by Regina Darcy
“I would like to do something for the Marquess,” Theodosia said. “I have so few talents, I am afraid, that I must call upon those tasks which, while I cannot say I did them particularly well, I am familiar with. If I could cook tonight’s meal for him, it is a way of expressing my appreciation.”
Mrs Morris looked kindly upon her mistress. “I reckon he’s pleased with his choice, milady,” she said, “and will be so, whether you cook for him or not. But if you’ve a mind to do it, I’ve got some knitting that I need to do before I visit my daughter for Christmas, and I’ll be able to do that. If you’ve any questions, I’ll be upstairs in my room.”
Theodosia set to work in the kitchen, preparing dough for bread and cutting up onions and other ingredients to add to the stew she planned to make. It was a cold day outside and the snow had been falling, off and on, throughout the afternoon. It would make a simple meal, stew and bread, but it would be a hearty one. Even though she was now the wife of a wealthy man, it never occurred to her that she could have used some of the money in the allowance that David provided and shop for a present for him.
She was still uneasy about his generosity and her recent years of financial constraints had instilled in her a habit of saving where she could, even if it was no longer required. Besides, the intimacy she was hoping for would not change the fact that the arrangement would end in five years. Simply because she would be a wealthy divorced woman was no reason to behave as if there were no need for thrift.
As the delicious aromas of the bread and stew mingled in the kitchen, Theodosia felt a sense of accomplishment. She went upstairs to dress for supper, confident that David would be pleased, upon returning home from his day, to find a wholesome and satisfying meal to enjoy, one that expressed her appreciation for his generosity.
She had instructed the servants not to serve the meal until the Marquess was home, but when the supper hour passed and David was yet absent, she began to worry. Had something happened? Unbidden, memories of the night of her parents’ accident rushed to mind but she forced them away. This was London, not the country, and carriages could not travel at anything but slow speeds owing to traffic. He must be delayed, that was all.
But when nine o’clock came and he was not there, Abbot inquired whether he should serve her.
“No, thank you, Abbot,” Theodosia answered, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “Perhaps you and the others would like to eat it? I am not hungry.”
When Abbot relayed this information to Mrs Morris, the cook was unhappy.
“Poor thing,” she said of the Marchioness, “not many of her station would want to cook a meal for their husband. It’s not like the master to be thoughtless. I do wonder what’s going on.”
“There is no reason to waste the food or her efforts,” Abbot said. “I’ll inform James that supper is ready.”
It was ten o’clock before the sound of David’s footsteps was heard and it was Mrs Morris, rather than Abbot, who answered.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, holding out her hand for his hat. “A dreadful night it is. Were you delayed by the poor weather?”
“I—” David took off his cloak and handed it to her. “I was unavoidably delayed.”
“That is a pity, my lord. Her Ladyship prepared a very nice meal for you, all with her own hands. A delicious stew she made, and a fine loaf of bread. I doubt you’ll find many in the aristocracy who could do such a thing.”
David froze. “The Marchioness? She cooked?”
“That she did, my lord, for you. But as you were delayed, she went up to bed and me, Mr Abbot, and James had the pleasure of it.”
“I am glad that you enjoyed it,” David said tonelessly. “I am sure it was very appetising.”
“That it was, my lord. Just the thing for a bitter cold night. Is there anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Morris,” he answered in the same voice which lacked intonation. “I have no further need. Good night.”
“Good night, my lord.”
David nodded and went up the stairs to his bedroom with a heavy heart. His selfish thoughtlessness had likely caused Theodosia pain. She could not know that it was to immunise himself against his growing attraction to her that had caused him to deliberately miss supper, but he had had no way of knowing—how could he have known—that she was going to cook for him.
Women of the beau monde did not cook. They did not make selfless gestures to show their feelings and no woman with a title would so lower herself, as they would see it, to doing a servant’s tasks, no matter the reason.
Regardless of the risk, he knew he had to make amends. Theodosia had been sorely wounded in her pride and self confidence by Lord Bantry’s actions; how cruel it was of him to duplicate that unkindness.
What significance could gifts have when his deeds made them a lie? Presents were trifles, bought with money. Theodosia had taken the time to cook a meal for him, even though she could have easily decided to shop for a gift to give him. Or she could have shopped for herself; despite his urging, she had yet to go to the dressmakers in Worth Street to refurbish her wardrobe.
Was she reluctant to use the allowance he had settled on her for her own wants, even though he had been quite clear that this was something he proposed? She was not a grasping or greedy woman, that was clear; in fact, most women of high birth would have swooped upon such a generous allowance by now and, in many cases, depleted it.
David spent a sleepless night, his conscience gnawing at him for his behaviour. The next morning, he arose early, bathed, shaved and dressed, and was seated at the dining table when Theodosia entered.
She seemed uncomfortable at the sight of him. David rose, put away his newspaper, and came forward to lead her to her chair.
“I am told that I missed a marvellous opportunity to sample your culinary skills last night,” he said as he seated her. “Mrs Morris lavished praise upon your stew and said that she could not have bettered it, not with all her years of experience.
In atonement, I shall wait upon you this morning.”
“There is no need,” Theodosia protested, but David had already taken her dish to the sideboard. He heaped the breakfast dishes upon it, guessing that she had gone to bed hungry because she could not endure eating a meal that she had prepared for his benefit.
He brought the plate back and placed it before her, then poured her a cup of tea before serving himself.
“This is quite a lot of food,” Theodosia said, eyeing the heaped eggs, generous number of bacon strips, thick slices of toast and bowl of fruit with something akin to alarm.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “But after we eat, we shall go for a carriage ride and we shall spend the morning outside. It’s a magnificent day. The snow has stopped falling and the landscape is beautiful.”
“It is likely to be slippery outside.”
“Wilson will be driving and he is a master whip. I assure you, he can steer the carriage through anything. My horses are used to being out in all sorts of weather; they will know what to do and we will come to no harm.”
“But—”
“My dear Theodosia, what is it? You look a fright.”
“It is only—my parents died . . . they were riding in a carriage when the wheels slid on the ice and the carriage collided with other vehicles on a road that was icy. They were killed; others were killed as well. It was a terrible time.”
“I am sure it was,” he agreed sympathetically. “But this is London and there is enough traffic to have brought any ice to surrender. We shall be well. I promise you, Theodosia. You must trust me.”
Reluctantly, she agreed to go with him on a carriage ride after they finished eating. He could see that the looming outing troubled her and conversation was meagre throughout the meal.
When they finished their morning meal, David sent for Abbot to bring their coats. He sensed Theodosia trembling as she waited outside next to him while Wilson brought the carriage and he knew that it was not
only the cold that caused her physical reaction. Was he wrong, he wondered, as he helped her into the carriage before getting in himself, to employ a carriage ride to spend time with her?
Abbot provided hot bricks for them to place beneath their feet so that they would stay warm for a time despite the freezing temperatures outside. David, sitting beside her, was pleased that, even if the day was a cold one in winter, it offered a reason for him to sit close to her.
“You shall enjoy this ride, I promise,” he said. “London can be lovely in winter, especially after a snowfall.”
“I am sure it can,” she said politely.
“You do not believe me.”
“I do, I truly do, but I cannot help but think of my mother and father.”
“That must have been a dreadful moment for you.”
“It was,” she nodded as the carriage began to move forward. “I had intended to go with them, but I was finishing up the scarves my mother and I were knitting for the vicar’s wife. She always is vigorous in providing for the poor at Christmas time and I had been lax in doing my share. I have always felt ill-at-ease that I was not with them.”
“I should guess that your parents, on the other hand, were very grateful that you were not with them,” he answered after giving her comment some thought. “Any parent would choose the life of their child over their own life, would they not?”
“I don’t know, I am not likely to ever be a parent.”
“Nor am I, but I can guess at the predominant emotion.”
“Would your father have chosen your life over his own?”
It was a challenging question. At first, David felt angry, but then he realised that she was right to ask it. And indeed, had a right to ask it. She was his wife. Regardless of the terms of their marriage, there were things which a husband and wife shared with no one else but one another.
“I don’t know. I knew him so little, you see. He was in London most of the time. My mother preferred the country. I now realise that theirs must have been an unhappy union for them to choose separation from one another over sharing a residence.
I lived with her. He came home infrequently, and when he did, there was no alternation in my days. I remained in the nursery with my nanny until I was old enough for a governess. Then I was sent away to school. I do not think that my father and I every spent more than fifteen minutes together alone with each other’s company.”
“Perhaps, if they were unhappily married, they unfairly made you the object of their dissatisfaction.”
It was plausible. He recalled his mother as a woman forever suffering from some ailment that kept her bedridden for days. They had not welcomed guests or callers and the estate was devoid of the healthy diversion which might have been provided by outside company.
“Perhaps,” he said. “As a child, I had no means of comprehending the tensions which I sensed when with them. I went away to school and suffered none of the usual pangs of homesickness. I relished school. For all its regime, it was where I first learned that laughter was more common than sadness. I went to Oxford and experienced the same delight.”
“Did you and your father ever come to an understanding?”
“We did not. After Oxford, I went on the Grand Tour and I experienced what many a young lad does when he is without the harness of authority. I found Europe and its pleasures very much to my liking and I lingered until my father cut off funds and I was obliged to return to England. It was then that I settled in London.”
“In your current house?”
“That was my father’s house,” he corrected her. “No, I spent most of my days at my club, or with friends. While I called my father’s residence my home, I was rarely there. Until he died, and I assumed the title.
When I became the Marquess, I had the house entirely refurnished; new carpeting, new wallpaper, everything. It was more than maintenance, it was, I now realise, a purge. My mother died soon after my father; it was as if, once the bonds of enmity were loosed, she had no reason to go on living. After they died, I suppose you could say I reformed. I appointed a steward to manage the estate and the tenants, but I have stayed in London. And that, Theodosia, is the dull tale of my maturation.”
Listening to David had diverted Theodosia from her anxiety at the carriage drive in the snow and her unhappy memories of her parents’ death. David was pleased to see that her beautiful eyes were now intent upon what he had just revealed to her, not shadowed by her tragic recollections of that deadly Christmas years before.
“That is very sad,” she said. “They might have enjoyed you as an adult.”
“I don’t know. I am not sure they were the sort of people who particularly wanted to enjoy me or anything. They relished their misery. I, on the other hand,” he said with a smile, taking her gloved hand in his, “have dedicated myself to what pleases me. Although I have reformed from my erstwhile caprices of immorality, I am a reprobate at heart and perhaps, in my own way, as self-serving as they were. I am not, however, unmindful of the fact that breakfast was some time ago.”
Releasing her hand, he reached into the basket at his side. “Here we have wine, and Mrs Morris’ excellent rum cake, and the means for our own festive celebrating as we watch the city show off its winter finery outside the carriage windows.”
Abbot had uncorked the wine before putting it in the basket with the cake. David opened the bottle and poured wine into the glasses which had been packed in the basket.
“A toast,” he said, “a toast to the past; may we leave behind those parts which do not suit our presents. And . . . “ he reached into the basket again and handed the wrapped presents he had purchased the day before, giving them to her one by one, “may our gifts and our present make for a pleasant future.”
TEN
The lyrical strains coming from the music room were not the only incursions that music made into the household. The mistress could frequently be heard humming as she went about the house, and the master seemed to be in uncommonly high spirits.
James, who had dared to venture the opinion that they had come home from their carriage ride “squiffed” was of the opinion that they were enjoying one another’s company more now than they had before. Abbot sternly rebuked him for the thoughts he had expressed, but when in private with the cook, said that something had certainly changed after that ride. Mrs Morris felt credit was due to the potency of her rum cake, but she was in accord with the butler that the newlyweds seemed to be quite happy these days.
Theodosia had gone out with James to choose a pine tree which would be decorated for the season. As the Marquess and Marchioness would not be home on Christmas Day, David had proposed that they celebrate Christmas in advance of December 25, a ruling which was met with alacrity by the staff.
Mrs Morris redoubled her baking and cooking, for she was determined that the master and mistress would bring food from their own table when they were guests of Viscount Randstand. It was one thing for the master to be a bachelor guest in other households, but she would not have it said that he presided over a ramshackle staff which did not know how to serve the master and mistress.
James had brought in a heap of pine boughs which he had cut from the tree that had been chosen and the rich scent of the evergreen found itself competing with the aroma of Mrs Morris’ fruitcake. When David came home at the end of the day, he was blissfully assailed by fragrances that spurred him into a sense of holiday anticipation; his senses were further entranced by the tunes coming from the piano in the music room.
“It’s like having a concert right in our own home,” Mrs Morris said happily to Abbot when he told her that the master was in the dining room and supper could be served.
Neither David nor Theodosia referred to the marvellous idyll of the carriage ride, or to the emptying of the bottle of wine that had undoubtedly inspired the kissing that had taken place inside the carriage whilst Wilson, unaware of the romantic encounter taking place within, continued driving. But the event had changed the course
of their marriage. Ever since, they had not stopped smiling at each other. Yet neither of them were prepared to scrutinise and admit what was really going on.
David smiled as Theodosia entered the dining room. “I am going to insist that you play for me one of these evenings,” he said as he seated her.
“I am still out of practice,” she protested. “I must not embarrass myself.”
David’s hands lingered upon her shoulders. “You will never do that,” he said bending low to kiss the top of her head before returning to his own seat.
“Tabitha and I have made plans to go shopping tomorrow,” Theodosia said, reddening at his kiss and determined not to make too much of it, particularly as the servants were bringing in the food.
“You will not forget to purchase new dresses for yourself,” David replied, “or at least to order them to be made. I will not have it said that I am a penny-pinching husband who does not allow his wife to dress as she ought.”
“I will have the dress I wore at our wedding,” Theodosia reminded him. “I will wear that on Christmas Day when we are at Henton.”
“Excellent, but that was a gift from your cousin.”
“I have plenty of gifts from you,” she reminded him. The daily deposit of wrapped packages in her bedroom had continued as the days went by so that by now, Theodosia was determined to find something that would be appropriately generous for her to give to David. That was one of the main reasons she had accepted Tabitha’s invitation to shop; she was so comfortable in her home that she found little reason to leave it. But she must find a present for David and she knew that she ought to heed his request to increase her wardrobe.
David smiled. “It is a pleasure to bring them to you,” he said.
He did not mention that each time he entered her bedroom in private to leave the gifts, he was engulfed by a desire to stay there and wake up there in the morning beside her.
