Wenna

by Virginia Taylor

  The worst was her sleeping with her back to him. Apparently wives withheld their favors when husbands went astray for a couple of hours. If she thought that would remind him not to do so in future, she was likely right. But a wise husband would keep out of her sights until she relented.

  * * * *

  Two days later, Wenna stood in the doorway of her new shop, still a mere nameless space, although very much planned in her mind. Today the walls would be painted pale ochre. She imagined a set of shelves behind an entrance counter, and on the other side, two comfortable armchairs where customers would wait for the next operative.

  Hidden behind the reception area would be a long slice of red gum made up by one of Alden’s carpenters to serve as a bench that ran from the back of the shelves to the far wall. A basin would be set in at the end for washing customers’ hair. Upright padded chairs could sit under the bench, and four big framed mirrors above. She had seen a smart new dark green floor-cloth painted with yellow and red flowers on the corners, which she intended to buy.

  She pattered her fingers on her chin. She couldn’t afford to buy pictures for the walls, but the flower seller might agree to leave a bunch of her flowers on the side table between the two armchairs if offered a pasteboard card in the window as an acknowledgement. Wenna had already discussed forming a conglomerate with the women shopkeepers in the street. She would show her drawings of Mrs. Busby’s hats with the right hairdos, and depictions of Mrs. Miller’s gowns either on the walls or spread along the main working bench. The other traders would advertise for the whole group as well.

  Looking over the space, Wenna decided to hire a third apprentice. Certain customers didn’t have the time or money for a complicated hairstyle, but appreciated a good washing, which meant more time taken to towel-dry the hair. The newest apprentice would also need to tend to the heating of the water and the curling tongs on the wood stove in the back room.

  Grinning like a paperboy spotting a dropped penny, she shut the door on her new premises and hurried off to her old location. No customers had yet appeared, leaving Mrs. Busby and Maisie admiring the newest creations on the hat stand in the window. “If you know a bright sixteen-year-old who wants to learn a trade, send her to me for an interview,” Wenna said to Maisie as she breezed through to the back of the shop. Maisie and Mrs. Busby followed.

  “I have a cousin.” Maisie smiled hopefully. “She’s working in the jam factory as of now, but she’s bright and pretty and deserves better. Plus, she has four younger sisters and a pa who is out of work, though that’s his choice. Loafer,” she said with disgust.

  “There’s plenty of men around here who expect their women to support them.” Mrs. Busby leaned against the doorway. “Mrs. Miller, though I shouldn’t say so, has a husband who helps her by buying her fabrics. He has made visiting the sales rooms into a full-time job, but they don’t open more than once a week, if that. My Stan used to work on the docks, a hard heavy job.” She shrugged. “Died young, though.”

  “Do you have children?” Wenna asked, shaking out the dressing capes.

  “A son and a daughter. My son is apprenticed at Alden’s and my daughter makes the flowers for my hats. She’s only fourteen and she does a lovely job. She wants to be a schoolteacher.” The bell in the shop tinkled, and she hastened away.

  “I’ll get my cousin to see you tomorrow.” Maisie packed the stove with kindling. The towels had dried overnight, but hair would need washing as soon as the first customer arrived. “They say we’ll have gas stoves one day. I don’t know how that will work.”

  “Probably about the same as gas lights, though I expect stoves will be too expensive for everyone to own.” Wenna heard the front door open and smiled a welcome to her new customer.

  * * * *

  Almost exactly one week later, Wenna moved into her new business premises, Wenna’s Place, a name chosen after intensive thought. Wenna wouldn’t let herself be shamed by her beginnings as a servant any longer. From the time of her mother’s death, she had fought her way up into the job as a lady’s maid, no mean feat from a position of utter penury. Now, she employed others, who were also not servants, in her own business.

  She gazed around her rooms, which during the day would be lit with the flickering light of four gas lamps. Thus far her husband hadn’t asked her what she did all day, why she left early, or why she wore black. He had barely been home since the night a week ago when he had told her how short the time was before they left for Cornwall. She ate with him and slept with him, but he didn’t touch her. Apparently, since he’d told all to Nick about their marriage, he’d come to his senses. A redheaded servant wasn’t good enough for his father and not good enough for him. If he wanted to be ashamed of her, so be it. She didn’t feel at all humble, not now, not when she knew she had the ability to change her life and the lives of others as well.

  She had begun an extensive training of Maisie so that the other woman could take over as the main hairstylist when Wenna left. Mr. Snow had agreed to run the business side until Maisie was ready to take over. Wenna trusted him, but he had insisted on a legal agreement that she would sign this afternoon. She had also hired a youngster who, for the time being, would simply wash and dry hair. This idea was proving enormously profitable. Later, after Wenna had left, Maisie could train the apprentices as she wished.

  In the meantime, Wenna’s Place was exactly that. She had found her role in training others, in listening to new ideas, and implementing them. The women shop owners in the street now fully supported each other, referred customers to each other, and discussed their latest business ideas in the pastry shop, owned by another woman who had been left in the lurch by a man.

  In South Australia, women could vote in council elections. Soon, women would be able to vote in government elections. The day would come. Women didn’t need men to tell them what to do, how to work, or how to run their lives. The women traders on Rundle Street were every bit as successful as the men. And not a single woman on the street wanted to go back to the old country.

  Wenna explained her projected trip to England as family duty. She said she would return if at all possible. One day Devon’s father would die. Devon had good friends here. He might not be too averse to the idea. Hope kept her spirits up, hope that Devon’s father would despise her on sight and insist on banishing Devon all over again. She knew Devon wouldn’t stick up for her. He was too used to running with the stream.

  Chapter 19

  “I hope you intend to forgive me sooner or later.” Devon turned from the water heating on the stove, his handsome face tense and drawn.

  Wenna stood, wrapped in her shawl, waiting to fill her jug for a wash. “And for what do you need forgiveness?” Although she waited, hoping for one moment that he would say he loved her and that he hadn’t meant a word he said to Nick, he had no idea that she had overheard the conversation. To tell him and risk showing that he had hurt her would be impossible. She knew that her husband didn’t think of her as anything but a servant, when she was so very proud of her accomplishments.

  He drew a deep breath. “I’m ashamed that I drank too much, Wenna. Consider me contrite and not about to repeat that particular, painful error.” His repentant smile came too easily to be anything but a tried-and-true ploy.

  She hardened her resolve, not about to fall for his easy charm again. He had called her a redheaded servant. And so she would likely remain in his eyes. A woman who could manage on her own should not need the praise of a man who relied on others for his support. “My temper burns out quickly,” she said with a shrug. “We could have settled the argument the same night, but you ran off and drank yourself into a stupor.” She backed toward the stove, her spine rigid, but her heart far too willing to listen to an explanation.

  “A male solution that rarely works.” He made a rueful mouth. “I thought you wanted a sitting room, and I thought I would please you by offering to have the work done quickly.”

  She shook he
r head, almost shocked by his irresponsibility. “You don’t understand our situation. I couldn’t afford to spend money on painting and furnishing. As it is, I make my own clothes.”

  “But you had no need.” He sounded frustrated. His forehead creased and he spread his hands. “I told you I would buy you all the gowns you wanted. I made the offer to refurbish the sitting room. I intended to pay.”

  “And then where would you be when you wanted to look as rich as all your fine friends?” she said, her throat aching.

  “I would be where I am now, financially. I have money, Wenna. I can afford to look as rich as my fine friends. I simply don’t spend for show.”

  “I’ve yet to see a fistful of money other than that you hand over every night for our meal.” She blinked hard.

  “I keep most of my money in the bank.”

  “How much is most?” She met his gaze, hoping against hope that he really did have enough money to support himself.

  His shoulders lifted. “Currently, I have no idea, but I have an income of five thousand a year. I don’t have much call on my pocket other than the costs for the house.”

  “Five thousand?” Her heart gave one big thump and then went into a pitter-patter that shortened her breath. She didn’t know a person in the world who had that much money—but yearly? She shook her head, her mouth curled with disbelief.

  He looked defensive. “I’m quite rich, you know. You should know. How else would I have been able to buy these rooms and the house?”

  “What house?”

  “I showed you my house. You thought it would be very nice for someone else to live in.”

  “You own the house you are building? And you have five thousand a year?” She took another step back, turned, and with her back to him, very carefully placed her empty jug in the sink. “No family would pay a younger son so much to stay away,” she said in a definite voice that hid her fading doubts.

  “I’m not paid to stay away. I’m wanted at home and have been this past year. You know this. I told you from the very beginning.”

  She couldn’t make herself turn back to him. “You’re the son of a gentleman farmer and you have five thousand a year? What is your father farming? Gold?” Her laugh sounded derisive, but she knew deep inside that he told her the truth. He had always had the sort of confidence that seemed to be inborn, the sort that came with money and security.

  “In a way. He did own acres of land. In terms of rentals, that’s gold, but my main income comes from my mother’s estate. I told you before that I’m her only heir.”

  “So, your mother was rich, too?” Her gaze lowered with her voice. Part of her died at that moment. Of course his mother was rich. No one in the colony owned plates and dishes as beautiful as those Wenna had stored under the stairs. She had misjudged him, and for no reason other than that he didn’t waste a penny. Nor did she, yet in herself she thought being careful with money was a virtue. Although she should be wild with joy, but she could only shrivel with shame. Her hands shook as she slowly turned to face him.

  “I was going to have to tell you sooner or later, and as it pans out, I should have told you sooner, but it’s not common knowledge. Nick knows, and the lads I met at Cambridge, but no one else.”

  “Knows what—about your wealth?”

  “That my father had a title.”

  She blinked. “A title? An aristocratic title? Is that why you’re called ‘honorable?’” Her ignorance warmed her cheeks with embarrassment.

  His face relaxed and he stared straight into her eyes. “It’s the courtesy title for younger sons of earls, when no other titles are currently available in the family.”

  “So you’re the son of an earl.” Moving away from the sink, she groped behind her, found the back of a wooden chair, and sat. “I thought I had married the family wastrel.” Even to her, her laugh sounded too high-pitched. “I thought I would be supporting you until I could get you into a decent job.”

  “Wenna.” Shaking his head, his mouth tilted with remorse, he reached for her hands. Somehow he urged her up and she stood against the wall of his chest. “How could you possibly support me?” He touched her neck, then his knuckles rubbed gently across her cheek.

  “You’re the son of an earl. An earl in Cornwall.” She met his gaze. “Which earl?”

  “Marchester.” His tongue flickered briefly over his lips.

  She nodded, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “So, your mother was Lady Ann, a titled lady in her own right. And my mother was her maid.” She flattened her palms on his chest, pushing away from him, a weird laugh forcing through her throat. “How utterly perfect. You couldn’t have thought of a better way to humiliate your family.”

  His eyebrows lowered. “What?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll wear the red dress to show the earl exactly who I am. I made a promise to you, and I’ll keep it.” She turned, poured her water into her jug, and marched upstairs to wash and dress for work. And then she began to laugh hysterically.

  She would be the mother of an heir to the estate of the Earl of Marchester, who had once insisted that her mother leave his employ.

  How totally, utterly perfect her husband’s plan was to avenge himself on his father.

  * * * *

  Dev had always known that when Wenna found out that her mother had been his mother’s maid she would be taken aback, or possibly even slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t realized she would be hurt. Her comment about humiliating his family told him so. She thought she wasn’t good enough. Even though his father might have agreed, he would soon have changed his mind once he met her.

  However, the situation at home had changed completely now. His reason to keep his title a secret no longer mattered, for he now had no title. The tenth Earl of Marchester, his brother John, would be glad Dev had married a colonial, or he would at least be very careful what he said about Dev’s marriage.

  Perhaps as a silent protest for Dev assuming she would not need any more new gowns, Wenna bustled about the next morning still dressed in her maid’s uniform. The night before he had faced her back again, too guilty to try to make love to her. First he needed to placate her, without knowing how to placate a woman who had a genuine grievance.

  “Here,” he said, desperate to try anything. He placed the money he kept in his desk on the table, a wad of pound notes and some change. “Buy whatever you want. If you want a gown for every day of the week, buy one.”

  “I have enough gowns.”

  “The thing is...” He swallowed. “I thought, assumed really, that you would rather have Paris-made designs. You’ll be able to buy the very best when we get to England. Not that we need to save in the meantime, not at all, not if you want a hundred gowns.”

  Her face expressionless, she stared at him for some seconds. “In that case, you can keep your money. I don’t imagine I’ll need to be a fashion plate on the high seas.”

  He rubbed his forehead, certain he hadn’t managed to buy her affections. Before he left for his run, he took out his brother’s letter and read the words yet again. Perhaps he should have explained his situation to Wenna earlier, despite knowing hers hadn’t changed. However, that was the reason why he hadn’t said so. He couldn’t even hint he wanted to renege on his promise to take her to England. She had married him on the strength of his promise.

  Dear Dev, old chap,

  As you would realize by reading this, the report of my death in India was too previous. I haven’t been taken yet, though I certainly had the devil of an injury. I came near to losing my right arm, which left me unable to write until recently. I am sure you will forgive me for the tardiness of my correspondence. However, the news of our father’s demise needed to come from me. He died a month after my return. In his last days he handed over the running of the estate to me.

  How it came about I can’t say but during a conversation I had with the old man, I told him how Will and I ragged you about your mother. The tutor looke
d nothing like you. He was a stick with brown hair. You’re the image of your mother, as Pater said. Jealousy is a green serpent.

  Possibly because of this, Pater was anxious to pen an epistle to you, herein enclosed signed and sealed from prying eyes as you can see. What ho!

  As you know, now I’m the earl, you lose the Dellacourt title. I might yet produce a son. Or you might yet inherit all unless I get busy and find myself a wife. Ha ha. In the meantime, I need you to come back, dear chap, and sort out all your personal holdings. It was fitting for Pater to manage this, but not so for me.

  Yrs truly, your brother John, Earl of Marchester.

  Dev had to go back, but he didn’t have to stay. John would marry speedily and produce a brood of children, if only to cut Dev out of the succession. In the meantime, John would treat Wenna with courtesy. She was too proud and beautiful to be despised by anyone and Dev would spend the rest of his life making sure she was honored by all. He laced up his soft shoes and left for his usual run.

  For the first mile, he sprinted, his feet pounding, his breath huffing along the deserted paths as the sun rose behind him. The leaves of the surrounding trees warmed, perfuming the air with fresh eucalyptus. Magpies sang, greeting the day with a melodic hymn, and Dev’s chest expanded with gusts of air while the muscles of his legs eased and flexed, eased and flexed. The exhilaration of being alive filled him as usual, but finally he steadied his pace into a regular jog.

  His marriage would strengthen when he gave Wenna her heart’s desire, and he would somehow show his wife that although he might have chosen her without a thought in his mind for her comfort, he had grown to respect and appreciate her, and much more. Although his motives had been ignoble, his choice had been perfect.