An Uncommon Courtship
Page 6
Trent stopped and turned to face her on the street. “I was not nor have I ever courted anyone. I go to gatherings because I have to. Occasionally I even want to. I dance. I smile. But I do not court. I’m certain she was upset about something else.”
“Hmm.” Adelaide glanced him up and down and then looked back over her shoulder at the church.
“Regardless,” Trent said as they resumed walking. “I’m married to you.”
“Yes. I suppose you are.”
And with that, any hope they’d had for maintaining a pleasant conversation on the way home disappeared.
Chapter 7
Trent’s customary morning stretch was hindered by the sofa arm above his head and the upholstered back pushing against his right shoulder. With a groan, he rolled himself to the side and swung his legs up until he could lower his knees to the floor and stretch his arms out along the couch. A night of sitting up in a chair followed by a few hours of tossing and turning on a narrow sofa had left his muscles screaming in agony.
He rolled his head back and forth, hoping a good stretch would alleviate some of the tension and the headache that had come with it.
It didn’t.
Marriage certainly wasn’t doing him any favors yet, though he didn’t know why it really should. He’d done it because he had to, because there’d been no other way around it. It’d been a gentlemanly duty, like dancing with wallflowers and holding the door open. Yes, this duty had more far-reaching consequences than doffing his hat in deference to a passing lady, but did it really have to change his entire life? He hadn’t been courting a woman before, hadn’t even been interested in one, so in a large way, nothing had changed.
He could continue on as he had been and it would almost be like the marriage had never happened in the first place.
One mighty push propelled him up from the sofa, ripping a groan from his chest as all the kinks rolled through his body in protest. He’d be good as new after a few hours of his customary morning exercise though.
The house was still quiet as he slipped up the stairs to his room, making a point not to look at the door across the upstairs parlor. More often than not, Trent readied himself for his morning ride, so he could easily avoid looking too closely at why he didn’t want to ring for Fenton to come fill in for his valet. Though thinking about the fact that he didn’t have to think about it diminished the benefit.
Digby’s eyes widened and cut to the clock on the wall to note the early hour, but he didn’t say anything as he readied Trent’s horse. The sun was barely forcing its way through the clouds and smog when Trent trotted off in the direction of Hyde Park. A good run down the bridle path would set his mind back on track, and he could set about putting his life back the way he’d had it. So now there was a wife at home. That didn’t really have to change anything.
The horse danced sideways as a leaf blew across the path. Apparently even Bartholomew wasn’t buying that lie. Trent patted him on the neck and gave him the signal to stretch his legs into a near gallop. The wind blew Trent’s hair off his face and cut through the seams of his coat, bringing with it the sharp chill of morning and the feeling of being alive.
A few other men were spaced along the path, some running their horses as he was, while others rode at a more leisurely pace. Seeing a black gelding with foam drying on his haunches as his rider walked him back toward the main road reminded Trent that he couldn’t take out his need to escape on his horse. An easy pull on the reins slowed the horse to a jog. A good move for the health of the horse, but one that left him accessible to any other riders who were feeling a bit chatty. A rare occurrence this early in the morning, but when the news was interesting enough, people would ignore an inconvenience.
“Ho there, Hawthorne!” A gorgeous brown horse pranced over and fell into step beside Trent’s. “There’s talk that you had a wife sitting next to you at church yesterday.”
Trent glanced at Mr. Bancroft over his shoulder and made himself grin. “Well, I’d hardly make her sit in the free seats.”
Bancroft chuckled. “Made my own wife cry into her tea, you know. She’d had hopes for our Hannah. Didn’t think you’d marry for years.”
That made two of them, not that Trent had ever thought such things about Bancroft’s daughter. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever met Hannah, was fairly certain she wasn’t yet sixteen. Still, it wouldn’t do to insult the other man’s wife. Or his own wife for that matter. “What can I say? I fell into the match when I wasn’t looking.”
“Ah, yes, love will get you like that. Happened that way with my own wife. Yes, sir, we’re the lucky ones, you and I. The good Lord saw fit to bless us in spite of ourselves.” Bancroft patted his horse on the neck. “Ulysses is getting restless. See you around, Hawthorne.”
Trent could do no more than lift a hand before Bancroft’s horse had taken off down the path.
One of the lucky ones. Trent didn’t feel lucky. He felt the exact opposite. The conflict between reality and people’s assumptions crawled under his cravat and shot an itch down his back, effectively ruining what freedom he’d found in the morning’s rough gallop.
He turned the plodding horse toward home, resisting the urge to restrain the beast when his pace picked up the closer they got to the small stable.
The uncomfortable irritation had spread across his entire back by the time he walked in the house for breakfast. It wasn’t helped any by the fierce scowl on Mrs. Harris’s face when she met him at the door.
“I took a tray up this morning.”
Trent rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “I’m sorry to put you out. I always take breakfast down here after my ride though.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, the dark frown on her round face looking out of place on his normally doting housekeeper. “I didn’t make it for you.”
“Oh, yes, Adelaide. Good.” Trent pulled off his riding gloves. “Just so we’re all clear here, why, exactly, is that a problem?”
“Because the sofa in your study wasn’t made for sleeping.” She sniffed. “I’ve half a mind to serve you gruel this morning.”
And he’d half a mind to get a new housekeeper. Not that he’d tell her that. Or follow through on the threat if he ever did get up the nerve to say it aloud. The other half of his mind knew that he was quite stuck with the woman until she chose to retire, unless he wanted to suffer the wrath of at least half of his family. “I’d really rather you didn’t. If I had to start the day without your cinnamon butter and perfectly turned bacon I’d never manage to get anything accomplished. If I’m to function at all I can’t be pining away for your inspiring breakfasts.”
One side of her mouth ticked up. “Go on with you, then. Upstairs to freshen up. I’ll tell Fenton you’ve returned.”
Crisis averted and breakfast salvaged, Trent made his way upstairs, treading carefully, so as not to announce his return to the entire house. Talking his way past Mrs. Harris was one thing. Talking his way past his wife, whom he’d abandoned . . . again . . . was another thing entirely. He was more likely to stammer and blush his way into oblivion.
He ate breakfast with an eye on the door, fearing that despite having had a tray sent upstairs she intended to make an appearance downstairs as well. But she never showed, and he was left sitting in front of an empty plate, staring at the walls and wondering where he could go in his house that he could be assured of not running into her.
The pickings were slim, so he made the next logical choice.
He left the house.
Another breakfast tray, another harsh reminder that yet another day and night had gone by without any significant interaction with her husband. Adelaide frowned at her coddled eggs. Forget significant. She would have been happy with something as simple as “Good morning” or even a nod of acknowledgment. That, however, would require they be in the same room, and aside from a brief discussion about where to store her trunks, she hadn’t seen him since her maid and clothing arrived from Hertfordshire.
Beneath the roses was a small pile of folded papers, the only type of communication she’d had with her husband in days. He sent a message every afternoon, delivered by Fenton, each more inane than the last. On the first day it had been a reminder that he’d instructed Oswyn, the footman, to make himself available should she wish to go anywhere, something that was already part of the man’s job.
The following days had been even more ridiculous, telling her things such as where he’d left the newspapers if she wanted to read them and reminding her to tell Mrs. Harris what her favorite foods were. As if Mrs. Harris wouldn’t track her down to find out that information on her own. Adelaide spent a great deal more time with the housekeeper than her husband, a fact that wouldn’t have bothered her overmuch if she’d been spending any time with her husband at all.
The corner of her toast fell against her eggs and she nudged one side of the browned bread until it poked a hole in the pile of eggs. How many times had she wished for breakfast on a tray while growing up? It meant she wouldn’t have to sit at the breakfast table, listening to everyone else plan a thrilling day while she contemplated which tree she was going to sit beneath while reading. Unless, of course, her mother needed her for something such as dancing lessons. That was the real reason Adelaide had always made an appearance at breakfast. If Helena’s lessons required a partner, Adelaide was required to be present.
But now Adelaide was married, and she wasn’t required to be anywhere.
Adelaide blinked, straightening her spine as the implications rushed through her. She didn’t have to be anywhere, do anything, or help anyone if she didn’t want to. While there might not be children in her future—a possibility she hoped to one day to rectify—there could at least be life in her future, and she was going to take control of it.
Rebecca, her lady’s maid, gave a startled shriek when Adelaide all but pounced on her as she entered the room with a freshly pressed gown over her arm. After taking a deep, calming breath, the maid went about preparing Adelaide for the day in quiet efficiency, as any normal servant would do.
Except this morning she was humming.
Ever since Rebecca had arrived late Monday afternoon—along with the rest of Adelaide’s trunks and Finch, Trent’s valet and Lydia’s husband—Adelaide had been fighting the urge to question Rebecca, speak to her, indulge in conversations she’d never dreamed of having with a servant before. After three days of Lydia’s constant prattle and scalp abrasions, Adelaide expected to nearly wallow in Rebecca’s more demure behavior. Instead she chafed against it, though her scalp found considerable solace in it.
The humming was the final push, though. Adelaide looked out the window, but the low grey clouds appeared to be ushering in the most dismal day they’d had since coming to London. It wasn’t a beautiful day that inspired the maid’s apparent good mood.
“Are you having a good morning, Rebecca?”
The maid smiled and moved toward the small dressing room at the back of Adelaide’s bedchambers.
Adelaide followed with narrowed eyes. The dressing room was small, forming more of a large closet, so Adelaide had been getting ready out in the main room. Why was Rebecca changing things this morning?
“Of course I am, my lady. Why do you ask?”
Could she possibly not know that she was practically singing as she worked? “The humming.”
“Oh, yes.” Her gaze darted down to the left before swinging back around to Adelaide’s. An overly bright smile curved the maid’s lips. “Do you like it? We thought it might brighten up the morning.”
A perfunctory agreement had been poised on Adelaide’s lips—after all, what did she care if the maid hummed while she worked—but the phrasing of Rebecca’s answer gave her pause. “We?”
“Er, myself, Mrs. Harris, and Lydia. And Finch, of course.” Rebecca began tugging at Adelaide’s nightclothes. “It’s a bit strange, really. Of course there’s always talk in the servants’ quarters, but this is well beyond the usual gossip. They actually want to help you, and . . . Oh dear. I’m saying the wrong things, aren’t I? I told them I wasn’t going to be any good at this. I haven’t the slightest idea how to be so familiar.”
Adelaide’s eyes were wide. She thought her mouth might even be hanging open.
Rebecca slid the dress over Adelaide’s head and walked behind her to work the fastenings. “Don’t worry, Lady Adelaide. As of this moment I’ll go back to being quiet, like a proper servant. We’ll both be more comfortable that way.”
Adelaide said nothing as silence fell in the room. Near silence, anyway. A bump and rustle echoed through the door connecting her room to her husband’s, causing her to snap her head around in that direction. “Is he in there?”
Rebecca looked down, seeming to busy herself with Adelaide’s slippers. “Yes, m’lady. Finch said he was running a bit behind his normal schedule this morning so you might hear when he came up to dress for the day. Mrs. Harris and Lydia said I should hum so you wouldn’t notice.”
The staff at this house was beyond Adelaide’s understanding. Still, her earlier resolve remained—to do something with her day other than stare at the walls of her bedchamber or tiptoe around the house as if afraid she’d run into anyone, even though she was supposedly the mistress of the house. She hadn’t the first notion of where she could possibly go beyond the house, so that left the house itself to serve as the focus for her industriousness.
And she intended to start with the drawing room.
After she finished her coffee. That should give her husband enough time to finish dressing and go to wherever it was he spent each day.
Trent adjusted the sleeve on his jacket and turned to Finch so he could put the finishing touches on Trent’s cravat.
“Will that be all, my lord?” Finch turned to gather Trent’s discarded riding clothes, once again avoiding looking Trent in the eye.
“You’re mad at me too, are you?” Trent shoved his hand through the hair Finch had just finished styling. “Mrs. Harris stands in the front hall and glares at me any time I leave the house or come home. Fenton hasn’t shared a single piece of gossip since Tuesday. And now you’re acting like the world’s most exemplary valet. I could only imagine what sorts of things your wife is saying about me.”
Finch cleared his throat. “They’re not very complimentary, my lord.”
Trent grunted and dropped into his father’s bergère chair.
“Will you be leaving for the club now, my lord?”
“No.” Even that pleasure had been stolen from him. Trent couldn’t go anywhere anymore without someone wanting to talk to him about his wife. With new people arriving back in London every day, it was remaining the fresh and favorite topic of conversation. He hadn’t even been able to pick up a foil at his fencing club yesterday, given the number of congratulations and condolences he’d received as soon as he’d stepped in the door. “I’m staying home today.”
Finch’s entire body seemed to lighten. His shoulders popped back, and a smile stretched across his face. “That’s fabulous, my lord.”
Trent closed his eyes and sighed. The valet obviously thought Trent intended to do something with his wife. He didn’t. There were weeks’ worth of correspondence piled up in his study that he had yet to get to, despite the fact that he’d spent every night this week sleeping in that room. But he didn’t tell Finch that. It wouldn’t hurt for one of them to hold on to his dreams for a little longer.
Chapter 8
As the most publi
c room, and quite possibly the shabbiest, the drawing room was in desperate need of an overhaul. The only problem was that desire and intent did not guarantee ability. Adelaide didn’t have the first notion regarding what to do to redecorate a room. Change the drapes, certainly. That couldn’t be too difficult. They were merely fabric hanging from rods.
Adelaide pulled back the heavy green brocade to look up at the fixture to see if it would need replacing as well. From what she could see, the rod and hooks were fairly simple in design. Something more elaborate would have been nice, but the existing ones were sufficient.
A movement on the other side of the windowpane caught Adelaide’s eye, and she found herself staring into the faces of two women. One was young, likely around Adelaide’s own age. Her eyes widened as she took in Adelaide’s presence in the window. When the young woman wrapped her hand around the elbow of the older woman, gesturing toward Adelaide with her free hand, Adelaide’s instincts took over and she jerked away from the window.
Unfortunately she still held the curtain she’d been inspecting.
Her foot landed on the fabric, sending it sliding across the floor and Adelaide tumbling backward onto her bottom.
With the curtain on her head—rod, hooks, and all.
So much for not replacing the curtain fixtures.
Had the clumsy accident caused enough noise to bring one of the servants running? She rather hoped not, as she wanted to stay down on the floor until the two women outside had been given more than enough time to finish gawking and move along.
No hurried steps echoed through the house, indicating that at least one thing was going in her favor today. After waiting a few more minutes, she extricated herself from the old brocade and left the entire mess in a pile behind the settee.
If the drawing room hadn’t topped her list of rooms to redecorate before, it certainly did now.
Trent requested that his breakfast tray be delivered to his study the next morning. He’d even given instructions for Oswyn, arguably the most deferential of the staff, to deliver the tray. As familiar as they were, his staff had never gone against a direct request before, so when the knock came he had every confidence that Oswyn was on the other side of the door.