And when she said yes, Soldier’s tail wagged so furiously with joy it threatened to wag off his body.
Leonie was charmed.
Then one afternoon, a scrawny orange tabby came wandering onto the estate. He had one eye permanently shut from a fight. Leonie’s heart immediately went out to him. She offered him fresh milk. He ate as if he was starving and then disappeared.
She worried. Roman told her cats were independent creatures and could fare for themselves. He would return if he wished.
Leonie wasn’t certain. Once, when she was a child, she’d found a kitten. She’d wanted to keep it for a pet but her father had it tossed from the house. The next day, when she’d been taking a walk with her nurse, she saw its body on the street. She’d been inconsolable.
However, Roman proved to be right. The next morning, Cook was horrified to find a dead, fat field mouse on the back step. When the scullery maid came in with the milk, the tabby was trailing behind her. Leonie was overjoyed he was back and served him a saucer of cream herself. She named him Vishnu after the Hindu god for protection. Roman had laughed upon hearing the name but Vishnu lived up to it. He kept the feed room in the stables and the pantry in the kitchen free of rodents. Cook said she’d never seen a better mouser. In the afternoons and mornings when Leonie worked in her gardens, he chased butterflies or sunned himself while keeping watch over her and Soldier.
The rose garden proved to be a touch more challenging than Leonie had anticipated. No one at Bonhomie knew very much about roses. Roman sent to London for information and purchased a book, A Collection of Roses from Nature by a Miss Mary Lawrence, from his friend Thaddeus Chalmers. The book had delightful renderings of roses but little information.
It was up to Leonie to educate herself. Neighbors with roses let her do cuttings. She tried rooting them in water and in damp soil and in peat. She discovered that roses were remarkably sensitive. Some cuttings thrived in water, some in soil.
Word quickly spread that Lady Rochdale had a passion for roses. Leonie learned she was not alone. Rose lovers wrote to her from all over Somerset offering cuttings and advice. In this way, her little garden began to grow.
Catherine helped her with the other beds, but Leonie tended the roses herself. Every little leaf gave her great pride. When Dame Fenlon of Ilminster offered her a whole bush, Leonie almost wept with joy. She might have blooms this summer.
At least once a week, Roman made time to sit out in the garden while she worked. He said he liked seeing her with a bit of dirt on her chin and in her nails.
She knew that couldn’t be true but they had the best conversations during those times. Their lives had become so busy there was rarely time for themselves. He would talk about what changes he was making to the estate that week and she would share her ideas for the house. Their house . . .
It was times like this that she felt guilty that she thought of her mother’s hidden flask. Or that she yearned for a taste of brandy. The thought of a drink was never far from her mind. She was weak-willed and it shamed her. She was glad Roman had cleared Bonhomie of spirits in any form.
Of course she and Roman shared their bed.
Yes, he had the right to sleep in her bed, but she built a row of bedclothes between them. He had his side; she had hers.
His first act upon seeing what she had done was to toss everything on the floor.
Again, she stacked the bedclothes and, again, he destroyed her little wall.
She assumed this meant he wished to join with her, that they would go on with this act that was so satisfying. And she was not against the idea. Even with his breeches on, her husband was a large man and his arousal was difficult to hide. The sight of it was enough to inspire an answering desire in herself.
However, that was not what Roman had in mind. “I want you, aye, I do. You can see the proof of that.” He indicated his body’s reaction to her. “But we are not ready for ‘us’ in that way, Leonie. It is not the time.”
What a curious thing to say. He proved his words by falling into a deep and easy sleep.
Leonie had not relaxed so easily. Her feelings were a bit hurt. She knew he wanted her. She wanted him . . . and yet he denied himself?
What did this say about her as a woman? What did it mean for them? He’d talked about sending her away, then kept her, but sleeping with her without satisfying the hunger they both felt for each other’s bodies . . . ?
She puzzled over those questions most of the night until the answer came. Then she understood.
Roman didn’t completely trust her not to drink. Not yet.
Leonie knew she didn’t trust herself either.
And, until Roman made up his mind about her, he would not do anything that could create a child. She understood his motives as clearly as if he had spoken the words. Her husband valued responsibility.
This also meant he might still set her aside.
Leonie spent a good five minutes trying to work up her anger as a defense against his distrust—except in her heart, she knew he was being wise.
Of course, their bodies didn’t stay away from each other. They were drawn together like magnets. She woke the next morning with her head on his shoulder and his hand between her legs.
“What are you doing? I thought you said we shouldn’t—?” she started, and then sighed as he found his mark.
His lips were by her ear as he whispered, “I didn’t say we couldn’t play.” He then proceeded to show her what he meant by doing amazing things with his hands and mouth.
Leonie learned she could “play” as well. She found it a heady experience to have her brawny husband at her mercy. Over the days that passed, she was free to explore every inch of his body. She delighted in pleasing him. It gave her almost more gratification than the pleasure he gave to her.
Was this love? Did giving more than receiving qualify?
Soon, they both knew Leonie was not with child. She’d also been very good and had not touched a drop. It had been her private struggle.
However, no matter how “good” she was, Roman kept a boundary between them.
She didn’t understand completely. What did he want from her? What was the key that would convince him that he could trust her?
Working in the garden gave her time to mull over these questions and other, unsettled feelings.
She liked sleeping with her husband. She adored what he could do to her body.
And yet, she sensed a lack of permanence. A queasy feeling that she did not deserve Roman or his family, that she should not be loved.
It was all confusing.
Or so she thought . . . until one overcast day, as she gently planted a rose cutting, a thought she kept carefully tucked away in her mind reared its ugly head.
She’d killed a man.
It wasn’t that Leonie hadn’t recalled the terrible amount of blood that had been everywhere or holding Arthur while begging him not to die. She knew that if she hadn’t acted, he would have continued to hurt her.
Still, everything had happened so quickly, and then she’d shut it away in her mind. Even justified, she had not let herself think on what it truly meant to take someone else’s life, especially someone she’d known and had trusted.
She looked at the fragile cutting that she dearly hoped would grow into a blooming plant. She found it hard to breathe. The cutting seemed to have activated her conscience. The weight of it was almost unbearable.
Vishnu sensed her turmoil. He rubbed against her and then climbed into her lap. Soldier and Chester had been napping close. They, too, understood something was not right. They padded over to her. Chester took position as if guarding her. Soldier nudged her.
Leonie knew she could go to Roman. He would hold her and tell her all the right words to placate her conscience. Then again, she’d harmed him as well.
No, she needed to speak to someone she trusted who could give her an honest answer.
She rose from the ground and went inside. After washing her hands, she c
hanged her clothes, put on a shepherdess’s bonnet with its wide brims and yellow ribbons, and walked to the village.
Her brother-in-law was pulling weeds around the graves circling his stone church. He smiled a greeting but before he could speak, Leonie said, “Do you have a moment, Lawrence?”
“Of course. Would you like a cup of water or tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I have a burden on my soul and I must ask you what I should do. I may need to go to the magistrate.”
Chapter 19
Leonie’s pronouncement gained her Lawrence’s attention. He led her inside the cool, dry darkness of the church. There was a silence here, as if no confession spoken would leave these walls.
They sat in the last row of chairs.
“What is troubling you, Leonie?”
She told him her story. She didn’t spare details. She was done keeping secrets. Roman did know most of the story, but to Lawrence she could confess the heady feeling of playing on the two men’s jealousies.
“I led both to believe they were important to me,” she admitted.
If Lawrence was shocked, he gave no indication. Instead, he listened intently. He didn’t even flinch when she tearfully told him about the rape, about how brutal Arthur had been.
“I had told him that I had changed my mind about running away with him. I hadn’t really thought we were going to do it. I was foolish. He told me he couldn’t let me go. He said I must marry him now and, when I refused, he threatened me with his pistol.” She had to draw a deep steadying breath before she could continue. “I let him do what he wanted. He would have killed me. He hit me. He choked me. When he was done, he didn’t relax. He wanted more and that is when my hand found the pistol.” She looked to Lawrence, begging him to understand. “I shot before I realized what I was doing—and then, Roman came in the door and I let him take charge. He took me home.”
“He also claimed he was the one who killed this Arthur?”
Leonie nodded. “We’ve discussed it. Roman says it is not my worry. And yet, it is. I wish that night had never happened and it is all my fault. What must I do? For so long, people have thought Roman was guilty for Arthur’s death.”
“I believe he has made peace with that. My brother-in-law would not have married you even for money if he believed you are a murderess. I’m certain of that fact.”
“I don’t know. He was very anxious for my dowry.” She picked at her skirt a moment and then said, “He tells me he loves me.”
“Then believe him.”
“That is the hard task. I made such a mistake . . .”
Lawrence leaned forward. “Leonie, the hard task is forgiving yourself.”
He was right.
“Roman has,” Lawrence pointed out. “He has brought you into the family. He cares deeply for you.”
She nodded. “He is afraid of me though.”
“No, he has concerns about your need for strong spirits. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“Then what does it make me?”
“Human.” Lawrence took her hand. “You can’t change the past. All of us have done something that haunts us. You are responsible for your decisions that night, but not for this Arthur’s. He sounds as if he received what he deserved, and I don’t know if the courts would have given you justice. But I shall tell you something I have learned over my years as being a man of the cloth—none of us have the right of it. We are all doing the best we can and we have failings. But we also have choices. You can continue to carry this burden or you can start putting your attention on what truly matters to you.”
Leonie nodded, although she didn’t know if she could leave her regret behind. It was, she discovered, a powerful part of her life. They then prayed and she thanked Lawrence and went home.
Yes, home—Bonhomie had become very dear to her, even with its crumbled wall that was quickly being rebuilt.
Roman didn’t know that she had been gone. He’d spent his day at the mill. He was very pleased with the repairs.
“Briggs says we shall test the grindstone in a few days.”
“That is good news,” Leonie said, meaning the words.
Cook had prepared venison for their dinner. Leonie barely tasted it. Her mind was on Lawrence’s advice.
“We’ll be grinding for every family in the parish and the next one over,” Roman predicted, but then he stopped speaking.
At the silence, Leonie looked up to find him staring at her. “Is something the matter?” she said.
“I was going to ask you that question. You seem preoccupied.”
He knew her so well.
Before she could muster some sort of answer, he said, “I love you.” His hand covered hers on the table.
I love you, too.
She didn’t speak the words aloud. She did not trust herself. Instead, she turned her hand over to clasp his as hard as she could.
He looked at their joined hands and then said, “I know, Leonie. When you are ready, I will be here.”
“I fear I’ll never be what you want.”
A sober look came to his eye. His answer was to raise her hand to his lips.
That night, she rested her head on his chest and listened to the beat of his heart and prayed she could make right all that she’d done wrong.
The next day was Squire Jones’s annual hunt culminating in a village dance. The event was the highlight of their country society.
Of course the Earl of Rochdale and his lady were invited as were all the members of his family. Roman told Leonie that he was just as happy to stay home but she felt they should go. “It is our first social engagement. It would be churlish after all the help he has given us with Bonhomie to refuse his invitation.”
She was right.
However, Roman had his reservations. The squire liked his food and drink. The squire prided himself on his stamina when it came to strong spirits. Roman knew Leonie still struggled; after all, didn’t he struggle with trusting her?
He’d unburdened himself to Lawrence a week ago. He’d confessed he wanted his wife in all ways. Lawrence understood the danger of drink, having grown up around those who imbibed too freely.
“I believe she loves you,” Lawrence had said. “In time, you will have the right answer for your own heart.”
In time . . . Roman hated those words. He wanted to know now. He did not know how much longer he could live like a monk around her. Their celibate games in bed were growing tiresome. He wanted to possess, to be inside her, to have his seed grow within her.
Early that morning, Roman, Lawrence, and Briggs rode in the wagon to the squire’s far field to join the hunt for pheasant and whatever other bird they could flush.
Squire Jones informed them they would be eating whatever they shot for the day so the game was on to see which hunter could bag the most birds. Roman would have liked to bring Soldier for the experience but decided this might be too busy a hunt for a pup. He’d left his little friend in one of the stalls. His whining had been a pitiful sound. Roman warned Leonie to not let him loose. “He will try and find me.”
She agreed.
Leonie would be traveling to the squire’s later with his parents and sisters.
It was good to be out in the air. The early June day was the sort that made a man glad to be alive. The company was a mixed collection. There were several of Roman’s largest tenants and neighbors from as far away as twenty miles.
Roman acquitted himself well for the hunt. He didn’t bag the most birds but his number was respectable and only one was gun shot. Lawrence also managed a goodly number. Squire Jones crowed his approval. “You have earned your dinner for your family, my lord.”
“I always wish them well fed.”
The squire laughed. “They will be.” His nose was already turning a cherry red. The spirits had been flowing freely. That was one of the reasons why the others had such poor aim. Many of their birds were inedible. There was too much shot in them.
Roman had refused the s
pirits. Watching Leonie’s battle, he was wary of what he consumed. He enjoyed a tankard of ale but that was enough.
Shortly after the noon hour, the men started for the squire’s house. They handed their birds over to the kitchen and then the serious drinking began. The squire mixed his own punch and took great pride in the ingredients.
“Arrack?” Roman questioned. He knew the liquor. It was much like rum only far more potent.
“Just a touch,” Squire Jones assured him. He then added the whole bottle as well as a bottle of brandy and claret.
Roman decided he’d keep with his ale.
At that moment, he looked across the grounds and saw his family coming in the cart he’d purchased for trips around the parish. Leonie sat with her arms around Edward and Jane while Beth drove. Dora was giving instructions and his parents were laughing.
Leonie looked like a charming shepherdess with her tawny gold hair curling wildly beneath a wide brimmed hat trimmed in colorful ribbons to keep the sun from her face. Her dress was the green of new leaves. The style was simple, but his wife could wear a sackcloth and set men’s imaginations afire.
Behind him, Roman heard the hum from the other male guests.
“You are a lucky man, Rochdale,” one of his neighbors, Sir Charles Everett, said. He had been one of the hunters and had been matching the squire drink for drink, although he didn’t show it.
The cart pulled to a halt. Roman decided he needed to stake his claim and walked to greet his family. To his surprise, Squire Jones almost knocked him over as he hurried in Leonie’s direction to help her from the cart.
Roman’s legs were longer and it was his hands that took Leonie by the waist and swung her down, leaving the squire to help Dora while Lawrence and Roman’s stepfather saw to Beth and his mother.
The music for the afternoon had already started. Two local fiddlers set a lively tune.
Squire Jones bowed over Leonie’s hand, ignoring his own wife, who had rushed to greet the countess as well. “It is an honor to have you here, my lady. You are a vision.”
If Ever I Should Love You Page 23