by Wilma Counts
“I must say, Maisie, I do appreciate your help. Dressing is far more complicated for a countess that it ever was for a vicar’s daughter.”
“Aye, my lady. Fancier dress has more pins and tapes.”
“You’d think people who could invent steam engines and construct huge bridges could devise simple closings for women’s dresses.” She knew she was babbling, for, now that the moment was upon her, she was increasingly apprehensive.
“Yes, ma’am.” Maisie hung the traveling dress in the armoire, folded the other garments, put them away, then turned to dealing with her mistress’s hair.
Sydney sat on a stool in front of the dressing table as Maisie combed out the upswept hairdo. “And that’s another thing. It would seem I must now spend much more time on my appearance every day.”
Maisie, who was only two years older than her mistress, smiled and said, “Married ladies of the ton generally do, I think.” She finished brushing out the light-brown tresses which now hung below Sydney’s shoulders and ended in soft curls. “Will that be all, my lady?”
“Yes. Thank you, Maisie.” It occurred to Sydney that Maisie delighted in saying “my lady.” After all, Maisie had, in an instant, gone from being a vicar’s general purpose maid—doing whatever needed to be done in that understaffed busy household—to being a lady’s personal maid in a great house.
As Maisie left, Sydney moved to a comfortable couch near the fireplace to wait for Henry. She reviewed what had surely been one of the most eventful days of her life, but she refused to dwell on Zachary’s having been there. Should they ever meet again, it would be as mere acquaintances. She gazed about her, aware of the movement and muffled voices of her husband and his valet on the other side of the door to the adjoining room.
Her husband.
She looked about the room to avoid going where that thought was leading. It was an attractive room with pale blue and silver silk bed draperies and dark blue velvet drapes at the windows. The light gray marble fireplace and oyster-colored furniture showed the previous generation’s obsession with Egyptian decoration. The colors here reflected those of the countess’s bedchamber and sitting room at the Hall.
She was startled out of these musings by a knock at the connecting door to Henry’s room. He entered dressed in a dark maroon robe, awkwardly carrying a decanter and two glasses which he set on a low table in front of her before settling himself next to her.
“I thought a bit of cognac would be in order,” he said, splashing the liquid into the glasses. “Helps one relax.” He handed a glass to her, then touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to us, my dear.”
She gave him a tentative smile, drank, and promptly coughed at the burning sensation in her throat. She felt her eyes watering at the fumes. “I—I’m not used to—”
He grinned. “Just sip it slowly.”
She did so and felt warmth spread through her.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded. “Much.” She took another sip, not really sure she liked the taste, though she did appreciate the relaxing warmth the drink offered.
Henry shifted his position to put his right ankle on his left knee. She noted a small tattoo on the ankle, a pair of crossed swords. He saw her looking at it and explained.
“Paxton heirs always have this mark.”
“Why?”
“Tradition, mostly. Twins are rather common in the family—Amy and Anne, for instance. The first earl of Paxton had identical twin sons. To distinguish the first born from his brother, the earl—a great swordsman, by the way—had him immediately tattooed. Thereafter, we’ve all had it.”
He finished off his drink, then gathered her into his arms and kissed her. It was a long, deep kiss that tasted of the drink. He moved his mouth to nibble at her earlobe and then trailed kisses down her neck to the swell of her breasts. She drew in a deep breath as his hand caressed her breast and she felt her body relaxing and responding. His lips sought her mouth again and she opened to him. He drew back, breathing hard. Then he stood and extended his hand. As she rose, he stepped back to survey her. She felt naked in the filmy gown and held her breath for his approval.
He sucked in a long, whistling breath. “My God, you’re beautiful. How did I get to be so lucky?”
She merely blushed and allowed him to lead her to the bed. She slid under the covers and watched as, loosening his robe, he bent to blow out the bedside lamp. She was disappointed. Other than statues and drawings, she had never seen a completely naked man before, let alone a fully aroused one. She had—wantonly—looked forward to doing so. Nevertheless, light from the fireplace allowed her a peek—a peek that gave her pause. Good heavens! However would her body be able to accommodate that? As he lay next to her she felt the hardness pressing against her.
He shoved her nightgown above her waist and stroked the soft flesh between her legs. Again recalling her intent to be a good wife, she tried to adjust to him.
“Ah, Bella,” he murmured. “This may be painful the first time, but I cannot wait any longer.”
“I—I—all right …”
He positioned himself between her legs and pushed slowly, gently into her. She felt searing pain and cried out sharply. He covered her cry in a cognac-flavored kiss. They both lay still for a very long moment, his face buried against her neck.
He raised his head. “Are you all right now?”
“I—I think so.” The pain had subsided.
He began to move inside her, his strokes becoming more and more intense. Then he uttered a long, satisfied moan. Suddenly, it was over. He rolled to her side, held her close, kissed her tenderly, and within seconds, it seemed, he was breathing the deep breaths of dream-filled sleep.
Sydney lay staring at the underside of the bed canopy. Was that it? That was what married women whispered about and virginal girls could hardly wait to experience? Somehow she had expected more. Much more. She gave herself a mental shake. Ah, well—
Finally, she, too, slept.
The next morning she woke to an empty bed. Sometime in the night, Henry had returned to his own room.
That became the pattern of intimacy in her marriage. In time she achieved a degree of enjoyment and comfort from their couplings, but never the sheer ecstasy of whispers and dreams. The ever-practical Countess of Paxton consigned that notion to the stuff of fantasy, and she went on with her life, determined to ignore any foolish longing for “more.”
As with most lives, the next few years of Sydney’s vacillated from the ordinary to the extraordinary, with elements of both tragedy and farce, dreams realized and dreams quashed—or altered at least.
That first year had been a year of learning and loss. In midwinter the new Countess of Paxton traveled with her husband to London for the opening of Parliament and the social season. The former vicar’s daughter was presented at court—Queen Charlotte insisted on maintaining her traditional receptions despite the king’s bouts of ill health. Lady Paxton acquitted herself well in the entire social milieu, even hosting a large dinner party for members of her husband’s Tory faction, though some whispered that her ladyship was rather quick to voice her own opinions on Parliamentary matters—and—gasp!—that those opinions often seemed to have Whig overtones of reform.
With her husband’s compliance—nay, his encouragement—she made two visits to Windham to alleviate what she recognized as bouts of homesickness.
Her father, having given up his duties as vicar just after Christmas, moved, along with Marybeth and Geoffrey, to Paxton Hall. As long as he was able, he tutored his son and oversaw his younger daughter’s education. He also discussed with Sydney his wishes regarding further schooling for them: Harrow and Miss Sebastian’s, of course. The Laughton twins, Lady Anne and Lady Amy, would also go to Miss Sebastian’s when Marybeth went, for the girls had become fast friends. Meanwhile, a governess saw to their training. Sydney regretted the time in London, time away from the family back at the Hall.
In London, Henry was attentive to h
is new wife, though he made it quite clear they should not expect to “live in each other’s pockets.” He frequently spent long evenings away from home, presumably at his club or out with his male friends. Though he tried to be quiet, Sydney would hear him come into his room next door sometimes even as the city’s delivery people were starting their rounds. Still, he performed his marital duties with alacrity, pronouncing “this business of getting an heir to be quite wonderful indeed.”
But it did not happen.
When the season ended in June, Sydney welcomed the return to Paxton Hall, but she found her father’s health far weaker than his letters had led her to expect. She was so preoccupied that summer and autumn with the increasingly imminent loss of her beloved papa that she scarcely noticed Henry’s prolonged absences. He was often off to oversee the earldom’s far-flung interests, which included Welsh coal mines, Irish estates, and sundry other enterprises. He announced his latest departure during one of his frequent visits to her bed.
When Sydney commented on the geographical diversity of Paxton holdings, he explained, “My ancestors made interesting acquisitions in their marriage settlements.”
“Unfortunately, the present earl did not,” she said, aware of just how little of material value she had brought to this union.
He pulled her closer and murmured, “Do you hear me complaining?”
Not yet, she thought. But so far she had not fulfilled her primary obligation of getting an heir.
Her father died in late autumn, over a year after performing her wedding ceremony. Sydney had mixed feelings about his passing. She had selfishly exulted in every moment he stole from the inevitable, but his last weeks were so fraught with pain that she—and he—welcomed the release.
“Oh, Papa,” she said on visiting that grave next to her mother’s, “I am going to miss you so very, very much.”
She had shared one spot of joy with him before he died, though: She was four months pregnant.
Christmas was a subdued affair that year and Henry later journeyed to London alone for the opening of Parliament. Sydney, with few regrets, missed the London season of 1813 entirely, for by the time the official six months of mourning for her father were over, she was too near her confinement to journey to the city.
In late March Henry managed to make it home in time for the arrival of his son and heir, Jonathan Alfred Henry Laughton, named for his two grandfathers and his father. His cries as he was promptly given the Paxton heir tattoo fairly broke his mother’s heart.
A week after his birth, she still could not bear to be away from him for long. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she cooed, as she sat in her bed, bolstered by pillows, and held him close.
Henry, dressed for travel, had popped in to say good-bye. He laughed softly. “Beautiful? Red and wrinkled as he is? If you say so, my dear. If you say so.”
“But just look at this shock of dark hair—that comes from you. His eyes are from me—and my father. I do hope they won’t change. Mrs. Hatfield, the midwife, says they often do. And he has such spirit!”
Henry grinned at his wife and touched a forefinger to his son’s cheek. “I assume by ‘spirit’ you mean he has a healthy set of lungs. He does that.”
She cuddled the baby closer and said, “Pay your father no mind, my son. In time, he will learn to appreciate all your attributes and achievements.”
“Just as soon as they manifest themselves.” Henry rose and kissed her on the forehead. “I must be off, my dear.”
“For how long did you say?”
“A fortnight. Maybe longer. I will write you.”
“All right.” As the door to her bedchamber closed behind him, she turned her attention back to the baby.
Life settled into a comfortable routine. Sydney refused to be one of those society mothers who relegated total care of their children to nursery maids. She was also determined that, though she had not brought a great estate to this marriage, she would have something of value to offer. She worked closely with the housekeeper, butler, and the head gardener to ensure that the Hall itself was operated efficiently and smoothly.
Then one day, she took on a new role—one outside the conventional duties of a countess. Henry was away and Sydney was just finishing breakfast with the twins and her own brother and sister, when Mr. Roberts, the butler, appeared to announce that Mr. Stevenson, the estate steward, wanted to speak with her.
“He says it is rather urgent, my lady.”
She found the steward, a man of perhaps forty years, pacing in the library, his hands behind his back, a worried expression on his face.
“Good morning, Mr. Stevenson. Won’t you sit down and tell me what the problem is?” She gestured to a chair in a nearby grouping and took one of them herself.
The steward sat, his hands splayed on his knees. He seemed nervous. “I am sorry to trouble you, my lady. Not a matter for a woman, don’t you see. Ordinarily, his lordship would handle this, but he is not here and you having grown up in Windham and all—well, it just seemed logical to at least ask you about it.”
“And what is ‘it’ exactly?” she asked.
“You know the farmers Davis and Newton?”
“Oh, dear.” She knew immediately what the problem might be. “Those two have hated each other for years. Ever since Darlene Ryan chose to marry Tom Newton instead of Fred Davis. But—good heavens!—that was over twenty-five years ago.”
“Their feud escalated this week.”
“Not over that same plot of land again, I hope. I thought they were to share it as grazing land.”
He nodded. “That was the plan, but Newton fenced off part of it and planted a garden. Davis’s pigs got into it and destroyed it. Davis says it was an accident, that Newton’s fences weren’t well built. Newton, of course, says it was deliberate. Last night Davis’s barn caught fire. He’s blaming Newton. The Davis men were drinking and plotting revenge last night. I’m afraid someone’s going to end up dead over this squabble.”
“You may be right,” Sydney said. “When we were children all those boys—Davises and Newtons—had tempers that were quick to flame. Many a black eye resulted. What to do? What to do?”
“Perhaps if we sent word to Lord Paxton,” Stevenson offered.
“He is in Ireland. By the time we got word to him and he could reply or return, it would be another fortnight. No, we must handle this ourselves, Mr. Stevenson.”
They sat in thoughtful silence for several moments, then Sydney said, “Send for the grown men of both families. You and I shall meet with them this afternoon.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Uh, no. Someplace more neutral. The magistrate’s chamber in Windham’s town hall. That should lend an air of formality.”
“You have a plan, my lady?”
“I will have. And I shall depend upon your support.”
“You shall have it.”
“Oh—and Mr. Stevenson?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Have those who are married bring their wives.”
“Wives, my lady?”
“Wives. They may be able to talk some sense into those hot-tempered men.”
Stevenson nodded and directed an admiring grin at her as he took his leave.
That afternoon, dressed in her most conservative no-nonsense, lady-of-the-manor style, Sydney met with the adult members of the Davis and Newton families. Other than her wedding ring, she wore no jewelry; the only adornment on her dark green gown was a lace fichu at her neck. She also wore a dark green bonnet with a single black feather.
“Do I look like a female Solomon about to pass judgment?” she asked Geoffrey, who accompanied her to the village.
“Most intimidating,” he said.
At the town hall, she and Mr. Stevenson sat at a table facing the two families: two older couples in their forties flanked by the three Davis sons, two of whom had wives with them, and two Newton sons, of whom one was married.
“We are here to settle this dispute,” Sydney announced
in a voice that belied her nervousness. What if those Davis boys defied her as they had when they chased her with a snake when they were much, much younger?
The elder Newton, a slender man with graying brown hair, stood and said in an emphatic tone, “Begging your ladyship’s pardon, but the fifth Earl of Paxton allotted the use of that land to my grandfather.”
Immediately, Fred Davis jumped to his feet to yell, “And his son gave it to my father.” Davis, whose bald head was pink and shiny, was shorter and heavier than Newton.
Other members of both families, some standing, began to voice loud agreement with their leaders.
Sydney rapped the magistrate’s gavel. “Sit down, all of you.”
Obviously surprised, they did so and silence ensued.
“Owing to a fire at the Hall some twenty years ago, it is impossible to verify either of these claims,” Sydney began in a calmer tone. “The compromise Mr. Stevenson and Lord Paxton worked out previously is apparently not working. The fact is that that land is Paxton land—it belongs to the Earl of Paxton and is his to do with as he wishes.”
She paused to allow this thought to sink in, then went on. “Both these farms are profitable and well tended. Both the Davis and Newton families have proved themselves valuable members of our community. However, neither of you is indispensable.” Again, she paused for effect. “Elsewhere in England small holdings such as yours are being eliminated, sending farm people into factories and mines—if they can find work at all. It would be more profitable for Paxton to take that step.”
She held the gazes of the two leaders for a moment then shifted her gaze to each of the other family members. The women, especially, seemed apprehensive, even fearful. These were not stupid people. They clearly knew the plight of tenant farmers in other parts of the country.
“Destroying families, a way of life, is not Paxton’s way. But we cannot have this discord continue. So. I give you a choice. You can settle this between you amicably, or Paxton will require either or both of you to emigrate, either within the United Kingdom or perhaps to Canada, and we will absorb your holdings into the Paxton home farm.” She stood. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that. Today is Friday. You can let me know after church on Sunday what you have decided to do.”