“Jameson,” Edward called through the door before the valet could respond. “You’re first.”
“You’re not making allowances for his choices.” Jameson moved toward the door, promising, “But we’ll discuss this later.”
I crossed my arms, thinking we would discuss nothing later unless I orchestrated it. I was the mistress, after all, and not him.
Nevertheless, I felt compelled to follow his progress to the carriage, wishing he’d taken me seriously when I said I was unlucky. Yet secretly I was glad he was amongst our number, for despite myself I had warmed toward him.
Next was my turn. The mud was so thick it threatened to hold fast my slipper with each step. My stomach tightened as I mounted the carriage and viewed its interior.
Though the seats were cushioned with padded leather, mire coated nearly every surface. I sank across from Jameson. Water ran down my skirts, joining the muddy lake at my feet. I eyed the mud creviced beneath each upholstery button, knowing it would take hours of the staff members’ lives to clean this. Normally these carriages were kept in pristine condition. If this couldn’t be restored, my father was going to be furious with me.
The scent of wet dog tingled my nose before the stray from that morning jumped on my lap to greet me.
Resigned to fate, I drew a deep breath. Sarah always said that every couple was fated to be unlucky in some aspect of daily life. Some couldn’t keep their chickens alive, regardless of effort. Others excelled in buying horses that ended up lame. We knew one family that moved four times, and each time within months their well dried. Mama and William were unable to keep their dishes from chipping. Apparently Edward and I were the death of carriages. We’d done the same thing to Henry’s.
The moment Edward took his seat, the dog scrambled over my skirt and jumped onto his lap. His tail thumped against my leg as Edward bent his head forward and accepted the attention. When the carriage pitched forward, Edward wrapped his arms around the dog’s chest, holding him in place.
“We need to find a home for this fellow by morning too.” Edward stroked the silken ears.
I rested my head against the carriage, watching. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted him.”
“Do you remember that year you tried to talk your father into buying you a mastiff as a yuletide gift?” Jameson asked Edward. “You even went so far as to send inquiries to breeders.” Smiling at me, he said, “He waited until his father was at lunch and then lined up their replies over his desk.”
“Did it work?” I asked.
Edward made a face. “Not entirely. Father commissioned someone to paint a mastiff.”
Jameson gave his knee a slight slap. “I’d forgotten that! Yes, and in your disappointment, you declared you would only hang the picture when you had a real dog to match it. Then you ordered Rupert to remove it until such a time. It was the talk of breakfast that morning belowstairs. The staff was on your side.”
“Where is that painting now?” I asked.
Edward frowned. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it since that morning.” He scratched the dog’s chin. “What about your father, Juls? Does he keep any dogs? Would he want another?”
I compressed my lips, not entirely certain. “Maybe. There used to be one in the stables.”
“Used to? That doesn’t sound good. What happened to him?”
I shuddered, recalling the morning my father’s footman informed us our dog had been beaten to death. My cousin, Eramus, also returned to memory—his murderous face as he turned a poker in the embers. I ran my fingertips over the faint scars on my palms. My throat closed as a panicky sensation set in. “I . . . I don’t think I can talk about it.”
Edward’s brow furrowed with concern. “Never mind it. I think I’d rather find him a home here.”
“Yes,” Jameson said beneath his breath, “I second that notion.”
I bent my head, the memory of that night refusing to go away. I relived the horrifying moment I tumbled headlong into London’s dark streets, bleeding and burnt, with Eramus in hot pursuit. I wasn’t aware my facial expression bespoke my stress until Edward placed the dog on the seat next to Jameson and drew me close.
“Let’s give him to Jacob Turner,” he suggested. “What do you think of that?”
I snapped out of my thoughts and blinked at him. “To whom?”
“You remember. We saw him hoeing his field last fall. He was the one saving up for a blanket. Knowing how tight his finances are, I doubt he ever got that new blanket. He does, however, strike me as the type who would sleep with his dog.”
“He’ll get fleas.” Jameson frowned.
“He already has fleas,” Edward rebuked quietly. “If anything, the dog would draw some of them away. Plus, we know firsthand this dog catches rabbits. So not only would he keep Jacob warm, but he’d add meat to his diet.”
“Do you think he’ll want him?”
I felt Edward give a silent sigh as he viewed our stray. “There’s only one way to find out. I’ll walk over and see after the storm clears.”
Memory of that afternoon is a soft blur of musty smells, echoing chambers, and dutiful work. Thankfully our possessions were tied to the carriage, so we were able to change into drier clothing. Jameson and I draped wet clothing over banisters, doorknobs, protruding nails, and a few hooks that had once served the house’s previous occupants, while rain dashed against the windows and the wind buffeted the unyielding walls of Windhaven.
Before many minutes passed, the tarry scent of burning peat moss filled the downstairs.
Fatigued and devoid of emotion, I sat and stared at the yellow flames, blinking smoke from my eyes. When I yawned repeatedly, Jameson excused himself and returned with the dampened carriage blankets and a lumpy pillow.
“Sleep,” he ordered, arranging them within the ring of warmth provided by the fire. “You won’t miss anything. You look ready to slumber standing up.”
“Yes, you hardly slept last night,” Edward encouraged.
“What will you do?” I asked, knowing he couldn’t feel any more rested.
“My mind is full.” He gave the windows a look of dissatisfaction. “I might work on a sermon. I’ve been thinking of Jacob Turner and how God doesn’t always answer prayers in the way we plan. I might research that and outline a future sermon on the theme.”
I tried to hide my look of surprise that he was still writing sermons as if our life hadn’t just been interrupted. Perhaps I was still a vicar’s wife after all.
Thomas, who hadn’t eaten yet, settled next to me by the hearth and became my quiet companion. While he withdrew items from the sack, I mounded the blanket in such a way as to accommodate me where my stay was unbendable. Lastly, I wadded Mama’s shawl for an additional pillow. To my complete astonishment, when I finally settled down, Jameson produced another thick, heavy blanket, which he spread over me as though I were a small child.
“One of the benefits of belonging to a herd,” he said by way of explanation when I gave him a startled look.
The same thawing sensation I’d once experienced with Nancy fluttered through me, followed by a sense of panic when I realized I couldn’t shut down my desire for friendship, no matter how much I feared allowing people in.
But why wouldn’t I? I shut my eyes, though sleep felt far away. My time as the Emerald Heiress had taught me that people were far more interested in using a person as a commodity than in learning who she truly was. Today was a clear demonstration that even those who loved me were quick to put their interests above mine. Betrayal always lurked round the corner.
Then I envisioned Isaac’s trusting face as he sat across the breakfast table that fateful morning. Waves of despair washed over me. I was just as guilty. Though I’d tried my best, an ugly, gaping wound now existed between us. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force sleep to come and offer relief from these thoughts. Yet I couldn’t help but consider my father next. Since that same morning when he’d lost control, he’d wanted nothing to do with me.
How many more times could I stand this? No matter whom I loved, or who loved me, it always ended the same—people becoming bruised, broken, and battered.
I grasped the blanket and pulled it closer, wondering why we didn’t give the blankets to Jacob Turner. Then, forcing myself to pretend I was asleep, I eventually calmed and drifted.
I dreamed Isaac and I were attending a soiree, only we were stuck on a staircase. Above us people waited in line, as well as below us. Everywhere I looked, crowds of people surrounded the stairs. The low murmur of voices was accompanied by feminine trills of laughter and the sound of crystal glasses being toasted. I kept edging closer to Isaac, feeling I could choke on the scent of perfumes and pomades, but there was no escape. On the step below me, a very important man turned and addressed me, and though I smiled and nodded, the notion pounded against my brain that if I didn’t greet him properly, I’d cause a rift between my father and all of Parliament. I looked to Isaac, our signal that I needed help, but he stared through me, wearing his urbane expression. I felt unable to breathe. All around me were hundreds and hundreds of gentry, all turning toward me, all waiting to speak to me, and I couldn’t remember any one of them or their ranks.
“Juls.” The important man jabbed my shoulder.
I clutched Isaac’s sleeve, but he turned his head, refusing to look at me. Near crying, for he’d never treated me like this, I tugged harder, pleading for his help.
“Juls.” This time it was Edward’s voice, and it was close to my ear. “You’re having a nightmare.”
I bolted upright and blinked about the empty room, confused.
“You were having a bad dream,” Edward repeated, lowering himself to the floor next to me.
I breathed in air as my heart slowed its hammering, then turned toward the window. It was late, and stars now glistened in their velvety sky as crickets throbbed.
Edward leaned forward and kissed my shoulder, the scent of bay rum clinging to him.
“How did you know I was having a bad dream?” I demanded, wiping my eyes and finding them wet. Fearing I’d called out Isaac’s name, I asked, “Did I say anything?”
“No. You just kept thrashing.”
I drew my knees to my chest, allowing the lingering emotions from the dream to dissipate. “Forgive me.” I had to swallow. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I have nightmares. I can’t help it.”
Edward’s expression was difficult to read, though his brow creased. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
I pushed the hair back from my forehead, glad he didn’t understand that I was apologizing for dreaming about Isaac.
Edward hesitated a second, then asked, “May I join you? Or would you rather sleep alone?”
Only then did I realize he had stripped down to his drawers and shirt.
“No. Here.” I scooted over, making room for him on the bottom blanket, then lifted the cover. He quickly stripped off his shirt and slipped beneath the blanket. “Shall I hold you?”
I nodded and settled against his chest, the panic from my dream fully ebbing.
He leaned his cheek against the top of my head. “Tell me your dream? Maybe I can decipher its meaning.”
I shook my head, already knowing it meant I feared to be in London or near my father without Isaac’s help. The chimera was my first attempt at handling the pain of having been severed so bluntly from Isaac. Knowing that Edward was insightful about these matters, it wasn’t a dream I wanted to share.
He pulled the cover over my shoulder. “Was I in it?”
Instead of answering his question, I surprised myself by relinquishing the thoughts that had built all day. They came swiftly, needing release. “How can you be so kind, when you know this is all my fault?”
“What’s your fault, Juls?”
I gestured to the empty chamber. “All of this. Henry and Elizabeth’s wedding. Your parents. Not having a place to sleep. Your losing your living.” Isaac’s broken trust. “My father’s carriage. Henry’s carriage. Churchill’s murder. Everything. Everywhere I go, I hurt those I love. I am tired of seeking and being rejected. I’m sorry I brought you to this place with me.”
I felt the tendons over Edward’s neck move as he swallowed. For a full minute he considered his response, though he held me tight. “Do you see that star, there? Angle your head a bit and look out the left side of the pane, the middle mullion. Can you tell me its name?”
I felt too miserable to answer and only gave it a fleeting glance. Here I granted him access to my soul and he was responding with astronomy lessons.
“It’s Polaris,” he said softly, his gaze fixed in that direction. “Every sailor knows it. Without that fixed mark they would lose their nautical direction and never find port. Worthy captains use it nightly to track their progress. By that, they then estimate the number of days until they’ll make land, which determines how they ration the food and water.”
I studied the blue, sphery point of light through the wavy pane.
“The way I see it, Juls, you’ve been on a ship with someone at the helm who disregarded the necessity of looking heavenward to navigate. He shipwrecked his life and his family. You’ve been afloat in the wreckage, barely able to keep your head above the billowing waves. God is rich with mercy on the castaways and smoldering brands. They are precious to him, and he’s willing to cast aside all that is dirty and offensive and replace it with robes of honor.”
His words were soul-stirring, painful even. “Why?”
He laughed as if I’d asked him to explain the unexplainable. “God sovereignly chooses his representatives, and I daresay he intends to use what he saves. I would even say his love is fulfilled as he takes the fragments and transforms them.”
“What if I’m not chosen?”
Edward’s voice smiled. “The very fact you’re questioning this is proof enough he’s spoken your name.”
I shifted to gain a better view of Edward, feeling restrained by the layers of clothing I wore. “If that’s true, then I don’t think his people agree with his choices. For I know now of two parishes that disapprove of me.”
“And who are they to judge the servant of another?”
Not yet recognizing that verse, my thoughts briefly touched on Jameson as I wondered what he had to do with this. Edward’s words brought back the memory of surrender. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “As far as your always being rejected, that’s a lie. I’ve chosen you and fought incredible odds for the privilege of being the one here with you tonight.”
I shut my eyes, nestling closer against him. Though my stomach cramped with hunger and my bladder needed relief, I wouldn’t have moved for all the world. At least here, with him, I belonged. I touched his chest, amazed at how natural being husband and wife already felt. “You’re my Polaris. You’ve always been.”
“You won’t feel that way once your understanding grows.”
I looked up, and the pressure of my head apparently compelled Edward to adjust his arm. I marvelled at the feel of sinew and muscle beneath his skin.
Sensing I wanted more of an explanation, he turned on his side so we were face-to-face. “I am only a picture, a shadow. If I do my job well, I open a fuller understanding of the real picture.” He frowned, seeing my confused look. “I never told you this, but the first time I ever saw you wasn’t that day Henry and I stumbled on Elizabeth and you at the creek.”
I gave him a wide stare, for that day was sacred amongst my memories. That morning I’d found Mama bedridden, a malady she suffered when great sadness would overtake her. I climbed atop her, placing my cheeks on hers, hoping she’d feel my love and revive. She did not stir, however, but just stared blankly at the wall. I moved Mama’s blonde hair from her brow and kissed her.
Those rare days Mama did not speak, Sarah was wont to tell me to be a good girl, leading me to believe my goodness translated into Mama’s ability to shake off the heaviness. Hence, when Sarah shooed me from the chamber with the words that good little girls
were outdoors soaking up sunshine, I slipped from the bed, determined to bring her alleviation.
The remedy had finally been handed to me—find sunshine and remain in it.
The day before, Elizabeth and I had started to build a dam of sticks and mud in the creek bed, hoping to turn the woods into a body of water. She was anxious to return to the project, whereas I was hesitant to head into the trees, fearing I wouldn’t find sunlight. To my relief, when we arrived, a shaft of sun was awaiting me, illuminating a large stone thickly cushioned with moss.
About a half hour later, Henry and Edward crossed our path, dressed to the hilt in riding attire. We must have made an interesting sight, for by the time the boys found us, Elizabeth was half-covered in mud, her hair hanging in clumps, as she rolled a rock down the creek bed toward our dam, while I sat in a tight ball, clutching my arms around my knees, trying to keep any part of me from falling into the shadow.
I’d noted Edward immediately, for no one had ever looked at me with the intensity that he did. Whereas Henry gave Elizabeth a look of disgust.
Without comment, Edward handed his reins to his brother, then crossed over a fallen log to me. His eyes scrunched with uncertainty as I did not move or rise to greet him. He hesitated, then asked, “May I sit with you?”
I gave a slight nod, not certain what he was about.
Clearly he expected me to scoot over, for he furrowed his brow when I made no movement. His eyes darted about the scene, and he must have noted my preference for the sun because he asked, “Are you cold?”
I shook my head.
On the other side of the creek, Henry watched his brother’s attempt to make friends with me with something akin to bewilderment, but it amused him enough to hitch his booted foot on a rock and cross his arms over his knee to observe.
Elizabeth stood upright from her labors and wiped her brow, smearing mire across it. “She wants to sit.” Then, in a bossy tone, “And she’s allowed to.”
Henry gave her another look of disgust. “What are you doing?”
Elizabeth raised her chin. “I’m making a lake.”
Price of Privilege Page 10
