by Lyn Stone
A husband’s lot, he mused, not at all unhappy with the idea that he, along with thousands of other husbands, must tolerate these small feminine gambits. They were a fact of married life, so he had heard, and he rather looked forward to experiencing all of them.
Silence suited him very well at the moment anyway. Wouldn’t Emily be appalled to know that? He smiled to himself as he went down to order an early tea.
Her usual sunny nature had taken a beating by the morning’s events and she was suffering the effects of it now, that was all. There had been nothing for her to do but dwell on it for the better part of the day. When he provided continued reassurance that nothing of the sort would happen again, she would recover soon enough.
Had she not been ready to allow him to make love to her in the carriage? Remembering her sweet willingness, Nick knew he would have no trouble regaining that once they were comfortably established in town and she felt safe again. There would be no more of this marriage-in-name-only foolishness. They would have enough other problems to deal with once they reached London. Thank God he would no longer have to worry about that.
Emily spent the remainder of their journey wondering what she should do next with regard to Nicholas. Her first impulse had been to confront him and demand an explanation. But she already had the explanation, didn’t she? Nick had lied to her.
Why he had done so was no mystery. He had told a bald-faced lie for the same reason he had lied by omission seven years earlier. He wanted her. She did not doubt that fact. He might never have loved her or intended to marry her, but he did desire her, both then and now.
She also thought he hated the fact that he desired her as fervently as he did. Why else would he avoid taking what she had readily offered? Emily knew he thought she would hamper his aspirations in London. Perhaps she would. Perhaps he had thought of nothing else since their marriage and now wanted rid of her.
Her second impulse had been to run home to her father and to refuse to see Nicholas ever again. A childish response, she knew, and quickly discarded the idea as impractical and ridiculous. She never ran from a problem. It went against her very nature to do so.
Now she avoided looking directly at him, though he sat right across from her, apparently quite willing to suffer riding backward all the way to London. Fat lot she cared, Emily thought with a sniff. As if, knowing what she did, she would want his arms around her now. Or ever, she qualified.
Her peripheral vision caught his smile. She ignored it. Fortunately, he did not attempt to force conversation. After a few brief comments about the hired coach—which she agreed was better sprung, though less well-appointed than the other—he had retreated to his own thoughts and left her to hers.
Dark, those thoughts were, too, and grew darker still as daylight waned and the hours passed. The interior grew black as pitch. Emily slid to one side of her seat and braced herself into the corner where she could lean her head against the wall. Her neck felt stiff, her back ached and she dearly wished for a long, hot bath.
She closed her eyes, putting aside any decisions until she could think more clearly.
“We are almost there,” Nick said softly, waking her with a gentle shake of her shoulder. She bolted upright, astounded that she had allowed herself to sleep.
The clopping hooves of the mounts echoed off the paving stones, a lonely sound. The hour was late and there surely must be a dearth of traffic on the streets.
The coach halted soon afterward and Emily felt a sudden wave of apprehension wash over her. Like an evil tide, it left all sorts of ugly imaginings in its wake. Would Nick’s servants mock her? Would they greatly resent his making the vicar’s daughter his countess? Had they all been privy to his betrothal to Dierdre?
Some of these people, she would know, for this is where Nick had sent the staff who had resided at Bournesea. La, what would Mrs. Waxton, the pruny old housekeeper, think of her now? Well, she had never liked Emily in any case. And Rosie Hempstead, the tweenie Emily had played with as a child? What would Rosie say, having to call Emily my lady? They wouldn’t like it, either of them, nor would any of the others she had greeted as equals every Sunday morning since she could remember. Why had she insisted on coming here?
She groaned at the thought. “I do not wish to do this tonight.”
Nick’s hand found hers in the darkness. “Don’t fret, Em. All will be well. Trust me.”
Trust him? Emily almost laughed aloud. She wouldn’t trust Nicholas any farther than she could spit. A ladylike thought. She felt like spitting, though.
Instead she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and worked up her courage. She had faced worse. She was the countess and she would act the part. If anyone did not like it, including the exalted earl who had insisted on a marriage he obviously did not want, they could…they could just…go hang!
Wrecker opened the door, let down the steps and stood back. Nicholas exited first and turned to assist her. Emily gave him her hand and focused her attention on placing her feet where they should go so she would not trip on her skirts and fall into the street. What an ignominious introduction to London that would be. She could see it in the morning papers: Upstart Countess Tours Our Fair City From The Ground Up.
“Welcome to Kendale House,” Nick said as he steadied her.
She tugged her hands from his, brushed down her skirts, then straightened her bonnet. As she did all of this, her eyes adjusted to the dim light afforded by the gas lamps—wonders she had read about, but never seen—and she saw the house.
It loomed over them, an unwelcoming, imposing granite monstrosity, an intimidating display of wealth and influence. Bournesea was larger, but did not seem nearly so forbidding as this place. Whoever had constructed Kendale House had done so for the primary purpose of causing the small to feel smaller, Emily decided. And this was to be home for half their years? She gulped, battling the urge to flee.
“Come,” Nick said with a lightness she would not have expected. “Time to surprise the household. I should have sent a man ahead to warn of our arrival. That’s what father used to do. We hadn’t one to spare, however, so we’ll make the grand entrance.”
“Nick, couldn’t we—” she whispered.
“The knocker won’t be out. You’ll have to use your knuckles,” he said to Wrecker.
This sort of surprise certainly wouldn’t endear her to the servants, Emily knew. She hung back, shaking her head in refusal. “Wait, Nick. Surely you have keys. Couldn’t we sneak in and retire without waking them? Everyone will surely be abed at this hour.”
“Sneak in?” He chuckled as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and urged her toward the steps leading up to enormous double doors. “No, I’m afraid that would not be acceptable in this instance. Or in any instance,” he added, as if he thought she might err later on when he was not around to advise her.
“Just because I entered Bournesea by stealth that once is no reason to vilify me in advance for possible misdoings in the future,” she retorted. “I only thought to save waking anyone out of a sound sleep tonight.”
“Can you imagine how horrified they would be to find us here in the morning unexpectedly? Besides, it’s not yet ten o’clock. They won’t keep country hours here,” he informed her.
And neither would she in future, she suspected. “If that is your way of reminding me of my provincial background, it was most effective. I am properly cowed.”
“You know very well that was not my intention,” he argued. “Behave now, and for heaven’s sake, smile.”
“You want me to smile?” The last expression in the world she wished to adopt at the moment.
The sound of Wrecker knocking upon the door reverberated in the stillness around them.
Nick watched him, too, in the anemic light cast by the streetlamp, as he answered her. “Yes, of course you must smile. And you might as well strike the requisite pose.”
“Pose?” Emily stiffened, throwing her chin up a notch and raising a brow at his implicati
on that she would have to pretend composure. Never mind that it was true.
“That’s the one,” he said with a single approving nod. “Even Mother did not do it so well. Looks like you swallowed starch. Steady-on for the gauntlet run.”
What the devil was he talking about, gauntlet run? When the doors opened a crack, then swung wide, Emily saw only on an older fellow wearing untidy livery and a look of pure astonishment. “Master Nic…My lord?” he stuttered. “We had not expected…uh, welcome home.” He retreated a few steps from the portal so that they could enter.
“Upton. How are you faring these days?” Nick asked, striding inside, one hand locking Emily’s in the bend of his elbow so that she had no choice but to match his pace. “How good to be home again. And I have brought my countess to meet you.” He looked down at her, “My bride, Lady Emily.” Then he gestured toward the old man. “This is Upton, our chief butler.”
“Mr. Upton,” Emily acknowledged.
The man inclined his head in response, then remembered himself and bowed. “My lady.”
“Where is everyone?” Nick looked around the cavernous vestibule as though he expected a full turnout of occupants to leap out from behind the statues and gigantic fern stands and greet them.
“Uh…a mmoment, my lord.” The old retainer motioned toward another set of doors to his left and their right. “If you would be so kind…?”
“Of course, Upton. We shall wait in the drawing room while you inform the staff we are here.”
Emily tugged on his arm and said in a low voice, “Nick, it’s not necessary, we could—”
“Wait is what we shall do. In there,” he interrupted firmly. He guided her quickly away from the butler and Wrecker. Once he had ushered her into the drawing room, he quickly struck a lucifer, lit the nearest lamp and then closed the doors.
The room seemed dank and overlarge, its shadows looming. The very presence of the old earl seem to pervade this place, she thought. She rubbed her magic ring, but experienced no comforting warmth this time. Fear always made her cranky.
“You never even apologized for waking the man,” she accused Nick. “And you could have explained our late arrival by telling him of the wreck.”
“What happened is none of Upton’s affair, and an apology from me is neither expected, nor would it be welcomed,” he stated, turning away from her as he examined their surroundings.
“Well, it would have been polite, Nick,” she said, making a face at him behind his back.
When he looked at her again, his brows were lowered and his lips firm. Then he spoke in a near whisper. “Please remember I am Kendale to you, Countess, or your lord in the presence of staff. And never, never offer a suggestion or argument opposing what I have decided.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke again, his voice gentler this time but no less commanding. “You may, of course, say anything you choose to me in private, but do, in company of others, try to maintain the fiction that I am somewhat in charge, will you?”
Emily realized in that moment that Nicholas might be as uncomfortable as she about assuming a title, even though his was certainly arrived at more expectedly than hers. Could it be that he was actually worried that he might not have the hang of it yet?
There must be thousands of rules she had never even heard of that governed everyday behavior of the nobility. Ridiculous rules she would probably have to learn. How many had Nick forgotten in his seven years away?
All bluff and strut aside, he was nothing like his father, and Nick had not spent many of his adult years preparing to fill an earl’s position in Society. The old earl had, for the most part, ignored him until the two had found themselves at cross-purposes.
Be that as it may, it would serve nothing for her to undermine Nick’s authority over the household. She could not expect to achieve any right soon, and someone certainly should have some. She curtsied gracefully, proud of herself for not being pettish. “As you wish, my lord.”
He rolled his eyes, sighed and pressed his fingers to his forehead as if it hurt. “Damn me, will this day never end?”
“You have the headache,” she observed, concerned about him despite her pique.
He quirked up his mouth in a half smile. “Yes, but it is I who should be asking you that question.”
“It’s a mere scratch. I didn’t bump it.”
“Good. I’m certain we shall both feel better once we’ve had some sleep. And I promise everything else will be fine eventually. You are not to worry.”
“I do not intend to.” She did not want him to smile or to try to charm her or to give her any assurances of his well-being or her own. Moreover, she had no inclination to put on noble airs with those servants his butler was busy herding up to meet their new mistress. All she wanted at the moment was to have a hot bath and be left alone.
He reached out and touched her arm, trailing his fingers down it until they clutched her hand. “There could be a few problems at first, Em,” he warned. “If anyone here should…withhold respect, you are to notify me immediately. I shall deal with it.”
“No, you will not,” she said, removing her hand from his and clasping hers together in front of her. “You need not solve my problems when I am perfectly capable of doing so myself.” She lifted her chin another notch. “And please be so kind as to address me properly, my lord.”
Just then, someone—Mr. Upton, she supposed—knocked softly on the door, preventing Nick from arguing about it. Ready or not, it was time to establish her place within the household.
Nick looked almost as worried as she felt. Summoning her courage and trying to forget her current state of dishevelment, Emily joined him at the door as he opened it wide.
Her first thought was that she had never expected so many people would be necessary to maintain a household in London. But of course there would not usually be so many. The Bournesea staff was here.
On closer inspection, she recognized approximately a third of the people. The familiar faces made her smile. The problem was, few of them returned it, and so her tentative expression faded. Obviously, they were not that happy to see her here.
She hoped they were only upset at being rousted out of bed to greet a new mistress, but she much doubted that was the reason.
Nick proceeded to make introductions so rapidly he might as well have spoken Chinese for all the good it did her. She would never remember all their names, she thought, almost panicked at the realization.
What would she do if she had occasion to speak to one of them? And of course, she would in the course of the days or weeks to come. No, the years to come, Emily quickly reminded herself. These people were her servants now, her responsibility as well as her husband’s. It was she who would be required to solve their everyday problems, to see that they received proper clothing, performed their duties and kept Nick’s two households running smoothly.
He squeezed her elbow and was looking down at her. What had he just asked?
“Would you please choose someone to assist you temporarily, my lady?” Nick repeated.
Assist in doing what? she wondered. Then it occurred to her that she would be expected to have a maid. All ladies had maids, did they not? She tried to recall the woman’s name whom Lady Elizabeth had employed.
Quickly Emily scanned the crowd gathered in the foyer, but did not see the face she sought. That woman had been up in years, older than the countess. Perhaps she had been retired or let go. After all, the old earl would have had no use for a lady’s maid after Lady Elizabeth died.
Knowing she had to say something, Emily spoke the only name that came to mind, one that had popped into her mind as she had worried about what the staff would think of her now that she was countess. “Rosie? Miss Rosie Hempstead?” Emily bit her lips together as she looked from face to face, searching for the young tweenie she had known well in her youth.
Should she have called Rosie miss? Was that acceptable? Well, why not? Everyone deserved respect.
For a
moment, she feared Rosie had not come with the others. What would Emily do then? She would choose a stranger before asking for Mrs. Waxton. Emily was fairly certain one did not ask a former housekeeper to lower herself to body servant. Besides, who would return and manage the manor, even if the woman did not quit in a fit of anger.
“Yes…miss…m’lady,” croaked Rosie as she squeezed between the taller servants to present herself.
The poor girl, bright red curls all askew, bobbed an off-center curtsy, trying to hide her bare feet beneath the long rumpled robe she wore. Her bright green eyes were wide, her gaze darting from Emily to Nicholas to Wrecker and back again. She chewed both her lips, appearing apprehensive about being singled out.
“Rosie, you will accompany your lady to the countess’s suite. Mr. MacFarlin, you shall attend me,” Nick ordered Wrecker. “The rest of you are excused. We shall see you in the morning. Thank you for the welcome and good night.”
The four of them stood there until everyone else had dispersed. They remained silent, watching while Upton locked the front doors and took his leave of them. He eyed Nick, Emily and Wrecker as if they were here for some nefarious purpose and ought to be locked outside instead of in. Rosie, he treated as if she were quite invisible.
As soon as the old man had gone, Nick turned to Wrecker. “Congratulations on your promotion to valet,” he said with a quirk of his mouth.
He addressed Rosie. “I assume you have no objection to serving the countess.”
Rosie shook her head, curtsying yet again, this time with slightly more competency. “No, sir—m’lord. None at all.”
“Your mother, has she retired now?”
“Passed away, m’lord, some five years ago.”
Nick shook his head sadly. “How sorry I am to hear it. Mrs. Hempstead always had a kind word for everyone.” He drew a deep breath. “I would have expected you to take over her position at Bournesea.”
“No, m’lord, the earl said I was too young for a housekeeper. I’m a ’tween stairs maid like I always was.”
