Leslie looked surprised at the lightness of my tone. Mary was speaking... more than just errands! But enough of that; I have promised. Yes, Leslie remembered most of the charges. And your habit, he tells me, is as lovely as the one from London.”
I glanced at Leslie, who said, “I have only now sent it up. With all Mary’s packages, I’d forgotten to deliver yours. I believe you will be satisfied.”
The tea arrived, then, and with it, Philip. He greeted us curtly. Although he apologised to Mary for his tardiness, he would not look at me. Leslie glanced in puzzlement from Philip to myself, and I could not meet his eyes. Let him wonder. I should not explain!
We became more and more constrained, the four of us, and tea was quickly over as Leslie and Mary found excuses to withdraw. Only Philip remained longer, and he regarded me sullenly. I could bear it no longer and, in a moment, had undone all I had said before. I rose and walked to the doorway. There I paused and said in a voice that was not altogether steady, “Do not judge me so harshly, Philip, for you have not lived my life.”
He sat up abruptly, and under the piercing gaze, so like his uncle’s, I fled.
The evening meal passed much as had tea, save that Philip was more thoughtful than sullen. And we all sought our beds early that night.
With the tea tray, next morning, came a note from Philip. He had heard my new habit was ready, should I care to go riding? I should. I did not linger over my breakfast, and soon I was downstairs. Philip’s appreciative smile told me I looked my best. The horses were saddled and we were off. The wind in my face was agreeable, and Philip was his usual, charming self again. And I laughed as I had not laughed in days. Philip regaled me with on-dits of Oxford. We were laughing t over some such tale when we heard a horse behind us. As one, we turned to see Leslie approaching. I stiffened in preparation for his anger. But he only greeted us mildly and said to Philip, “May I borrow my wife, Nephew? You musn’t have all the pleasure.”
I listened with care but detected no sarcasm in Leslie’s voice. I glanced at Philip, but he had no choice save to ride away. Leslie’s horse fell in step with mine. “You’ve a good seat, Heather.”
I smiled a brief, wary smile. For a while, we rode in silence. Then he said, “You have turned my servants against me, madam. This morning, Peter took me to task!”
Dismay crossed my face. “ ’Twas not intended, Leslie, I...”
“Yes, I know. You told the servants you knew I expected to be away overnight. But Peter, I fear, did not believe, you and said it was one more cause I should not behave as I have.”
Leslie’s voice lacked anger and I looked at him warily, not trusting this mood. “Leslie,” I ventured, “I did not ask Philip to speak with you.”
He halted his horse and regarded me seriously. “I know that, Heather. Or rather I realised it yesterday, once I calmed down. I hope I didn’t frighten you?”
“No, of course not,” I replied boldly. He looked at me with raised eyebrows, and after a moment, I added, “Well, a little, I confess.”
He sighed. “I’ve the devil of a temper, and no amount of effort can school it. A little like your tongue, madam.” Leslie laughed as I bristled at his words. “No, I will not come to cuffs with you today, Heather. I mean to apologise for yesterday. I suppose I was angriest because the accusation was unfair!”
I knew he watched to see how I should react. “I know,” I said gravely. He was clearly astonished, and now I smiled. “My dear Leslie, do you truly believe my father could resist the opportunity to meddle? I had a note of him, late yesterday, in which he explained lest I think the worst. And he I spent much time advising me to be a good wife.”
“And?”
I looked squarely at .Leslie’s eyes. “And ... I do not believe my father is infallible,” I retorted, “nor do I believe he understands me very well.”
I could not read Leslie’s face as we rode on. He began to talk of other matters and told me about various tenants. But it was as though there were a wall between us, and the day felt suddenly cold. When we were in view of the stable, he halted his horse again and said, “This time there was no woman, Heather. But next time it may not be so. I meant what I said: I will seek elsewhere what you will not give. I’ll be discreet, but I’ll not live the life of a monk.”
I could not explain how I felt. I knew his words were reasonable, and yet ... Resolutely I said, “Of course. That was the agreement, was it not? I was distressed only that you had been (apparently) indiscreet.”
I could not meet his eyes and when we began to ride again, I stole a glance of his face. But it was again a mask. We rode without speaking, and in the courtyard, after lifting me down from my horse, Leslie strode away, leaving me to follow as best I might.
Nevertheless, matters were easier, and next morning, the books Leslie had ordered arrived. I was childishly happy as I sorted through them. Leslie had thrown off his dark mood and even laughed with Philip over my delight. I sat on the floor of the library, lifting the books out, one by one. Leslie sat beside me and Philip shelved the books as my husband explained where each belonged. Mary looked in from time to time, but only shook her head and went away again. “What will you do with so many books?” Philip asked in genuine puzzlement.
“Read them!” I said indignantly.
They both laughed and I reached for another book. As it came from the box I froze. It was a book of children’s tales. As was the next. Quickly now, I lifted out the rest of the books. They were all for children or of child and baby care. I stared at Leslie, anger rising in me. He, too, was pale. “I ordered them before ... before I knew ... there would be no children,” he said in the silence.
I stared a moment longer and Philip, clearing his throat, asked, “Shall I shelve the books?”
I handed them to him and rose. Looking at Leslie, I said, “I do not care what you do with them!”
Then I turned and fled the library. Leslie was on his feet before I reached the door, but he did not follow. And Philip looked away.
I would have fled to the grove near the castle, but it was raining and instead I went to the tower. I had never explored it, but I knew there was a room at the top. The staircase wound upward, and though I tired, I would not stop. The lock protested but yielded to my key, and I stepped inside the room. It was dusty, but I did not care for that and sat on the lid of a trunk. For the room had become a storeroom. My anger, which had been all but spent in reaching the room, flared anew. How dare he? What in God’s name had he , meant by it? Even had I been with child by him, there should have been time enough to order such books later. What had he been thinking of?
Eventually, my anger died and I began to look about me. With a feeling of guilt, I opened a trunk. You are the mistress here, I told myself sternly, you need not feel guilty! And I began to look through the contents. In the second trunk, I found a journal and began to read the small, feminine hand. I was not the first woman in this house to be unhappy, or to be forced into marriage. Laura, her name had been, and the suitor an earl. Her father, an earlier Kinwell baronet, had forced her to accept the man. The journal ranged over only a few months, the half year preceding her marriage. I read with fascination of balls and routs and musical evenings. I read of a London I had never seen, for even then the family moved in the first circles. And as I read I knew that I, too, must leave an account of my misfortune.
I cried as I read the last few pages in which Laura spoke of preferring suicide to marrying this man she had come to hate. I had just closed the journal when I heard steps outside the door. I turned from the window, where I had stood to read, and saw Philip. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Hiding,” I replied, unable to lie. “And you?”
“Looking for you!” he said angrily. “Do you know Uncle I Leslie has turned out the whole castle to look for you? And he’s out in the rain, himself, right now! I know you were upset, but this is the outside of enough! Come on,” he said, grabbing my wrist, “we’ve go
t to tell Jeffries to signal you’re safe. And hope my uncle hasn’t caught a chill looking for you!”
Philip dragged me down the stairs and I could say nothing as his tongue lashed at me. I had no defense. Nor could I speak to him of the true reason I had for anger. At the foot of the stairs, he shouted and a servant came running. She saw me and halted. “Tell Jeffries to sound the bell!” he snapped, and she turned and ran toward the main hall.
In the distance, I could hear the shouts repeated and then a loud ringing. Philip continued to pull me as we made our way to the drawing room where Mary was waiting. She rose as we entered, and the family assemblage was complete. “Well!” she said, “I knew you were young, Heather, but I had not realised you were so thoughtless! My poor brother is out in the rain because of you. And where were you?”
“In the tower,” I said meekly.
“The tower!” she repeated. “And what have you in your hand?”
I looked down in surprise. I had forgotten I held it still. “A journal. Of a Laura Kinwell.” Then I added defiantly, “Who was forced into an unhappy marriage.”
“Her!” Philip snorted contemptuously. “You needn’t feel sorry for her. She ran away the night before the wedding and married a man she had a tendre for.”
Mary added, “The silly fool had never mentioned the boy or her father would never have engaged her to the earl. He was of a respectable enough family, though not as good as the Kinwells.” She paused, “Though I grant you he was wrong to betroth her to the earl.”
“Well, what should he have done?” Philip asked. “She had to be married to someone, didn’t she? And the earl was rich and not too old.”
“Don’t you believe one should marry for love?” I asked. “Oh, well, if one is in love, with someone eligible, then by all means, one should marry that person. But if by twenty-eight one hasn’t fallen in love, one isn’t likely to, and one might as well marry an earl.”
I would have answered further, but we all turned at the sound of voices. Leslie’s could be heard loud and harsh, and a softer voice mingled with it. They were coming toward us, and in a moment, Leslie stood in the room. His eyes were dark and large, weary and angry. He stared at me. “Where?”
“The tower,” Philip answered shortly.
Jeffries stood behind Leslie. “Sir, you must change out of your wet things.”
Water dripped from Leslie to the floor. And his hair was plastered about his face. “Stubble it!” he said sharply, and: with a sigh, Jeffries withdrew. “Mary. Philip. You will leave us.”
They hastily withdrew also, and Leslie and I stared at one another, he blocking the door. He stepped forward and I could feel his anger grow. Another step. Then he was towering over me, his eyes stormy. Suddenly, my eyes were full of: tears, and the journal slipped from my hands to the floor. I stooped to retrieve it and felt Leslie’s hand close over my wrist. Frantically, I tried to pull free, but could not. “Heather!” he said sharply. Then, in a voice more gentle, “Please, Heather.” In surprise, I looked up into his face, and saw that the anger was gone from his eyes. As though he sensed my uncertainty, Leslie added, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I stopped pulling and stood straight. He sighed with relief and indicated I should take a seat as he released my wrist. Nervously, he poured a shot of whiskey and I could see that he shivered in his wet clothes. It was not easy for Leslie to speak and he took some time in choosing his words. “Heather, I don’t doubt that you are angry with me. The books—I should not have ordered them. I admit that. But as for explanation ... I can give you none. I knew it was unlikely you were with child from that night. And I knew that if you were not ... Forget it, can you, Heather?”
I sat stiffly, unwilling to understand, but unable to resist the urgency of his voice. Still, I could not trust myself to speak and I nodded. Leslie’s relief was evident and he smiled as he said, “Thank you, Heather.”
I in turn, needing to fill the silence that followed, said, “You’d best change to dry things, Leslie. It must soon be time for tea.”
He nodded. “You are correct, madam; however you will forgive me if I take my tea alone? Good day.”
And he was gone. Only then did I realise how tightly I gripped the journal. I, too, would take tea in my chamber, I decided. And perhaps begin a record of my own.
Ellen was waiting for me and, for once, had taken Leslie’s side. “You had us all so worried, my lady! And Sir Leslie. He was truly beside himself, I should say.”
“Leave it, Ellen,” I said.
She sniffed. “As you wish, my lady. But you could have come here. I’d have kept everyone out. You’d have had your privacy, and no one worried.”
“Ellen!”
She fell silent then and soon left, having laid out a dress for dinner. With relief, I turned to my desk. If Mary and Philip were to be believed, Laura’s journal had omitted much, and I determined mine should not.
It was evening before we were all together again and we spoke as though nothing had occurred. Indeed, the meal was easier than any since my father had arrived at the estate. And the next two days were to be much the same, quiet and easy. I began to feel calmer, and yes, happier. In the mornings I rode, and in the afternoon Mary and I received callers. I sent one of the servants to Jenny Bartlet with presents for the baby. Among these was a christening gown for the ceremony on Sunday. Sunday. If there had been no christening, how different our lives might now be. And yet, it was a day which dawned so quietly.
Chapter 14
“Just a moment more, my lady,” Ellen was saying as she gave a last twist to the curl at my neck.
A voice laughed resonantly in the doorway. Ellen and I both turned to see Leslie standing there. “Impatient, Heather?” he asked.
I smiled. “A little, I confess. I haven’t seen the child since its birth, and I am curious.”
Leslie smiled indulgently in return. “Well, if we don’t hurry, we shall be late and you may not have the chance.”
At that, I was out of my chair and pulling on my gloves as It Ellen fastened the poke bonnet on my head. Then, my hand on his arm, Leslie led me down to the carriage. Philip was waiting beside it, and to my surprise, Mary was also ready. Her lips were pursed in disapproval. “I cannot approve your ... your help in delivering the child ... but it would not do for anyone outside the family to see it.”
I smiled slightly. Mary could be trusted to preserve family unity at all costs. Which was more, I suspected, than could be said for my father. In spite of Leslie’s warning, w-e arrived well in time at the churchyard. Tom, his wife, and the baby were waiting, and I greeted them with a broad smile. “How are you, Mrs. Bartlet,” I asked. “And the baby?”
She smiled also. “Oh, quite well, me lady. And I thank ye for all yer kindliness.”
She even managed a half curtsy with the child in her arms. Mary graciously admired the baby, and then we were being herded inside. I fidgeted, I confess, during the (it seemed to me) long wait. Then the time came and I proudly stepped forward to take the child. He wore a simple beribboned dress along with a hood and cloak. The latter were of my giving. I slipped these off the child and cradled him in the soft shawl I had brought for the purpose. As I held the child I felt something stir within me, and suddenly I was close to tears. The baby began to yell with a lusty, healthy cry. Mr. Watly stopped and smiled wryly. “I like a noisy child at a christening,” he said, “for it means the baby sets forth its determination from the start. It says it will have a place in this world!” A ripple of amusement flowed through the church, and then silence again prevailed. Watly continued the ceremony. Finally, he handed the child back to me and I kept it in the shawl, making no attempt to exchange this for the hood and cloak. I had no mind to set the child to crying again. And the shawl was meant to be a gift for Jenny Bartlet in any event. Soon we were seated again in our proper pews.
To my surprise, Watly gave a good sermon that day. I remember part of it still. “Motherhood is the most important and most
joyous state a woman can obtain. She is then fulfilled and secure in the love of a being she has brought forth. It cannot but bring a husband and wife closer together, and in that closeness the bonds of marriage are woven stronger. For I speak here of motherhood within the sanctity of marriage. Motherhood without such security is surely a disaster, both for mother and child. The woman is alone and must provide for herself and the child, when both should be provided for by a husband and father. And such a woman brings shame upon herself. And this shame is visited upon the child all its life. In time, each must come to hate the other, mother and child. Better the sanctity of any marriage than such a fate.
“But motherhood is not a light burden. Nor is there any guarantee of a personal reward. For the child may die young or grow up to leave his parents. For parents do not own the child. They are, rather, given the child in trust. It is a being unto itself, with a right to its own existence. But this is not to say we must ignore the child when it is grown. The responsibilities of a mother and father never end. From its earliest days, the mother must watch over the child and guard its physical existence. As the child grows it becomes necessary to guide and mold the spiritual existence, for if this is neglected, the child will be an everlasting sorrow to its parents, to society, and to God. This is not an easy task, for there are ever temptations and dangers to guard our children from. But with God’s help...”
At last the service was over and we were outside. I held the child again. And again I felt the tears, and running through me, a terrible loneliness. Suddenly I thrust the child back into its mother’s arms. “Are you all right?” Leslie asked with concern.
“No,” I said, “I feel rather faint.”
“It is a very warm day,” Mary said sympathetically.
We made our farewells hastily. I was aware of the whispered comments as Leslie handed me into the carriage. Many of the voices were sympathetic. Others, the uninformed, held secret smiles over the condition they falsely believed existed. Mary looked very thoughtful as we rode home. Home! I felt ill as I contemplated a lifetime in the castle. And when we arrived, I immediately went to my room. Ellen was, of course, waiting. “I shall not be going down for luncheon,” I told her. “I ... I am not feeling well.”
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