Unsuitable Wife

by Kruger, Mary

  Her stomach clenched at the thought, and, at that moment, the chaise rounded a bend. And there, still some distance ahead, was Chatleigh Hall.

  Instantly Melissa forgot her apprehension and leaned forward to see her new home. Oh, it was majestic! Enormous, as befitted the home of an earl, and very old. At least, the central portion was; she guessed it had once been a simple manor house, until wings had been added, stretching to infinity on either side. Oddly enough, the mixture of architectural styles, Tudor and Jacobean and Palladian, was pleasant, and didn’t distract at all from the impressiveness of the house, surveying from a slight rise all that it possessed.

  It was only as the chaise drew closer that she began to notice the signs of neglect, her trained eye picking them out unerringly. Surely the stones in the west wing needed repointing, and was that actually grass growing up between the gravel of the drive? And the windows were filthy. Something had to be done about this house, she decided as the chaise swung around and came to a stop in front of a broad, shallow set of stairs that swept up to a heavy, carved door. It was a good thing the earl would be in residence, to see to such things; it was a good thing she had experience in running a house. It was a challenge, but her blood leapt at the opportunity. She was mistress of this house. Here she would become a wife, she thought, and shivered again, whether in anticipation or fear, she didn’t know.

  The postilion came to open the door for her. As she clambered down, stiff from too many hours of traveling, the door to the house opened and Justin came out, slapping his gloves against his palm and followed by another man, just pulling on his coat. Travel-weary though she was, Melissa couldn’t help but appreciate the picture that Justin made, quite the lord of the manor in his buckskins and boots.

  “Come, m’dear.” Justin took her arm. “Must introduce you to the staff.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was breathless as she lengthened her steps to match his. It wasn’t fair that he was so tall, and she, so tiny.

  “Jenkins, the butler,” he tossed over his shoulder as she stumbled up the steps through the arched doorway, and she glanced back at the other man, gaining in her very brief look only the impression that he looked like a weasel. “Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper.”

  “Oh!” Melissa stopped dead just past the doorway, for the moment not even seeing the woman who curtsied to her, in her wonder at the first sight of her new home. The hall, probably once the Great Hall, reached up several stories to a skylight designed in a glorious mosaic of color. The fireplace looked large enough to roast an oxen, and a long refectory table stood in the middle of the floor. It was a magnificent space, or, rather, it would be, if it were cared for, but here, as well as outside, the signs of neglect were all too clear. The floor of black and white marble tile was dull and in need of a good washing, the brass balusters of the grand staircase that curled up to a landing and then separated, in their flight to the next story, were dark from lack of polishing, and the crystals of the enormous chandelier overhead had obviously not seen a dust rag in many a day. There was certainly more than enough here to keep her busy. She must meet with the housekeeper at the first opportunity.

  So thinking, she turned to greet the woman Justin had just introduced. Mrs. Jenkins was small, her hair iron grey, and the apron she wore over her dress of black serge was soiled. Melissa was startled by this mark of disrespect, but more disturbing was the way the housekeeper was looking at her, coolly and calculatingly. “Mrs. Jenkins,” Melissa murmured, and the woman bobbed another curtsy.

  “My lady,” she said. “Forgive the way the house looks, my lady, but we had no warning you was coming—”

  “I quite understand. This is the rest of the staff?”

  “Yes, my lady. Hard it is to keep staff here, buried in the country.”

  “I see.” Melissa walked down the line of people waiting for her, receiving their bows and curtsies with a nod. Besides Mrs. Jenkins and her husband, whose sharp features still looked weasel-like after a second, longer glance, there were one footman, one scullery maid, and two parlormaids. So few to run a house of this size! Melissa’s heart sank at the enormity of the task that stretched ahead of her. “I take it there’s outside staff, as well? And a cook?”

  “No, my lady. That is, there’s outside staff, but no cook.” Melissa turned to stare at her. “His lordship’s rarely here, you see, but now—”

  “I see,” she murmured again. “Then who does the cooking?”

  “I do, my lady, as well as the housekeeping.”

  “Well, then, I must rely upon you, Mrs. Jenkins. I can see we’ve much to do.”

  “I do what I can, my lady! There’s the cleaning, and the ordering, and what with these here lazy girls as maids—”

  “Of course, Mrs. Jenkins, I’m sure you’ve done your best,” Melissa said soothingly. The last thing she needed was to make an enemy of this woman. Getting this house in shape again would require a great deal of help, but it could be done. This was her home. Her future.

  For the first time since her adventure had started, she felt some excitement for what lay ahead, and some hope. Her eyes shone as she turned to Justin to share her vision with him, only to see him pulling on his gloves. “Are you going out again, my lord?” she said, forgetting for the moment that the servants still stood nearby and were interested spectators to this scene.

  Justin barely glanced at her. “Going to London, m’dear.”

  “What!” Melissa ran after him as he set off towards the door. “But you can’t just go and—”

  “Got business to see to.”

  “But Chatleigh, you just can’t leave me here!”

  “Easy, m’dear, the servants.” Gently but firmly, he disengaged her clinging hand from his arm. “Got what you wanted, ma’am. You’re a countess.” His glance took in the hall, and his smile was cold. “Wish you joy of it,” he said, and swept out the door, leaving her standing alone and bereft in the cavernous, echoing, unwelcoming hall.

  Chapter Four

  The door closed with a solid thud with which there was no arguing. A few moments later the jingle of harness and the clop of hoofbeats confirmed Melissa’s fears. She had been brought to this singularly dismal house, and abandoned.

  A frown creasing her forehead, she turned back, in time to see Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins smirk at each other. She stiffened. That would never do. “Well,” she said, dusting her hands together as if to dismiss what had happened. “I would like to be shown to my room, Mrs. Jenkins.”

  “Ain’t ready yet, my lady.” Mrs. Jenkins returned Melissa’s stare. “We had no warning you was coming.”

  “I see.” Melissa drew off her glove, one finger at a time, her eyes never leaving the housekeeper’s face. “But I am here now, and I wish to wash the dirt of the road off me.”

  “But my lady—”

  “And I will take tea in the drawing room while I am waiting.”

  “Yes, my lady, but—”

  “Yes?” Melissa raised her chin and gave the woman a distinctly steely look. She had dealt with more than one impertinent servant in her time. “Is there some problem with your housekeeping, Mrs. Jenkins?”

  The maids, clustered together, giggled, and Mrs. Jenkins glared. Her eyes, however, were the first to drop. “No, my lady. Liza, Charity!” she barked, and the maids immediately stiffened, their faces assuming the blank, wary look they’d worn before. “See to her ladyship’s room! At once! And I will see to your tea myself, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins. I knew I could rely on you.” She smiled, but the other woman merely dropped a curtsy and turned away.

  “The drawing room is just upstairs, my lady,” Jenkins said, coming forward after throwing his wife a look. “If you would follow me?”

  “Thank you, Jenkins.” Melissa lifted her skirts and ascended the broad marble staircase, as dull and grimy as the entrance hall floor. She had her work cut out for her, and now it would be even harder. She’d managed to make an enemy of the housekeeper, the last thing i
n the world she’d meant to do. It was Chatleigh’s fault, she thought, as she reached the top of the stairs and turned to the right, down a corridor with paneled walls darkened by the smoke of long-dead candles. If he hadn’t humiliated her in front of the servants, perhaps she would not have felt such a need to assert her authority with them.

  “The drawing room, my lady.” Jenkins threw a door open, and Melissa stepped in.

  “Oh,” she said, and stopped short. Jenkins scurried in before her to pluck the holland covers off the furniture, while Melissa watched in dismay, tugging at the fingers of her other glove. Handsomely proportioned, the drawing room had the potential to be splendid, but, again, the signs of neglect were obvious, in the chipping plaster and the dusty moldings and fireplace. The moldering nile green draperies were so old that they looked about to fall of their own weight. But the coffered ceiling was fine, she noted, and the parquet floor needed only a good polishing to bring back its luster. Even the furniture, though in need of reupholstering, was acceptable.

  “Jenkins, why is everything like this?” she asked, as she sat on a gold brocade sofa.

  Jenkins, taking a swipe at the dust that lay thick on a nearby table with a holland cover, looked up, and his eyes were wary. “Like what, my lady?”

  “So, well, dusty and neglected and—”

  “We done our best, my lady, but with them there lazy girls—”

  “Oh, I’m sure you have!” she said, hastily. “I realize you haven’t the staff to maintain this house, and if the family’s not here—”

  “That’s just it, m’lady. Family’s never here. Haven’t been for years. Not much money, neither.” And with that, he gave her a wink, which astonished her more than anything else in this unusual day had, and whisked himself out the door.

  Melissa stared after him. “Really!” she murmured, and then, still tired and stiff from the long journey, rose to explore the room. Yes, as she’d suspected, the mantel was definitely Adam, and particularly fine, too. So were the plaster moldings upon the walls, which she thought might once have been painted a bright, sunny yellow. They could be repainted and repaired, but the painting over the mantel would have to go. Melissa’s nose wrinkled as she looked up at it. It was a depiction of a stag, brought low by a hunter’s arrow, being savaged by dogs. “Really!” she said again, and at that moment, the door opened.

  Melissa tensed, but to her relief it was only the footman. He was a young man, and Melissa had liked his open countenance downstairs. She liked it even more now, after the veiled hostility of the Jenkinses. “Your tea, my lady,” he said, placing the tray on the table Jenkins had so inadequately dusted, and Melissa came forward.

  “Thank you—I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name downstairs?” She smiled at him as she sat on the sofa again, and he stopped, arrested by that smile.

  “Phelps, my lady.”

  “Phelps. Tell me, Phelps, why is there only one of you?” she said, pouring herself a cup.

  “Excuse me, my lady?”

  “One footman, I mean.” Phelps’s face suddenly developed that wary look she’d seen too often this day, and she sighed. “I’m not the enemy, Phelps. All I wish to do is run this house as it should be run.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Phelps cast a look back towards the door and then came forward. “If they let you.”

  “‘They?’ Who are you talking about?”

  “The Jenkinses, my lady.” Phelps looked towards the door again. “Used to having their own way, they are.”

  Melissa stared at him over the rim of her cup. “But surely they realize that, now the earl’s married, things must change.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady. They realize that.”

  “And all I wish to do is help. Why is there so small a staff?”

  “That’s the Jenkinses. They’re hard on servants.”

  “Hard?”

  “Find fault when there’s none to be found. Hard to keep people, with that.”

  “I see.” Melissa nibbled at a piece of bread. “Why have you stayed?”

  “I have family hereabouts.” Phelps leaned forward. “If I was you, my lady, I’d watch out for the Jenkinses—”

  “Phelps, why are you still here?” Jenkins said sharply from the doorway, and both Phelps and Melissa looked at him with startled, guilty eyes. “Get to your other duties.”

  “Yes, sir.” Phelps bowed. “If I may be excused, my lady?”

  “Of course,” Melissa said, rising. “Thank you, Phelps. And Jenkins, there’s no need—”

  “Your room is ready, my lady, when you are done with your tea.”

  Melissa looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. “Thank you, Jenkins.” Best not to antagonize him anymore. “I am ready now.”

  The day was drawing in and the corridors of the old house were dim, as she followed Jenkins up another staircase and down a bewildering maze of hallways, until he stopped and threw a door open. “The countess’s rooms, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” Melissa said. This time she hid her dismay at the condition of the room, dark and dusty and dank with the chill of long disuse. Someone had certainly liked nile green, she thought, looking at the brocade bed hangings and drapes. It wasn’t her favorite color, and she wasn’t pleased with the furniture, which was heavy, carved mahogany, so dark it was almost black. Most likely she’d suffer from nightmares in this room, she thought, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell. She would have liked to open a window, but a drizzling, damp mist had started. She hoped Chatleigh, wherever he was, had bogged down in the mud.

  “Thank you, Jenkins,” she said, dismissively. “Please send one of the girls up with hot water.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Jenkins bowed and left the room, and Melissa, at last alone, sank down onto the chaise longue, rubbing her aching temples with her fingers. It was not how she had imagined her homecoming, but that wasn’t surprising. Nothing that had happened in the past few days had been as she’d imagined, not the hurried wedding or the long journey, or being left alone on what should have been her wedding night. She didn’t understand herself. She was glad that she didn’t have to deal with her husband and what he would demand of her. She was glad, too, that she was still untouched, and yet some part of her was disappointed, almost hurt, that he had left her. She couldn’t imagine why. She hadn’t really liked the way his touch had made her feel, the odd sensations caused by his hand on her breast, the warmth, the languor, the desire to wrap herself around him and—

  “Excuse me, my lady. Your hot water. Shall I put it in the dressing room?”

  “What? Oh!” Melissa sat up suddenly at the maid came into the room, lugging two cans of water. “Yes, thank you—Liza, is it?”

  “Yes, my lady. Will you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Liza. I think I will just wash and go to bed. Mind I’m not disturbed.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Liza bobbed a curtsy and left the room. Melissa was again alone, bereft and bewildered. Mama was gone, Harry was far away, but most lowering of all was the knowledge that her husband had abandoned her. Melissa stared at her empty bed, her spirits sinking to their lowest ebb. Never in her life had she felt so lonely, so discarded and used, and, as she climbed into bed and stared up at the shadows flickering on the canopy from the candle, she wished, for the first time, that she had never left home.

  London was thin of company these days, and the traffic was lessened, Justin noticed as he strode along towards his aunt’s Grosvenor Square home on this fine morning. Most of the fashionable world had repaired to their estates for the upcoming holidays, until Parliament opened again in January, and he was glad of it. After the events of the past week, it was good finally to be back at his rooms in the Albany, where Alfred, his batman, reigned supreme, jealously guarding him from the outside world. He would, perhaps, have to open up the London house eventually, but for now his manner of living suited him down to the ground. It was, at least, decidedly less expensive.

  Justin frowned and reached d
own absently to rub his left thigh, where a musket ball had got him at Talavera. Money was going to be a problem, particularly since his plan to marry an heiress was no longer possible. And what Aunt Augusta would say to that, he didn’t want to imagine.

  The door knocker of Lady Helmsley’s house had been removed. Justin frowned as he took the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door with the knob of his walking stick. Not like Aunt Augusta to leave town. She hated the country, and would rather be where she could keep her finger on what was happening.

  The door was opened by an elderly gentleman. “My lord!” he exclaimed. “We didn’t expect you.”

  “Morning, Fitch.” Justin sauntered past the butler into the entry hall, his stick tucked under his arm. “M’aunt not at home?”

  “No, my lord. Of course, she didn’t expect you.”

  “Of course not. Where is she?”

  “Bath, my lord.”

  “Bath!”

  “Yes, my lord. Gone to take the waters.”

  “You’re not serious.” Justin stared at him. “She ill?”

  “No, my lord. Well,” he hesitated, “her rheumatism’s been acting up, but don’t let on I told you.”

  “Of course not. Well. Have to see her when she returns.”

  “Yes, my lord. And, my lord?” Justin turned from the door. “May I wish you happy?”

  “What?”

  “On your nuptials, my lord.”

  “Devil blast it!” Justin exclaimed, and Fitch blinked. “You’ve heard of that, then?”

  “Yes, my lord, we—”

  “Damn, must be all over town, then. Damn Edgewater.”

  “My lord?”

  “Nothing. Fitch. Does m’aunt know?”

  “No, my lord, not that I know. But in Bath—”

  “Yes, I know, everyone gossips. Damn.” Justin stood a moment, thinking. He could go to Bath himself, but he very much feared that the gossip would reach there before him. The damage was already done. “Thank you, Fitch,” he said, and went out the door, running down the steps to the street.