Wager for a Wife

by Karen Tuft

  The look of utter shock that appeared on Samuel’s face quickly became one of utter joy and excitement. “Well, ye don’t say!” He grabbed William’s hand again and shook it vigorously. “Well done, lad! And quickly too! Those lovely London ladies took one look at ye and fell at yer feet, did they?”

  “Not precisely,” William said. William and Louisa’s betrothal could not be construed in those terms at all—yet there had been that kiss . . . “We must try our best to make Farleigh Manor as fit a home as possible for my bride-to-be,” William said, bringing the subject back into focus. “She is a lady of high rank.”

  Samuel winked at him.

  “Enough, man.” William couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “This is serious business I’m about. Lady Louisa is the daughter of a marquess. I want her to feel comfortable, and that means I’m relying on you and the others to work miracles between now and the wedding.”

  “I’ve never been very saintly, as ye well know, me boy, but I’ll do me best. Me an’ Walter will get things shined up here. Your father cared enough about his horseflesh and carriages that we’re in better shape than most. It’s what yer going to do over there”—he gestured with his head toward the manor house—“that ye need to worry about, if yer looking to make your highbred lady feel at home.”

  “You’re right,” William said. “Which is why I’m headed there now. Even so, I want an honest accounting from you of what can reasonably be done. Carriages, bloodstock, tools, paddocks. A full accounting, Samuel. We want everything at its reasonable best.”

  “Right ye are. And everything in the meantime will get shined up proper, don’t ye worry about that. We all done our best to keep the place up for ye; we’re that fond of ye, boy.”

  “Thank you, Samuel.”

  He hoped the rest of the staff received his news with the same degree of enthusiasm and optimism.

  * * *

  “Will!” a high-pitched voice shrieked, and William had barely enough time to brace himself before Mary vaulted herself into his arms. “You’re back! You’re staying for good this time too, aren’t you? Oh, Will!” She hugged him with such force that he thought he might suffocate.

  “Mary, my best girl and truest friend.” He gently pried her strangling arms from around his neck and took a deep breath. “I am back for today and part of tomorrow, but then I must leave again—but before you frown, I will tell you that soon I will be here to stay.”

  “For always?” she asked.

  “For most of the time. I may have to journey to other places on occasion, like London.”

  “That’s okay,” she said with a nod. “Important gentlemen go to London.”

  “Will you let me escort you to the house?” he asked her formally, winging his elbow out for her. It was a game they had always played growing up.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” she replied with a grin, placing her hand on his proffered arm.

  They walked toward the herb garden together. “Mary, I have some important news to share with you,” he said. “So I’m exceedingly glad you saw that I had returned and came out to greet me. I hope the news pleases you.”

  “It will please me, because you will be telling me that you are going to stay here now, when you don’t have to go to London.”

  “Indeed, love. But when I return to stay—listen to me carefully, now—I will be bringing someone special. Her name will be Lady Farleigh—”

  Mary’s eyebrows came together in a look of confusion. “But your mama is Lady Farleigh, and she died. I cried when that happened, Will. I cried and cried.”

  “I know, love. I grieved for her as well, and I still do. But the Lady Farleigh I am talking about . . . will be my wife. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes widened, and she stopped in her tracks. “You are getting married!” She threw her arms around his neck again. “Oh, Will! You are getting married, and you will be a husband, and you will have a wife. And that means there will be babies too. I can’t wait!”

  He chuckled while he again pried her arms away from his neck. “Perhaps in time there will be babies. But not right away. I am counting on you to help make the new Lady Farleigh welcome when she arrives.”

  Mary’s sunny face suddenly darkened. “Will she like me?” she asked. “Will she make me go away? I don’t want to go away, Will.”

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm this time and patted it reassuringly. “She will definitely like you, Mary. She will discover all your wonderful qualities, and she will even love you, just like I love you.” And he was sure of that too. Louisa would not hold Mary’s infirmities against her. He knew her well enough to be assured that it was not in her nature.

  “And she will be Lady Farleigh, and not your mama anymore,” Mary said as if making sure she had remembered all her facts correctly.

  “That’s right. Just like I became Lord Farleigh when my father—”

  She shuddered. And no wonder, as the man had barely tolerated Mary over the years, putting up with her presence only because William’s mother had promised to keep her out of sight.

  “When my father died,” he pressed on.

  “I’m glad he’s gone,” she said in a hushed voice. “I hate him. I stayed away from him. But now he is gone, and you are here. I have missed you, Will.”

  “And I have missed you, my dear Mary. Shall we go find your mother and Mrs. Holly and Grimshaw now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And now that you’re going to be here, everything will be happy again. Oh, I am so glad you are home! And you are bringing a wife, and she will like me!”

  They walked together through the herb garden until they reached the back entrance of the house, and then Mary skipped off, presumably to wash her pots and pans and do the other sundry tasks she’d been assigned by her mother and Mrs. Holly over the years. And William went in search of Mrs. Holly and Grimshaw to inform them of his news.

  * * *

  The staff gathered in the kitchen, the coziest room of the house, in William’s estimation. They sat around the old oak table that had always been there: Mrs. Holly, Grimshaw, Matthew, Samuel, and Mrs. Brill, with William seated at the head. Mary was in the kitchen, too, but was busy scrubbing pots, and John and Sally were elsewhere in the house doing their chores.

  Mrs. Brill had made a fresh pot of tea and had set it in the center of the table, along with a plate of scones that had been significantly depleted by the men present before William had even had a chance to speak.

  He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. After they quieted, he began. “I have come here today with important news and to ask for your help,” he said. “I am happy to announce—”

  “Will is getting married!” Mary cried out, turning abruptly from the sink, pots clattering.

  There was an audible gasp around the table, and Mrs. Brill clutched her hands at her chest. Samuel, who already knew, sat back in his chair and grinned.

  “That didn’t take long,” Matthew said.

  “Well, don’t just sit there,” Mrs. Holly added. “Tell us who she is.”

  “Her name is Lady Louisa Hargreaves, and it goes without saying that she is making a huge sacrifice in marrying me,” William said without explaining just how huge of a sacrifice it was—or the fact that it hadn’t been her preferred course of action. “Lady Louisa is the daughter of the Marquess of Ashworth. I am quite lowly by comparison.”

  There were more gasps, of a different nature this time.

  “You can’t bring the daughter of a marquess here with the house all bare bones and such!” Mrs. Holly exclaimed. “The upper classes are demanding. There were plenty of house parties here before your time, where we were dealing with impossible demands at all hours of the day and night from your father’s lofty guests. How is it to be done?”

  “Lady Louisa isn’t like that,” William replied, hoping to reassure her.

  “Food won’t be a problem, milord,” Mrs. Brill said. “That’s something, at least. We been that careful the
past years gone by to make preserves and the like. Chickens and plenty of game about too. I still got most of my cookin’ tools; yer father didn’t put too much stock in my kitchen.”

  “That’s because he was too busy eating while he looked around for things to pawn,” Grimshaw said. “Begging your pardon for saying so, milord.”

  “No pardon needed,” William replied wryly. “I know as well as all of you what my father was like. I can only hope you were spared his presence as much as possible after—”

  After his mother passed away.

  “He had little enough to do with us the past eight years,” Mrs. Holly said in a kind voice. “And as you can see, we’ve survived well enough. What is the lady like, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Leave it to Mrs. Holly to take the conversation down a more pleasant path. “I believe you will find Lady Louisa to be kind and unpretentious, despite being of such exalted lineage.”

  “And?” she asked, looking at him expectantly.

  And what? He racked his brain. “And she’s pretty.” It had no bearing on the conversation, but it was an answer, albeit Mrs. Holly looked less than satisfied.

  The men began to fidget, which cleared things up considerably in William’s mind: Mrs. Holly was apparently trying to discern if theirs was a love match. Unfortunately, any answer he gave her in reply would be a disappointment. “And,” he continued, “when Lady Louisa arrives here, I want her to feel comfortable in her surroundings, and I don’t want Farleigh Manor to put any of us to shame.” He shrugged his shoulders. “At least, as much as that is possible. Thank you all, and I beg you will forgive me for asking such an impossible task of you today.

  “I am expected back in London tomorrow evening, so we must roll up our sleeves and organize our plan quickly. My father didn’t leave us with many options in that regard.” Grimshaw muttered something under his breath that William decided to ignore. “And so we will have to be clever and resourceful about it. But if there are any people in England I trust to be clever and resourceful, it is all of you.”

  “Don’t ye worry, Master Will,” Mrs. Brill said with confidence. “Now that ye’re back at Farleigh Manor, all will be well.”

  “We’ll not let you down, sir,” Grimshaw said, standing and straightening up as tall as his old bones would let him. “You can count on us.”

  William had asked for a miracle from them. He doubted he’d get it, but he was confident he would get everything they had to give, and what man could ask for more? But even knowing he could rely on them to do their best, he wanted to examine the manor in as fine a detail as possible himself. He’d barely glanced at the place when Mr. Heslop had summoned him home after his father’s death. If there was anything now that he could see, anything he could suggest to the staff to help make Louisa’s initial reaction to Farleigh Manor a positive one—or more importantly, her willingness to stay a reality—he would do all he could in the short amount of time he had to accomplish it.

  He decided to begin with the house, so his first stop was the sitting room on the main floor.

  As a boy, this room had been filled with elegant furniture. Now there was little of it left. The couch he remembered was still there, its upholstery now faded and frayed. Two chairs sat at right angles to it, creating as much of a conversation spot as possible. There were no tables.

  The paper hangings on the walls were faded as well, except for a few scattered rectangles that clearly indicated where paintings had originally hung. There had once been a landscape Gainsborough himself had painted hanging above the fireplace mantel, one his father had won in a game of whist.

  The drawing room was in much the same state as the sitting room. The dining room, which had once held an elegant mahogany table with matching chairs, was now completely empty. William suspected that his father, on the rare occasions when he’d deigned to visit, had opted to eat in his study after he’d sold off the lot. The staff undoubtedly ate in the kitchen, as they had done today.

  The west wing of the first floor held the portrait gallery and music room. Those two rooms had been designed with large double doors between them so both rooms could be utilized if the family were to hold a concert or a ball. William had never seen a concert or recital of any sort performed at Farleigh Manor, nor had there been a ball here that he could remember. He did recall there being a small pianoforte in the music room at one time. A quick peek showed that it, too, was gone.

  The portrait gallery, on the other hand, still displayed William’s ancestors, with the exception of his father and mother. A portrait of his mother as a young bride had originally hung in the sitting room opposite the Gainsborough when William was young, a matching portrait of his father next to it. He remembered it, remembered how beautiful his mother had looked in it. When he had returned home from Eton on his first school holiday, he had noticed her portrait had been moved to the gallery. When he’d arrived for his mother’s funeral, it had been missing entirely.

  His father’s portrait had disappeared too. He assumed Grimshaw had removed it and put it in storage; William hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d simply been glad it was gone.

  The east wing included the viscount and viscountess’s bedrooms. William had never been in his father’s room. He vaguely remembered a few occasions as a little boy when he’d been allowed into his mother’s room. A review of those rooms showed that the furniture was still there, and the bedclothes were still in relatively good condition. His father would have insisted that his room be kept up suitably for his occasional visits. William surmised that his mother’s room had been maintained by the staff out of respect. He already knew that his own room had been kept as it was when he’d left for school.

  He hadn’t really observed anything in his assessment that could be used to improve the appearances of the main rooms of the house, however, and he had but one final place to look, and that was the attic. Perhaps it held secrets that could be put to good use.

  The stairs that led to the attic were located at the back of the house. As William trudged up them, he thought he heard a slight scratching sound—faint, almost inaudible, and then it stopped. He paused on the stairs and listened.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Nothing.

  Why he’d said hello, he wasn’t sure. He was behaving as if he’d heard a ghost, which was ludicrous. It was likely a mouse the stable-yard cats hadn’t bested yet scurrying between the walls. He shook his head at himself and continued up to the attic. He would mention it to Matthew when he saw him. Mrs. Holly hated mice with a passion, and she would want the problem dealt with posthaste.

  There was a narrow landing at the top of the stairs with just enough room for an attic door. The door creaked loudly when William opened it. He stepped inside, ducking his head to fit through it, and then found himself having to crouch. The ceiling was low and angled due to the pitch of the room, with a single gable window to his left that allowed in a stream of dusty light. Cobwebs hung from every corner like lacy shrouds, and a layer of dust covered everything—including William now.

  He could make out several large items draped in cloth near the back of the attic, along with a box of old toys. A single large trunk stood just inside the door. Next to it were a few paintings stacked vertically together against the wall.

  Since the paintings might be put to immediate use and were near the door, he decided to start with them. He squatted and inspected them. The attic wasn’t very well lit, but even so, William could understand why these particular paintings had ended up in the attic. None of them stood out as being exceptional, and some were damaged. That being said, if they managed to fill in the empty spots on the walls of the main floor, it might be a marginal improvement.

  He then turned his inspection to the trunk. It wasn’t locked, so William undid the latches and lifted the lid—and then shut it quickly, placing his forehead on his hands atop the trunk. Tears stung his eyes.

  His mother’s dress had greeted him.

  He’d been struck
first by the scent that had filled his nostrils even before he’d realized what he was seeing. Bergamot and jasmine, his mother’s signature fragrance. Memories of times seated at her side while she read to him or when she’d hugged him good night came flooding back.

  He recognized the dress in the trunk. It was a dark-green silk she’d worn the last Christmas holiday he’d been home, the winter before she’d died. She’d looked pale and thin; her skin had seemed almost translucent. If William had only known it would be the last time he’d see her alive . . .

  He eventually got his emotions under control, and only then did he raise his head and reopen the trunk. He doubted he’d find anything that would be useful in it, but he would allow himself this brief moment to indulge.

  Under the green silk was a matching cloak made of velvet, lined with satin, and trimmed with fur. William stroked the various fabrics of the cloak, recalling the last time she’d worn it. They’d gone to church, and then his father had mumbled something about “business in Town,” and he’d left—not that William had minded his absence. William suspected that even his mother had been relieved.

  He and his mother had spent a few quiet days together conversing and taking walks when weather had permitted. He’d pulled out his oils and easel and painted while she’d sat nearby and done needlework. When William had returned to school, she’d appeared stronger. She’d smiled more.

  A few months later, she was gone.

  He carefully moved the gown and cloak to the side. Underneath them were a few more of her finest dresses, one or two he didn’t recognize. He was about to shut the trunk when he spied a bundle at the very bottom wrapped in linen and tied with string. He lifted it out, carefully untying the string and folding back the layers of cloth. “Ah, Mama,” he murmured. Within the rather large bundle were his mother’s needlework projects. Until this moment in the attic, he’d not even thought about what had happened to them or to the others that had graced Farleigh Manor.