The Wagered Wife

by Wilma Counts

  “Are you sure you will not have something?” she asked yet again.

  “No. No, thank you.” He took another sip of coffee and lowered the cup carefully. “Uh . . . Caitlyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to apologize for last night. I . . . I am sorry it did not go well.”

  “Well, I supposed it did not,” she said matter-of-factly, “but as I have no experience by which to judge . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blushed.

  Trevor was not about to admit that his own experience was nearly as limited as hers. Instead he said lamely, “It will go better next time.”

  “Oh?” She sounded rather doubtful. Then she shrugged and looked away. “All right.”

  And that night it did go better.

  They had traveled all day and arrived rather late to find the household understaffed and not fully prepared for them. However, the master’s bedchamber had been aired and a fire laid. A light supper was brought up, and Trevor deliberately exercised greater self-discipline on the wine this night.

  He made a concerted effort to engage his wife in entertaining conversation, much of it involving childhood adventures he and Terrence had engaged in. For the first time since Terrence’s death, he was able to recall amusing incidents without choking up.

  “It must be wonderful to grow up with brothers and sisters,” Caitlyn said longingly.

  “Usually,” he agreed. “With Terrence and Melanie anyway. You have no brother or sister?”

  “None that survived. There were four babies after me, but I remember only the last two. One of those—a baby boy—lived for only a week. The other was stillborn, and Mama died the next day. It was very sad. I was nine.”

  “But you still had your father,” Trevor noted.

  “Not really. Oh, he tried. Truly he did. But I think he simply could not go on without Mama. I am convinced that he died of a broken heart, not influenza.”

  She told him of her father’s losing his parish and being sent as a curate in a poorer district. Trevor, who had never in his life had to deal firsthand with deprivation, was astonished at her simple acceptance of the reduced circumstances she had endured. When her father died, she had gone to live as the proverbial “poor relation” in her uncle’s household.

  He expressed sympathy for her.

  “Oh, you must not feel sorry for me,” she assured him. “I have not been trained to run a fine household, but I promise I can learn. I shall try to be a good wife to you.”

  Was this what had occupied her mind most of the day? She had been remarkably quiet during the journey.

  “I am sure it will work out fine,” he said with far more confidence than he felt.

  She was apparently determined to start her “good wife” project that very evening. She made no demur at sharing his bed—and in the next few days she willingly let him “have his way with her.” However, despite the release he found in her body, he came away from their encounters with a vague feeling of disappointment.

  Perhaps if he loved her, it would be different. But he knew he would never love her. He felt sorry for her and rather liked her, but, after all, she was not his type.

  The day after their arrival at Atherton, Trevor planned to spend the morning examining the property with the steward, Mr. Felkins. After he left the breakfast table, Caitlyn asked the footman who had served them to send the housekeeper to her. It took some time, but eventually the woman, whom Caitlyn had met only briefly the night before, arrived.

  The housekeeper was a very plump female of indeterminate years with iron gray hair and dark eyes. She wore a dark dress and had a ring of keys hanging conspicuously at her belt.

  “You wanted me, Mrs. Jeffries?”

  It was the first time Caitlyn had been addressed by her married name. She found herself inordinately pleased.

  “Yes. It is Mrs. Bassett, is it not?” The woman nodded, eyed the new mistress, and then looked at nothing above Caitlyn’s head and waited. “I should like you to show me through the house. My husband tells me he, too, is unfamiliar with it.”

  “Right now?” Mrs. Bassett’s tone was slightly challenging. “I was just finishing me breakfast.”

  “Oh. Well, then . . . in—say—fifteen minutes?” Caitlyn tried to sound firm.

  “Very well.” The woman turned to leave, the keys jangling as she waddled back to the kitchen.

  Twenty minutes later, Caitlyn glanced again at the mantel clock. The door opened and Mrs. Bassett came in, wiping her mouth with her bare hand.

  “Oh, there you are,” Caitlyn said brightly. “I should like to begin with the kitchen, if you please.”

  The housekeeper shrugged. “Makes me no never-mind, but Perkins might not take too kindly to it.”

  “Why?”

  “She don’t like being interrupted when she’s baking, and Monday is her baking day.”

  “I see.” Caitlyn considered this for a moment. “Well. She will have to tolerate it today, will she not?”

  “If you say so.”

  Even to Caitlyn’s unpracticed eye, the kitchen seemed to be run in a rather slipshod manner. True, the supper served the night before had been acceptable and this morning’s breakfast had been edible, if a bit spare in terms of variety. But she observed that pots piled in a tub to be washed seemed encrusted with long-dried food. Ashes from the hearth spilled over to the surrounding floor. Elsewhere there were dried splashes of Lord-knew-what on the slate slabs that made up the kitchen floor.

  The cook, Perkins, started to growl at their entrance, but on being introduced to the new mistress, merely scowled instead. Caitlyn surmised the woman had worn the same apron for a week.

  “Where does that door lead?” Caitlyn asked, pointing to one of the four besides the one through which she had just entered.

  “That one goes to Cook’s quarters,” Bassett said. “They are private quarters, of course.” Again there seemed a slight challenge in her tone.

  “Of course,” Caitlyn agreed with a glance at the still scowling Perkins.

  “That one is the pantry. Silver is stored there. And that one”—Bassett pointed at each—“goes down to the cellar. The other opens to the back garden and out to the stables.”

  “I shall see the pantry and the cellar,” Caitlyn said firmly.

  The housekeeper made a production of unlocking each of the doors. Caitlyn knew when she saw it that the disordered mess of the pantry should not be surprising after the slovenly care of the kitchen, but it was. The cellar was filthy and smelled of stale wine and rodent droppings.

  “Good heavens. When was this cellar cleaned last?”

  “All cellars gather dust, miss—uh, ma’am.” The housekeeper sounded both condescending and defensive.

  Caitlyn said nothing, but vowed that this cellar would have a thorough cleaning in the very near future. Before she gave such an order, though, she wanted to see more of her new home.

  By the time she had been through the rest of the house—and it took the whole morning, with the housekeeper ostentatiously rattling keys as she unlocked and relocked each door—Caitlyn was overwhelmed by what it would take to set it to rights. Even the master suite, which last night had seemed passable, was in dire need of a thorough cleaning.

  A thick coating of dust rested on furniture in rarely used rooms, and one could see exactly which corridors were used most by the trails through dust in halls and on stairs.

  Mrs. Bassett became more quietly defensive in her attitude as the inspection progressed. “As you can see, ma’am, we have not enough help for this big house.”

  “Hmm,” was Caitlyn’s noncommittal response.

  “There has not been a proper mistress here since Lady Bennington passed on—more than three years gone now. She was ill a long, long time before that, you see.”

  Caitlyn was of the opinion that there had not been a proper housekeeper in all that time, either, but she kept this thought to herself. No sense in alienating members of the staff just yet.

 
“Where are the household ledgers?” she asked when the tour was finished.

  “I . . . uh . . . they are in my quarters.” Bassett sounded a bit hesitant, but her voice was more firm as she added, “I take care of the books.”

  Caitlyn was suddenly aware of her extreme youth. And she knew the fact that she appeared even younger than she was often misled others into underestimating her. She suspected that was the case with the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Bassett.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You will bring those ledgers to me in the library after lunch. You will also see that I have a set of those keys with each of them properly labeled.”

  “Well, now. That might take some time, Mrs. Jeffries.”

  Caitlyn merely raised an eyebrow at the slighting intonation the other woman put on her name. “After our luncheon,” she said firmly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That evening Caitlyn shared her concerns about the state of the household with Trevor.

  “Somehow your report does not surprise me,” he told her, “for, indeed, the whole place is in need of attention.”

  “This is such a lovely area.” Caitlyn’s voice was almost plaintive.

  “Aye. It is. East Anglia is said to have some of the most productive land in all of England. But this place has been let go to ruin. It will take a better man than I to put it to rights. And a lot more money than I have.”

  “You think it hopeless, then?”

  “That I do. Everywhere one looks there is something in need of repair or attention. I am sure Marcus was mistaken in saying Atherton could ever become a profitable endeavor as it now stands.”

  “So what are we to do?”

  “Muddle through, I suppose. Or find some funding to begin to set things aright.”

  She thought he sounded totally overwhelmed.

  Four

  Ten days later, it was apparent that there would be no funds forthcoming. A hastily drafted appeal had produced the not surprising information that older brother Marcus had no access to ready cash, though Marcus was quick to add that he admired Trevor’s willingness to persevere at Atherton.

  Trevor’s quarterly allowance was nearly exhausted, but the home farm on the property was productive. They would not starve, at any rate, Trevor thought as he earnestly considered his options. It was time he took responsibility for his actions. Unanticipated and unwanted as it was, perhaps this marriage would put him on the right track.

  True, she was not the wife he had dreamed of. Nor had she brought anything to the marriage in terms of the material settlements usual to a marriage in his class. But she was an amiable sort and willing to work; had he not caught her on her hands and knees scrubbing at the hearth in the drawing room? She had organized such maids and footmen as they had into a cleaning team despite the housekeeper’s superior reluctance.

  If their personal relationship had not quite the thrill and passion he had once dreamed of—so what? Other couples managed to go along all right. Look at his parents. Why, they did not even like each other. Of course, his father had had a string of mistresses—and perhaps he would one day, as well.

  Trevor knew his mother had also had discreet affairs. Would Caitlyn do so? Now, why on earth should that idea be so unsettling? And this brought to mind that puppy who had been hanging around the street as he and Caitlyn were married. Who was that fellow? He shrugged. Perhaps, in due time, she would tell him. His musings were interrupted by Merrill, the middle-aged butler.

  “Sir? There is a courier here to see you.”

  “A courier? Send him in.” Trevor experienced a moment of panic. A message so urgent it could not be conveyed by ordinary post?

  “Mr. Trevor Jeffries?” the courier asked.

  “Yes.” He stood behind his desk.

  “I have a message from your father.” The fellow handed over a thin missive with a wax seal which Trevor quickly opened.

  “Oh, good Lord,” he muttered, abruptly taking his seat again.

  “Will there be an answer, sir? I was told to wait for an answer.”

  Trevor ran his hand through his hair. “No. I shall answer this summons myself.”

  Instructing Merrill to find the man some refreshment, Trevor went in search of his wife. He found her in the kitchen garden—on her hands and knees again.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, seeing only her well-rounded bottom at first.

  “Oh. Hello, Trevor. You startled me.” Her eyes seemed darker today, more teal-colored. “I am—to answer your question—trying to distinguish between bona fide herbs and weeds.” She plucked a leaf, rubbed it between her thumb and fingers, and handed it to him. “Here. Smell this. Is it not glorious? Lemon mint,” she said as he inhaled.

  “Nice. But come. I need to talk with you.” He extended a hand to pull her to her feet and guided her to a nearby bench.

  “What is it?” she asked, concerned.

  “I have had what amounts to a royal summons—”

  “A summons?”

  “From my father, demanding I come to London. He must be in a rare taking.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It takes something of earthshaking proportions to get him to leave Timberly. He hates going to town.”

  “You believe he is angry with you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said in ironic understatement.

  “About what?”

  “Any number of things—but mostly this marriage, I am sure.”

  “He did not know?”

  “He does now.”

  “I must admit I did wonder that none of your family saw you wed. I assumed my uncle had negotiated . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Negotiated?” The single word conveyed surprise and scorn. “Caitlyn, are you telling me you do not know how this union came about?”

  “Aunt Sylvia said only that Uncle Fiske had arranged a match.” Then she said, in apparent reaction to his scornful tone, “Without considering my wishes, I might add.”

  Already upset over his father’s barely concealed fury in the letter, Trevor found his hackles rising at her tone. “Well, you did not do so badly, did you?”

  She lifted her chin. “I suppose that depends on one’s point of view.”

  “What an interesting observation—from someone who was the subject of a miserable wager.”

  He knew he had gone too far when he saw shocked outrage in her expression, but his pride would not allow him to back down now.

  “What, precisely, do you mean?” she demanded.

  He told her the whole despicable tale of drinking, gambling, and that final hand of cards with her uncle.

  “A wager? You won me in a wager?” Humiliation and despair had replaced the hauteur.

  “Actually, I lost the wager,” he said glumly, then suddenly realized how that bit of stark honesty must sound to her.

  She jumped up and put the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.

  “Caitlyn, I did not mean . . .”

  But she was gone, fairly running into the house. He followed her, but she had locked herself in her dressing room.

  “Caitlyn, please,” he called through the closed door.

  “Go away. I never want to see you again.”

  “Now, you know that is ridiculous.”

  “Just go away,” she wailed.

  “As you wish,” he said, having the last word.

  Within the hour he was en route to London.

  Hearing the carriage leave, Caitlyn went from the dressing room to the bed, where she lay staring at the ceiling through what she knew to be red-rimmed eyes. But why should she care about her appearance?

  The only person ever to find her attractive had been Bertie. And now he was totally out of her reach—thanks to the machinations of her self-serving uncle and the dissolute gambler to whom she was married. At this moment, she hated them both. And Bertie, too, for that matter. After all, if he had only asserted himself . . .

  She did not understand
fully what had happened, but she surmised that Bertie’s father—whose forceful personality was complemented by very real power in his district—had some hold over her uncle. Uncle Fiske had merely found a convenient patsy in one Trevor Allen Jeffries.

  And where did that leave Caitlyn Maria Woodbridge Jeffries?

  She asked herself this question repeatedly in the next few days. No answer was forthcoming. She felt she was in a state of limbo. She knew of instances where wives had been turned out for the shabbiest of reasons—left with nothing, not even a modicum of decency. Meanwhile, her work—and that of directionless servants—came to a standstill.

  Hurt and humiliated by the truth about her marriage, Caitlyn desperately wanted to be the driving force in her own life. She felt so manipulated, so out of control. There was something sordid about this—demeaning. It was rather like the wife-selling that was not unknown among the lower, poorer ranks of society. She tried to see some clear course of action.

  Pain and embarrassment were accompanied by anger, which was focused largely on her uncle, but also on Trevor. Common sense told her if it had not been Trevor, it would have been someone else. Under the circumstances, Trevor was right in saying she had not fared so badly. Still, he was a party to her ignominy.

  Common sense also kept nagging at her that Trevor, too, had been a victim of circumstances. Yes, but—her anger and hurt responded—he had been instrumental in creating his circumstances, while she had done nothing—nothing—to deserve what had happened to her.

  So? Whoever said life had to be fair? Surely she knew by now that it was not, that no one was free of “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” By sheer will, she forced herself out of this labyrinth of self-pity and took up her duties.

  She also spent hours wandering over the estate, sometimes on foot, but more often she rode. Atherton’s stables offered little in the way of quality horseflesh, but “beggars are not allowed to be choosers” she told herself. She became acquainted with workers on the home farm and the tenants on other farms that made up the whole of Atherton. Many of the people were poor, but she thought they still showed spirit and ambition. If only there were some way to direct that energy.