by Royal, Emily
He nodded and held his arms out while the servant slipped the jacket on, smoothed down the sleeves' material, and brushed a speck of dust from the cuff.
“Do you require anything else, sir?”
“No, James, you’re dismissed.”
“Very good.” James bowed and left.
Dexter adjusted his cravat—the damned man always tied it too tight—and exited the dressing room. He turned left and followed the corridor until he reached the door to the mistress’s bedchamber.
He lifted his hand and knocked smartly on the door.
Silence.
Perhaps she was asleep.
Or had the foolish woman run away?
He pushed the door open.
The room was empty. Elegantly furnished, it bore all the trappings of a lady’s chamber, but no sign of occupancy.
“Mrs. Wells!” he roared.
He heard a scurry of footsteps, and, at length, the housekeeper appeared at the end of the corridor.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“This is the lady’s chamber, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Then, why is my wife not here?”
“She asked to be moved elsewhere.”
“Show me.”
The housekeeper dipped into a curtsey and, with a jangle of keys, turned and led him to the back wing of the house. She stopped beside a door and pushed it open.
The room must be less than half the size of the chamber he’d just left. At the far end, beside a tiny window, was a single bed, and, besides a small fireplace, freshly laid, was a straight-backed chair and a footstool.
Despite the drab appearance of the room, it looked lived in and cared for. Earthenware pots covered almost every surface, filled with wild grasses and flowers. A quilt covered the otherwise unremarkable bed, which was decorated with embroidered flowers. A stack of books lay on the table beside the bed, together with a small chess set.
A dress was draped over the back of the chair, and he recognized the garment he’d seen on the rock beside the lake.
“This is her chamber?” he asked.
“It is, sir.”
“What the devil were you thinking of putting her in here, Mrs. Wells?”
“She insisted,” the housekeeper replied.
“But it’s so damned small!”
“I dare say it’s what she’s been used to most of her life.” The housekeeper gestured to the window. “There’s a fine prospect over the woods and…” she hesitated, “…your wife was anxious about the expense involved in maintaining a full suite of rooms.”
She glanced at him, and he could swear he caught a glimpse of accusation in her eyes.
“I’ve given her no cause to be anxious,” he said, “at least not concerning money.”
“Would you mind if I spoke out of turn?” she asked.
“I daresay you will, whether I mind or not,” he replied.
“Very well,” she said. “That young servant might have deserved her punishment, but your wife has suffered as a result. I’d ask you to treat her with kindness. I know she must learn the ways of a lady, but it’s hard for her. Not only doesn’t she know what’s required, but she also doesn’t understand it, either.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“She was abandoned by her father, hidden away like a dirty secret—then as good as abandoned by her husband. She’s had nobody to teach her how to behave like a lady—nobody to give her any regard, let alone love.”
She folded her arms as if to scold him. Hell—she was scolding him!
“Has my wife been tattling?”
“No,” she said, “but her background is common knowledge hereabouts. Gossip spreads below stairs as well as above it, sir.”
“Where is she now, Mrs. Wells?”
“You’ll find her in the parlor. Do you know the way?”
Yes, he did. Despite only having visited the place once before signing the lease, he’d studied the layout and knew it well.
Unlike his wife.
What the devil was he to do with her?
He found her in the parlor. She sat in a chair by the window, a pair of stockings in her hands, a needle flying in and out. Her brow was furrowed with concentration. She tied a knot in the thread, cut the ends with her teeth, then set the stocking aside and lifted her head to look out of the window. The sunlight caught her hair, forming a soft halo.
He moved forward, and she stiffened.
“The deed is done,” he said.
She rose to her feet and turned to stare at him, her expression unreadable. Then she dipped into a curtsey and moved past him. He caught her sleeve, and she flinched.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To tend to her.”
“It’s not your responsibility.”
She pulled herself free. “It’s my duty to care for her, despite what you say.”
With the housekeeper’s words echoing in his mind, he relented.
“Very well,” he sighed. “I’ll have someone take you to her.”
“I can find my way.”
He stepped aside and let her pass.
***
Meggie pushed the door open and entered the small attic room. Milly lay on her stomach underneath a thin blanket on the bed. She appeared to be asleep but stirred as Meggie sat in the chair beside the bed.
She took Milly’s hand.
“Are you in pain?” she asked.
Milly mumbled incoherently and shook her head. Meggie drew back the blanket. Someone had placed a cloth on her back.
She lifted the cloth. Two red, parallel lines stretched across Milly’s back. They had not cut the skin, but Meggie winced at the sight. No hand brandishing a whip could ever be called gentle, but at least the punishment hadn’t been administered with savagery. The lash marks glistened with a sticky salve, and Meggie wrinkled her nose at the scent of chamomile and lavender.
Someone had tended to her.
A pile of bandages lay on the table beside the bed, together with three vials. Meggie picked up one and read the label.
Laudanum.
Which explained why the maidservant wasn’t crying in pain.
“Milly, I’m so sorry,” Meggie whispered. She stroked the maidservant’s hand. The skin of Milly’s fingers was already thickened with callouses, despite her youth. In her short life, the maid had already done more hard labor than Meggie would ever do.
“You did nothing wrong, ma’am,” Milly whispered. Thin, bony fingers wrapped around Meggie’s wrist. Meggie settled into the chair and stroked the back of Milly’s hand.
“I’m here now,” she said. “I’ll take care of you like I should have done from the moment I arrived.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The response pricked at Meggie’s conscience. She’d been the cause of Milly’s suffering, yet the maidservant was thanking her.
As the light began to fade, the door opened, and a footman appeared.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but dinner is served.”
“Could you bring mine up here?” she asked.
“The master’s expecting you in the dining room.”
“Tell him I’m not hungry.”
“The master was most particular about you joining him.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “He said he had no wish to be kept waiting.”
“Go,” a soft voice said from the bed. “I’ll be all right.”
Meggie placed a soft kiss on Milly’s hand, then followed the footman out of the attic and down the stairs.
“Shall I fetch Sarah to help you dress for dinner?” the footman asked.
“No,” she replied firmly. “If my husband is demanding to see me as soon as possible, then he must be obeyed. If he dislikes my apparel, then he can blame his impatience.”
Dexter might have explained the reasoning for his actions. He might have ordered someone to dress Milly’s wounds. But Meggie couldn’t forgive him.
She
found him in the dining room, seated at one end of the table. He rose as she entered and arched an eyebrow as he looked her up and down. Hair still wet, loose tendrils on her face, she looked the antithesis of the elegant lady he’d wanted for a wife, but she cared not. She tilted her chin and stared at him as if in challenge.
His gaze settled on her, the blue of his eyes like a deep, cold ocean. They regarded each other across the table.
For a moment, she thought she saw a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. Then he gestured toward her chair.
“Please, sit,” he said. “Then, we can dine, at last.”
At last…
A footman approached with a tureen. Meggie ladled soup into the bowl in front of her, waited until he served her husband, and then began eating.
“Did you find everything to your satisfaction when you visited the attic, my dear?”
She looked up to find him staring directly at her.
“She’s sleeping,” she said.
“I thought as much,” he replied. “Laudanum is very effective when needed.”
“Yes, husband,” Meggie said, sipping her soup. “And there was much need of it today.”
He frowned but did not respond. When he finished his soup, he set his spoon down, and the footman rushed forward to clear his place.
“May I ask whether the maidservant…”
“Milly,” Meggie interrupted. “Her name’s Milly. You should at least remember the name of the girl you thrashed.”
“It wasn’t my hand on the whip.”
“No, you left that for others to ease your conscience.”
He flinched and picked up his wineglass. “I don’t regret my decision,” he said. “She would have known that her behavior warranted such a punishment. Worse, in fact. Any master worth his salt would be within his rights to have her dismissed immediately.”
“Then why don’t you?” she cried.
“Because I’m not a monster,” he said quietly. “I’m not so devoid of feeling that I cannot see how much it hurts you to see another suffer as a result of your actions.”
“Nobody should suffer for the crimes of another,” Meggie said.
“But they often do.”
“Did you see the marks on her back?” Meggie asked. “She’s barely out of childhood, yet she was lashed as if she were a man!”
“That cannot be right,” he said. “I told Billings to ensure that…” he trailed off and drained his glass, motioning to the footman to refill it.
“How long will she have to lie on her stomach?” Meggie cried. “The skin on her might be ruined! The pain—the humiliation…” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. “You cannot possibly know how she suffers.”
“I do know, Margaret,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”
“How can you? You have no understanding of the feelings of others!”
He slammed his glass on the table. “Do not presume to know what I do, or do not, understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “I know that with each lash, it’s like your body’s on fire. You tell yourself you’ll survive by counting the strokes, that the pain will reach a point where it cannot get worse. But it does get worse. Then you pray that the skin won’t break—and when it does, it’s like your whole body is being sliced open with knives. After the tenth lash, you pray for oblivion, for the relief it will give you from the pain. But it does not come, so you bite your tongue and taste the blood, hoping that it lessens the pain on your back. Then you hear the laughter—the triumph of the hand on the whip—when you realize that you’ve been reduced to mere flesh for the entertainment of others.”
He closed his eyes, as if reliving a memory, then opened them again. Their color had deepened to that of a midnight sky.
“Only then,” he said, “do you realize there’s only one place where you can find sanctuary. In that moment, you pray for death.”
Before she could respond, the footman returned with the entrée. Her husband smoothed his expression into the emotionless mask he usually wore. He remained silent for the rest of the meal, speaking only to the servants as they milled about, clearing the plates.
As soon as the meal was over, she drew back her chair and stood.
“Will you excuse me?” she asked. “I’m tired and wish to go.”
“Of course,” he replied. “You do not need to ask permission.”
She opened her mouth to make a retort but stopped herself. Though his expression was impassive, she saw the pain in his eyes.
He nodded to the footman, who rushed toward the door and held it open. As she walked through, she heard his voice.
“Good night, my dear.”
Before retiring, Meggie climbed up to the attic room. Milly’s expression had softened, and she slept peacefully. As Meggie left, she almost bumped into Sarah.
“Oh, ma’am!” Sarah bobbed a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Have you come to tend to Milly?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sarah replied. “Master’s orders. He said I was to come straight here after seeing to your room.”
“My room?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was most particular.”
What transgressions had Meggie committed in her room which her husband had ordered Sarah to rectify?
Sarah bobbed another curtsey, and Meggie retired to her bedchamber.
A fire burned brightly in her room. Meggie had always lit it herself, using the logs sparingly, but someone had placed a full complement of logs on the fire, which hissed and crackled, illuminating the room with a comforting glow. The flowers, which had begun to droop, had been replaced with fresh ones, and the scent of spring blooms filled the air.
Meggie pulled off her gown and undergarments, then searched for her nightshift.
It was missing.
She sighed in frustration. It wasn’t the most elegant garment, but it was hers, and he had no right to take it from her.
She drew back the bedsheet.
A warming pan had been placed in the center of the bed and her nightgown neatly folded on top. She picked it up and held it against her face, absorbing the warmth. Then she put it on and slipped inside the bed. Heat penetrated her feet, and, for the first time, her toes weren’t numb with cold.
Her husband was capable of kindness, even if he were incapable of expressing it overtly.
As she was drifting off to sleep, she heard footsteps. Recognizing her husband’s confident gait, she sat up. The footsteps slowed, and a shadow appeared under the crack at the bottom of her door. She waited, holding her breath, and watched the door handle. It seemed to shift, the candlelight reflecting off the brass, but then the shadow moved, and the footsteps faded away.
She sank back into the pillows and rolled onto her side. At first, relief washed over her. After today, the thought of intimacy with the stern, forbidding man she’d married terrified her. But a voice in her mind whispered of the pleasures he’d given her—of how he’d made her body shatter with ecstasy.
She closed her eyes to shut out her disappointment. Had he tired of her already?
Or was he waiting for their guests to arrive so that he could resume his affair with Elizabeth?
Tears stung her eyes, but this time they were not tears of pain or anger. But of rejection. He might not hate her, but he saw her as nothing more than a charity case he’d been burdened with.
His gesture had not been one of kindness but of pity.
Chapter Nineteen
Where the devil was she now? It was almost eight o’clock, and there was no sign of her. Was she sleeping late to avoid him?
Dexter pushed aside the plate of eggs, untouched. Last night’s outburst had killed his appetite. What on earth had possessed him to speak of the thrashing Alderley had administered on his nine-year-old back? To reveal his pain—his weakness—to her?
He wanted to see her smile, but, by God, he didn’t want her pity.
After she had left the dinner table last night, he’d tak
en a half dozen brandies, then stumbled upstairs to her room, the memory of her near-naked body in the lake fueling his ardor.
Then regret had conquered lust. He had no right to inflict himself on her. The church and the law might decree that he could do whatever he wanted to her, but a higher power existed. That of common decency. Of kindness. And more than anything, he wanted to treat her kindly.
But first, he needed to ensure she learned how to be a lady, which included punctuality in the breakfast room.
He pushed back his chair, left the room, and waved down a passing footman.
“Would you ask Mrs. Wells to rouse my wife?”
“The mistress is already up, sir,” the footman said.
“Has she breakfasted?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Then, where the bloody hell is she!”
The footman flinched. “You’ll find her in the morning room, sir.”
The morning room was situated on the opposite end of the house. As Dexter approached it, he heard female voices, followed by laughter.
He pushed open the door and entered.
A ladder stretched from floor to ceiling beside the windows. At its foot stood a young woman in a maid’s uniform. But his eye was drawn to the woman standing halfway up the ladder.
His wife clung to the ladder with one hand while she polished the window with the other. At this angle, her delectable behind was in full view, which left little to the imagination.
He drew in a sharp breath as he hardened in his breeches.
The laughter stopped. The maid turned and caught sight of him.
“Mistress!” she cried. “The master’s here!”
The ladder wobbled. His wife dropped the cloth and clutched the ladder as she turned to face him.
“Sarah, go to the scullery,” she said, panic in her voice.
“But, mistress, you need help to…”
“Now!” she cried. “Must I repeat myself?”
The maid bobbed a curtsey then fled, her pace increasing as she passed Dexter in the doorway.
He approached the ladder and held out his hand.
“Let me help you down.”
“I can manage,” she replied, “or do you think me incapable in this, as in everything else?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t offer my hand out of a belief of your weakness, Margaret,” he said. “I offer it for my sake, for I’ve no wish to see you fall. Indulge me if you will.”
