by Julia London
“Shall I...shall I put them away?” Hattie asked uncertainly.
“Yes, please,” Grace said coolly. “In a drawer somewhere I will not see them.” She turned away from the offending gloves and walked out of her room.
Unsurprisingly, she found the breakfast room empty, save Cox, who stood by ready to serve. At least her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and Grace ate. When she had finished, she said, “Don’t wait luncheon for me, Cox,” she said. “I intend to take a very long walk.” Perhaps all the way to London. Or at least Bath. Well, she couldn’t be certain how far she’d go, but she was determined to remove herself from this gloomy house.
The day was a fine spring day, crystal in its clarity, the sun glinting off the dew on the rosebushes and the water in the fountains. The hedgerows were trimmed and the rosebushes groomed to perfection. All of them red roses. Only red. It was as if he had aversion to any other sort of flower or color.
There was an iron gate at the manicured gardens and, beyond that, a mowed path down to the lake’s edge. Ash trees towered above Grace as she set down the path, her stride long, her mood improving with every step away from Blackwood Hall.
She lifted her face to the sun, felt its warmth on her skin and closed her eyes. A sound—a cough, a clearing of a throat—caught her ear; she turned toward the woods.
What was that, a gate?
Yes, she could just make it out, a gate behind the tangle of vines. That was a fence, too, she realized, and, if she were not mistaken, a thatched roof behind the trees.
She walked over to the gate and pushed aside some of the vines, peering in. There was a lovely garden behind that gate, a true English garden. Roses and columbine, hydrangeas, peonies and delphinium. A cat was stretched lazily across a tree stump, sunning itself, its eyes on Grace.
Who lived here? The cottage looked charming from what little she could see. She stepped back and looked around. There was another stump beside what she now could see was a stone wall around the garden. Grace picked her way through the undergrowth and climbed up on the tree stump and peered over the wall. She could see all of the cottage then.
The front of the cottage faced the lake. There were flower boxes in the windows spilling over with touch-me-not flowers. A pair of hens were pecking the ground in the corner of the garden, and a curl of smoke drifted up from the single chimney. The cottage was quite charming, and Grace was delighted to have found it—at last, something that put a smile on her face.
A woman suddenly appeared on the path around the side of the cottage carrying a basket of flowers. With a gasp of alarm, Grace dipped down, mortified that she should be caught spying. She crouched there, listening.
“You may as well come in, but you best come around the front. That gate’s been woven shut by the vines.”
Grace held her breath.
“Yes, you, dear, on the other side of the wall.” The woman’s gray head suddenly appeared above Grace at the wall. “Oh, dear, I should clear out the undergrowth, shouldn’t I? Quite untidy. Come around, and I’ll make you some tea.”
Grace slowly rose, her cheeks stained with her embarrassment. “I beg your pardon,” she said apologetically. “I was passing by, and I... Well, I suppose you’ve guessed. I climbed on this stump to peer at your house. And I am happy that I did. It’s so very charming.”
The woman smiled. “Thank you.”
“But I couldn’t possibly impose,” Grace said, and hopped down from the stump. “I apologize.”
“Impose!” the woman cried. “But I’d be delighted! Do come in, Lady Merryton.”
Grace gasped. “How do you know my name?”
The woman tittered at that. “I daresay everyone here knows who you are, milady. I’m Molly Madigan. Come around to the front.” Her head disappeared from view.
With one glance behind her to Blackwood Hall, Grace was persuaded. She hurried around to the front of the cottage.
Molly Madigan was waiting at the front gate, holding it open.
“Thank you,” Grace said, and stepped through. Molly was a head shorter than Grace and was wearing a stained apron around her middle, a handwoven shawl about her shoulders and a wide-brimmed gardening hat. She picked up her basket of flowers and walked to the door of her cottage. “Fine day for a walkabout,” she said cheerfully, and shooed the cat away when it tried to wind around her legs.
Grace stepped up to the door and peered inside as the cat brushed against her on its way inside, its tail high.
She could see a wooden settee and two cushioned rocking chairs. A single oil lamp was on a table near one chair and, beneath the table, a sewing basket that looked to be overflowing.
“You needn’t be timid here. Come in!” Molly called to her.
Grace looked in the direction of her voice. Molly Madigan was in an adjoining room holding a tray with two cups.
“I’ll just fetch the kettle. The water will still be hot.” She put the tray on a small table at the window and disappeared into the back of the cottage.
Grace hastily removed her bonnet. She sat gingerly in one of the chairs at the table and folded her hands in her lap. On the wall opposite the window were three framed sketches of two smiling boys, obviously siblings, and a young girl between them. All of the children looked to be about ten years old in the drawings.
Molly Madigan returned a moment later with a kettle. “Here we are,” she said, and poured the water, then set the kettle aside and let the tea steep.
She had a lovely countenance, Grace thought. “Thank you, Mrs. Madigan.”
“Not a missus, no. And you should call me Molly. Everyone does.” She offered Grace a cube of sugar. “How do you find Blackwood Hall?”
“It is...grand,” Grace said carefully.
Molly laughed. “It’s grand indeed. It always seemed a bit lonely all the way here on the edge of Somerset. And inside that grand house, dear me! One can ramble about for days!”
“Yes.” Grace had done precisely that, rambling about for three days. She hid her feelings about that behind a sip of tea. The cat jumped up on the table and sat before her, his yellow eyes staring into hers. Grace absently stroked him.
Molly’s gaze, she noticed, was firmly fixed on her.
“Are those your children?” Grace asked, nodding at the sketches.
Molly looked at the sketches on the wall. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose you might say they were. I was their governess. That’s his lordship when he was but a boy,” she said, pointing to the one on the right. “And his sister, Lady Sylvia.”
“Lord Merryton?” Grace asked with astonishment. The picture was of a happy boy, not a dark and humorless man.
Molly laughed. “My artistic skills are somewhat lacking.”
“You drew them? But...he’s smiling.” Grace could see the resemblance now, especially in his eyes.
“Ah, yes,” Molly said. “He does indeed find it difficult to smile, doesn’t he?”
Grace looked curiously at Molly. “You’ve known him for a very long time, then.”
“Since he was a lad of six years,” she said. “He’s a good man,” she added, as if she had guessed at Grace’s unspoken question. “He’s given me this cottage, for he knows how much I enjoy gardening. Do you garden?”
“No. I’ve always lived in town. And there have always been gardeners about.” She smiled a little.
“I can teach you,” Molly brightly suggested. “You will find there is nothing quite as satisfying as putting one’s hands in dirt and bringing something to life.”
Of all the things Grace had imagined for herself, puttering about a garden was not one of them. She had imagined herself a grand doyenne of proper society, the one who would host the teas and balls that mattered to the social lives of countless debutantes. In London, she and Honor had scarcely spent an evening at home; they were always out in society. They’d had many suitors and they’d both put off proper courting so as not to gain any marriage offers. They had enjoyed their privilege and the
ir freedom. She supposed they had truly believed that they could do whatever they liked.
That life seemed forever removed from her now, and she was struck again by how foolish she had been.
Grace glanced at the window and tried to picture the years stretching before her, filled with nothing more diverting than gardening. Growing roses, of course. Red roses. Merryton would not tolerate any other bloom, would he? She wondered if there was any particular talent that was required for proper gardening—she’d yet to find her particular talent. The only thing she seemed particularly adept at was attracting dance partners.
Molly suddenly leaned forward, her blue eyes smiling. “Is something the matter, madam?”
“Pardon?”
“You look...well, I wouldn’t presume, but you look a bit sad.”
“I do?” Grace said.
“Perhaps a bit fatigued.”
Grace almost laughed at that. “I am very fatigued,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “I have discovered marriage to be a rather confounding business.”
“Oh, my dear,” Molly said sympathetically. “The beginning of any marriage is difficult for everyone.”
Grace resisted a roll of her eyes at that. Miss Madigan had no idea. “Some more than others, I should think.”
“Take heart, my dear. It will get easier with time.” Molly put her hand on Grace’s arm and gave her a reassuring squeeze.
The touch of her hand was the first kindness Grace had received since that fateful night, and she mentally collapsed with gratitude for it. She didn’t even realize she was sinking until her head touched Molly Madigan’s table. “It’s awful,” she said weakly.
“Oh, my dear!” Molly said again, her voice full of alarm. She scooted around in her chair, and soothingly stroked Grace’s head. “Surely it’s not as bad as that.”
“It’s worse!” Grace insisted. “He doesn’t care for me in the least. He thinks I’m ugly—”
“No, that is impossible! How could he? You are beautiful!”
“No, I’m not. He won’t look at me—”
“Because he is shy,” Molly said, stroking her hair now. “He is very reticent.”
“Shy!” Grace scoffed.
“Dreadfully so,” Molly said soothingly. “When he was a boy, he could scarcely look his father in the eye. His father was a big imposing man with a bellowing voice, and he insisted on perfection. The poor lad never knew precisely what to say, and his father would shout at him to speak up, which only made him more anxious, to the point he was stumbling over his words.”
That did not sound like the man she’d married, and Grace lifted her head and looked skeptically at Molly. “Merryton?”
“Yes, Merryton,” she said, nodding firmly. “He has a kind heart, but he is not at ease with people. Were I you, I would tell him how you feel. He shall do everything in his power to put it to rights.”
But Grace shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she said. What would she tell him? That she found the conjugal relations unbearable?
“You must try, dear. I assure you, he will do whatever he might to make things better for you. But you cannot expect him to guess at what you need, can you?”
“You don’t understand,” Grace said morosely. “I have tried. I have told him I should like some society, something to occupy me, and he said I might do whatever I wish.”
“There, you see?” Molly said brightly.
“But how can I have any sort of society without proper introduction? I’ve no acquaintances here and he has left me to myself.”
“Then perhaps you might arrange to have the introductions you’d like,” she said cheerfully. “Tell him you’d like to invite the local gentry. Cox will arrange it all for you—Blackwood Hall has been the site of many gatherings, particularly when Lady Sylvia is here. She lives too far north now, unfortunately, and doesn’t come as often as his lordship would like.”
“Why not?” Grace asked curiously.
“Oh, well, she has two very small children and it’s too far for them to travel yet. But when she is here, the hall is quite lively. Now when you’ve finished your tea, you might return to the hall and speak to Mr. Cox. I am sure you will find your path, Lady Merryton. And when you do find your path, you must call again and tell me how it has gone for you.”
Grace smiled. She was feeling immeasurably better. “Will Merryton mind that I have called on you?”
“Not in the least! He frequently comes to tea himself. Oh, dear, you seem astonished. But his lordship rather likes the simplicity of this cottage. Why, I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he were to appear now.” She laughed outright. “Can you imagine his delight to find you here?”
“No, I cannot imagine his delight,” Grace said dryly.
“You will,” Molly said confidently with a friendly nudge of her arm. “When you come to know him as I know him, you will understand him.”
Grace doubted that, and yet, something Molly said resonated with her. She wondered if there was a way to reach that shy boy, buried in that aloof man.
She left Molly to work in her garden and continued with her walk, following the path around by the lake, and on toward the woods. There were a few outbuildings near the woods, and Grace wandered over to see what they were. She was delighted to discover the kennels. There were about eight spaniels, all of them in the middle of a fenced-in area, tails wagging around three men who were talking.
One of them, holding a rifle, noticed Grace and came forward to greet her. “Milady,” he said, swiping his hat off his head. “Is something amiss?”
“Not at all. I’m having a walkabout.” She smiled.
“Mr. Drake, the gamekeeper here, at your service.”
“How do you do. What fine dogs!” she said, leaning around him to see the dogs. She noticed a puppy still in a kennel. It had its paws planted on the slats and was yapping to be let out. “Are you hunting today?”
“No, mu’um. We’re training the wee ones,” he said.
With a whistle, one of the men sent the dogs bounding for the gate that led to the fields beyond.
Grace laughed at their exuberance. Her mother had always had one or two dogs about, and she was fond of them. The puppy, she noticed, was frantically trying to dig out of his kennel and go with the other dogs. “It would seem you forgot a little fellow.”
Drake looked over his shoulder at the puppy. “No, mu’um. He’s not to go.”
“Why not?”
Drake shook his head and adjusted the gun on his shoulder. “The pup is too fearful of the guns. Afraid he won’t be much of a hunter.”
Grace looked at the puppy, who was now stretched up the gate of the kennel, crying. “Then what will he be?”
“Be? Beg you pardon, mu’um, but the dog’s no use to Blackwood Hall.” He looked at her with such trepidation that Grace instantly understood what he was telling her. They meant to kill the puppy, dispose of him. Her heart leaped and she looked at the spaniel with his one red ear and a big splotch of red on his side. “May I see him?”
“You want to see him?”
“Yes. I want to see him,” she said emphatically.
Mr. Drake seemed uncertain, and looked back at the kennel. But Grace had already started in that direction with the new thought that perhaps she might find her way here at Blackwood Hall, after all—gardening with the affable Molly Madigan and taking care of a puppy afraid of guns. When the puppy’s tail started to wag as she approached, the day suddenly seemed a little bright to Grace.
“Good afternoon, little lad,” she said, dipping down by the kennel gate and sticking her fingers through the slats for the puppy to lick. “We’re lucky to have found one another, aren’t we?”
CHAPTER TEN
THE BLACK TENTACLES of remorse had slipped into Jeffrey once again, latching on to his veins and wrapping around his heart, squeezing painfully. The previous night’s events had been very much on his mind all day, as was the murderous look Grace had given him when he’d left.
And still¸ obscene thoughts of his wife crept into his head.
He couldn’t blame her for her disgust with him. He’d bent her over the bed like a whore. He’d tried to keep his distance, he’d wanted desperately to be gentle, but as usual, his demons had overtaken his desires.
Jeffrey released another tortured breath—his body ached with regret and disgust.
How desperately he wanted not to be the animal that lived inside him. He wanted to be the man his father had raised him to be, the man everyone expected him to be. He did not want his wife to fear him. Yes, he wanted his conjugal rights—he needed them, every man needed them—but he did not mean to harm her. He was a man, a strong man, and yet, he was not strong enough to fight the unnatural urges in him. He wanted children, and yet he did not want them to carry the burden he’d known all his life.
This marriage had muddied every part of his life. Before that night in Bath, he’d been quite content in his carefully ordered days. Now, his mind was filled with salacious images and he was desperately counting, looking for the comfort of eight.
He was losing the control he’d worked so hard to construct.
He heard a commotion outside and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to three o’clock. It was too late for lunch, too early for tea. Jeffrey checked that the arrangement of things on his desk—the inkwell, the blotter, the paperweight and Merryton seal—were spaced equally apart. Everything was in balance, which somehow allowed him to leave his study before the appointed time.
It was madness.
He walked out of his study and down the hall toward the sound of the commotion, which grew louder as he neared, culminating with a crash of glass. He heard Cox’s alarmed voice, and when he entered the foyer, he saw why. A spaniel puppy was prancing about with a pair of mangled roses in its jaws. Apparently, it had knocked into the console and sent the vase crashing to the floor. Cox looked as if he would faint.
But his wife was laughing. “I am very sorry, Mr. Cox. He’s scarcely even whelped!” As if to prove it, the young dog hiked his leg against the console.
