Chapter 15
It had been no small thing to get the entourage on the road the next morning, but Ewan had emerged the victor in a battle of wills with not only his mother but his new in-laws as well.
They surely thought him both unreasonable and obstinate, but he hardly cared. General Oliver had not impressed him as a man who troubled himself over what others thought of his decisions, and Ewan suddenly felt inclined to emulate that devil-may-care manner.
The General and his household were quite put out to learn of Henrietta’s dismissal of her former abigail. Anna was to take her place, and Molly would return from whence she had come with the Olivers.
This news, coupled with the impromptu departure of the newly-wedded couple, left Nightingale in uproar. As the Marquess and his wife took to their waiting carriage, they left in their wake many unhappy relatives. Their overtly lighthearted spirits refused to be troubled by that fact.
The Marquess had chosen the Duke’s coach for their journey, and it was quickly made ready. The couple would have the carriage all to themselves for the fifty miles, or so, they would travel that day to Scarborough. Anna and Gerome would ride behind them in the pony cart with the luggage. Add the drivers and two grooms, the traveling party was kept small, intentionally so.
Ewan wanted all the privacy he could manage and more. For all his gloomy bluster, he did desire a fresh start, and he knew his new wife would be instrumental in its commencement. But for that to happen, he would have to come to terms with how similar to Patricia she looked. He had discovered that when she spoke, the illusion was disassembled, so perhaps he just needed to keep her talking.
Given their shared pleasure at leaving Nightingale behind, it surprised him to find her mood as dark as the October sky when he decided to speak to her.
“You look lovely this morning, Henrietta.”
She arched a fine brow in challenge. “As I indicated yesterday, my Lord, I am not accepting comments from you with regard to my appearance.”
He raised his own dark brow in response. “Comments?”
“Yes, comments.”
“What can you mean by that? It was a compliment.”
“Regardless, I do not accept.”
“I have never heard of such a thing. Why do you refuse to accept my compliment?”
“For reasons I do not wish to discuss with you.”
“Is this to be another rule? For us? I am not to compliment you? In the morning?”
“I only said that I am not accepting comments from you with regard to my appearance. If you wish to make a rule not to compliment me in the morning so be it.”
“Very well. I am not to comment on your appearance. In the morning. In a coach while en route to a seaside holiday.”
She kept her blue eyes steady. “Excellent, my Lord.”
“Since you are partial to rules, I –”
She cut him off. “I am not actually partial to rules, my Lord. In fact, there are many rules in society I find most tedious and worthy to be broken. I simply think ‘tis best to have this one general rule between us.”
“However, this is the second rule you have made since yesterday,” he countered, “which makes my point that you are partial to rules.”
“Second rule?” she queried.
“Yes. May I remind you that we have already established as a general rule that we will oft times agree to disagree.”
As the coach rumbled on, she bit her bottom lip slightly, endearingly so. “Oh. Yes.”
“No matter. I’ve no issue with your rules. I do, however, have a rule of my own to add to our ever-growing list.”
“My Lord?”
“We do not speak of my dead wife. Can we agree to agree on that?”
“As you wish.”
“Very good.”
“I understand such matters are delicate.”
“Yes.”
“Sensitive.”
“Indeed.”
“And clearly a painful subject for you, my Lord, and I have no wish to pry.”
My, but she was persistent. “Henrietta, if you say much more we will inevitably be speaking of her and thus breaking our newest rule.”
“Touché,” she replied quietly and turned her attention out the window and to the stark autumn landscape fluttering by. It was cold and despite her woolen cape, she was thankful for the heavy blanket on her lap. Indeed, she was thankful as the minutes stretched into miles and Nightingale drifted farther and farther behind them. She was thankful to be free for however long it lasted. Free of her father. Free of Molly. Free of anyone and everyone who actually knew her.
She had no idea what this marriage, what this new life, would bring, but she decided to see it as a fresh start. Yes, and this trip to Scarborough was boding well. She had no spies reporting her every move to her father, no mother continuing to insist the General loved her despite his harsh ways, and no one keeping her a prisoner in her own home. Yes, freedom indeed.
She smiled, letting excitement well up within her again.
Henrietta glanced at the Marquess. He was smiling too. And looking directly at her while he did so.
“Why do you smile at me?” she asked softly, uncomfortably.
“Am I not allowed to smile at you either?”
“I can hardly enforce a no-smiling rule, my Lord. That would be ridiculous.”
“Then I am safe to smile at will then?” he mocked lightly. “Even at you?”
“You are.”
“Ah,” he chuckled, “at last reason prevails.”
“Should I take offense, my Lord Marquess, that you smile at me? Am I so droll that you would laugh openly at me?” She pushed strength into her words, willing herself not to let her injured pride make her weak.
“Not at all, Henrietta. You were smiling. I had yet to see you smile, understandably so. But when you smile, your entire face brightens, softens and shifts, and you come into your own in a way. ‘Tis hard to explain but you become, well, there’s no other way to say it. You become you. Your smile then is not just lovely, but ‘tis something of great power. And I fell under its sway for it made me smile too.”
This was unsure ground for her, and so she did not respond, knowing not what to say. Currently this man was all mystery to her. Mysterious and charming. Her mother was right. He could be both.
With a rueful expression, he seemed to consider her silence. “Is your smile considered your appearance? Technically, I mean? If it is, I apologize for breaking our rule number two. And so soon after it was made!”
She could not help but smile again shyly. “As we did not clarify what is officially part of one’s appearance and what is not, I will, of course, accept your apology. My Lord Marquess,” she added formally.
“Thank you, Henrietta, most gracious Lady. My most gracious Lady.”
She bit her bottom lip again, a nervous habit, and locked her gaze again on the window.
His voice came out of nowhere with a pleasant richness to it. “What are the thoughts that make you smile?”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“I would simply like to know for future reference. In case I am ever called upon to make you smile.”
She did not volunteer anything. She would not — could not — trust him.
“No matter, my Lady. I can make my own report though we have not yet known each other more than one day.”
He studied her, as if sizing her up. At last he said, “Running. You seem to like running very much. At least,” he cleared his throat, “yesterday.”
Still she would not respond, her eyes fixed on the passing landscape.
“And cake,” he offered, continuing the conversation without her.
“You left your duck untouched last night, but you polished off Cook’s cake handily.”
“That was good cake,” she murmured.
“What else? Oh yes, and spying on your husband while he gallantly sleeps upon the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the whole house.”
She stifled a snicker. “I was not spying on you.”
“You dare to deny it?” he accused playfully. “You are quite caught, my Lady!”
“My pride insists I invoke our general rule. We must agree to disagree.”
“Very well, I acquiesce, but only for the sake of my Lady’s pride. We both know the truth of the matter.”
The mood had turned winsome again, and the silence now between them hung with less awkwardness. It was not comfortable by any means, but it was not painful. That was something at least. Henrietta closed her eyes for a spell and dozed, awakening to find a kink in her neck and many more miles travelled. She glanced out the window again to discover that she had no idea where they were, and that thought alone sent a delicious thrill through her from head to toe.
“You are smiling again, my dear Lady.”
“Freedom,” she said with a soft sigh.
“Freedom?”
“If you must know why I was smiling before and why I smile now, ‘tis because I am thinking of freedom.”
“And not cake?” he teased.
“No, not cake, my Lord Marquess, as good as it was.”
“What do you know of freedom, Henrietta?” he scoffed lightly. “You’ve just traded one noble prison for another. A jailer father for a jailer husband.”
“Is that what you intend to be? My jailer?” she challenged.
“’Tis not my wish, but I fear to be made a wife is to gain no more freedom than to be an army general’s daughter.” He became stoic for a moment and said, “And in the end, who is truly free?”
“Ask you, who are free,” she quipped.
“Now I will say touché. But answer me this, what do you hope to gain with this freedom you seek?”
“Is it wrong to desire to be free? Free to grow in thought and free to express those thoughts without judgment or censure?”
“I can think of no reason anyone should be denied such freedom. Certainly not my wife.”
“Ah, but my Lord Marquess,” she cautioned, “expressed thoughts often sound very much like opinions. And ladies with opinions, especially educated ladies, need to be controlled else they might run off and fulfill their dreams.”
“Controlled is a rather severe take on it.”
“Indeed. Severe. Hence, the need for freedom.”
“And what are your dreams, Henrietta?”
Henrietta said nothing, again unwilling to believe him trustworthy. He was just another member of society’s peerage, the society that was born and bred to quash a woman’s dreams. If, that is, she dared aspire to more than matrimony and motherhood.
“My Lady, please consider yourself always free to share your thoughts and opinions with me. In fact, I will make it a rule. You can trust me,” he added almost tenderly.
We will have to see, my Lord Marquess. We will have to see.
Chapter 16
Scarborough welcomed every affluent traveler with everything necessary for a leisurely and well-heeled stay upon its shores. The draw was, of course, the spa waters, but the town council had gone above and beyond to provide holiday and pleasure-seekers diversion of all sorts. Numerous accommodations were available, and those with means could relax by the sea in comfort and ease.
The rooms at the Old Bell Inn on Bland’s Cliff were perfect, spacious and well-appointed with an inside door conveniently connecting them. The servants had other accommodations above stairs which suited Ewan’s plan for privacy perfectly. The door was to remain open while Anna and Gerome were about and would be closed when they were safely dispatched to their own rooms.
As the traveling party had arrived late the night before, everyone had dropped tiredly into bed with little need for direction and even less chatter. The Marquess and his new wife had passed most of their first day by the sea in their separate quarters recovering from several days’ excitement. He decided to read, and she apparently spent her time writing letters. It was nearly time for tea, and they had agreed to enjoy it together in a tea room on the city’s famous cliff promenade. The stroll and the salt air would do them good. Such was their plan. In the meantime, Ewan readied himself for the outdoor excursion.
“From where in France do you hail, Gerome?” the Marquess asked his new valet.
The man deftly worked the blade across Ewan’s cheek, removing all traces of the dark stubble that had grown in since his last shave the previous morning.
“Have you been, My Lord?”
“To France? Yes, of course.”
“Naturally, My Lord. I only ask to offer informed landmarks. Off the coast of Normandy, the Isle of Guernsey it is called.”
The Marquess’ brow raised in a mix of recognition and question.
“You know of it, My Lord?”
“I am familiar. A British dependency.”
“I have British blood on my father’s side.”
“He was a soldier then?
“He was at one time, yes.”
The Marquess smiled. “And your mother is French no doubt.”
“A most obvious and correct assumption, My Lord. My mother, however, is deceased. She died when I was but a babe.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Gerome.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“It is hard on a child to grow up without a mother. And your father?”
“I have no family to speak of, My Lord.”
“I see. In whose care were you raised?”
“An orphanage in Guernsey.”
“Catholic?”
“Indeed, My Lord.”
“Ah,” the Marquess sighed as Gerome finished up the shave and handed him a warm towel. “I am thankful for the charity of the Church.”
Gerome gave a rigid smile in response before quickly wiping the blade clean and putting it away.
“Will that be all, My Lord?”
“Yes, only please let My Lady know I await her company in the receiving hall.”
“As you wish, My Lord.”
Gerome disappeared, and Ewan donned his tail coat and heavy cloak. The seaside in October was proving to be as cold as promised, but so was the scenery proving to be a boon to his mood. A debate raged in his head as to whether his new wife should have some credit. When she spoke and when she smiled, she was very much her own delightful person, and he could almost forget she looked like she was Patricia’s sister.
Almost.
Alas, as far as the debate in his head, for now, he would only admit his mood was better for the fresh air. Something had passed between them, however, in the coach ride to Scarborough. Something that felt intimate, and whatever it was, it made it a tad frightening. Henrietta had spoken of a need within her, a deep need, a need for freedom. Ironically, she spoke of it while hardly realizing how freely he let her speak. And without him passing the judgment or censure she feared.
Freedom.
What did she mean by it? Free to think and speak? He could give her that freedom. He had given her that freedom. He took no issue with her thoughts or opinions, whatever they happened to be. And if she wanted freedom to be something other than wife and mother, he could hardly see himself taking issue there as he himself had no great desire for either.
Henrietta had lost her courage to speak so freely when he had asked her about her dreams. He was not really surprised that she hadn’t offered up confirmation of the rumors he had heard about the medical journals. Considering the military rule she had been living under, which no doubt came with the disapproval of her thoughts and opinions, freely given or not, she would be foolish to trust her new husband so soon. But whether she believed it or not, she could trust him with her secrets, even with her dreams. Suddenly, he wanted to win her trust. How to bring that to pass presented another puzzle. Another puzzle within the paradox that was his Lady Henrietta.
As if on cue, her appearance in the Old Bell’s receiving hall interrupted Ewan’s musings. She spoke quietly to the innkeeper before dropping her letters discreetly in the post’s receiving box. Wrapping hersel
f tightly in her bright blue woolen cape, she took his arm, and they set out.
* * *
The cliff promenade was crowded with people despite a bitterly cold wind whipping up off the water. Holiday pleasure seekers and locals alike valiantly fought the gusts to walk the length and take in the view. The Marquess and his Lady had yet to decide on a tea room when they noticed a man with distinctly deformed facial features directly in their path. At first, he paid them no mind as he was in conversation with another man. But when he laid eyes on Henrietta, and something like recognition dawned, his casual glance quickly twisted his expression from open stare into a sneer. As he passed them, it worsened into a decidedly-threatening leer.
Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 10