He wasn’t. His eyes reflected the moonlight from the window. “I can’t sleep, can you?” he asked.
“You’ve spoiled me,” she confessed. His smile widened and he reached for her.
The mood of their coupling was different from the other times. She began to understand that this act between them could be a primitive need, or a reassuring ritual, or a way to communicate what couldn’t be spoken.
Soren took great care this night with her. He savored her skin with his kisses. His touch was a caress. It was as if he wanted her to know he was sorry she was not completely happy with the choices they had been forced to make.
She blinked back tears because a part of her still resisted and always would. He kissed away those tears.
When they were done, she put her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest. “It will be good,” he whispered.
She nodded, and realized that whether it was or it wasn’t, he was the only person in her life who cared what happened to her. Even if he didn’t understand her . . . or so she thought.
The next morning, when Cassandra prepared to climb into the post chaise, already weary of travel before the day had begun, she discovered a book sitting on her seat.
Chapter 16
Soren had been waiting for her to go to the coach. He was ridiculously pleased with himself for what he’d done.
Also a bit uneasy. It was a book; however, the topic . . .
Cassandra, looking delightfully charming with her hair curled over one shoulder beneath her bonnet, picked up the book and held it as if she had been given a bar of gold. She read the title, and then her brow lifted in confusion. “Practical Education?”
Soren winced. “I know it isn’t the most enticing subject. Someone left it at the inn. Piper doesn’t read, and once I told him the title, he was happy enough with ten shillings for it.” Books were expensive. Ten shillings was all Soren could reasonably afford. He’d been lucky. “You may not want it, either.”
She opened the cover to the first page. “The author is female. Maria Edgeworth. I’ve heard of her.”
“Truly?”
“Yes . . . she writes silly popular novels. They are romances, I think.”
“With a title like Practical Education?” He grinned. “If it is a romantic novel, what do you believe is being taught?” He let his voice take on heat so his intention was clear. “Hopefully something very ‘practical.’ ” Their driver, who waited at the head of the horses, guffawed his agreement.
Cass playfully slapped his arm with the book. “Behave.”
“Yes, dear,” he said with false meekness. She gave him a teasing frown as she climbed inside the vehicle. She carried the book with her.
Soren nodded to the driver that they were ready to go. While the man mounted the lead horse, Soren took his seat and closed the door. With another wave, they were off.
Cass put her nose in the book. “I am not one for light novels,” she said again.
Soren pointed out, “It says volume one. If it is a romance, it must be epic if there is more than one volume to it.”
“Perhaps you should write your memoirs, my lord,” she suggested, giving him half of her attention.
“That would be at least ten volumes,” he assured her, and she laughed in a way she hadn’t since she’d first discovered Holwell had spent her money.
“I don’t know if my feelings should be hurt by your laughter, wife,” he mock-complained.
Her answer was to kiss his cheek. She slipped her gloved hand in his. “I was thinking five volumes. Several of which haven’t been written yet.” She held up the book. “Thank you for this.”
“You are most welcome.”
She smiled, and then pulled her hand away and went back to her book. Soren wondered if giving her such a gift didn’t make him his own worst enemy. It completely absorbed her attention.
However, she didn’t shut him out. After a bit of reading, she said, “This is not a work of fiction. I’ve read books of ideas written by women before. Mary Wollstonecraft wrote a treatise remarking on the importance of educating women.”
“That doesn’t sound like an interesting book, either.”
Her smile was quick. “Oh, but it was. I agreed with many of the ideas.”
“I’m unsurprised.”
Her smile widened. “Listen to this.” She read the opening paragraphs. “Miss Edgeworth wrote this with her father, or at least the first part on proper toys. They are attempting to inform the reader about raising children.” She looked up at him. “Does one need a book on such a topic? Isn’t it a standard understanding?”
“I don’t know if my tutors ever read a book about how to educate me. They should have,” he assured her. “I think I still have bruises from the knocks around my head, and the blows never helped my learning.”
“But does one need to have toys explained? It seems odd to me to offer such instruction.”
“There had been times I’ve sought advice, especially when Logan first came to me. When we were on the ship, I’d need to redirect his attention to keep him out of trouble. He does have a will of his own.” That was an understatement. His son had not settled into Pentreath comfortably, and Soren wasn’t certain why. His fear was that, as his mother direly warned, his son would never become a part of English Society. Logan mourned for his mother and the life he’d known.
“The authors refer to their thoughts as the ‘art of education,’ ” Cassandra said thoughtfully.
“The topic is too dry for me.”
She didn’t answer. She’d dived back into the book, ignoring Soren, but he didn’t mind. He would have purchased her a dozen books if he could afford it. The downheartedness that had hovered around her yesterday had dissipated.
She was an active reader. Her brows knit or lifted as a thought struck her. She pursed her lips as if in disagreement, or twisted them when she found insight.
From time to time, she shared. Holding her finger on the page to keep her place, she said, “Miss Edgeworth believes children are remarkably perceptive and sensitive.”
“I agree.”
“I’ve never met a child who wanted anything but a sweet treat.”
“They like that as well.”
“I was told to stay in the nursery and to keep quiet. Miss Edgeworth writes as if children have a curiosity we should encourage.”
There was a telling statement.
“Did you never rebel, Cassandra? Or throw a tantrum?”
“Why?”
Her response puzzled him. “Because you were a child and there is more to life than four walls and a book.”
“Books were my life,” she answered. “They were my friends.”
And they had nurtured her vibrant spirit, keeping it alive. If he’d had MP Holwell in front of him, he would have tied the man into a knot and thrown him into an ocean.
For all of her wealth, Cassandra’s life had been remarkably sheltered. No wonder she’d been considered such an oddity in Cornwall, where there was fresh air and open fields and a more relaxed manner. London hadn’t been the salvation she’d believed of it. She’d just experienced a bit more freedom there.
A question came to her eye. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m staring?”
“Yes, as if you are trying to unlock my mind.”
Perceptive as usual.
Soren leaned against her. “I am,” he admitted. “Talk to me about the books that kept your imagination alive in your childhood.”
She blinked as if surprised. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Because they were important to you. I was never much of a reader but I did enjoy the Roman myths.”
“I liked them as well.”
“Which was your favorite?” he asked, and what followed was the first conversation between them where he felt she was completely herself. There wasn’t anything she hadn’t read, and his respect for her intellect grew. Especially when she said, “My own education i
s spotty. Father was not one for spending money on teaching women very much of anything that couldn’t snare them a husband. I didn’t mind dancing and learning French, but the lessons on handwork? You’d best not lose a button, my lord, or you will find yourself lacking.”
“That’s unfortunate, my lady, because you are very hard on my buttons.” He indicated his breeches.
She lifted a brow. “Am I, my lord?”
“Terribly hard. Fortunately, I can sew on a button.”
Once again, his reward was her laughter. Sweet, musical, and still slightly rusty from disuse—and he could not resist her. He reached for his wife.
“Soren, the driver—”
“Cannot see us.” His lips were almost upon hers.
“But he might hear us.”
“Not if we are quiet.” He kissed her then, and to his everlasting gratitude, she set the book aside to kiss him back properly.
Or perhaps she realized his buttons were fair close to popping and she wished to save him a bit of sewing.
There was only one way overland into Cornwall, and that was crossing the Tamar.
For the past two days, Cassandra had found herself lulled into the routine of digesting Miss Edgeworth’s very direct advice on children and their education, or, at least, one volume’s worth, and having her husband all to herself, which was a gift.
Their conversation on books had opened her to him. He didn’t act bored or dismissive of the topics that interested her.
It was as if he genuinely cared.
In turn, she allowed herself to share bits and pieces of her that she’d always kept to herself.
Of course, it helped that the rest of the world was at bay while they traveled. She could pretend the events of the past or the future had no bearing on her—not that they didn’t discuss the future.
She discovered Soren could go on for hours with his talk of cattle and sheep and his plans to reclaim a soggy patch of marshland for grazing. The herds were not where he wanted them. He had planned on using her money to add to their number. “But they will grow on their own,” he assured her. “They’ll breed, and all I need is patience.”
He was not afraid to dream big.
She envied him.
But his true passion was his son. The child was never far from his mind, but Soren seemed to tread lightly on the topic. She knew his hope was that she would be a good stepmother to Logan.
She wasn’t certain she understood how, but as time passed, and her respect for her husband increased, she knew she would try to be all he wanted from her.
However, passing this threshold into Cornwall warned her that the haven she and Soren had created during their travels was about to end.
She leaned against the window. As the horses pulled them over Greystone Bridge, the coach bounced as if the bumpy road was leading them into an entirely different world.
Many thought of Cornwall as miles of coast, but she was from the moors and the forests. “And to the moors I return,” she said.
Soren had been dozing in spite of the bouncing of the coach. He roused himself. “I beg pardon?” He sat up.
She shook her head. “I was just thinking. How much farther do we have?”
He looked out the window. “We crossed the Tamar, have we?”
“Yes.”
“Then three or four hours more, depending on the roads. Thank the Lord we’ve had good weather. Do you wish to take a stretch of the legs?”
She did. He called out for the driver to halt.
The ground beneath her feet didn’t feel any different on this side of the river than it had on the other. Even the wind was the same, and yet her senses warned her of the difference. There was the hint of salt in the air and the always present possibility of piskies listening. “Cornwall. The ends of the earth.”
“Or the beginning,” Soren said with his usual optimism. They walked along the road while the driver watered the horses. “It depends on the perspective. By the way, I had a thought. What if I asked for you to write a poem to me?”
“It would be a shabby thing. I’m no poet.”
“But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t write a book. Like Miss Edgeworth’s.”
“Are you trying to give me a purpose to my life, my lord?”
“I am,” he said, proving once again that he was very attuned to her thoughts.
It was an interesting idea. “What would I write about?”
“Whatever you wished. She wrote on a topic as deadly dull as education and yet you seem to enjoy her thoughts on the matter.”
“That is what I am saying, I don’t truly have an interesting direction.”
“One will come to you, Cassandra,” he said.
A strong wind blew around them. The day was fair but it could always rain. Her hair threatened to become undone. She tucked in a stray lock of hair. “I will find it here? Out in the wilds of England?” She let her doubts be known.
“You can only start where you are.” He put a challenge in his voice.
“It is easy for you, Soren. You are male.”
He feigned concern. “Did no one tell Maria Edgeworth only males should write? Perhaps we should notify her. She must cease. And are there not a half-dozen women penning novels?”
“Not even that number. See what I mean? You challenge me to do something that is not easy.”
“Ah, so, it is the easy life you wish?”
She released her breath in a huff. “You are impossible. Look, the driver is signaling we are ready to go.” She spun on her heel and started back. He fell in step beside her. She braced herself for more of his “encouragement.”
He wisely kept his counsel to himself.
However, once they were back on the road, she touched the book beside her on the seat as if just the cover could give her insight.
She’d never considered writing herself. Important people wrote books.
Furthermore, now was not the time to start. Who would want to read anything written in Cornwall? London was the center of the world, and yet, Miss Edgeworth wasn’t from London. Neither were several other female writers.
Had it been Soren’s purpose to make her question herself? If so, he had succeeded.
And, yes, it would be lovely to accomplish as important a task as writing something that could make people’s hearts feel or their minds think.
She looked to her husband. He studied the view outside the window. “I’ve never seen Pentreath Castle,” she admitted.
“Ever? It’s a landmark.”
“Not to a Holwell.”
“Oh, yes, the dreaded feud.” He shook his head as he did whenever he thought she’d been overly sheltered.
“That and because I haven’t been back to Cornwall in years.”
“Fortunately, little of it has changed,” he assured her. “I was gone longer than you were and all was right as I’d left it. Especially Pentreath. Parts of it haven’t changed since the days when it was the guardian of the moors against invaders from the east and the north. I believe you will be well pleased with the house.”
“Do you think your mother will be pleased with our marriage?”
“I couldn’t say.”
When she was younger, Cassandra had often seen the Dowager Lady Dewsberry out and about, although they had never spoken. “I rarely saw you and your mother together. Are you close?”
“My mother is . . .” He paused, shrugged, and obviously changed his mind over what he’d been about to say. “Her family is from Hertfordshire. She doesn’t like Cornwall, either. The two of you will have something in common.”
She leaned against her corner. “Because we don’t embrace whatever you wish us to?”
“Cass—” he started, but she cut him off.
“Soren, be fair.”
“About?”
She made an impatient noise. “You are a survivor. You do whatever must be done whether it was going to Canada, giving up your commission, or marrying for money.”
“What does th
is happen to do with my mother?”
“It means that you may not be able to understand a person’s resistance to an idea.”
“Such as being trundled off to Cornwall?”
“Yes, exactly.”
He held up a hand. “Let me first say, you and my mother are worlds apart.”
“Or we may be more alike than you think.”
“Don’t even wish that in jest,” he answered, and he was serious. “We don’t stand on ceremony in Pentreath. Perhaps that is what Mother misses. Perhaps if she felt she was more important—?” He broke off with a shake of his head. “Who knows.”
“You aren’t painting an endearing portrait of her,” Cassandra observed.
“I can’t. She has spent her life waiting for a golden coach pulled by four snowy white horses to come driving up. Life has not been what she wished.”
There was a warning in there for Cassandra. She sensed it.
And then he said, “My father had a mistress.”
His statement caught her attention.
“Had you known?” he asked. When she shook her head, he said, “Then I had best tell you because everyone pretends it is a secret, even though it is common knowledge around Pentreath and beyond. Deborah Fowey is still in the area. She is married to the wainwright. However, before that, she and Father had three children. My half brother is in the military and my two half sisters are happily married.”
“When you say common knowledge, does that mean your mother knows?”
“If she doesn’t she is a fool, and Arabella York is no fool.”
Of course, Cassandra knew that men kept mistresses. But this was the first time she’d ever thought in terms of herself. What if Soren took a mistress?
“I’ll not tolerate any of that,” she informed him. “I won’t.”
“I’m not my father, Cassandra.” He reached for her hand on the seat. “I also don’t want you to become my mother.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll let you form your own opinions.”
The post chaise turned down the hardened dirt drive to Pentreath Castle. After a half mile or so, a portion of the stone castle wall loomed over the road. The gaping hole that had once been the entry gate was wide enough for a host of elephants to pass through. Their vehicle easily made its way.
A Match Made in Bed Page 19