by Eve Pendle
He all but subsidized the club, then. “But it is for their own good. They should pay the whole, and it ought to be self-financing.” It didn’t make good business sense for him to do that, but the hot air balloon in her wasn’t dissipating.
“Yes, but men need encouragement to make the right decisions and by making the contribution small, more sign up. And the scheme is a success. There are over six thousand cattle registered with it.”
Grace’s jaw dropped. The numbers streamed through her mind. “No,” she said, as though she could stop it now.
“At the time, we all believed the protections would make an outbreak less likely. My involvement was just a security for men who were nervous they would be throwing away money.” He emptied his teacup with finality. “Almost two thousand cattle have already died of rinderpest. At a rate of £7 to £15 per head, the club cannot afford it. Some of the farmers are refusing to cull, saying they will take their chances. But that increases the likelihood of the disease spreading. And spread it has. To save the other herds, we propose to dispose of around half. Some can be sold for meat, if healthy, but to protect the rest, I would prefer that most are burnt.” He looked away from her, staring through the walls of the house to the hills beyond. “There it is. After two Earls of Westbury who cared less for the estate than for their cufflinks, it is I who worst mismanaged it.”
But he hadn’t, really. He’d encouraged responsibility and enterprise. What had started as a small act of encouragement and support had become an albatross. But through his actions, the farmers in the club would not end in the poorhouse because of this disease. Though at such a price on him. She hadn’t realized the scale of his requirement for money. And he had said there was a mortgage as well.
“This is why you needed a rich wife.” Not because he was a frivolous aristocrat as she’d assumed, but because generosity of heart prevented him from disregarding people who relied on him.
“Yes.” Everett tapped his fingers against the table and sighed. “This is my fall from grace,” he added with a wry smile.
She rolled her eyes at the pun on her name, but her stomach bounced at the tilt of his mouth. If she reached across the table, she could comfort him and be his supporter in a way that only a wife could be, with tender hands and sweet words. But she was just his fake wife.
“I may…” This was crazy, but she couldn’t bear the thought of those farmers impoverished through no fault of their own. He deserved a backer if she couldn’t be his real wife. “If the financial burden becomes too much, I may be able to help a little.” She had to ensure she had sufficient funds to fight for Henry and look after him once they were together. But she could be his financial partner, even if they weren’t going to be life partners. “As long as there are no more puns.”
His eyes seemed silver when they were raised to look at her. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
The sensation of his gaze on her was like the heat from the midday sun. For a second, she allowed herself to savor being his partner and having a joint interest. Another month only, though. She tamped down the burgeoning warmth in her that wanted to reach out to him. It was nothing, really. Though the feeling nevertheless sang through her blood like it was everything.
…
His light wasn’t out. Beneath their adjoining door, a chink of light, several candles maybe, glowed. Grace didn’t know whether she’d slept, nor what time it was now. It was utterly dark through the crack in the curtains, so it must be past midnight. Thoughts of Henry, of dead cows, and Lord Rayner roiled through her. And that light from under the door.
Maybe he couldn’t sleep. She heard movements every now and again, shifts that could be from the carpeted floor or the bed. Or perhaps he’d fallen asleep with the candles still burning. A shock of fear added to her alertness. Candles left to burn all night frequently burnt much more than just wax. They could engulf houses and all who resided therein.
She slipped out from the sheets and padded across to the door. Hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. “Everett?”
“Go back to sleep, Grace,” he replied in a low, rough growl.
He was awake, then. No risk of fire. She should go back to bed, worry about Henry and plan their little farm and manor in France. Or Switzerland. Or maybe Italy.
But she couldn’t move. “I can see the light under your door.”
“Then close your eyes.”
She almost laughed. “Why are you not asleep?” Surely the cull had put his mind at rest?
There was the sound of footsteps. Then his voice was closer, louder but just as gravelly. “Why aren’t you sleeping the sleep of the innocent?”
Because of her neglect of Anna and her defiance to her father. Her broken promise to her mother and her imprudent trust in Samuel and all the things that made her not innocent rose in her mind. She looked down at the inch-deep gap at the bottom of the door. He must have brought the candles with him, as the light was brighter now, spilling over her bare feet like gold.
She wasn’t ready to reveal herself. “I asked first.”
“Oh, are we playing that game?” He laughed softly. “Come in, sit down, and we’ll talk.”
There was a sound of sliding metal.
“No,” she squeaked and grasped for the door handle. It was the middle of the night and she was practically naked, just a thin linen night rail between her skin and the August air. This had been a crazy mistake, a silly dream. Ridiculous to think anything good could come from approaching her husband in the middle of the night.
She heard his deep sigh. “Grace…”
“I think I should go back to bed.” Her inner wrist was aching, but she couldn’t let go of the handle. The dark wood panel of the door was just inches from her nose.
“No, don’t go.” There was a slap as though he’d pressed his hands against the door, as though he were next to her and with her, even through the panels.
“I can’t…” She couldn’t rely on her self-control. The two of them were so close, only probably inches apart.
“Don’t go yet. We can…” There was a tone of desperation in his deep voice. “We can talk through the door.”
Was that safe? He couldn’t see the way her breasts were visible through her night rail. There was a solid door between them. The tension in her forearm was too much, and she forced her fingers to loosen. “And you’ll tell me?” She didn’t want to tell him about why she couldn’t sleep, but she wanted to know about him.
“Of course.” There was a rustling and a section of the light was darkened, as though he’d sat down against it. “I was thinking of the dead.”
“The cattle?” She released the door handle and sank to the floor, propping herself up against the chest of drawers by the doorframe. Bending her leg slightly at the knee, she folded her hands in her lap.
“Yes, them. But others, too. You don’t spend all your younger life in the army without encountering a lot of death. And causing it, too.”
She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It hadn’t occurred to her he might have a stain on his conscience. “Well, this cull must be a lovely break for you.”
“Indeed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I wouldn’t have dared kill a cow in India. They’re sacred to the people there.” His voice was rich and half wistful and brought to mind the elegant paintings of muted green trees and yellow ochre soil under enormous skies.
“I’ve seen pictures of India; the buildings look so fine and beautiful.” Soft pink castles surrounded by tranquil white-blue water. “It looks like a more elegant version of England.”
“Hah.” There was a muffled rubbing, like him raking his fingers through his hair. “Those sanitized, pale watercolors. India should be painted in bright oils, hot and vibrant and messy. British paintings mute and stifle everything that armies can’t.” There was an edge of cynicism in his words.
Had he disapproved of British rule in India? There was a rustle of clothing as Grace tried to decipher his meaning and he
r mind sprang back to the physicality of Everett, just through the door. What did he look like now? He would be undressed for bed, maybe wearing nothing but a nightshirt, or his combination, open to the chest on this warm night. It suddenly seemed too warm and Grace shifted.
“I was in India when my father died. I didn’t return to see him buried.”
“I’m sorry.” She hadn’t seen her own father buried, either. It was a stone in her stomach when she thought of it. Perhaps in was the same for him. A feeling of closeness to Everett because of that mutual experience wrapped around her like a shawl.
“Don’t be. I wasn’t. He was a gambler, though he liked bad investments and drink more than card games. They were Peter’s vice.”
“Your elder brother?” The one who he’d said was in the cemetery.
“He died in an accident on the road, racing his curricle. The wheel was a little off, a sloppy job by the wheelwright I’m told. I was in India when he died as well.”
“I was away when my father died, too.” Would their similarity be a comfort to Everett, as it was to her? Her father had sent her away. She wondered sometimes if he’d known, in some way, or whether he would have liked to see his only daughter again.
Everett sighed. “We’ve both lost so much. Where were you when your father died?”
“In Geneva, at a finishing school.”
There was a moment of silence and the candle flickered. “I heard you had a season last year. Why did he send you to finishing school when you’d already come out into society?”
Reflexively arranging her nightdress, Grace tried to sort her thoughts into a pattern less compromising. She let out a shaky breath. “Because my debut was not quite what my father hoped for, and I refused to cooperate with his plans.”
“Go on.” His voice was smooth, without a hint of censure or salacious curiosity.
“I wasn’t interested in balls or lords. I don’t know if my mother used to be a control on my father’s ideas about a woman’s role, but after she died, he was obsessed.” The words came out in a rush. “My mother died in childbirth, and the doctor was attending a trivial malady of Lady Rayner, the present Lord Rayner’s mother.”
“I see. As you said, what father wouldn’t want his daughter to be the privileged wife of that lord, when his own wife had suffered because of his lack of rank? What happened in your season?”
She couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was joking or serious.
“I became engaged to Mr. Brooker. Samuel works as a clerk for Alnott Stores. He’s a younger son of a country gentleman, not a duke or an earl. Father sent him to London to find premises for a new store and whilst there, we saw each other. I’d known him for years at the stores, but it was in London that we became close. We kept it secret and decided to wait for my father to see that I was not going to be able to attract a peer in town.”
It was strange to tell this tale of failed romance to Everett. She’d thought she’d tell it as a great love story to the children she and Samuel would have.
“When I returned home, it didn’t result quite as we had imagined.” Grace used the tips of her fingers to trace the line the wooden floorboards. “Father ordered me to marry Lord Rayner. I refused and told him I wanted to marry Mr. Brooker.”
“Ah.” There was a wealth of understanding in his one word.
“He locked me in my rooms, went to visit the Brookers, and explained that if Samuel and I married, he would sack him and prevent us inheriting any of the Alnott fortune. He sent me to a Swiss finishing school in Geneva, which he knew I would loathe, to think about my options.”
“He banished you for falling in love with the wrong man,” Everett said.
“Well, it was rather less like a gothic novel than that.” It had been dull.
“I was imagining you fleeing in your nightgown.” There was a smile in his voice. “Hair flowing over your shoulder when you check behind for pursuers as you escape.”
She dug her nails into the white cotton over her knees. “The last thing he said to me was I should come back in a more compliant state of mind.” But that had never happened. Her father’s one wish, and she’d failed.
“I’m so sorry.” There was a short silence. “I told my father he was a drunk and a discredit to the family name before I left for India. And in my trip back to England before Peter died, I refused to see him. My own brother.” There was so much pain in his voice.
Grace suddenly wanted to hold him. But there was the door between them, a symbol of their marriage. Close, but not too close. “Everett.” She put her fingers under the gap of the door. It must have looked ridiculous, her pink little nails peeking out from under the dark oak door. She was just about to draw back, feeling silly, when warm fingers covered hers.
“Grace. I’m glad you’re here.”
Her throat closed. She could so easily fall in love with him, with his quiet understanding and his similar regrets. But hadn’t she just told the story of how Samuel and her father had both let her down? Apparently, she’d forgotten her vow to never allow another man to hurt her, or anyone she loved.
She slipped her fingers away and they were immediately cold. “We should go to sleep now. It’s late.”
Chapter Ten
“I usually go outside for some fresh air and activity on a Sunday afternoon. Would you like to join me?” Everett asked when they arrived back at Larksview after morning service.
“What would we be doing?” Grace was headed toward her parlor but slowed her step. She was getting too close to her fake husband, forgetting this was just a bargain and beginning to like him. Today, the weather was a perfect balmy combination of cloud and sun, so her usual reason for turning back because of bad weather would be even less plausible than usual.
“Come with me and find out.”
She could hear his grin, making her hesitate with the urge to know what he was going to do.
Everett must have seen her vacillation and he capitalized on it, striding across the hall to her. He looked like a mischievous boy as he grinned at her and grabbed her hand to pull her to the door, demanding she go with him.
“If we are to go out, I will have to change my dress.” The elegant blue-gray linen was perfect for church, but impractical for being out of doors.
Everett looked at her with affectionate exasperation. “I’ll see you back here in ten minutes. I will have Letty sent up.” As Grace reached the top of the staircase, he called after her. “An old dress would probably be most suitable. Without a bird cage.”
He meant without a crinoline to bulk out the skirt and make it enormous.
Letty hurried into the room as Grace picked out a better dress than she ought. The cotton riding habit in a deep maroon color that only had a few petticoats. It was a striking dress despite the fold-up knee pocket. The vee neckline of the jacket dipped to reveal her collarbones, and the underskirts were slim. She would not examine why she was giving any attention to what she wore.
Everett watched her all the way down the stairs, his gray gaze seeming to eat up the sight of her. She felt her cheeks heat under his observation. He gave a nod of approval when she rejoined him and offered her his hand with a flourish.
Outside, it was a bright August day, with clouds chasing each other across the pale blue sky of summer. Everett led her out and around the house, his arm under her hand, to the side of the lake. There, outside the boathouse, was a small boat. The sail on the boat flapped to and fro, as though it were fidgeting to be off, like a small child.
“It’s clinker built. Very solid.” He indicated the overlapping pieces of wood that made up the side of the boat.
She’d never been on a boat and she didn’t swim well. Her back seemed to constrict. The little craft looked as if it might tip over at any moment. Grace found her voice. “Do you know how to use one of those things?”
The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Of course. What do you think Peter and I did for our whole childhood?” As he said this, his smile faltered fo
r a moment, and Grace recognized the contradictory compulsion to talk about the dead. She could hardly bear to think about her mother, even all these years later.
Everett held out his hand to her in invitation to help her onto the little boat. It was larger than a settee or a bed, but much smaller than a room.
What had made her think of a bed?
There didn’t seem to be enough spaces to sit on without them being rather too close together. And then there was the issue of that great beating sail, jerking around like a captured bird trying to escape. Grace wavered about expressing her reservations. It looked dangerous, and not just because of the boat. But she could be courageous, for the sake of appearing a loving wife, and to keep that mischievous look on Everett’s face.
She took his hand, which was reassuringly warm, and allowed him to support her as she stepped into the boat. It wobbled, and she let out a little involuntary shriek at the unfamiliar movement. The boat tilted and wriggled as she only stood there, trying to catch her off balance. “Everett, I don’t think I’m going to like—”
“Sit on the side,” he instructed.
She looked wildly around for a place to sit and saw only the smooth varnished wood he indicated.
“Yes, there.”
She gingerly lowered herself onto the polished wood, cool and slippery under her fingers. It was like sitting on a mantelpiece, rather than a seat.
He nodded in approval. “Now, there are some things you have to know. When I say duck, you must duck. And sometimes, you will need to move in the boat, or we will go over.”
“Go over?” Her head went light and she swayed with the boat. “You mean turn the boat into the water?”
“Yes, but it is not likely today. There is just a little breeze. Not really enough to capsize.” And with that, he untied a rope and pushed the vessel off into the isolation of the lake.
“Move up toward the bow.” He indicated the direction they were traveling.
