran her fingertip over his eyebrow. He jerked but didn’t open his eyes. She grinned as his lips twitched in the shadow of a smile. No doubt he’d taken care of her the entire time she’d been sick. Many men would have depended on servants to minister to a patient. There must have been a great deal of work he’d put off to remain here with her.

  Joseph was proving to be a good husband. Just viewing the lines of weariness in his face and the dark circles under his eyes indicated he would always take care of her. As she studied him, a slight fluttering in her belly reminded her that she didn’t want to dwell too much on his goodness. Theirs was not a love match, and she intended to keep it that way. One could not suffer a broken heart if one’s heart was not engaged.

  She moved her arm, but the pain was not as bad as it had been the last time she’d awoken. She shifted her gaze to study the canopy above her, trying to remember what had happened. Once she’d left the circulating library, she’d hurried on her way, anxious to make it home in time for tea. She’d passed a few people whom she had recognized, but instead of stopping to chat, she’d wished them a good day and had continued on.

  Once she’d passed the stone wall surrounding the town proper, she hadn’t seen anyone else until she awoke in bed. She wracked her brain trying to visualize the scene. It seemed to her there had been a noise and then a sharp pain in her upper arm before she’d either swooned or tripped on something and fell. Her memory provided no more than that.

  She sighed and looked out the window on the far side of the room. The sun was full in the sky, indicating the time grew close to luncheon. She suddenly realized how very hungry she was. At least her headache was gone, and the pain somewhat diminished. She attempted to sit up, but the soreness of her arm, and the dizziness in her head drew her right back down again.

  “What are you doing?”

  She started at the sound of Joseph’s voice. She turned to look at him, his chocolate brown eyes peering at her from underneath his thick brows.

  “I think I would like something to eat. Or perhaps a bath. Yes, a bath first, then something to eat.”

  Joseph propped himself up on his elbow and studied her. “How do you feel?”

  “Sore. Dizzy. Hungry. Dirty.” She tilted her head. “How long have I been sick?”

  “This is the fourth day.”

  “And from the looks of you, I would say you’ve been here the entire time.”

  He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You were quite sick there for a while.”

  She touched his back. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  “You are my wife. And it is my fault that you were injured.”

  So it was only duty that kept him by her side. She should have known his compassion and caring would insist he tend to her himself. Certainly no warm feelings for her. She thought back to his last comment. “Your fault? I don’t understand. How is it your fault that I was shot and then landed on a rock?”

  “I never should have allowed you to walk to the village. Especially by yourself. I am so sorry for all that has happened to you since your arrival.”

  “It was not a matter of you letting me walk to the village. I chose to do that.”

  “No, sweetheart, it is my job to protect you. To keep you safe. I haven’t done a very good job of it, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure it is as the constabulary said, and a hunter was careless, causing my injuries.”

  “Perhaps. But to be on the safe side, I would prefer you to take the carriage on your next foray into town. In fact, I insist upon going with you.”

  She raised her chin. “I do not need an escort.”

  “Nevertheless, you will inform me if you wish to make visits so I might accompany you.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows rose. “I’m to be a prisoner?” She bristled at the idea that she needed his permission to go somewhere. Whenever her brother had taken that attitude with her, or her sisters, they had quickly put him in his place. Although, truth be told, none of them had ever been shot at.

  “Of course not. I only want to keep you safe.”

  “Has anyone else in Addysby End fallen victim to a shooting while walking to town?”

  He shook his head.

&
nbsp; “There, you see? It was a careless hunter, and it shall never happen again.”

  His jaw tightened and his eyes flashed. “I agree. It will never happen again because in the future I will not permit you to hie off to the village by yourself.”

  Oh, how dare the man be so pompous? As if she would ask his permission to leave the house. He would soon understand that she did not take well to being told what to do. And furthermore, waiting around like some simpering miss to have him escort her hither and yon was completely out of the question. “And how do you intend to do that, Mr. Fox, by tying me to this bed?” She slapped her hand down on the mattress, wincing at the pain that reverberated through her body at the unwise move.

  In a flash, he joined her on the bed, his hands planted firmly on either side of her hips, his face mere inches from hers. “Be warned, Lady Abigail, if I tie you to this bed it will be for purposes other than to keep you from going to the village on your own.”

  Well, then.

  Even in her innocence, his comment conjured up pictures that had heat spreading from her toes all the way to her hairline. She’d once snuck a book from her brother’s room that she and Marion had giggled over before he’d caught them and lectured them for over an hour. One picture in particular came to mind now. Her mouth formed a small circle.

  The look in his eyes had turned from anger to something else in a flash. Goodness, but she felt warm of a sudden. She raised her hand to her forehead. Perhaps her fever had returned.

  A tap on the door brought their attention to Sanders as she entered the room. “I heard my lady’s voice, sir. Has she awoken?” She took one look at Joseph practically on top of Abigail and began to back out.

  “It is fine, Sanders. I would like a bath drawn, please.” Abigail eased back against the pillows. “Mr. Fox was just about to leave.”

  “Yes, please come in and attend to her ladyship’s bath. It appears she is feeling quite a bit better.” Bowing slightly to Abigail, he added, “We will continue this conversation at another time, madam.”

  Abigail resisted the temptation to stick her tongue out at his back.

  Chapter Nine

  Several weeks later, Abigail pulled on her soft leather gloves and entered Joseph’s study. “I am ready to go into town. Is this still a convenient time for you? If not, I could go by myself.”

  “No. Nothing has changed. You are not to go by yourself. I shall be happy to accompany you. I will have the carriage brought around.”

  The quick flash of anger in her eyes reminded him she had still not reconciled herself to having his company on all treks into town. Perhaps he was being foolish, and sending a footman with her would suffice, but the gnawing certainty in his mind that the bullet had not been from a careless hunter kept him from taking that step. He’d not have her injured once again. Although, he was also hard pressed to allow that the bullet had been on purpose. Why anyone would purposely shoot at his wife didn’t bear consideration.

  A conundrum for sure.

  She offered him a tight smile. “No need. I’ve already asked Manning to have that done.”

  A smile twitched his lips as he watched her fuss with her gloves, then move to the mirror on the wall across from his desk and adjust her hat, smooth back her hair. He loved watching her when she was unaware of his regard. He still hadn’t gotten used to having a wife. Although she hadn’t been a wife in the true sense of the word since her injury. But he assured himself enough time had passed, and her healing would be complete. Tonight he would ply her with soft words and perhaps a bit of wine.

  His body tightened with anticipation.

  They strolled together out of the house and down the steps to the waiting carriage. He assisted Abigail into the conveyance, and grabbing the bar, swung himself onto the seat, settling across from her. The vehicle moved forward to the familiar sound of hooves striking the pebbled pathway.

  “I am looking forward to seeing how the school building is progressing,” Joseph said as he crossed one booted foot over his knee. “The last time I visited, the workers were already laboring on the inside. We should be able to begin accepting students in a few weeks.

  “And I received a note from the book people that our shipment of supplies should arrive shortly. In fact, we might find it has already been delivered to the school.”

  Abigail gazed out of the window for a few moments, then turned to him. “I should like to teach some of the students myself.”

  “Indeed? I had no idea you desired to be a governess.” He smiled at her affronted look at his teasing.

  “Must I tell you once again that I am not the spoiled young debutante that you insist on painting me? In truth, I had grown weary of the constant round of parties and balls that comprise the Season in London. My closet can hold no more gowns, and I have no need for more ribbons, bonnets, and gloves.”

  She leaned forward, as if to emphasize her sincerity. “I want to do something worthwhile. I have had all the advantages of money and station, and only since I’ve met your parishioners and their children, do I realize how very fortunate I have been. If I can teach just one child to read and write, and do sums, which will enhance his life, then that would mean more to me than all the ball gowns I possess.”

  The fire in her eyes seared him. Perhaps he had indeed been thinking that as a duke’s sister she would be content with seeing the building raised and the supplies delivered for others to contend with. He knew from experience dealing with children would involve runny noses, soiled hands, and tears tracking down dirty cheeks.

  “I apologize if I have hurt your feelings. That was never my intention. You must forgive me my thoughtlessness since, like most of us who are not in the upper classes, we assume, maybe unfairly, that those of you who are, would never delve into a project such as this with all the enthusiasm you offer.” He reached across the space separating them and took her hand. “And for that I am grateful to have you as my wife.”

  …

  Abigail warmed at his words. Even if he had married her for money, he was a considerate and caring man. If she could only disabuse him of this notion that all she was good for was to sit around and watch everyone else work.

  She would certainly prove him wrong. Despite her station, her upbringing had been unusual for members of the ton. Her mother had not been one to give birth, then turn over the raising of her children to nannies and governesses. The Dowager Duchess of Manchester had romped in the snow, organized games for the village children, and herded her brood of seven children to many a picnic and trek to the swimming hole.

  True, Abigail had never been in a position to have to seek employment, but she was determined to make a go of her situation and since love would never be involved in her marriage, at least she could have the satisfaction of knowing she’d made a difference in someone’s life.

  The remainder of the ride was spent in pleasant conversation about the school, with Abigail’s excitement growing. “How shall we go about enrolling the children?”

  “Most likely we will need to make visits to the townspeople’s homes. It will be important for us to reassure them that the children will not neglect their household chores. At the same time, we’ll need to emphasize the importance of education.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the dry goods store, where the mail was delivered. Joseph helped Abigail down, and they entered the store to the sound of a small bell that chimed as the door opened.

  “Mr. Fox. I have quite a delivery here for you.” The man behind the counter sported a full beard, and a large nose, which somehow balanced out his looks. He pushed his spectacles up on his face and waved in the direction of the rear of the store. “I had the man stack them all in my back room.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Davies. Those would be the supplies for our school. I should like to take a look at what has arrived.”

  Mr. Davies led the way through a narrow corridor to a dimly lit back room. He pointed to boxes stacked along the south wall of the building. “There yo
u are, Mr. Fox.”

  Three rows of boxes, standing about five high, took up a goodly amount of space. Each container was stamped with the words Lumsden & Son.

  “May we go through them now?” Abigail asked.

  “Perhaps another day when we have more time. In fact, I will arrange for the boxes to be sent to the school building, and we can peruse them at our leisure.” Joseph addressed the store owner. “Can you have these delivered to the new school building?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Fox. As soon as young Charlie is through with his chores at home, I’ll have him bring them by in our wagon.” The man hesitated for a moment, then continued. “Might I say that I am grateful for your interest in educating our children? Others might think it a waste of time, but I want Charlie and his brothers to take over this store, and as busy as Mrs. Davies and I are, there is really no time to teach them their letters and numbers.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Davies. That is our aim for this school,” Joseph said, as Abigail looked at the selections of soap.

  After choosing a bar of rose-scented soap, cream for her hands, and several handkerchiefs for Joseph, Abigail tucked her arm into her husband’s and they left the store.

  The pale green leaves on the trees lining the winding cobbled street bestowed a sense of newness, along with a resurgence of hope. Early summer always felt like a new beginning. The soft breeze on her face felt like silk, the pale sun warming her skin. She breathed deeply of the honeysuckle climbing a stone fence surrounding a small cottage. She smiled at the resemblance to the drawings in her fairy tale books that her mother had read to them every night during her childhood. A sense of peace, belonging, and joy filled her. She turned to Joseph and caught him staring at her, a slight smile on this face. “What?” she asked.

  “I enjoy watching you. You seem content.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. “I believe I am.”

  “And is that all you wish for?”

  She stiffened, afraid he was looking for more. More than she was prepared to give. “Yes, I believe there is a lot to be said for contentment.”