“She is a little harsh in her opinions,” the beautiful Miss Davies said mildly. “This apricot preserve is particularly delicious, Lady Grace.”
While the ladies talked about recipes, Dev watched Wenna, who appeared to have found her niche while discussing sugar quantities and cooking times. He wished he could set her up in her own house where she could reign supreme, but that would be a waste of time. They would be departing for England within the month.
Chapter 17
Wenna thought Devon would never leave for work, though eventually he came out of his study.
“The building is almost finished, you know,” he’d said as he opened the lobby door. “I don’t need to work full time now.”
She suspected that meant he would be unemployed soon. To keep up her hairstyling with him underfoot would be a strain. Doubtless, she would have to confess to running a business, but she planned to keep her secret for as long as possible. The more money she made, the better, for not only would the trip back to England be expensive, but her plan to have a sitting room was already costing Devon his lost rent. She didn’t imagine they would starve because he was always so confident that he could find money, but she’d had to look after herself for most of her life, and she couldn’t stop now.
A normal family could be supported on a man’s average wage of a little over a pound a week. Currently, she earned more than two pounds per week and from that, after wages and outgoings, she took home about the same as the average man, sometimes more. A part she saved; another part she used for normal living expenses. She couldn’t say her husband was a kept man, because she had never given him money. But she assumed she would have to eventually, if only to maintain him in his gentlemanly lifestyle.
She also assumed she could. Despite the fact that she had begun her salon a little less than two months ago, her customers increased daily and were already beginning to crowd out the hat shop. She planned to employ an additional apprentice if another could be squeezed into the tiny space. Had she not been about to leave for England, she might have considered expanding into a shop of her own. This would mean spending most of her earnings on rent and fittings.
For a moment, her spirits sagged. Then she buried her selfish thoughts. Decorating the lodging’s sitting room should be her first priority, since she really ought to maintain her husband’s position in society by attempting to befriend the wives and sisters of his wealthy friends.
* * * *
Shading his eyes from the wavering sun, Dev watched the cut-slate shingles pass from man to man along the line from the wagon bed, tossed to the tiler on the roof, and then neatly laid. The speed of his laborers and their work ethic impressed him. At this rate, the roof would be finished in another two days. He stepped inside the empty house, gazing out the window at the tall buildings of the city and the sea beyond.
At this stage of the construction, only skilled tradesmen were needed. The floors had been laid and currently the walls were being plastered. He could help, and had. Along the way he’d learned enough about the various trades to be able to build at least a shed on his own. Not that he would ever need a trade, but learning couldn’t ever be a waste of a man’s time. At this stage, however, he had nothing to do but “supervise”— his term for getting in everyone’s way. He sighed. Boredom had set in. He preferred being occupied.
Socializing with the Grace family last night had been most enjoyable. Not having a place of his own to entertain friends hadn’t bothered him until recently, but now he saw himself as a parasite, watching others work, sharing other people’s families, and offering nothing in return. Wenna wanted a sitting room, or so she had said, but a sitting room would lead to a dining room, which would lead to meals at home. Since she didn’t have a cook/maid, she would do the work herself. He couldn’t approve of that, not when he could afford a cook/maid. This meant finding one for her at the labor exchange, which would be unfair to the cook who would barely begin work before her employers left for England.
The plasterer, Jem, a thin pale man in his early thirties, interrupted his contemplations. “You’ll want to decide on the colors for the inside walls soon.” He stirred his bucket of lime near his bare wet feet.
Late May, the weather had cooled which meant the plaster took longer to dry. Only another month until the rain and the bluster of winter…if the rain arrived, that was. The vines had been planted and by August would need to be pruned, but not by him. He would be long gone. Only another few weeks, and he could move into his house…should he want to move into his house. He sighed. He did, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t get Wenna settled, only to leave within a month. Either that or wait another full year. He didn’t plan to be rounding the Cape in dangerous weather.
“We’ll stick to white plaster for the time being. I see the garden as a priority.” He still was not able to admit to anyone that he would never live in this house. Until the words were uttered, he could dream.
“Best time to plant is now, before the real cold comes.” Jem wiped the back of his hand under his nose. “I don’t get much work in winter. The lime plaster slips off the walls. I’m handy in the garden if you want a worker there.”
Dev rubbed the back of his neck. “I do. But first I’ll want a front path. Are you handy with paving?”
The man grinned. “Even in the rain.”
“You can use the leftover red bricks and start whenever you’re ready.”
“Next week, I expect.” Jem straightened his shoulders.
Dev smiled and tramped up the hill to inspect his vines, which hadn’t changed since his last inspection a week ago. He expected to begin on the post and wire supports for the grapes as soon as the wire arrived in a few days. While he gazed around his property, he mentally marked out a place for his citrus trees. Apples and pears might do well here, but olives should be in their element. Acres and acres of olives, and down below a crusher where he could produce the much-needed oil for the colony.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and measuring his steps with his gaze, he strode back down the hill to his hired wagon, not yet willing to let go of his plan.
When he arrived back in the city, dusk had settled. He stopped for a moment by the side gate of his lodgings, watching the gas workers bury the last of their pipes in the street. The sooner the rains came, the better. The billowing dust had become such a nuisance that passers-by covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs.
He opened the door and spotted Wenna, scrupulously dressed for dinner at The Pig and Whistle. The warmth of the stove wafted through the doorway. Rubbing his hands, he glanced at the hob. “Do you have water heating?”
She rose to her feet. “Of course. Cold water is all very well for washing in the heat of summer, but not now.”
He washed in the sink, conscious of his efficient wife’s gaze on his back. “They’ve almost finished with the pipes outside. We’ll be glad to see the end of it.”
“The engineer said that one day we’ll have hot water piped in every house as well.”
He nodded. “Why not? If we can supply the gas through copper pipes, we can supply hot water through a boiler.”
“Ivor will make his fortune, since his family owns a copper mine.”
“It might be a good idea to buy shares.” He turned and raised his eyebrows at her. “Copper is being used more and more for gas piping—not only here in the colony, but all over the world. Gold is all very well, but gold is merely a luxury. Copper is fast becoming a necessity.”
Wenna lowered her chin and looked up at him, a skeptical glance if ever he saw one. “It’s been a necessity since men began making tools more than six thousand years ago.”
“A regular little fount of all knowledge, aren’t you?” he said, drying his face and hands.
“You forget. My father ran a copper-smelting plant. He lived and breathed copper. But you’re right. Necessities are far more important than luxuries.” Her gaze lingered on his bare chest.
&
nbsp; He left off his shirt because the sensation of his wife staring at him with a softened expression prickled at his nipples and warmed him to the bone. Spiked with sexual anticipation, he strode up the stairs, and dressed for dinner, too. Having a wife who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh was a bonus, but he could maintain his manners long enough to wait until after the meal.
However, as he ate his steak pie, he realized he still had a great amount of paper work to catch up on. As soon as they arrived back home, he reluctantly settled down to work. Wenna sewed for a while, and he didn’t notice when she went off to bed. Too many bills still sat in a pile on his desk awaiting his attention.
Perhaps she awaited him, too, but he didn’t know. He would take her when he could, which had been implicit in their original arrangement. Too much thinking about her, too much concentration of the pleasures of her willing flesh, and he would be putty in her hands. A man had to lead a woman, not follow behind her. He allowed himself a faint rueful smile, and began totaling the costs of his building supplies.
As for leading her, he already knew he couldn’t change their agreement. Her goal had always been to live in Cornwall—her lifetime goal. She had married him for no other reason. Although he wished otherwise, he couldn’t take her dream from her to gain his own. She had abided by their original terms, giving him no choice but to abide by them, too.
His inevitable future depressed him. He had not been brought up to think of himself as the earl, not with two brothers ahead of him in line of succession. Nothing in his education had prepared him to stroll around a large estate with little more on his mind than the hunting season or his horses’ bloodlines. Instead, he had been trained to look around for an opportunity. In the south land, he had found his opportunity.
His costs now in order, he glanced over the tradesmen’s accounts, deciding to have his unneeded painter begin on the downstairs area. Wenna would want another color on the walls before she began her furnishing. The floor needed varnishing, too. He would like her to be comfortable while she worked at that everlasting sewing of hers. Perhaps when she had finished primping herself up with new hats and gowns, she would find a life for herself. She now knew enough ladies to be able to pay morning calls, join sewing circles, plan arbors in her garden—no, she had no garden.
Frustrated by his thoughts, he combed his fingers through his hair. He had given her nothing but a few rooms to live in and the time to make her own clothes. In return, she had given him a comfortable homecoming daily, bright, interesting conversation, and her welcoming body. Even when he tried to work, he could picture lying naked with her on that obscene bed, kissing her beautiful white skin, teasing her and being teased by her, lifting on top of her, lying beneath her, having her mouth nipping at him, licking him, sucking him, giving him everything she hadn’t yet given him. He knotted his fist on the desk, admitting to himself that she was everything he wanted and needed, in his life and in his bed.
He tried to concentrate on the figures in front of him instead of his longing to remain in this country with her, his perfect wife. The oil lamp spluttered by the time he had totaled a list of amounts to be paid. He folded his accounts into envelopes, ready to have money added when he went to the bank tomorrow. The untended pile in front of him had greatly diminished, but had not by any means disappeared.
Ready to leave the rest until tomorrow, he did one last skimming through his remaining correspondence, most of which appeared to be estimates, brochures, or sales pitches.
His gaze stopped on a letter addressed to him in a hand he knew, that of his brother, John, who had died a year or more ago. He frowned, at first assuming he must be mistaken. Others might have the same ragged hand as John. Lifting the tatty envelope, he examined the grime, the dog-eared corners. He couldn’t possibly have overlooked this letter the whole time John had been lying in his foreign grave. No. Not foreign. A British stamp sat clearly on the outside. He flicked the envelope across his knee, once, twice, frowning. To read his brother’s last thoughts would be painful. Foreboding held his breath.
He slit the thickly padded envelope. John, a man of few words, had apparently used most of them to write his last letter. But, not so. John had written a single page. The Earl of Marchester, his father, had filled the other three.
Dev didn’t wake Wenna when he finally crawled into bed. Instead, he stared at the grimy ceiling, his thoughts racing from grief to guilt and finally to self-recrimination. To have all his dreams come to fruition, he merely had to sacrifice Wenna’s.
* * * *
The day dawned cool and gray. Wenna pattered into the warm kitchen, pleased to see her husband had the hot water ready.
“You will be a credit to me when we arrive in England,” he said, his back to her.
“What brought this on?”
“Much thought. My family assumes everyone born in the colonies is no better than a barbarian, but I’d like to show that I made a wise choice, which no one would expect based on my previous history.”
“Do you think you did?”
“I think I did. You haven’t conceived yet, have you?”
She stared at him. “And what if I don’t, ever?”
“It’s only been a few months. You can’t assume you’re infertile.”
“I don’t.” Her cheeks heated. “Perhaps you’re infertile,” she said, annoyed.
“There’s no such thing as male infertility.”
“I think various women who’ve had babies by one man and don’t by another might have something to say about that.”
He laughed, but sourly. “Yet another myth exploded by the indomitable Wenna. I’m having the front room painted tomorrow.”
“Just like that?”
He nodded. “Just like that. You are taking your time about making the decision, and I thought I would help. When the paint is dry, we’ll have the floor varnished.”
She clamped her lips. The early morning was no time to quarrel about money. While he left for his usual run, she gulped down her breakfast, and when he returned he disappeared again. She’d never experienced her husband in such a mood, but she decided to wallow in her own, that of muttering to herself about men who might have scrupulous manners, but no idea about how far a few pounds would go. By the time he arrived home that night, she had mulled long and hard about being married to a man whose rich friends sponsored his way through life, giving him no idea of reality.
Willing to be magnanimous, she tried a normal conversation with him over dinner at the hotel, but he seemed preoccupied during the meal. Having lost patience, she stalked ahead of him across the road to the lodgings and waited for him to unlock the front door.
Once inside, she stopped and faced him. “And where do you think you will you get the money?”
“What money?”
“To refurbish the sitting room. I’m not giving you my savings.”
“Calm down.” He put out his hand to touch her shoulder, and she smacked him away.
“Calm down! That’s just like a man. How do you expect me to calm down when you tell me to calm down?”
He laughed.
She hit out at him, missed because he stepped back, and she stood, breathing with fury. “I don’t want a painted sitting room in a cheap and nasty lodging. I want a house, a real house. I’m sick of trying to look as if I’m perfectly comfortable. If I can’t have what I want here, I’d rather leave. The sooner we get out of this country, the better.”
He stared at her, his face frozen. His chin lifted to a new haughty angle. “We will leave as soon as possible.”
She ran up the stairs and into the bedroom where she sat, nervously awaiting him, wishing she hadn’t said she wanted to leave when she didn’t want to leave. Her temper had gotten the best of her again. She rose to her feet, knowing she owed him an apology. Not wanting to share her money when he shared his was truly ungracious and she didn’t want him to think...
The door downstairs slammed.
&nb
sp; She ran to the window, watched him stride down the path, open and slam shut the gate, and disappear. Flurries of wind kicked up in the street. The evening sky filled with threatening clouds. Thunder rumbled. The black weather echoed her mood.
Miserable, she began to undress. She would apologize to him in the morning.
* * * *
Determined to keep out of Wenna’s way until he could come to terms with leaving the south land, Dev decided his best course would be to drink himself into oblivion with cheap plonk. He strode toward The Stag hotel near the east end markets where Wenna shopped. Outside the hotel, a merry band of roisterers sang Greensleeves in a tuneless caterwaul. Ignoring them, he pushed open the set of doors that normally closed by seven at night.
He paused when he spotted Nick Alden sitting at a window table ringed with beer slops and decorated by two rather inebriated women of the night. “Ah,” he said, strolling over, wearing a snarl of a smile. “You must be spending a fortune to have attracted two such pretty young ladies.”
Nick pushed his hair out of his eyes. “If you’re here for the wedding celebrations, I fear the bride and groom have left. And no, I don’t know who they were. What’s the time?” He lifted his handsome face, looking not half as bleary as he sounded, damn him.
Dev glanced at his fob watch. “Seven thirty.”
“Off you go, my lovelies. My friend is very much married and won’t approve of you.”
“On the contrary.” Dev sat beside the nearest whore who grinned delightedly at him. He settled in for the night. His dear lady wife had no time for him. She had decided long ago that he was a fool who couldn’t be parted from his money, and she wanted to go halfway around the world to find his family who could be.
Being introduced into society had shown her for what she was—an avaricious female who wanted nothing but the best—not the woman who would work by his side, have his babies, entertain his friends, and keep his home in the colony well run and happy. She wanted to leave, which fact of course he knew. He’d married her because he knew, but he could arrange for her grandparents’ support and should have months ago. Then she might not have been in such a rush. “A man needs home comfort once in a while,” he said sourly.
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