“I have been thinking about that. I’m not so sure you didn’t make me a better man. Yes, you gave me unwanted publicity. Once your cartoon even made me laugh. You certainly made me approachable, and that was possibly a boon. I’m a stick-in-the-mud on my best day, but you caused me to think on occasions, which no one else has.” He took her hands in his. “Please look at me.”
Her gaze met his.
“Wonderfully wicked Winsome, would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
She drew a deep breath. “Yes. I love you, John.”
He kissed her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks, and finally her mouth again. “Your father won’t be surprised. He told me not to give you time to prepare an argument.”
“He gave you advice?” She laughed shakily. “I’m shocked. I must have a word with him. Oh, we are about to leave for the country.”
“I’ll pack and follow you. We have many arrangements to make. I must tell your father to expect a house guest.”
She gave a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you managed my father. He’s as slippery as an eel on most subjects. I rather thought he didn’t approve of you.”
“I think he saw that I wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He kissed Winsome again. “Tell him you want a quick wedding. I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER 17
After Papa consulted with the local bishop, and a wedding for Langsdene and Winsome was immediately arranged, Langsdene was sent to his mother to prepare her for a daughter-in-law. Her sister, Hestia, barely had time to pack a trunk and rush with her husband to the Carsten’s country residence. “A week,” she said when she walked into the hall. “I had no time to buy a new wardrobe for this great event.”
“Mama is barely managing. She has looked at everything she owns and has decided she must have a smarter outfit. Apparently John’s mother used to be the best-dressed debutante of the season. Mama says it’s the duty of the mother of the bride to be the best dressed. Never mind the poor bride who will probably be outshone by both the mothers.”
“Oh, Win. You’re so adorable. You will easily outshine us all. No one has a better dress sense than you. For a certain reason, I’ll have to wear my jonquil gown. I hope that won’t clash with your outfit.”
“I thought I would wear the dark-green silk slip with the paler green gown. Because ...” She showed her sister the enormous emerald betrothal ring presented to her by John. Apparently when his mother removed the set from the bank, she would also be the possessor of a diamond and emerald tiara and a matching necklace.
Hestia squealed and hugged Winsome.” Perfect. Green is your best color. It reflects the color of your eyes.”
“And what is the certain reason that you have to wear the jonquil gown?” Winsome settled her hands on her hips, challenging her own hopes.
“Can’t you guess?” Hestia looked coy.
“No! You’re not increasing?”
“I am. We didn’t want to say anything until it was confirmed, but within five months you will be an aunt.”
She grabbed her sister, kissed her on each cheek, and then leaned back. “John will be thrilled. I am too, of course, but you are proving him right and I wrong which is not a good idea in the beginning of a marriage. He will expect to be right every time we have a difference of opinion. Oh, this is wonderful, Hestia. I’m so thrilled for you.”
“Why were you discussing being an aunt?”
“In reference to me being a mother. I thought I couldn’t. Now, I possibly have a fifty percent chance.”
“Your arithmetic is atrocious. You have a hundred per cent chance. Of course you do.”
Of course she did. She decided to believe that. Without hope, she couldn’t marry the most wonderful man in the world.
Finally John and his mother arrived. The mothers eyed each other carefully and broke into pleased smiles. Winsome had to suppose that neither recognized the other as a challenger to the prize of the best dressed. Both wore suitably expensive gowns. Both looked gorgeous and happy.
The ceremony was mercifully short. The newlyweds piled into John’s travelling carriage with enough full trunks for a four-week stay in a secret place John would not divulge. Before the carriage moved off, Mama pressed a tiny parcel into Winsome’s hand, but she had to snuggle into John for quite a while and the parcel was put aside. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“Nor I. When I decided to wife hunt, I had no expectations. I assumed I would settle for an obedient wife with whom I would live peacefully.”
“I see no reason why you shouldn’t live peacefully with me.”
He laughed. “You were put on this earth to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
“I certainly was not.”
“Who but you made me care for my tenants? Without your regular prods, I may never have attempted any good works. You’re going to have to keep me up with it, you know.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll have to do something now that I don’t need to keep reminding Mama what colors to use on her everlasting embroidery. This reminds me. Where did I put that package? Here it is, behind me.” Winsome untied the pink ribbon and opened the gift. She laughed. “I can’t believe what I am seeing. Mama has been working this for the past few years. I thought she didn’t plan to finish, but she has.”
“What is it?”
“A handkerchief pouch. My goodness. Every single leaf is done, every single flower is completed. It’s very pretty. She must have rushed to finish it for me in time for the wedding. Oh, the dear darling. I never thought she was making this for me. And what has she written?” She opened the billet. “I started making this, my dear one,” she read, “when you started lampooning Lord Langsdene. I said to myself, I wouldn’t finish until you had achieved your purpose, which I presumed was to remind him of his duty. I thought you had a reason and I hoped that one day I would see a happy ending. I’m pleased to see that your purpose ran along the same lines as mine.” Winsome stared at her new husband, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to marry you.”
“I hope you did. We can’t take back our vows now.”
“I meant that my purpose in using you wasn’t to gain a proposal.”
“Perhaps not. But you were thinking of me while you were drawing me. And I was thinking of the person who was drawing me. We lost each other, but all the time you were there.”
“And luckily I was, my good man. Else, you would have turned into a wastrel.”
“What did I say I would do to you if you called me my good man again?”
“I can’t remember.” She gazed demurely at her clasped hand.
“In that case, I shall do as I wish.” He took her into his arms and gave her a thorough kissing.
That night in a quiet little inn, he repeated his kisses and more, but this time as her loving husband.
If you have enjoyed this story, please add a review to Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews help to bring my books to other readers.
If you wish to sign up for my newsletter, go to virginia-taylor.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/AuthorVirginiaTaylor/
Reviews
STARLING: I love this book! It's a keeper I'll read again and again.
ELLA: The author has an ability to make you feel like you’re seeing the scenes. I could picture the landscapes, animals, and characters clearly.
CHARLOTTE: I love unpredictable storylines so this book was a standout for me. Thoroughly enjoyable.
WENNA: I loved how the two headstrong main characters are trying to find their place in their impulsive marriage and was fascinated by the many unexpected twists and turns.
Excerpt from WENNA (The South Landers Series)
Chapter 1
South Australia, January, 1865
A warm, yeasty aroma wafted from the bread resting on the kitchen window ledge, making this the only compensation for being in the hottest room of the house. Garbed in the cook’s second-best calico apron, Wenna Chenoweth sliced knobs of butter into a big
white mixing bowl. Although a lady’s maid wouldn’t normally help the other servants, Wenna’s employers kept their country house half-staffed during the summer sojourn into the Adelaide hills, and with a houseguest to cater for as well, Wenna had offered to make an almond cake.
Elsie, the scullery maid, glanced up shyly as she heaved a bag of sugar onto the table beside Wenna. “You’ve seen Miss Patricia’s beau, Miss Chenoweth. What does he look like?”
Wenna used a cup to scoop and pour the sugar onto the butter. “I’ve only seen him from a distance, mind, but my impression of him is that he is very handsome. He dresses well.”
“Rich, too, I suppose?” The trim gray-haired cook, Mrs. Green, dumped a load of washed vegetables onto the table.
Wenna considered her answer while she whipped her mixture of sugar and butter with a long wooden spoon. “Would that matter to the Brooks? What they want for Miss Patricia is class, and he is connected to our former governor, which makes him an English gentleman, or so Mrs. Brook said. I expect her father’s money would be his lure.”
“You’re a one, you are.” Mrs. Green laughed. Her gnarled fingers efficiently peeled the potato in an endless, almost transparent, length.
“You don’t want Miss Patricia to hear you talking like that, not when she’s already got it in for you.”
“She thinks finding fault is indispensable to a lady, but a real lady treats her servants with respect.” Or so Wenna’s mother had said, and she had been employed as the personal maid to a countess back in the old country, Cornwall, that she had taught Wenna to call home.
“I don’t know why she treats you like dirt under her heel. You’ve gotta be one of the hardest workers I’ve met. Not too many lady’s maids would take on all the extras you do.”
“It’s the extras that make my job interesting.” The extras made Wenna’s job bearable. She had risen to the top of her profession because she could read, match hairstyles to hats, gowns to jewelry, cook, run a household, and shut her mouth when need be. Her parents had never expected her to end up in service, but her parents had also not expected to die young.
“I s’pose you’re right. Doesn’t do a body no good to be too specialized, not if a body is planning to marry one day.” The cook winked at her.
“When I find the right man, Mrs. Green.” Wenna cracked two eggs into her bowl.
The cook stared at her, her bright brown eyes twinkling with humor. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Just look around you. There’s more men than women in this colony, and any man would snap up a smart woman like you.”
Wenna smiled, hoping she looked flattered, but only in her dreams would a woman with skin that blotched like a bullfrog’s in the sun, and shocking, bright red, frizzy hair attract the sort of man she would accept—a man with brains and ability, one who would work alongside her to better himself.
Light momentarily flooded the room as the back door opened. “Miss Chenoweth?” One of the men hired locally to help in the garden stood staring hopefully at Wenna. “Mrs. Brook sent me for you. Something about Miss Patricia’s hat.”
“What about her hat?” Wenna beat her egg-and-butter mixture into a frenzy while she frowned at the man.
“Dunno. S’pose she wants you to fix it.”
She glanced at the almonds and flour on the table. “I wonder if she would rather have a readjustment to a hat, or cake for afternoon tea?”
The man laughed. “Reckon she’ll get both.”
“For the price of one.” Sighing, Wenna wiped her hands and removed her apron. “I won’t be long,” she told the cook with a helpless shrug. “I’ll be back in time to finish the cake, clean the house, sew a new gown, and repair the roof.” She checked that she had the comb and the sewing kit in the little leather pouch she kept buckled around her waist, never knowing when she might be called.
“Likely you could do just that.”
Wenna left the cook laughing, which pleased her. If she could learn to relax more often, people would grow to like her. Not too many in the household did because she was “uppity.”
Her father had been a mine manager in Cornwall when he had married her mother, an educated lady’s maid. He’d always said Wenna was just like her mother. He’d meant “ambitious” like her mother. In looks, Wenna didn’t compare.
Her beautiful Mumma had convinced Da they would be better off in the south land, Terra Australis, where thick copper lodes had been discovered. “A better life to bring up our children,” she’d said, but she’d only produced one girl, much to Da’s disappointment. Nevertheless, he had insisted Wenna have the education he would have provided a full house of sons.
In this new land, each man was as good as his work, and Wenna’s work was superb. She’d made each of her mistresses into the stepping-stones of her ambition. Now twenty-six years old, and at the peak of her profession, she could only better herself by working for herself, which she planned to do as soon as she found a few more potential clients. She had an idea that might make her enough money to achieve her aim, which was to go back to Cornwall wealthy enough to be of use to her elderly grandparents.
She followed the gardener through the sun-dappled orchard to the scythed open grassland behind, where gentlemen in white stood dotted in various positions while playing their cricket match. The beautifully clad ladies sat in grouped chairs along the sidelines, guarding picnic baskets and stone bottles of ginger beer. In the paddocks beyond, tall gums stirred lazily in the heat.
The hollow knock of the ball sounded as the fair gentleman, the house- guest meant for Miss Patricia, swung his bat high. He ran, and even the leg pads he wore couldn’t make him look clumsy. His effortless strides took him to the other wicket and back again before the ball was returned to the bowler by another gentleman. Wenna would have liked to stay and watch, but Miss Patricia was making hastening movements with her arm.
“My hat was dislodged, and now my hair is a mess,” she said as Wenna reached her side. But for her pouting discontented mouth, she would have been very pretty, endowed as she was with thick brown hair and large brown eyes. “Don’t dawdle. You’ve wasted enough time.”
“Don’t be ungracious, darling,” Mrs. Brook, Wenna’s mistress, said to her daughter. “It’s unbecoming.”
Since birth, Miss Patricia had been indulged with every luxury, her father having made his fortune in the colony’s first building boom. With a flick of her head, she ignored her mother and dragged Wenna by the arm to a chair at the end of the row.
“Would you like me to fix your hat back on your head, or fix your hair?” “Both, you stupid creature.”
Miss Daphne Grace, a pretty young lady who invariably dressed in too
many frills and flounces, turned, apparently surprised by Miss Patricia’s words. Miss Patricia batted her lashes, and Miss Grace redirected her attention to her friend, an understated, dark-haired beauty. Most of the young ladies in the colony knew each other and attended the same functions. Wenna doubted that any would recall who she was, but she always remembered the names of the well-connected. In her profession, politeness and a scrupulous reputation were essential.
“Carefully, Chenoweth. Stand in front of me. I don’t want the gentlemen to see my hair on end.”
Dutifully, Wenna moved in front. While on holidays in the country, she “did for” the daughter as well as the mother. “I brought my comb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” She removed the hastily placed hatpins from Miss Patricia’s smart blue hat and put the creation on the lady’s lap.
Miss Patricia tapped her foot while Wenna combed sections of the lady’s enviable hair, re-pinning the loose curls. Satisfied, she stood back and placed the young lady’s hat precisely. “Now you look perfect again,” she said with a pleasant nod.
“You’re so slow today.” Miss Patricia checked her hair with her hand. “I’m sure you dawdle around just to annoy me. I hope you didn’t do anything too fussy. My hair is my crowning glory.”
“You’re very lucky, Miss Patricia. If
I could do my own as simply, I would be the happiest woman in the colony.”
Miss Patricia cast disdainful eyes over Wenna’s lace cap, which hid most of her tightly braided, densely packed hair. “The way you wear yours completely out of sight is suited to your position. It doesn’t do for the maid to imitate the mistress.”
Wenna nodded, hoping the fair young giant didn’t need Miss Patricia’s money. She was, without a doubt, a very unpleasant young woman.
“If you’ve finished with my hair, check the fall of my gown, would you?” Miss Patricia said in her loud, over-privileged voice. She stood.
With a critical eye, Wenna rearranged the loops at the back of the pink crinoline so that when Miss Patricia sat, the skirts would fan around her.
“You’ve done well, Chenoweth. You may go.”
Wenna inclined her head and turned, only to be stopped by Mrs. Brook at the other end of the row of chairs.
“Thank you,” her elegant mistress said in a low voice. Under Wenna’s tutelage, Mrs. Brook had become one of the most stylish ladies in the colony. “Daphne Grace tried to help her, but she couldn’t do a thing with her hair, and then Patricia starting making such a fuss that I thought she might not be showing herself to her best advantage. You have an efficient way, Chenoweth, of smoothing out situations.”
Wenna smiled. “Or at least smoothing out hair. I’m glad I could help.”
Unfortunately, her mistress’ gratitude didn’t abate Wenna’s irritation about being told that she was only a maid, when she was a lady’s maid, and her position didn’t call for her to hide her ugly hair. If she chose, she could leave off her silly frill of a cap. She glanced one last time at the fair cricketer who was standing with his bat waiting for the bowler to run up, knowing handsome young gentlemen would never be part of her world. Her cake awaited.
Already pulling off her cap, which she decided she would never wear again, she reached the slatted gate of the orchard. With her tight arrangement now disturbed, some of her pins had loosened, and the long plait of her hair unfurled down her back. Using her fingers as a comb, she loosened the braiding and shook out the frizz of her hair in defiance. Behind, she heard the shout of male voices yelling, “Out, out,” and she glanced back.
Artfully Wicked ('Pon Rep' Regency Rogues Book 1) Page 10
