She tied the mare to a tree in the shade and fastened up the skirt of her habit, all the while demanding, “Where is the path down? Is it to the right or left?”
Laughing at her eagerness, Penworth tied up his own horse and pointed her toward a pair of shrubs that seemed to mark an entranceway. “That seems a likely spot.” She reached it before him, and was halfway down before he started the descent. When he reached the bottom, he saw his poised, elegant wife sitting on a rock, pulling off her boots and stockings. Next came the skirt of her riding habit. She paused momentarily to scan the top of the cliff and asked, “We are not overlooked here, are we?” When he shook his head, she tossed the skirt on top of her boots and the jacket of her habit on top of that. Hitching her petticoat up above her knees, she raced down to the water and stood there laughing as the waves broke around her ankles.
Penworth found himself laughing as well as he pulled off boots and stockings and rolled up his breeches so he could join his suddenly hoyden-wife.
She laughed with delight, reaching out a hand for him to join her. “Come ahead. It is not too cold. Stand here,” she ordered. “Can you feel the waves pulling the sand out from under your feet? Does it not tickle?”
He was probably grinning like a fool, he thought, but her happiness was absolutely infectious. The poised and elegant lady had been washed away by the waves and what remained was the tomboy Anne must once have been. He was delighted to meet her.
“There must always be a beach here,” she said. “The cliff does not look as if the tide ever gets that high. But it’s a cove, and those arms must keep it sheltered, so it is probably safe for swimming.”
Swimming, he thought. He could picture her diving, naked, into the waves. “Can you swim?” he asked, and noticed that his voice had suddenly grown hoarse.
“Of course,” she said. “We often went to the seaside, my parents and I, and my father insisted that my mother and I learn to swim before he would let us go out in his boat. And look, there are all those rocks to climb.” She turned to him with a face filled with joy. “Oh Philip, what a wonderful place this will be for children.”
Children? His smile faded and he stepped away. He had never thought about children. Well, he knew of course that they were always a possibility, even a probability, he supposed, the way they had been going on. He had just never thought about them as something that might actually happen, as potentially real. More responsibilities. God, did he really need more responsibilities?
But then, all of a sudden he could see them. He could see the little ones running along the shore, holding Anne’s hands. And he could see himself, too, fishing with the older ones. There were both boys and girls. And they were all laughing.
Children. His children, his and Anne’s. They would be a family, a real family. The wonder of it made him smile. He turned back to her, but before he could say anything he realized that she had resumed her frozen mask. The joyful hoyden was gone, and the perfect lady was stepping carefully out of the water.
“I apologize, my lord,” she said with chilly courtesy. “I should not have presumed that you would want children or that you would permit them to play on a beach.”
“No!” he cried out and caught her arm to pull her back. “No, you misunderstand. It was just the surprise.” He shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. “Until you mentioned children, I had never even thought about them. I had not realized how much I do want children.”
She was still looking uncertain. He cradled her face in his hands. This was important. He had to make her understand. “It was only when you spoke that I discovered that I do want children—how much I want children. How much I want our children. Many of them. We will love them and care for them, and we will play with them on the shore. We will be a family. Do you want that too?”
She smiled tremulously. “Oh yes, I want that. I want that so very much.”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily, longingly, holding her ever closer, and she responded with her own longing and hunger.
When they broke off the kiss, he still held her, cradling her head against his shoulder. I will take care of our children and protect them, he thought. You need never worry. I will not make my father’s mistake. I will see to it that should anything happen to me, you and our children will never be left in poverty. I will make certain that you will be safe, all of you.
They stood there, holding each other, taking pleasure in the closeness, in the holding. Eventually they stepped apart, and Penworth offered a wicked smile. “We still have our picnic in a basket up atop the cliff. I believe Mrs. Tripp included a blanket for our comfort.” Anne may have blushed slightly, but the gleam in her eye looked very like his when she snatched up her clothes and hurried up the path.
Later, as they were riding slowly homeward, Penworth considered possibilities and decided that he would need to go to London to confer with his attorneys about the best way to keep his own fortune separate from the entailed estate to ensure that Anne and any children would always be provided for.
Chapter Twenty-four
In which our hero departs for London
The mail arrived while they were at the breakfast table. Crane handed it to Penworth, and he handed two of the letters to Anne. She took them with delight. It still seemed a luxury that when letters came for her, she actually received them.
When she looked up, she saw that Penworth was smiling at his correspondence too. “It’s from Charles,” he said, “reminding me that I had promised to join him in London. Would you mind? Things seem fairly settled here, and you’ve been making friends with the neighbors.”
This was opportune, he thought. He needed an excuse to go to London. His other letter was from Whyte, asking him to come to London as soon as possible. Whyte had made some interesting discoveries in regard to Anne’s inheritance. He didn’t want to say anything to Anne just yet. There was no point in raising her hopes when it might all come to nothing.
His desire to leave was a shock, but Anne managed to keep smiling and said, “Of course. I can manage quite well, and I have all sorts of things to keep me busy.”
He suddenly looked uncertain, as if he had heard something in her voice. “You are sure? You won’t be frightened?”
“Nonsense. What would I be frightened about? We have a household full of servants, and in the past month I think I have made the acquaintance of everyone for miles around.” She gave him a brilliant smile and took a sip of tea with what she considered admirable aplomb. He grinned, looking, she thought, like a schoolboy who had just been given permission to go on holiday.
“If you are quite certain, I’ll go have a word with Galveston. Make sure he knows to keep an eye on things, and so on. Then I can start out this afternoon.”
Her smile faded as she watched him walk away, almost bouncing with eagerness. You idiot, she thought. What did you expect? You know he married you only because his honor demanded it. You know he has nothing but bitter memories connected with this place. London is where he wants to be. Did you really think he would stay here dancing attendance on you? Be grateful for what you have—a home of your own, position, comfort. Don’t you dare start feeling sorry for yourself.
She shook herself and stood. He had been kind and generous—more than kind and more than generous. She had no right to demand more. She had no right to expect even as much as he had given her. The other day on the shore—she had obviously read far more into it than he had intended.
The world was full of marriages where couples barely spoke and were rarely even in the same county, no less the same house. A man was allowed to live his own life as he wished. A woman would be a fool to expect anything else.
She knew that. She was not a fool.
It was just that she had started to think there was more between them. Or at least, she had started to hope there was.
But now she needed to stop indulging in wishful thinking. At least she could see to his packing. That was surely a wifely duty. And it g
ave her an excuse to ask how long he would be gone.
As it turned out, that bit of information remained unknown. Most of his things were still in London, so all he needed was enough for the journey—three or four days, since he would be on horseback with only Crispin for company. Shortly after noon, all was ready. He gave her a smile and a kiss. “Will you miss me?”
She returned the smile and walked out to the waiting horse with him. “I shall endeavor to do so. And while you are gone, I think I will take on the marquess and marchioness’ bedrooms. Perhaps they can be turned into something that can be inhabited by mere mortals.”
He gave a theatrical shudder. “Only a woman could view such a prospect with equanimity.” Then, before mounting, he stopped and looked uncertain. “You will be all right, won’t you? And you have my direction if you need anything, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she assured him. “Do not fuss.”
But when he rode off, there was a crease of worry on his brow. Had he turned around again, he would have seen Anne no longer smiling but biting her lip and looking after him sadly.
When she returned to the house, she was not quite sure what to do. She ought to warn Mrs. Tripp not to make a large dinner. It would be silly to sit in the dining room in solitary splendor. She would simply have supper on a tray. But where? Not in the library. They usually sat there together. Not in their room. His absence would be too obvious. She needed to choose someplace new, a place that would be just hers, where she could sit and read and plan—and even write letters. After all, there were rooms here that she had barely even seen.
She began wandering around, peering into various rooms. One was too large, another too small, one was too dark, another overlooked the stables. Finally she remembered the towers. The south tower had a circular room with a view of the distant sea. When she had first seen it, she thought it belonged in a fairy tale.
Like every other room in the castle, it had been swept clean and the windows gleamed. There was virtually no furniture, however. She looked around with narrowed eyes, visualizing what would be needed. A desk and chair, there to the right of the window. A comfortable chair—no, a pair of chairs—by the fireplace. Just because this was going to be her room did not mean she would never have a visitor here. And a table could be set up for a tray meal. Draperies could wait, but there was a pretty carpet in one of the sitting rooms that would fit here nicely. The walls needed fresh paint, or perhaps paper, but she could find a pair of chairs right away, and she knew just which writing table she wanted.
Yes, by supper time, this would be her room.
They stopped for the night at Poole. Crispin dismounted with a groan, making Penworth feel guilty. He knew his valet disliked riding, and he could just as well have put the man in a carriage. He just felt somehow more free on horseback, and a carriage was too slow.
He and Anne had stopped here on the way to the castle, and he remembered it as a pleasant place. The landlord remembered him—after all, it had been barely a month since he was last here—and insisted that the room he was given was the one he had shared with Anne. Somehow, it did not seem as attractive. Indeed, the whole town seemed less attractive than he remembered.
Dinner was also a disappointment. There was no point in eating alone in a private parlor, but Crispin was no sort of company. All he would say was “Yes, my lord” and “No, my lord.” The other travelers were worse, with their bawdy comments on the attributes of the barmaid. Penworth stopped to tell the startled landlord that he should protect the poor girl, not subject her to such insults, and then headed for bed in a foul mood. How could he have thought this was a pleasant place to stop?
After tossing and turning for hours, he finally fell asleep.
He was awakened by the warmth of the morning sun on his face and smiled. Anne had left the curtains open again. He reached over to pull her close to him, but his arm encountered…nothing.
“Anne?” he murmured. He patted the bed but could not find even a patch of warmth.
“Anne? Where are you?” He turned onto his side, opened his eyes and peered about. His eyes focused on the draperies. But they did not look right, somehow. They were blue. Shouldn’t they be yellow?
“Anne? Where have you gone?” He sat up and stared.
This was not their room.
Where the devil was he?
Then he remembered.
He was in The Swan at Poole, on his way to London, and he had left Anne behind. He fell back on the pillow. Why the devil had he done that?
She could have come with him. She would probably enjoy London now that she was his wife. She could go shopping, go to dressmakers, and buy things for the house. He would take her to the theater. She had never been to a play, she told him. They could go to concerts—she liked music. He knew that.
And she would be here in his bed, next to him, where she belonged.
Why the devil did he think he should leave her in Dorset? He could visit lawyers easily enough with her in the same city.
Well, be damned to that. He’d go back and fetch her.
She’d be pleased to see him, he was sure. She’d tried to hide it, but he was certain she had been disappointed when he left. She would be surprised to see him so soon, but happy. He grinned to think of the welcome she would give him, and how happy she would be when he told her he was taking her to London with him. He felt rather smugly virtuous, in fact.
Yes, he was looking forward to his welcome.
Chapter Twenty-five
In which our heroine receives an unwelcome visitor
Anne awoke feeling cold, despite the quilts. She had slept in what was supposed to be her room, but this was the first night she had spent here. She had always slept in their room, next to Philip, warmed by his presence, kept safe in his embrace.
She felt horribly cold.
Annoyed, she rang the bell, and then snapped at the maid for not having the fire built up, no matter that she never called for a fire so early in the morning. And she wanted her tea and the curtains drawn. She snapped at Millie because she wanted a bath and to be dressed and to have her hair fixed.
Millie and the little maid—Betty, she was called—tiptoed round, trying to avoid her eye, and she began to feel guilty. It was hardly their fault that her husband had chosen to leave her at the first opportunity. She could not decide if apologizing would help or just be more embarrassing. She settled on silence and tried to rein in her bad temper.
She thanked the maid for the tea, complimented Millie on the hair style, and went down to breakfast, trying to decide what to do with herself for the coming days, or weeks, or months, whatever it turned out to be.
She needed a project to occupy her, but not redoing bedrooms. She needed something that had nothing to do with bedrooms. Especially empty bedrooms.
The breakfast room looked out on the rose garden, enclosed in walls of faded brick. She looked at it as she sipped her tea. It was too late in the year for roses, except perhaps for the Autumn Damask. Even if it were June, the garden would be too choked with weeds to be a pleasant sight—the same scraggly plants everywhere, none of them particularly attractive. Was it really just a rose garden? Surely no one would have planned a garden that would be on view every day of the year but attractive for only a single month.
It was difficult to see what had been intended by looking at the garden. Her mother had been very proud of her rose garden, and as a child Anne had often helped her there. But that was a long time ago, and she was not familiar enough with other plants to know with any certainty just what surrounded the rose bushes here.
Perhaps there was a plan somewhere that showed the design for the garden. Perhaps there was even an old plan, dating to before Penworth’s grandmother. It would be pleasant to erase the old harridan from this house completely, to recreate the garden she had failed to preserve, to make it as if she had never been here.
If there were such a plan, it would probably be in the library. She and Penworth had discovered plans
of the house there. Perhaps there were plans of the grounds as well.
She put down her cup and headed for the library.
Some hours later, her hair style was more than a trifle disheveled and her pretty morning dress was smudged with dust. She had discovered that even a well-fitted door was insufficient to keep decades of dust out of a cabinet, and there were many cabinets in the library.
She found plans for a watch tower on the coast, and plans for a summer house in the garden. Neither of these had been built, though the summer house looked as if it might be pretty. She would have to ask Penworth if it was a possibility. If he returned.
She also found bundles of bills of varying antiquity. Some had been marked paid, but some had not. She wondered if Penworth would be expected to honor a wine merchant’s bill from 1708. Would the debt have been inherited by the wine merchant’s descendants? Or perhaps it had been paid after all. Perhaps Penworth’s great great grandfather had been scrupulously honest in his dealings. It would be pleasant to think so.
Then she gave a cry of triumph. A roll of plans contained designs for the grounds. A great many designs, in varying styles. Some proposals in the style of Capability Brown had obviously never been carried out. The park had never been “improved,” and the formal gardens and parterres of earlier generations remained. Anne was rather glad of that. The parterres might be a bit excessive in their formality—very well, they were decidedly excessive. However, she was pleased that not all the flower beds had been replaced by lawns and trees.
And here in the roll was a plan of the walled garden. Anne carried it over to the desk and unrolled it carefully, weighing down the corners with books. Yes, this was precisely what she had been looking for. The walls and paths were clearly laid out, and there were lists of plants for each season. She remembered many of the names on the lists from her childhood—gillyflowers, lady’s mantle, stock, lavender. She wanted to run and show Penworth what she had found, and then remembered that he had left.
A MATCH FOR THE MARQUESS Page 16
