by Cari Hislop
“But Aunt Suzie was in love with the baker…”
“Oh that ended when she caught him in the barn with Mrs Cooper. Mr Cooper flogged the baker at the whipping post and Mrs Cooper wasn’t allowed to buy her bread after that though I can’t say the same for several other ladies who like their bread fresh from the oven if you know what I mean. Shall I fetch you something to eat Madam?”
“Yes thank you.”
“Is there anything you’d particularly like? A piece of the moon?” The young girl giggled in amusement. “Mrs Jones would have a fit.”
“No, just some chocolate, eggs and toast…is the bread fresh today?”
“It was made this morning, but not by Mrs Jones. Master Bowen kept complaining he didn’t want a doorstop on his plate every morning so she demanded he increase her housekeeping to pay a baker or find a new housekeeper. Mr Jones says his stomach will be eternally grateful to Mr Bowen. Shall I order a bath?”
“That would be lovely; six cans of water will be enough…” The maid’s cheerful rambling had momentarily lifted her spirits, but in the silence it was difficult to forget she wasn’t living a love story; she was in one of those penny dreadfuls where people lived miserable lives and then died painful deaths. If the plot went unchallenged she’d be lucky if she died in childbirth leaving an orange haired child to remind Mr Bowen of his impulsive folly.
When her tray arrived she picked at her food and couldn’t finish it. Even her cup of chocolate remained barely touched. She remained silent while the maid trimmed her hair and then helped her wash and change into a clean nightgown. Even the fact that Mr Bowen had taken one of her dresses away to a dressmaker to have some new ones made up from it couldn’t bring a smile to her face. He was very kind and she was grateful, but at the same time she wasn’t grateful and it made her feel worse. “Madame are you in pain? Would you like me to prepare a glass of laudanum? Mr Bowen said you could have two drops in water if you need it.”
“No I’ll just sleep and have nightmares…”
“I’d have nightmares if Master William cut all my hair off with a penknife, but you needn’t worry about him. Mr Bowen made him drink enough laudanum this morning to bring down a horse. He’s snoring like a dog…”
“Did Mr Bowen say where he was going?”
“No, but I’d wager he’s gone to buy you more presents. Did you want to open the one’s he bought yesterday? Looking at them makes me feeling like Christmas has come early.”
“I’ll have the bonbons first.” Sitting in front of the fire, Lily opened the box to find rows of carefully decorated confections.
“Oh Madam…he must love you very much. I was in the dining room when he kissed you. I hope a man buys me bonbons hoping I’ll pay him with kisses.” The young woman sighed. “It’s so romantic. Years ago Mr Jones wagered Mrs Jones that Mr Bowen would never fall in love again and this morning he lost a whole guinea. Mrs Jones says she’s going to buy herself a new Sunday hat so he’ll be reminded once a week he’s not always right.”
“Mrs Jones will have to give back the guinea.” Lily’s voice was as flat as her heart. “Mr Bowen isn’t in love with me. He’s just being kind.”
“Of course he’s in love with you…I’ve seen him smile at you and then Mrs Jones says the fact Mr Bowen has been humming and singing proves it as he only hums when he’s happy and they haven’t heard him hum or sing in years though how anyone rich and beautiful could be miserable is beyond me.”
Tears dripped from Lily’s eyes onto several bonbons. “He’s not in love with me. He said so himself.”
The maid looked stunned. “He told you he didn’t love you?”
“I overheard him tell William.”
“Well he wouldn’t tell William he loved you. Men don’t tell other men that sort of thing. Besides, Mrs Jones is certain he’s in love with you. She’s heard him call you Cariadon and according to her no Welshman would call an English woman that unless he loves her. It means Beloved…how can he not love you?”
“Maybe his father always called his mother that?”
“Maybe, but I’ve seen him kiss you and I don’t think any man would kiss a woman like that unless he was in love with her…well not unless she was a living goddess or he’d been to sea and hadn’t seen a woman for six months, but I’d wager a gold guinea Master Bowen is in love with you and I’m sure I’d be the richer.”
“Why would he love me?”
“I don’t know…why did my Da fall in love with Aunt Suzie? She’s a good woman, but she looks like God forgot to put on his spectacles if you know what I mean. Love doesn’t always make sense. Don’t tell a soul, but I happen to know that one of the footmen is in love with Mrs Jones…”
Lily forgot she was crying and started laughing. “Mrs Jones…the woman who always looks like she’s been dragged backwards through a hedge and then stuffed into over starched linen with pleats as sharp as knives?”
“Yes, he watches her with the most sickening longing if Mr Jones isn’t in sight. He’d do anything she asked…anything…and if Mr Jones found out he’d kill him. Mr Jones likes to pretend he married her because she’ll inherit her father’s farm, but really he adores her. I’ve seen her rebuff his affections and he stands there like a heart broken chicken.”
“Is there such a thing as a heart broken chicken?”
“My Aunt Suzie had one, but a nasty fox ate it. At least the chicken went the same way as her beloved cock. Love is like that…”
“Like a dead chicken?”
“No, we have to scratch and peck together while we can. You never know when a fox is going to break into the henhouse and eat your lover. At least that’s what Ma says and she should know. She fell in love with Mr Potter and they enjoyed three passionate years before his wife poisoned him. Mrs Potter denied it of course, but she did marry Mr Harding a month after the funeral and seven months later had a child who was unmistakably a Harding. Poor Mr Potter, he made love to Ma in the evening and the next morning he died at the breakfast table. Ma was heartbroken, just like the chicken.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
The maid’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Oooh, I love secrets…I won’t tell a soul!”
“I love Mr Bowen. I’ve loved him since the first time I saw him. I was playing in the garden. He’d come to call on my sister; they’d become engaged. He was so kind…”
“How romantic…he fell in love with you and married you years later…”
“He was in love with my sister.”
“Your sister? He nearly married that vicious fishwife who tried to kill Mr and Mrs Jones? But you lived with her…is she the one who beat you?”
“Yes. Mr Bowen rescued me.”
“Oh that is romantic…you should tell Mr Bowen that you love him.”
“I couldn’t…it wouldn’t mean anything to him.”
“Of course it would. You should tell him. My cousin Becky knew this lad who worked on the next farm. She didn’t think anything of him ‘til someone told her he was in love with her. She started talking to him whenever they happened to meet because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. A few months later he asked her to walk out with him and after six months she was in love with him. It turned out he wasn’t in love with her to begin with; it had all been a jest, but he fell in love with her and they’d still be happily married if he hadn’t been run over by a herd of cows. That was an unpleasant funeral. I kept imagining his pleasant face covered with hoof prints. If you tell Mr Bowen you love him, even if he doesn’t love you he’s bound to think better of you for thinking so highly of him. He may be rich, but no amount of money can buy love.”
“Everyone loves Mr Bowen…”
“I don’t love him. He’s a good master, but that doesn’t mean I’d want to marry him. I’d rather marry Mr Potter. He’s the son of Ma’s lover by his wife who poisoned him. The young Mr Potter makes my heart dance. Even if he is half-brother to my half-brother; I could die in his arms a happy woman, but I th
ink he has his eye on Mary Dooley. That would be a waste of a good man, but you should tell Mr Bowen that you love him.”
“I couldn’t…I’d feel stupid. What would I say? ‘Mr Bowen, I’ve loved you since I chased your hat in the garden.’? I’m his wife, what difference does it make if he knows I love him or not?”
“I think if you told him you love him he’d start thinking what good taste you have and before long he’d think you the most wonderful woman in the world and wouldn’t you be happier knowing he loved you?”
“It would be a dream come true.”
“How is he going to know if you don’t tell him?”
“I could do kind things for him.”
“It’s not the same. You have to tell him so he knows why you’re doing kind things. He might think you’re being kind because you feel obliged; that would never make a man feel loved. The next time you’re alone with him you should just say it like you said to me, say, ‘Mr Bowen can I tell you a secret?’…he’ll think it charming.”
“I can’t. What if he thinks it amusing or worse, what if he says, ‘That’s nice dear.’ and sounds like he couldn’t care less? I couldn’t bear it.”
“Perhaps you should eat a few bonbons and open his gifts…maybe you’ll decide to risk it.” As Lily’s tongue wrapped around sweetness she remembered Mr Bowen’s kisses. The thought of saying those three little words to him made her blush. What if knowing she loved him put him off kissing her, but what if she told him and he was pleased? She’d think about it and if she felt brave and he was smiling at her she’d think about it some more. Opening his gifts gave her courage. Each little package revealed a thoughtful kindness that had come straight from Mr Bowen. Even if he didn’t love her, he’d clearly spent hours thinking of her. That lifted her spirits. Each one reminded her why she loved him and strengthened her heart. She wiped away her tears on one of her new silk handkerchiefs and tucked it into her bosom. Opening one of her new books she read it out loud to the maid sitting on a stool at her feet savoring a bonbon. Each time she turned a page she imagined greeting Mr Bowen with a kiss. She’d make sure he knew she appreciated all his kindnesses and that would put a smile on his face. Maybe when they were alone she’d be able to tell him that she loved him.
Chapter 18
Penryth cursed the weather as the wind picked up forcing him to close his umbrella and pull his hat tighter down onto his head. The lashing rain was bringing the day to an early close. It was only four-thirty in the afternoon, but it was starting to get dark. In an hour or so night would descend and he’d be at the mercy of hungry pick pockets and cut throats. The smell of wet wool and overflowing gutters made him wish he was in Wales where the green winter hills undulated towards the mountains and a man could find peaceful solitude to think. Walking around London only accentuated the fact he was miserable. In need of both comfort and peace, his feet moved homeward as the rain stung his lips recalling more pleasant sensations. He felt overwhelmed with the need to hold his wife, but he felt no jealousy or possessiveness. Why would he? There was little fear that some other man would desire Lily’s bed; she was too quiet, too shy, and too fat. With Lily there was only peaceful contentment. She made him feel comfortable; as if he’d never left Wales to become a polished gentleman. It wouldn’t make a romance worth reading. He couldn’t possibly be in love with his wife.
A blustery wet wind pinned him up against his door. Slamming the knocker with force until it was opened; the footman appeared oblivious to Penryth’s wet scowl. “My wife?”
“She’s in your chamber. Goodman hasn’t left his post…” Penryth handed over his umbrella and marched up the stairs dripping water. He dismissed the footman with a wave of the hand and entered his chamber without knocking. A maid sitting on a footstool in front of the fire turned to look at him with surprise and then Lily’s head hesitantly appeared around the side of the wingchair.
“Mr Bowen?”
“Fetch me two towels and tell Mrs Jones I want dinner in half an hour.” Lily jumped out of the chair and started for the door. “I meant the maid, Mrs Bowen…”
His wife turned red as she stopped and forced a smile. “Of course…”
The maid curtseyed to her master and whispered, “Tell Mr Bowen your secret!” His wife blushed and studied the floor boards as the door closed leaving them alone.
“What secret?”
“I’ve been reading her a romance; one of your lovely gifts. She’s being silly…”
“What secret?”
“It’s nothing…”
A combustible liquid flooded Penryth’s veins. “Are you in love with some man?” He hadn’t meant to sound so cold or suspicious. Heat gushed into her cheeks setting his veins on fire. “Who is he?”
“Someone who doesn’t love me so what difference does it make?”
“The difference Madam is I have no desire to share my wife. Who is he?”
“You have nothing to fear Mr Bowen. I’d never betray my vows or your past kindnesses.”
“Are you insinuating that not wanting to share my wife makes me unkind?”
“You misunderstand…”
“This man is your secret?”
“Mr Bowen, you’re working yourself up over nothing.”
“It won’t be ‘nothing’ Mrs Bowen, when my heir looks like this other man. Tell me his name so I can flatten his nose when he comes sniffing around your skirts.”
“Has Lord Gillingham ever flattened your nose?”
“We’re not talking about me. Who is he?”
She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands. “I don’t want to love him anymore.”
Penryth scowled in confusion. Feeling like a heartless wretch he struggled to remove sodden layers and flung them at the floor with force unable to define why he was so upset. The world wouldn’t end if she took a lover or got with child by some other man, so why did he feel like he was living through Armageddon? He wanted that peaceful contentment that bred laughter and smiles and sweet kisses, not this choking misery. His eyes slowly slid away from the pile of discarded black clothes, across the floor and up over his wife’s generous curves. More than anything, he wanted his wife to love him. “Does he know you love him?”
“No.”
“Will you promise me you’ll never tell him?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking…”
Irrational rage surged into his chest. “How can you deny me this one small request?”
“My heart would die.”
Penryth felt the words enter his ear and drip into his soul like poison. He would have sworn that her smiles and blushes over the past weeks had been for him. How could she be in love with another man and kiss him like a besotted lover? Had he married a heartless hussy? Was she merely an accomplished actress like her sister? “Has he bed you?”
“No.”
“Would you let him?”
“I’d never do anything to dishonor you. Never!”
“Then promise me you won’t bed him.”
“I can’t!”
“Why the hell not?” She burst into tears and cowered near the bed waiting to feel his wrath. “I’m not going to hit you…I’d never hit you.” His exasperation only made her cry harder. “Cariadon, please don’t cry like that because of me.” He left wet footprints as he crossed to her in his shirtsleeves and coaxed her into his arms until she was crying into his shoulder. “I’m a beastly cad…” Her quiet sobs agreed that he was. “…but you don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m cold, wet and hungry. I didn’t mean to shout at you.” He caressed her back until she ran out of tears and shuddered into silence, his only comfort was her hands clutching his linen shirt. “I’ve no right to demand your secrets, but what if the man who owns your heart suddenly realizes you’re a treasure and tries to steal you away?”
