A Countess of Convenience

by Sarah Winn

  Perhaps he decided not to bother her out of consideration for how tired she must be. More likely, he was fatigued after his trip. Should she unlock the door so that he'd never know it had been locked? She still wanted to make her point about being allowed a bit of privacy, but it might be better to discuss the matter with him rather that force another confrontation.

  A nearby door shut and she heard boots marching decisively down the hall. Locking her door against him last night now seemed a stupid thing to do. With a sigh, she got out of bed and hurriedly dressed.

  When she entered the dining room, Malvern greeted her with a scowl. He was alone. Neil must have hurried out to the stables to impress his employer.

  Prudence forced a smile. “Good morning. I'm glad to see Mrs. Jones has prepared your breakfast.” She turned toward the back of the house. “I'll just let her know I'm here.”

  A tinkling sound caused her to look back and see Malvern ringing the little silver bell that usually sat on the highboy. “That's what this bell is for,” he said in a low but stern voice. “Will you please sit down? I wish to discuss certain matters with you.”

  Reluctantly, she moved to the table. He rose and held out the chair to the right of his. After she was seated, he returned to his chair and took an inordinate amount of time positioning his napkin in his lap.

  Prudence couldn't stand the suspense. “Did you knock? I meant to wait up for you, but I was so tired...”

  He glared at her so fiercely that she thought she could see steam coming from his nostrils. “Why did you lock it in the first place?”

  She took a deep breath and glared back. “I desired privacy.”

  He bit back a retort as Polly rushed into the room carrying a tray. “Here's your tea and toast, your ladyship, and cook is fixin’ a ‘ot plate fer ye.”

  Prudence nodded at the girl.

  After Polly left the room, Malvern once again leveled his gaze at Prudence. “Considering the degree of intimacy that exists in a marriage, I can see no reason for a wife to bar her door against her husband, except a fit of pique. Was that your childish way to pay me back for sending you here?”

  All the air whooshed out of her lungs in a loud huff and she had to take a deep breath before she could speak. “Sending me here is only one of the many ways you have mistreated me.”

  His eyes bulged. “Mistreated?”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and they both silently glared at each other as Polly rushed into the room with a plate of eggs and sausages.

  Apparently the interruption allowed Malvern to calm himself, for after Polly left he spoke in a carefully modulated voice. “Please explain to me how I have mistreated you.”

  Prudence didn't want to calm down. Now that she was finally speaking up for herself, she intended to have her say. “You arrived here without a word of warning, and then shamed me in front of the Baileys”

  “Do you mean when I saved you from drowning?”

  She ignored that stupid comment. “And then you barged into my bedroom without knocking.”

  “To offer you a hot bath—my hot bath.”

  “Oh, yes, you're so self-sacrificing.”

  His studied calm slipped a little. “In your case, I have been. And what have I gotten in return? You made a bargain when we married—”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  His head snapped back and his eyes opened widely.

  “I'll keep the bargain. I won't lock my door again. But I wanted you to know that I have feelings, and I resent you running roughshod over them.”

  His continued silence began to unnerve her. She lowered her voice. “Are there never times when you would not want me to barge into your room?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I did enter your room without knocking and that was impolite. I apologize. In the future, we should both extend the courtesy of knocking.”

  He had apologized. What was she supposed to say now? “Ah—well—yes. Thank you.”

  He nodded toward her plate. “You should eat. Your food is getting cold.” He poured them both hot tea.

  She attacked her food with gusto, grateful for a chance to gather her thoughts. She had been prepared for him to scream insults or banish her to the basement, but never to apologize.

  Now that she thought of it, he had apologized yesterday for the conditions at Aysbeck. Was she being unfair? Oh, dear. She'd actually told him to shut up. How unladylike. Now she owed him an apology. Chewing a mouthful of sausage, she looked over at him penitently. The sausage just wouldn't go away.

  He returned her gaze, as though politely waiting for her to speak.

  She swallowed several times. Apologizing was hard to do. “In the heat of the moment, I said something I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘I'm sorry.'”

  “But what are you sorry for?”

  Was he serious? It took all her determination to look him in the eye. “I shouldn't have told you to shut up. I never use language like that. I don't know what came over me.”

  “Passion comes in many forms, and if you're going to lose your temper with anyone, I'm glad it's me.” He reached across the table and lightly stroked her hand.

  Now she was totally flummoxed. “Ah—what are you going to do today?”

  “I need to inspect the estate. It's been almost two years since I was here, and I can't recall how many years before that.”

  “You didn't spend time here as a child?” Prudence asked, relieved that he had initiated a change of subject.

  “Very little. Mother thought it too far to travel—we didn't have the railway then.”

  A crash and a cry of alarm sounded from the back of the house.

  Prudence leapt to her feet. “Goodness! I'd best see what's happened.” In the kitchen she found Mrs. Bailey squatting beside a broken pitcher and sopping up the puddle of milk that surrounded it.

  The woman looked up at Prudence with worried eyes. “Oh, my lady, ah'm so sorry. Freddy just pushed t'milk away. He didn't mean fer it to fall.”

  Prudence glanced at Freddy, who sat at the table with his lips extended petulantly. “Ah didn't want no milk.”

  Standing on the far side of the room, Mrs. Jones muttered, “That young man needs a sound thrashing.”

  Freddy fired a murderous look at the cook. “It ain't right me staying ‘ere with all t'young ones. Ah oughta’ be helping my da.”

  The two younger children sat along the side of the table and watched with wide eyes. Polly brought a rag mop to help her mother.

  Hoping to appease the irate boy, Prudence said, “Perhaps your mother needs your help today, Freddy.”

  The boy hung his head and did not reply.

  “Can you sit a horse, young man?”

  Surprised by the sound of Malvern's voice, Prudence jerked around and saw him standing in the doorway.

  Freddy looked up warily. “I ride t'horse back from t'fields.”

  Mrs. Bailey rose hurriedly and dipped an awkward curtsy. “It's just a plough horse, yer lordship.”

  “I need a guide to take me around the estate, and I saw a pony in the stable that should be about right for a boy his size.” Addressing Mrs. Bailey, he added, “Could I hire your son for the day?”

  Mrs. Bailey's hands fluttered in excitement. “Oh, are ye sure ‘e'd be a ‘elp? I mean, I'd be ‘appy for ‘im to go if...” She paused and looked at her son.

  Freddy nodded his head vigorously. “I can do it, Mam. I can do it.”

  With a nod, Mrs. Bailey settled the matter.

  “Can you be ready in ten minutes, boy?” Malvern asked.

  Freddy scrambled to his feet. “I can go right now.”

  “Well, I have to fetch my hat.” Malvern glanced at the cook. “Could you pack us some sandwiches, Mrs. Jones? Nothing fancy, mind you.”

  The cook smiled, bobbed her head, and rushed to comply. Malvern left, and Mrs. Bailey began to lecture Freddy on proper behavior in the earl's presence.

&nbs
p; Prudence stood in the midst of all the activity and wondered what had gotten into Malvern. Did he really want an eight-year-old boy for a guide? It almost seemed as if he were doing them a favor by taking Freddy off their hands. Could he possibly be that considerate?

  After refusing Snavely's insistent offer to show him about the estate, Malvern left the stables with the short-legged pony trailing after him. He had to keep his own horse at a plodding walk while pony and boy grew accustomed to each other. With a few suggestions from Malvern, Freddy soon held the reins confidently and urged the pony to catch up with jabs of his heel.

  Malvern didn't know exactly why he'd asked the boy to accompany him. The sensible thing would have been to let Snavely show him around, but all the complaints leveled at his bailiff in the short time Malvern had been at Aysbeck made him think it would be wiser to see things from his own perspective. He had also sympathized with the boy's dislike of being left at home with his mother just as Malvern had been when he was a boy.

  All signs of rain had disappeared. Sunshine added a bit of warmth to the crisp autumn air, making this a remarkably pleasant day. The slow pace gave Malvern plenty of time to mull over his wife's puzzling actions.

  He'd expected to find her eager to please him. Instead, she'd locked him out of her bedroom and then defended her actions. Apologizing had been a stroke of genius on his part, taking the wind right out of her sails. Of course, her point about knocking wasn't without merit. He wouldn't want her crashing into his room at any time.

  Getting on with a wife was quite different than with a mistress. A man could always replace a quarrelsome mistress, but a wife knew she was there to stay. That put the man at a definite disadvantage. Of course, his superior knowledge of the art of lovemaking did level the playing field somewhat.

  He smiled as he remembered how passionate Prudence had become under his tutelage while they were at Wildwood Lodge. By Jove, he had made her purr like a kitten. Once he got back into her bed, she'd sweeten up again.

  When he reached the stream, Malvern was relieved to see that the water had receded back to the confines of the banks, although it still flowed vigorously, with white water churning around the snags that littered the streambed. “Is this the usual depth of the water?” he asked his companion.

  Stretching his neck to see over the bank, Freddy said, “Nay, sir—er—my lord. In the summertime ah can wade across in most places.”

  “Is flooding a common occurrence?”

  Freddy frowned up at him. “Ah don't know.”

  “Do you remember it happening before?”

  “Never got in our ‘ouse afore.”

  That confirmed what Prudence had said. “Why do you think it flooded this time?”

  “Da says t'bank's fell in and stuff has piled up so t'water can't get through.”

  “Have the tenants—your father and the other men who live on the estate—made any attempt to clean the debris out?”

  “Da says if Mr. Snavely is gonna keep raisin’ t'rent, he oughta do it.”

  “Can you show me the place where the stream is blocked?”

  “Yes, sir. But we can get there quicker if we go across t'fields.”

  With a dramatic gesture of his hand, Malvern said, “Lead on, McDuff. The fields can't be any worse than this muddy road.”

  “My name's Freddy, my lord,” the boy said before kicking the pony into a slow trot.

  Malvern chuckled and followed his young guide. Rarely being in the company of children, he found Freddy's combination of innocence and native wisdom charming. Plus the child was a good source of information. Adults had obviously spoken freely in front of him, not realizing he would soak up their words and repeat them without hesitation. Malvern should remember that when he had children of his own.

  His own children. Aside from knowing he had a duty to produce an heir, Malvern had given little thought to actually rearing children. He had supposed he'd leave that up to their mother as his father had. Of course, his father had died when Malvern was quite young. Aside from a few riding lessons, he couldn't remember spending much time in his father's company. He had often wondered what would have happened if his father had lived. Would they have been more companionable as Malvern grew older?

  He brought his horse beside the pony. “How old are you, Freddy?”

  “Ah'll be nine next March,” the boy said.

  The same age Malvern had been when his father died. The boy was not an odious companion and had certainly learned a lot from his “da.” Malvern decided he would take a more active interest in his children, the boys anyway.

  Freddy looked up at him with a studious expression. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Fire away.”

  “My mam says ah'm to call you ‘my lord.'”

  “That is the correct way to address a person of my rank.”

  “But ye ain't t'same Lord they talk about in church, are ye?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “So, wot kind of lord are ye?”

  Perhaps dealing with children was more difficult than he had thought. “Generations ago an ancestor of mine did great service to the king and was given the title the Earl of Malvern. Since then the eldest son has inherited the title.”

  Judging from his expression, that explanation had left Freddy confused. “Do ye ‘ave to do service for the Queen now?”

  “We all owe loyalty to our monarch, but in modern times it is my duty to serve my country by assuming a leadership role. In the House of Lords, I help make the laws that govern our land. As a person of rank it is my responsibility to set an example to others of the right and proper way to conduct—”

  My God! His mother's words were coming out of his mouth. How could he explain something to an eight-year-old that he didn't entirely understand himself?

  Searching for an easy way out, Malvern said, “Calling me ‘my lord’ is a mark of respect for the title.”

  Fortunately, they approached a stone fence and Freddy directed his attention to opening the gate. On the other side, Malvern urged his horse into a pace the pony could not match and better understood his father's lack of presence in his own childhood.

  When they again angled back to the stream, water extended over part of the road. Malvern had to walk his horse into it before he could clearly see where the bank had crumbled, taking a tree with it and causing a partial dam. Debris carried by the roiling water continued to wedge into openings in the barrier and increase the blockage.

  Malvern didn't know much about such work, but he felt sure clearing this out would take a lot of heavy labor, and he could understand why men who'd just had their rents raised would not volunteer to do it. However, something needed to be done or this sorry excuse of a road would soon be totally impassable.

  From the corner of his eye, Malvern saw Freddy moving toward him. He turned his horse toward the boy. “Don't come into the water. The pony's legs are too short.”

  “Wot ye lookin’ at?” Freddy asked.

  “Just assessing the problem.”

  “You mean the dam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to fix it?”

  “I'll look into the matter.”

  “Da says t'old lord would ‘ave fixed it right off. Why won't ye?”

  Malvern was developing a distinct dislike for Freddy's ‘da'. “I will see that it is removed, but I certainly don't intend to pull it apart myself.”

  Apparently the tone of Malvern's voice alerted Freddy to potential danger. He shook his head rapidly. “Ah didn't mean no gentleman in fine clothes should do it ‘isself.”

  A bit chagrined at himself for snapping at the boy, Malvern asked, “Are we close to your cottage?”

  Freddy pointed upstream. “Not too far.”

  “Let's go there next. I promised your mother I'd check on things.”

  After a few moments of riding silently, Freddy looked up at Malvern with an uncertain frown. “Can ah ask ye somethin’ else?”

  Malvern prayed for pa
tience. “What?”

  “Who was t'old lord?”

  “My father.”

  “What happened to ‘im?”

  “He died. As a matter of fact, he died when I was just your age.”

  Shock registered on the boy's face. Perhaps, the possibility of some tragedy befalling his own father dawned on him. Finally he said, “Is that why ye don't like to come ‘ere?”

  Surprised by his young companion's insightfulness, Malvern realized that he did indeed resent his father's birthplace. As a child he'd heard his mother complain about his father leaving them to attend to matters at Aysbeck and when death brought about the final separation, his resentment had somehow spilled over onto his northern property. After coming into his majority, he had ignored his father's home whenever possible, telling himself that the holding wasn't important enough to waste time on.

  What he'd really been doing was turning his back on his father—on the man who had deserted him after passing on his faults. But Malvern had been mistaken about his father's character. The man had not been an incorrigible womanizer. What had he been? Malvern really knew very little about him.

  The Baileys’ cottage came into view and he was heartened to see men dumping buckets of soupy muck from doors and windows. Hopefully, the place would soon be ready for re-occupancy. As he brought his horse to a halt near the front door, Mr. Bailey exited with a bucket in each hand. He looked surprised and then alarmed to see his son with Malvern.

  Setting the buckets down, he stepped forward. “Wot's t'boy done now?”

  Malvern laughed. Evidently he wasn't the only one Freddy bedeviled. “Nothing like that, Bailey. I've hired the boy to guide me about today. So far he's done an excellent job.”

  Bailey looked relieved and Freddy's little chest swelled with pride.

  “How has your cottage fared?” Malvern asked.

  With cap in hand, Bailey looked up at him. “Could ‘ave been worse.” Then wrinkles gathered about the man's eyes. “'Er ladyship was a’ angel o’ mercy, gettin’ my family and my goods out like she done. Hope ye weren't too ‘ard on her.”