Unsuitable Wife

by Kruger, Mary

  So that was that, he thought, swinging his walking stick as he strode along. Sooner or later he would have to face the old dragon, but, for now, he’d been reprieved. And there was enough for him to do here. There was boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, and going to Tattersall’s to select horses for his sadly depleted stables, and any number of things. The next few days promised to be quite pleasant.

  “Justin?” a feminine voice called behind him. “My goodness, it is you!”

  Justin turned, to look at the carriage which was drawn up before his aunt’s house, and the girl who had just emerged from it. Her blonde ringlets danced as she came towards him, and her blue eyes were wide. “Helena!” he exclaimed, his heart sinking. Helena, of all people. One of the loveliest girls he had ever seen, and the last person he wished to see. Miss Helena Keane, the woman he had once thought he would marry.

  Jenkins clattered down the backstairs and came into the kitchen, where his wife, her mouth set in a thin line, was shoving dishes onto a tray. “Ladyship’s luncheon ready yet?” he asked, and Mrs. Jenkins gave him a murderous look. “What is it?”

  “That woman!” she exclaimed. “Really, Mr. Jenkins, who does she think she is?”

  “The new countess,” he said, mildly, and lifted the silver tray, spotted with tarnish that gave evidence to its long disuse. “Here, Phelps. Take this upstairs to her ladyship.”

  “Ladyship, indeed.” Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes smoldered as the footman rose from the long deal table, where he had been eating his own luncheon, and took the tray. “Looks at me like I’m dirt, she does.”

  “Now, Mother, don’t get yourself into a pelter.” Jenkins glanced at the table, where the scullery maid, her cheek clearly bearing the imprint of a hand, was chopping onions, and his voice lowered. “Things won’t change.”

  “Oh, won’t they? I took her on a tour of the house this morning.” Her lips tightened still further as she remembered the countess’s comments on the state of the house. “She’s talking of hiring more staff.”

  Jenkins turned. “You, girl.” The scullery maid, her eyes red, looked up at him. “Can’t you do that someplace else?”

  “But sir, Mrs. Jenkins said—”

  “You heard Mr. Jenkins,” Mrs. Jenkins said, sharply. “Now go into the pantry, Rose, and wash them dishes!”

  “Yes, mum,” Rose murmured, and went out, throwing them a resentful look.

  Jenkins went to sit by the table. “So she’ll hire more staff,” he said. “We’ll just let them go again.”

  “Not this time. She’ll hire more. And she’ll talk with the shopkeepers, Mr. Jenkins. She’s already asked why the butcher sends us inferior cuts.”

  Jenkins shifted in his chair. “What did you tell her?”

  “That he didn’t realize she was in residence and thought the meats were for servants. But it’s worse than that, Mr. Jenkins. She’s asked to see the account books.”

  “So? Let her.”

  “What!”

  Jenkins leaned back on two legs of the chair, his arms crossed on his chest. “Said, let her. Probably won’t notice anything, if she can even do sums.”

  “And if she can? What then, Mr. Jenkins?” Her hands were knotted into fists on her hips.

  “What can she actually do?”

  “Do? She can call the law down on us. She can—”

  “But without the earl’s support?” Mr. Jenkins grinned as his wife’s mouth suddenly shaped itself into an O. “Without him to back her up, what can she do?”

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Jenkins said slowly, and smiled. “Why, nothing, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Told you there was nothing to worry about.” He got up from his chair and crossed to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Mother. We’ll sort her proper.”

  Mrs. Jenkins regarded him for a moment and then turned away, her head bobbing in a sharp, satisfied nod. Mr. Jenkins was right. They’d handle that slip of a girl who thought herself a countess, or her name wasn’t Martha Jenkins.

  “Helena!” Justin walked towards her, his feeling of well-being rapidly dissipating. Good God, he’d forgotten about Helena. Now what the devil did he do? “Didn’t know you were in town.”

  Helena laughed, a high, tinkling sound. In a pelisse of powder blue velvet that exactly matched her eyes, she looked striking. “But, Justin, don’t you know Daddy likes to spend Christmas in town? So much more civilized, he says.” She laughed again, but her clear blue eyes were hard and accusing. “But, come, what are you doing in town? I thought you’d be in the country with your little bride.”

  Justin’s collar suddenly felt tight. “Yes, well, had business in town. Didn’t know you’d heard about it, Helena.”

  “But it is the talk of the town! Such a delicious on-dit, you know, so many people were happy to tell me about it.”

  “Helena, I’m sorry—”

  “You met her in an inn, I hear?”

  That was so uncomfortably close to the truth that he stiffened. “No. Knew her before.”

  “Oh? And what does your aunt have to say?”

  “She’s away from town.”

  “Oh, is she? Pity, I wished to speak to her. Well, no matter.” She started to turn, and then stopped. “And when will we have the pleasure of meeting your lovely bride? I am planning an intimate dinner Tuesday next, just twenty people or so, you must bring her—”

  “She’s at Chatleigh,” he said, before she could go on.

  “Chatleigh! Didn’t she wish to come to town with you?”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s—well, she’s not well.”

  “Oh.” Helena took a step backwards, and her eyes grew opaque. “Oh, I see. Well. I mustn’t keep the horses standing.”

  Justin stepped forward. “Here, let me help you.”

  “I can manage.” She shook off his arm, accepting the help of a groom to climb into her carriage, and Justin stood back as the carriage drove away.

  Damn! he thought, walking along again. Damn, he hadn’t expected this, though he should have. Couldn’t blame Helena for being upset, since their eventual betrothal had been an accepted fact. Not that he loved her; hardly. The engagement had been his aunt’s idea, and he had fallen in with it. Helena was pretty enough, and her father was rich enough. She was also, at twenty-three, more intelligent and sophisticated than girls just out of the schoolroom, and so at least she didn’t bore him. Now everything had changed, and there was no way to get free.

  Or, was there? Perhaps matters weren’t so serious as they appeared. The marriage was unconsummated, and though he had stayed away from his wife only to save his sanity, now he saw that it might serve another purpose. He might be able to obtain an annulment.

  The thought made him grin, and, tipping his hat forward, he set off again, swinging his cane freely. Suddenly, life looked a lot brighter.

  Life had never before looked so gloomy to Melissa, not even when she had realized what Mama’s death would mean. Outside rain poured down, and the cold gloom pervaded everything in the house. Melissa wrapped her shawl around her more tightly and leaned forward to stir the drawing room fire with a poker, coughing when a backdraft sent a plume of smoke into the room. Most of the chimneys smoked. Another thing to see to.

  The trouble was, there was so much to do that it was daunting. No one had taken proper care of this house for years, and everywhere she saw neglect and waste: paintings so dark with dirt that their subject matter was indistinguishable; linens, folded carefully away, infested with mildew; stained and peeling wallpaper in the music room, where the damp had got in. Oh, she could fix everything, but no one would thank her. It would not make her husband return to her.

  Melissa poked at the fire again and then leaned back, frowning as she drained her tea. Best not to think of Chatleigh; best to think of other things. Her staff, for instance. She didn’t know quite what to do about them, though she had been running a house for years. It wasn’t that the Jenkinses were disobedient, or insolent. On the contrary,
they accepted all her orders with every sign of acquiescence. Somehow, though, nothing ever got done. When Melissa had spoken with Mrs. Jenkins about the necessity of hiring more staff, that woman had agreed, but so far, no one new had been hired. Melissa had talked about giving the house a thorough cleaning and then starting on redecorating, but dust still lay thick on most of the furniture. Mrs. Jenkins had agreed that, yes, milady should see the household account books, but Melissa had yet to lay eyes on them.

  The thought of that made her frown deepen, and she crossed to the bellpull. Several minutes later, she tugged on it again. When a third tug still brought no results, Melissa strode out of the room, her brow knotted. Really, this was going to have to stop! She realized the house was inadequately staffed, but that didn’t excuse letting a summons from its mistress go unanswered. Something would have to be done. She was not a wife, nor did she feel like a countess, but this was something she could do. It was high time she took over the running of this house.

  “Phelps,” she said, leaning over the balustrade halfway to the ground floor, and the footman looked up. “Where is Jenkins?”

  “Don’t know, my lady.”

  “Don’t know?” Melissa continued down the stairs. “Does he do this often? Disappear like this?”

  “I imagine he’s busy somewhere in the house, ma’am.”

  “I would believe that if I saw any evidence of things being done!” she snapped, and Phelps straightened, his face going stiff. Oh, dear, she hoped she hadn’t made another enemy. “Might he be in the butler’s pantry, do you think?”

  Phelps unbent just a trifle. “Might be, my lady. Shall I go and see?” he asked, and, just then, someone knocked on the door.

  “See who that is, first,” she said, and was relieved when Phelps smiled. Her own smile faded when Phelps opened the door and the caller announced himself.

  “One moment, sir, I shall see if her ladyship is receiving,” Phelps said, and Melissa stepped forward, resigned to her fate.

  “Come in, Sir Stephen,” she said.

  Chapter Five

  The morning post, lying on a silver salver, brought with it a thick envelope addressed in an unfamiliar hand. Justin, eating his breakfast as he read his mail, cut a piece of ham, took a pull of ale, and then finally gave into his curiosity. Reaching for the mysterious envelope, he slit it open with a penknife and shook the letter open. A frown gathered on his forehead, and he abruptly turned it over, to read the signature.

  “Devil take the woman!” he exclaimed, and Alfred stuck his head in from the pantry.

  “Did you say something, sir?”

  “Damned woman.”

  Alfred came into the room, wiping his hands on the towel tucked at his waist. “The countess, sir?” he said. In the last week he had heard a great deal about the earl’s marriage, and he was greatly in sympathy with his employer.

  “Yes, damn it, the countess.” With one quick motion Justin tore the letter across. “Asking for money. Rather, having her man of affairs ask for her.”

  “Not good, sir.”

  “No, not good. Damned if I’m going to bankrupt myself so she can buy fripperies!”

  “No, sir.”

  “Bring me paper, Alfred. Deal with this at once.”

  “Yes, sir. And, uh, sir?”

  “What is it?” Justin said, snapping his fingers for the paper and pen.

  “The letter from the marchioness.”

  “What?” Justin scrabbled through the remainder of the mail until he came to a square of creamy vellum addressed with a bold, almost vertical handwriting. “Oh, good God,” he muttered. Here it was, then, the summons he had been dreading. His aunt had returned to town.

  “Well, Alfred.” He pushed his plate away and rose. “Seems I won’t be going to Gentleman Jackson’s after all.”

  The look Alfred gave him was sympathetic. “No, sir. Shall I lay out your new coat, sir?”

  “Yes, Alfred. But, paper and pen first.” He sat down again. Best to deal with the upstart countess first.

  “So here you are, daughter.” Sir Stephen strolled into the hall. “Very unnatural of you, child, not to tell me where you were going.”

  “What are you doing here?” Melissa asked, not moving.

  “Why, I’ve come to see you, of course. You may go,” he said, turning to Phelps.

  “No.” Melissa’s hands clenched. “Phelps, please stay. Sir Stephen will not be staying.”

  Sir Stephen shook his head, clucking his teeth. “How unnatural of you, daughter. Can you not even offer your father some refreshment on such a day? A brandy would not come amiss—”

  “You’re not my father. And how did you know I was here?”

  “‘Twas easy enough to learn, daughter, once I found you were at the inn, and who you went off with.” His eyes traveled around the hall, and the covetuous look Melissa knew well came into them. “Done well for yourself, haven’t you? An earl, no less. And where is his lordship?”

  “Not here at the moment.”

  “Pity, I wanted to meet the man who was so impetuous as to carry you off. But, come, surely there is some place where we can be private?” he said, slanting a look towards Phelps. “We shouldn’t discuss our affairs in front of the servants.”

  “We have no affairs,” she snapped, and went pale as Sir Stephen’s eyes, cold, polished obsidian, came back to her.

  “No. Pity, that,” he said, and though his voice was soft, something about it made Melissa’s skin crawl. “You are all I have left. I was hoping for better relations with you, daughter.”

  “I am married, sir. My loyalty must remain with my husband.”

  “Of course. But I am sure you won’t deny your own father the pleasure of a visit. You, there.” He snapped his fingers at Phelps. “I have baggage outside. Bring it in.”

  “No!” Melissa cried, coming forward and then stopping suddenly when Sir Stephen’s eyes came back to her. Of all the things she disliked about this man, she hated his eyes the most. “I am sorry, sir, but you cannot stay. We haven’t the staff to deal with guests.”

  “But what is a little inconvenience, compared to the pleasure of being with you? And it will be a pleasure. You!” He rounded on Phelps, who had not moved. “Why do you stand there? Get my bags, I say!”

  “My lady?” Phelps said, looking from one to the other, and Melissa shook her head.

  “No. My stepfather will not be staying. Would you kindly escort him out, Phelps?”

  Phelps took a step away from the wall and then, as Sir Stephen turned his eyes on him, halted for just a moment. Then, squaring his shoulders, he came forward. “Yes, my lady.”

  He was a large, strong-looking young man. Sir Stephen stood his ground for a moment, but then pulled back. “Do not touch me! Very well, then, I will go.” He clapped his hat on his head. “I can see I am not wanted. But I won’t forget you,” he said, looking up at Phelps, and then turned towards Melissa, pitching his voice so that only she could hear. “And you had best remember, daughter. You are mine.”

  Melissa went white and took an involuntary step back, and Phelps judged it time to intervene. “Good day, sir,” he said, holding the door. Sir Stephen gave them one last malevolent look and went out, his head held high. Melissa, her knees suddenly too weak to support her, sank down on the bottom stair, her face in her hands.

  “My lady?” Phelps said after a few moments. “Do you need assistance?”

  Melissa looked up. “No, Phelps, thank you. But I do not want that man in this house. If he comes again he is to be shown the door.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Furthermore—where have you been?” she said, staring beyond Phelps at Jenkins, who had just come into the hall.

  “In the kitchen, my lady,” Jenkins said, “polishing silver. Is that acceptable to my lady?”

  Melissa stiffened at the veiled insolence in his voice. “I expect someone to answer when I ring, Jenkins.”

  “Oh, did you ring, my lady? Seems like th
at bell in the drawing room just don’t work right.”

  “I see.” Melissa stared at him, hard, but his countenance was bland. “Then we must have it repaired. And where is Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “In her room, my lady. Working on the household accounts.”

  “I see. That will no longer be necessary.”

  “My lady?”

  “I will be taking care of the accounts myself. You may bring the books to me in the drawing room.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “Now, Jenkins!” Melissa whirled, her skirts swirling around her. “Do you have some problem with that?”

  “No, my lady. It’s just that Mrs. Jenkins has always seen to the accounts.”

  “And I will be taking them over.” Jenkins hesitated, and Melissa rose to her full five feet. “I grow tired of this, Jenkins. I am tired of having all my commands disobeyed and my summons ignored. You will bring me those account books now.”

  Jenkins glanced at Phelps, standing impassive against the wall, and then bowed. “Yes, my lady,” he said in a colorless voice, and left the room.

  Melissa put a hand to her forehead for a moment, and then straightened. “Well,” she said, and Phelps cleared his throat. “Yes, Phelps, what is it?”

  “May I say something, my lady?”

  “Yes, Phelps, what?”

  “I’d be careful of them there Jenkinses. Don’t want to get on their bad side.”

  “It is they who should be worried about getting on my bad side!” she exclaimed, and then smiled. “And am I on your bad side as well, Phelps?”

  “Oh, no, my lady!”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said, and went back up to the drawing room.

  The sound of a cane thumping on the polished parquet floor of the hall alerted Justin to the fact that he was no longer alone. He was not looking forward to this interview. Lady Helmsley had long been one of society’s leaders, and a stickler for proper behavior. Fortunately, his clothing was well-tailored. His buckskins were faultless, the bottle-green superfine coat fit across his broad shoulders like a second skin, and his boots had quite a respectable shine. With his neckcloth tied neatly, if conservatively, into the Oriental, he felt he looked presentable. Not a damned dandy, but acceptable. Even Aunt Augusta would not be able to find fault with his appearance.