A Lady Awakened

by Cecilia Grant

  He’d worked himself into ridiculously low spirits by the time they left the house, and nearly tripped over the pig, who had taken care to put itself in his path. “What do we pay Mr. Weaver?” he asked as they passed out of the yard.

  “Eight shillings a week, same as all the laborers.” Granville had to close the gate twice before it latched.

  Eight shillings sounded like a pitiful wage. One couldn’t be sure, though, not knowing the price of a loaf of bread, or, for that matter, anything practical at all. “Is that all they have to live upon?”

  “Mrs. Weaver and the older children work at the harvest, and earn some then. And the children might make a few pennies picking rocks for a neighbor, or keeping off the birds from a crop. Nothing much to speak of. They do receive some supplement out of the poor rates.”

  So it was a miserable wage. “Why do we not simply pay them more, and not depend upon the parish to keep them out of poverty?”

  “It’s a difficult thing.” Granville looked older out of doors. He must be forty or so, but the sunlight gave him a worn appearance. Perhaps this topic did too. “Wheat is fetching only sixty-six shillings a quarter this year, sharply down from what it was a few years back. No telling where the price will go.”

  “Is this not a profitable piece of land?” The concept was an outright novelty. Why keep property that didn’t bring in a good income?

  “Barely, now. It’s not large enough to ever be truly lucrative. Not on the scale of your Lincolnshire estate.”

  “I see.” He fell into silence. Not large enough to be lucrative. Could enclosure of adjacent land cure that? He might raise the question, later, when he’d studied a bit on the subject and had a look at Granville’s map. More hours in the library. Splendid. He should be a soft, bookish-looking fellow indeed by the time he was judged responsible enough to be admitted back to London.

  He met other families: the Knights, the Tinkers, the Rowlandsons, and the Quigleys, all more modest in size than the Weaver clan, and with better-mannered pigs. The last cottage they passed over as it belonged to a bachelor, who was then out in the wheat field with the other men.

  Could there be anything less fitted for engaging a man’s interest than wheat and its cultivation? Perhaps he should have felt differently if he’d seen the field before harvest, rippling rows of gold in the middle of Sussex green, but today, as he and the agent approached it over a rise, he saw the wheat bound in shocks, waiting for whatever happened next to wheat, stark on the stubbled-over ground. So much of the stuff, and still not enough to make a good income.

  Mr. Granville presented him to the men there, the husbands and nearly-grown sons of the families he’d visited. They were suitably sturdy, outdoor-looking specimens, most of them, save for one elderly, slow-moving man who proved to be the bachelor Mr. Barrow. Their hands, when he shook them, were coarse and callused, and Mr. Barrow’s seemed furthermore a bit crabbed. Surely his working years could not be many more.

  Several minutes of agricultural discussion transpired. Something about prospective tariffs, and how these could give an advantage in market to the domestic crop. More remarks upon the weather. Nothing of note. Theo stood with his hands behind his back and his head up, a bit removed from the conversation as was fitting for a landlord, until the time came for everyone to bow and restore his respective hat. “The smaller families with older sons are fortunate,” he said as he and Granville moved along. “Two or more wages, and fewer people to divide them among.”

  “The shape of your family makes a great difference, doesn’t it? I’m sorry the Weavers have no grown-up sons.” They were walking a path that followed a rail fence now, and from time to time the man rapped at some part of it, presumably to test the soundness of its joints.

  “Mr. Barrow has no family at all? Not even nieces or nephews, I mean?”

  “No.” This brought an extra gravity, he could see, to Granville’s weathered features. “He had sisters, I know, but they married long ago and settled somewhere far north.”

  “No one to take an interest in caring for him, then.”

  “It’s not as uncommon a case as one might like it to be. Reminds a man of the importance of marrying. Not a man of independent means, of course—you may look after yourself and then pay others to do so, if you choose.”

  This sounded a dismal prospect. He must remember to think seriously of marriage, in five or ten years, and in the meantime, to ingratiate himself with his sisters’ children. “But Mr. Barrow,” he said. “There will come a time—soon, perhaps—when he can no longer earn a wage.”

  “Aye, and after that, a time when he cannot keep house, and a time when he cannot care for himself.” Granville stopped, having found a place in the fence that did not make the proper reply to his knock. He rapped at it again, and then took out a pencil and a folded bit of paper to make some note.

  Theo waited. “What happens to such a man at that time?” he said when the agent had finished.

  He shook his head without looking up. “If a man does live to that age, and has no connections, like as not he ends in the workhouse infirmary.”

  “Workhouse.” The one word was all he could manage.

  “There’s one in Cuckfield, a bit to the north and west of here.” A small silence followed, then Granville spoke again. “It’s as difficult an end as you may imagine, for a man who’s supported himself and stayed out of debt all his life.” He put away his pencil and walked on.

  What more could be said on the subject? Nothing at all. The sun shone hot already through the still summer air, and by the time they returned to the house he felt as though he had walked a dozen miles with something heavy—the Weaver pig, perhaps—strapped to his shoulders. Thank the fates he had his amusements in the widow’s bed still before him today. A man with responsibilities needed some place to escape them.

  HE ARRIVED promptly at half past the hour, letting himself in without a knock as though the place were his own. “You found the room,” said Martha, watching him from her armchair.

  “With a woman waiting for me there? Of course I found it.” He pulled the door shut with a little smile in appreciation of his witticism. “It’s convenient as can be. There’s a woods straddling our properties with a path through it that lets me out just feet from your side door. Altogether discreet.” While sharing this information he surveyed the room, blinking in its relative dim. Discretion had dictated just a sliver of space between the drapes.

  Whether he would approve of the furnishings had not come into her mind when she’d chosen this set of rooms, but they did rather suit him, now one thought of it. The sitting room was larger than her own, with a grand marble fireplace and everything done up in blues and grays. Blue-and-gray carpet, blue-paneled walls, sapphire-and-silver striped damask on the massive chairs and sofa. In better light, his eyes would probably appear to advantage against these colors.

  “This is decidedly more opulent than your rooms,” he said, coming over to where she sat and dropping into the facing armchair. He looked proportionate there. Not overlarge and ill contained, as he’d done in her own spindly-legged furniture.

  “My rooms suit me. And to many, many people, I’m sure they would represent opulence beyond imagining.”

  “Quite.” He propped his elbows on the chair’s arms, steepled his fingers, and studied them. If anything was in his mind, he made no move to share it.

  She sat straighter. “I see you’ve changed to top boots today.”

  “To be sure. Trousers as well.” Immediately he brightened at the new topic, and stuck out one leg before him, twisting the boot back and forth. “What they lack in elegance, they make up in a certain virility, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I really don’t know. I hope you did not wear them for my benefit.”

  “No, dear.” He swung his foot back down beside the other, and untwined his fingers to stretch out his arms. “I was busy about my land this morning, and wore them for that purpose.”

  Here was a promising
change of subject. “Were you doing some work on the land, you mean?”

  He shook his head. “Walking about with my agent, merely, and getting acquainted with things.” His gaze went somewhere past her, perhaps to the stripe of light between the drapes. “We grow wheat, it would appear,” he added after a moment. One hand moved restlessly on the arm of his chair.

  “Some of my tenants do, too. And of course they raise sheep.”

  “You have tenants, then? Not hired laborers?” A thoughtful frown was working itself into his brow, which certainly gave his countenance a novel aspect. “I find only the latter on my land. Not the former. And none of them have sheep.”

  Was he expecting a reply? One couldn’t quite be sure. “I don’t suppose you’ve much room for farms, besides your own. Your property is of modest size, as I recall.”

  “At present, yes.” The frown turned itself to her, as though he were considering her anew. “Would you happen to know very much about enclosure?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She leaned forward. “But I could look through Mr. Russell’s library. He may have had books on the subject, or even records of enclosure here.”

  “No, thank you. I have books of my own.” His attention subsided from her, and settled on the arm of the chair where his fingers still worked, tracing the silver stripes between the blue. What was occupying him? She should have expected him to invoke the purpose of his visit by now. He’d certainly been eager enough the first two times.

  Abruptly his hand dropped to spread over the chair’s arm, his fingers no longer fidgeting. “I find some of my people are partly dependent on the parish relief,” he said, and looked up, angling his head to face her indirectly. “Are any of yours?”

  Was he … embarrassed? The thought woke a strange clumsy tenderness in her. Perhaps he was embarrassed, and troubled, by the conditions in which people lived on his land.

  “I’ve never known any to be on relief.” She took care to make the words gentle. “But other families in the parish are, I’m sure. If you like I could ask my curate—”

  He held up a hand and shook his head, eyes turned once again to the chair’s arm. “Never mind. Only I don’t quite like it, you know. Asking every landholder in the parish to provide for these people who ought to be my own responsibility.”

  “Tenants, too.” The words slipped out before she could calculate their effect. “The tenant farmers pay the poor rates too.”

  “Even better.” He laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “You see my ignorance. But at least I have some idea of what a gentleman ought and oughtn’t to stand for, and it plain strikes me as a shabby way of doing things. Doesn’t it strike you?” On these last words, he raised his head to face her again, eyes lit with earnest appeal.

  He could not have said anything more right; anything more exquisitely tailored to win her sympathy, her support, her better regard. The call for her opinion alone should have softened her, but the admirable sentiment demanded the warmest sort of reply.

  “You refer to duty.” She moved to the forward edge of the chair and clasped her hands before her. “And yes, beyond the duties we all owe to one another, I do believe a landowner has a special obligation to his tenants or laborers, to make their lives comfortable and worthwhile as far as it lies in his power to do so.” Such a rush of satisfaction, to know she was saying the right thing in her turn. His eyes were steady on her and the worry was leaving his brow. “We have so many opportunities to do good for these people. You may think yourself ignorant now, but that’s the beginning of wisdom, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” He was almost smiling. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Of course it is. If you thought yourself already informed, you shouldn’t be open to learning. And you will learn.” He needed to hear this. He needed encouragement. “Ten to one you may distinguish yourself, once you’ve begun. Many young men have done so, I’m sure. Even young men of fashion. It’s a fashionable pursuit these days, isn’t it? The study of agriculture?”

  “I should certainly hope so.” Now he was smiling, unmistakably, his whole face newly awash with that light a woman’s faith and fostering could kindle. “Go on.”

  “At all events a sense of duty is a commendable beginning. Even without you know how to improve the land, duty might lead you to make a difference in your laborers’ lives just by calling on them, and knowing their names, and paying those other routine attentions that tell a person of humbler station how he …” Her speech broke off. As she spoke he had suddenly sunk out of his chair to kneel before her. Now he caught her clasped hands and gently prised them apart, turning the palms up and stroking his thumbs over the inner sides of her wrists.

  Oh. Not a new light, after all. Just the usual one. Disappointment plummeted through her like a stone, with chagrin at her own foolishness chasing it all the way.

  “Go on,” he said, though from the vector of his attention anyone would think he was bidding her wrists to do something or other.

  “I don’t believe you’re listening.” Her voice dropped a good dozen degrees in warmth.

  “Not to the words.” He bent his head to brush his lips over the thin, blue-veined skin. “But you’re rather lovely when you speak so. All ardent and crusading.”

  Could any woman on earth really welcome such a remark? Maybe a woman with susceptible wrists could. Probably he was used to women who gave themselves so thoroughly up to pleasure that they’d welcome any thoughtless thing he said.

  She let her hands go heavy in his grip. It was easy. She felt heavy all over. “I’ve finished speaking,” she said. “We may as well go to bed, if you’re ready.”

  HE INSPECTED this room, too, as he removed his clothes. Taking in the blue brocaded drapes, the pattern of the wallpaper, the enormous bed, his reflection in the room’s several mirrors. When he appeared to have catalogued it all, he came to bed.

  He was quick. One must credit him with that. Comparatively tidy, too. He did not, at least, perspire heavily and shower her with his thrashing about, as had been Mr. Russell’s unfortunate habit. He managed his business with purpose and dispatch, just as she’d like him to, and in future she must remember to be grateful for this, and not waste time wishing for him to be better.

  * * *

  BUT HE could be worse. On the fourth day he insisted she not ring for Sheridan, that he might undress her himself.

  To protest that this was an unearned intimacy should have been absurd, everything considered. So she submitted, with the same silent stoicism that had borne her through Mr. Russell’s occasional like whims.

  He must have taken that for encouragement because the next day he wanted to undress her again. This time he worked with deliberate leisure, as though he believed himself to be whetting her anticipation. And he spoke, incessantly, while he worked. Once more her skin was said to resemble silk, and her limbs and other parts were praised for their shape and proportion. Then, as though she could not have come to the conclusion on her own, he held it necessary to inform her of the exact effects her bodily charms had upon him.

  Thus did he like to unburden himself to her. When he might have confided cares and nascent ideas, and been rewarded with that warm, steadying support she would gladly give in return, he chose instead to say trite things such as any man could say, and take as his prize that congress in which only her body need be present. She could have been any other woman, lying beneath him with her legs apart, and his enjoyment should surely have been just the same.

  Not that it mattered, she thought afterward, resting on the pillow. As long as he brought the seed, she could bear whatever he brought with it. Whatever further indignities he might feel moved to propose, she would endure with patience and resolve.

  * * *

  A MONTH. FIVE days down, some five and twenty to go, counting the present occasion.

  Twenty-five days. How the devil was he going to get through them?

  “Wrap your legs around me,” Theo muttered, and her hands tightened briefly o
n his shoulders as she complied.

  Her brow had creased when he’d lifted her, fully dressed, to a seat atop the conveniently sized chest of drawers, but she’d said no word of protest. Then she’d made a study of her hands while he stripped himself naked before her, and a study of the ceiling while he gathered her skirts up and found his way in. Lord only knew what she was studying now. The backs of her eyelids, like as not.

  She took no pleasure in compliments. She didn’t care to be disrobed. She didn’t want him to touch her in any particular place. What was a man to do with such a woman?

  He angled his head to avoid any glimpse of her placid, patient face, and caught their reflection in the room’s largest mirror: pale urgency against somber black. Not so difficult, really, to imagine a different set of motives for the exotic tableau, at this distance. Not so difficult to see a shameless widow and the man she had to have at any price. Not at all difficult to picture the frantic lust mounting up in her as she watched him remove the last of his clothes, the hunger that drove her to forsake the bed and take him here, in full mourning, defiling her husband’s memory and the sanctity of widowhood itself. That much did she desire him.

  “How long am I to keep my legs like this?” As though she were posing for a bloody portrait and beginning to develop a cramp. Did she want to render him unable to perform?

  “As long as it takes,” he said through gritted teeth. But that was uncivil. “Stop if it hurts. If it’s uncomfortable.” He slowed his motion, that she might more easily unwind her legs if she so wanted.

  “No, it isn’t. I only wondered if you still required it.” Curse her husband for allowing her to perpetrate this kind of talk in the bedroom. Next she’d be asking whether he expected to finish soon.

  “I do require it.” He breathed the words into her ear. “But harder. Wrap your legs around me harder.”

  Her legs tightened deliciously on him as she hooked her knees a little higher over his hips. In the mirror, he watched his fingers steal up to play on the length of thigh exposed between stocking-top and rucked-up skirts. “Do you have any idea how erotic this part of you looks?” He whispered against her cheek, nudging her to turn and see it for herself. “Silky white skin, bare amid all that black. Do you see?”