A Lady Awakened

by Cecilia Grant

“Good God.” She flinched at the utterance but he could not help himself. “Are you really capable of that?”

  “I am capable of doing whatever I must to uphold the trust these women have placed in me.” An edge crept into her voice, angry and desperate. “I should think you of all men would know that to be true.”

  Of course. Now she would recast their entire relationship, including these splendid past few days, as something she’d borne, teeth gritted in her noble countenance, for someone else’s sake.

  Weariness dropped over him like a sodden wool blanket. He had no more questions to ask. How exactly she would procure a boy baby—not his concern. What she knew of Mrs. Weaver—that was Mrs. Weaver’s business. He’d cared to the point of fatigue and now he would not care anymore.

  “Then I have only to wish you happy.” One more ignoble sentiment came, settling like a sharp missile in his throwing hand. “And wish the curate happy too, I suppose.”

  “I beg your pardon?” God in Heaven, that engaged her like no other bit of this conversation yet had. She turned to him, eyes narrowed and brow creased.

  “I see what will be the outcome.” He shrugged and sat up. “Several more years of chaste conversation and yearning glances; then after a decorous mourning has passed, the fulfillment of romantic dreams that have probably been in place since—what would you say?—a month after your arrival here as Mr. Russell’s bride?”

  With whipcrack speed she sat up, but he was on his feet just as quickly, reaching for his shirt and not looking her way. “You do Mr. Atkins and me a terrible injustice.” He’d never heard her voice like that. Interesting. “I suppose pure friendship between a lady and a gentleman may be a foreign concept to you, but I—”

  “Friendship.” He pulled the shirt roughly over his head. “If you will call it that.”

  “You have no idea of what you speak.” From the corner of his eye he could see her, pale and still and cold as alabaster. “Mr. Atkins is a worthy, honorable man. I consider myself privileged to provide him with employment.”

  Employment. Devil take it. “You provide abundant employment for his right hand of an evening; I’ll grant you that.” He snatched at his trousers.

  Her silence had weight and texture; it stretched out for seconds. Doubtless she was willing herself into composure. “Do not suppose I will respond to such a mean, scurrilous remark,” she said at last. “When you’ve finished making yourself decent—or rather, when you’ve put on all your clothes—you may leave. I will not be at home to you tomorrow, nor on any other day I can imagine.” She didn’t even spare him a glance.

  Anger and—damnation, but he ought to have more sense—asinine grief clawed at his insides. In the space of five minutes he’d wrecked what little they had. They might have gone on a few days more, and parted on friendly terms, at least.

  No. Not one more speck of sorrow, not one more scrap of sentiment wasted on a woman who would never be able to repay in kind. Damn it all, a man owed something to his pride. Unhurriedly he buttoned his trousers, shutting away the body whose indecency offended her so. Cravat. Waistcoat. Hose. Boots. Piece by piece he covered himself, as calm and methodical as though he were alone in the room.

  When he paused before the mirror, a last cruel impulse gripped him. With a sweeping gesture she could not miss, he drew out his handkerchief and scrubbed the taste of her from his lips. Then he tossed away the crumpled linen and—so this was how it ended—strode from the room without once looking back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  DAYS PASSED. Two days, or maybe three. One did one’s best to think as little as possible of Mr. Mirkwood, even when one’s callers mentioned him by name. He was keeping busy, clearly. He was pursuing his dairy project without her involvement, and, for all the cruelty of those last few minutes with her, he was still sending callers her way.

  Not that this could excuse the vicious things he’d said of Mr. Atkins. Vicious, and with no shred of truth behind them. Indeed if there was a guilty right hand to be spoken of, it most certainly was not the curate’s. Perhaps she ought to have said so, answering pettiness with pettiness.

  Perhaps not. Mechanically she nodded and smiled at Mr. Tavistock and his wife, who sat side by side on the best parlor sofa. They were well-meaning people, but they did weary one with comic anecdotes in which the amusing points were not immediately evident. One had constantly to watch the wife, when the husband was speaking, and follow her lead as to laughter. Mr. Mirkwood should have laughed at all the right places, and wrong ones too, and never have felt burdened in the least. But she must give up thinking of him.

  And indeed, when the Tavistocks had gone, something occurred to absorb her thoughts altogether and drive out such small cares as had troubled her. The footman brought a letter in Mr. Keene’s careful hand. He’d not dissuaded Mr. James Russell after all. She must expect him in a week’s time.

  FIRST, WE will see that every lady’s door can be bolted from the inside.” Martha paced back and forth at the head of the dining-room table, the women servants assembled to hear her as they’d been one month before. “A keyhole lock alone isn’t enough. Please hold up your hand if your door doesn’t have a bolt, and Mrs. Kearney will write your name.” Her pulse jogged erratically, as it seemed to have done almost from the moment of reading Mr. Keene’s letter. So be it. If she could not command her body into calm, she would ride its unruliness the way one posted a trotting horse.

  What a wonderfully clarifying thing a crisis was. One knew what had to be done—keep the servants safe from Mr. James Russell—and every small action and decision fell efficiently in line. “For as long as he should remain here, be assured you owe him no deference.” She wheeled to a stop, facing down the table. “If he addresses you in a familiar manner, you may answer him as strongly as you like. And then tell me at once.”

  Sheridan sat forward in her chair, bright-eyed at the prospect. “May we strike him as well?”

  Certainly someone ought to. She took up pacing again. “I shall leave that decision to you. Just be mindful of your own safety.”

  “Men like that don’t give you a chance to strike them,” said a grave-faced lower housemaid. “They pin your arms first thing.”

  “Then you must shout for a footman.” She set her palms flat on the linen-covered tabletop and nodded to Mrs. Kearney, sitting at its far end. “Will you apprise Mr. Lawrence of this matter, that he may put the footmen on notice?” Now the men-servants would know too. The whole house would be united against this menace.

  “Only I wish I knew how to escape being pinned in the first place.” Sheridan set her troubled gaze on the strip of tablecloth between Martha’s two hands. “If we could learn the best places to strike or poke a man so as to disable him … if we had someone with some knowledge of boxing, for instance, to instruct us …”

  “We don’t, however, so we shall rely on what resources we have.” Crisply she spoke over whatever nonsense Sheridan had meant to hint, and the girl sat back, her slightly protruding lower lip the only sign of argument.

  She’d known somehow, Sheridan had, that things had ended badly. For all that Martha claimed the bargain had served its purpose and been finished, she frequently caught a pitying look in her maid’s eyes as she dressed her or did up her hair, and occasionally these unsubtle allusions came; these poorly veiled suggestions that she might take some step to bridge their rift. As though that were what either she or Mr. Mirkwood wanted, now.

  She’d hurt him. Obviously. He’d offered her his heart and she’d declined it the way she might decline a second helping of turnips. What man would bear that with equanimity?

  But he wasn’t the only person disappointed. She’d shown him her best self—the one capable of prodigious sacrifice for a worthy cause—and seen how he did not prize it. Chagrin knifed through her every time she allowed herself to remember. How could he claim to love her, when he did not love what was essential in her?

  Not that it mattered. With marriage out of the question, l
ove must be beside the point. “We’ll begin on the locks tomorrow.” She straightened again, and clasped her hands behind her back. “If you have other ideas for how we may brace this household, I shall be glad to hear them.”

  I’M TOLD we may lose Mrs. Russell. Had you heard?” Granville dropped this remark while sorting through the various dairy implements stored in one of Pencarragh’s outbuildings.

  A week now since he’d spoken to her, and as though she didn’t trouble his dreams enough, she must intrude here too. “Was there some complication with the will?” Theo poked at a cheese-press. Cheese-making had lost a deal of its luster. He hadn’t known the bit about the calf-stomach until some recent reading. Poor blameless doomed calves.

  “It develops the estate may go to Mr. Russell’s brother. She’s not provided even a dower-house in that case, according to the family solicitor.” The agent paused to make a note. “That’s four good oaken pails. Have you come across a syle dish?”

  “That milk-straining thing? I think this may be one. Have a look.” He held up the odd contraption, like a bowl with its bottom cut out, for Granville’s inspection. “How does this fellow come to be discussing Mrs. Russell’s private affairs? I should certainly hope for better discretion from my own solicitor.”

  “To be sure. The topic only came up because this brother—the present Mr. Russell—will be at Seton Park within the week. Mr. Keene wanted me to know, particularly as his residency there may eventually be permanent.”

  “He’s coming now?” Not his concern. Not his concern. Mrs. Russell could look to her dashed curate if she wanted masculine aid.

  “Not the most gracious thing to do, is it? He looks as though he were anticipating his inheritance, and thus anticipating Mrs. Russell’s disappointment. I could see Mr. Keene disapproved. Ah—good. These setting-bowls have a tin coating. I’ve heard the bare iron sort can rust.”

  He didn’t owe her anything. She, in fact, owed him five hundred pounds. Four times that sum, if things worked out the way she hoped.

  But he’d acquired inconvenient proclivities over the past month, and now his thoughts went to the Seton Park housemaids. He couldn’t stand by and pretend no knowledge of the threat they might face. He must call, at least, and hear what, if anything, Mrs. Russell planned to do.

  Bother responsibility. He sighed, and felt for his pocket watch. If he could hurry Granville along with this inventory, then he could perhaps make the visit this afternoon.

  MARTHA SAT at the library table, tapping a dry quill on a sheet of paper. She’d addressed the servant-women four days since, and every one of those four days Sheridan had seen fit to make some mention of Mr. Mirkwood. How he must be struggling in his dairy plans without Martha’s sensible advice. How he’d done a respectable job, for a gentleman, of arranging her hair, on those days he’d chosen to undertake that task. All manner of foolishness, transparent in its motive and fit to be ignored.

  Still, she sat at the table with paper and pen. She might just send a note. He would perhaps wish to know of Mr. James Russell’s imminent arrival.

  Yet why would he? He’d cleaved his cares from hers. Or maybe it was she who’d done that. At all events, she could not expect him to trouble himself over this development that did not affect him. She tossed the pen down and was just rising from her chair when a footman appeared in the doorway.

  “Mr. Mirkwood asks to see you, madam. I’ve put him in the smaller parlor.”

  She stopped where she was, half risen. Her heart dashed and halted like an indecisive squirrel.

  I shall not be at home to you on any day I can imagine. What errand could bring him here in defiance of those words? Perhaps he’d come for his five hundred pounds. “Very good. Thank you. I’ll go to him.” Mechanically she lurched to her feet, and let them carry her, one step after another, from the library down the long hall and to the peony parlor at the front of the house.

  He stood at a window, one hand pushing back a curtain to gain the broadest possible view. He would always be that man, wouldn’t he?—drawn to vistas and pleasures and all things light, in absurd contravention of his name. At the sound of her slippers on the oak floor he let the curtain fall and pivoted to face her.

  Those eyes had seen all that her gown now concealed. That mouth had done things past description. That chin had sheltered the top of her head, night after night, his pulse and his breath murmuring in soft concerto with her own.

  She blushed, even as she went to him, one hand held out. He took the hand and bowed, and let it go as he put both his own hands behind his back. “I’ve heard you’re expecting Mr. Russell’s brother.” His head tilted down, his solemn blue gaze taking the shortest path to her eyes.

  “Indeed. By the end of this week. Will you have a seat?” She’d told him not to call. He’d called anyway. Now she was inviting him to stay.

  He shook his head. “I’ve only come to ask what you plan to do, and what help you may need.” With a conscious formality he addressed her. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

  Stupid squirrel of a heart. He spoke of love, and she answered with stoicism. He dragged himself over here in deference to duty, and her knees went weak. “You’re kind to inquire.” She sidled a step or two to where she could steady herself by gripping the back of a chair. “We’ll manage. We’ve put bolts on all the maids’ bedroom doors, and I’ve instructed them to shout for help if he attempts anything by daylight.”

  “Very good, then.” He nodded. Now he would go.

  No. He couldn’t. He’d offered help despite their angry words. He’d set aside whatever he felt for her in pursuit of a greater good, and he’d probably had to swallow a deal of pride along the way. Abruptly she let go the chair and took one long step to block his path. “We do need help. The women want to know how to strike a man most effectively. I need someone to teach them.”

  A smile of pure boyish pleasure started across his face. He checked it, and bowed again. “Of course, Mrs. Russell. I’m at your service.”

  WHAT IS a woman’s greatest weakness, as compared to a man?” Like a corporal reviewing troops, Mrs. Russell strode back and forth before the women assembled to hear her. They sat, half eagerness and half apprehension, on straight chairs in Seton Park’s ballroom. Theo stood along one wall, with a handful of footmen and grooms who’d been conscripted to the cause.

  “Frailness of body.” That was Mrs. Russell’s maid, the girl who managed all her dressing and undressing now. “Speed as well. Men are stronger and quicker than we are.”

  “Indeed they are and yet, for our purposes, that can be overcome.” Crisis only seemed to increase her self-assurance, odd woman that she was. “The weakness we must conquer, ladies, is our propensity for mercy.” She threw him a quick look. They’d spent a good hour just strategizing, and agreed this should be the cornerstone of their approach.

  “Has any among you ever struck a man?” She stood still, her index finger sweeping across their ranks as though to count the response. But no woman said she had.

  “Has anyone ever borne insult from a man, and later wished you could have struck him?” Now five or six servants nodded, putting up a hand to be counted. Mrs. Russell laced her fingers behind her back and stood taller. “Would anyone want her daughter—if we should all be so blessed—to bear such insult without defending herself?” Triumphant in the force of her argument, she let her eyes roam emphatically over her audience before she spoke again.

  “We must protect ourselves with the same ferocity we would wish for our daughters. Our neighbor Mr. Mirkwood has graciously offered to show us how we may best hurt a man. We shall repay his kindness by promising not to shrink from using what he teaches us.” She took a step backward and held out a hand, palm up, ceding the floor to him.

  He pushed off the wall and came forward. “Even the smallest lady may disable a man, at least for an interval that allows her to escape, by striking him in one of several vulnerable places. I’ll show you these places, and how to deliver an effective
blow.” The widow’s maid, and a few other women, were clearly keen to see that. “But first I’ll show you, with Mrs. Russell’s help, a number of ways to get free of a man who has seized hold of you. If you please, Mrs. Russell.”

  They’d rehearsed all yesterday afternoon. In careful civility they’d worked together, the widow insisting she must set the example for ladies who would be wary of practicing such maneuvers with a man. Again and again he’d grasped her wrist or elbow, again and again wrapped his arms about her, first mindful of their perished intimacy, then of the child, tiny and unformed, somewhere in the depths of his embrace.

  She’d slipped away from him every time, child and all, by his own tutelage. And so she did now, dropping like a plumb bob and breaking his encircling hold, much to the servants’ delight. Her cheeks flushed with industry and excitement above her somber weeds. Her eyes shone like oiled mahogany. “Now if we may have everyone on their feet, and if the gentlemen will join us, you’ll see how quickly you can master this.” She nodded once to him—her partner in this mission—and they threaded their separate ways into the company.

  If he’d ever spent a more useful hour in his life, he could not now bring it to mind. Oh, he’d accomplished a few things with the dairy venture, to be sure, and perhaps he’d made some difference to Mr. Barrow, but only through much grappling and toil. To be of service to these women by doing what came so easily to him was a pleasure beyond reckoning.

  Round the room he went, instructing this kitchen maid as to the placement of her feet; that laundress as to the fatality of hesitation. He could see Mrs. Russell, meanwhile, circulating, encouraging, coaxing the more reluctant ladies to take a turn. She stepped in and demonstrated, with a footman, how to wheel one’s arm about and break a grip at the wrist. What a formidable creature she looked, straight and strict as ever even while she allowed manservants to put their hands on her, and urged other women to do the same. A fierce, black-clad warrior for her sex, her un-tender nature finally finding its proper sphere.