The Husband Season

by Mary Nichols

  * * *

  She looked up as Greystone Manor came into view with its solid grey walls and twisted chimney pots. She had been born there, brought up there and she supposed she would die there—of a broken heart.

  ‘Sophie, is that you?’ her mother called out from the drawing room as she was putting her foot on the bottom stair on the way to her room.

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ She changed direction and went to the drawing room.

  ‘There you are, Sophie. I was about to send the stable boy for you. There is a letter for you. It arrived by special messenger.’ She nodded towards a letter lying on a tray on the table. Sophie grabbed it up, but it was not from Adam. She knew his loping handwriting by now. This was small and cramped. ‘Well, open it, child. Don’t keep me in suspense. I should like to know who is writing to you without the permission of your parents, but I would not be so particular as to open it before you.’

  Sophie broke the seal and scanned the few lines it contained.

  Dear Miss Cavenhurst,

  My master, Viscount Kimberley, has been mortally wounded and is not expected to recover. He is asking for you. Make all haste to come.

  Your obedient servant, Alfred Farley.

  The paper fluttered from her hand and she fell down in a swoon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Oh, Sophie,’ her mother said, after reviving her daughter with smelling salts and reading the note herself. She had sent a servant to find Sir Edward; this was something that required his presence. ‘I am sorry for you and sorry for him, but I cannot see how you can go to Saddleworth.’

  ‘I can go on the stage. Other women manage it.’

  ‘They are not ladies.’

  ‘Mama, I must go to Adam. If it were Papa ill and...dying...you would not hesitate, would you?’

  ‘No, of course I would not, but I am married, Sophie, you are not.’

  ‘What is that to the point? We would have been married in three weeks, in any case.’ The thought of that made her burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Sophie.’ Her mother put her arms about her and rocked her as she had done when Sophie was small and had hurt herself with her boisterous games. She looked up as her husband entered the room.

  ‘What’s amiss that I am required so urgently?’

  His wife handed him the letter without speaking.

  ‘This is very bad news, very bad indeed,’ he said after scanning the letter.

  Sophie raised her head. ‘Papa, I must go to him. He is asking for me.’

  ‘It says here that he has been wounded. If it had been an accident the man would have said injured, not wounded. It sounds as if he has been in a fight.’

  ‘I can find out what happened when I get there,’ Sophie cried. ‘How can you be so calm? I must go to him. At once.’

  ‘One person in a panic is enough, Sophie. Now go and lie down. Mama will give you something to make you feel better. I will ride over to Broadacres and see what Mark has to say. He may have heard more than this is telling us.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Sophie said, scrambling from her mother’s arms.

  He sighed. ‘If you must.’

  They left the room together.

  * * *

  They found Jane and Mark in Jane’s small sitting room, discussing a problem the builders had found at the orphanage. If Jane was surprised to see her sister back so soon she did not say so. The stricken look on Sophie’s face told her that it was something very serious. She stood up and opened her arms and Sophie ran into them. ‘Adam is dying,’ Sophie said between sobs. ‘He is dying, Jane. I have to go to him and Papa says—’

  ‘I can speak for myself,’ Sir Edward put in. He turned to Mark and proffered the letter. ‘This came today. Do you know anything about it?’

  Mark read it and handed it to Jane. ‘No, I have heard nothing. Wounded, the man says. I doubt my cousin would fight a duel unless he was uncommonly provoked.’ He stopped suddenly as another thought came to him. ‘Saint Peter’s Fields! The rally. The papers are full of it. A massacre, they are calling it. Dozens killed and many more wounded. The militia were called in.’

  ‘I read of it,’ Sir Edward said. ‘But Manchester is some way from Saddleworth. Would Viscount Kimberley be involved?’

  ‘I think he might. When he was in London he was trying to find out about a meeting he knew was being planned. He talked to Orator Hunt about it.’

  ‘While you are standing about debating, Adam is dying,’ Sophie cried out. ‘I need—I must—go to him.’

  ‘I will take you, Sophie,’ Mark said. ‘If anything happens to Adam, there will be things to see to, and I am his only male relative. How soon can you be ready?’

  ‘As soon as you are,’ she said. ‘Oh, Mark, thank you, thank you.’

  * * *

  Even in Mark’s chaise and with the horses galloping whenever it was safe to do so and being changed every ten miles, it still took three days of travelling. Mark was as anxious as she was to arrive, and they made only very short stops to rest and eat. Sophie insisted she would not sleep if they took rooms at an inn and so they continued through the night. They spoke little, though Mark did tell her a little about the rally on St Peter’s Fields. ‘Some newspapers put the numbers at sixty thousand,’ he said. ‘Some said it was as many as eighty thousand. It was a sunny day and there were women and children there, treating it as a day out and bringing picnics with them.

  ‘The local magistrates were afraid the mob would get out of hand and ordered the military to arrest Orator Hunt and others who were on the platform and intending to speak. Adam might even have been one of them. The militia were ordered to disperse the crowd. It was nigh on impossible with a gathering of that size. The cavalry charged with sabres drawn. In the mêlée fifteen people were killed and upwards of seven hundred injured.’

  ‘That’s dreadful. Do you really think Adam was there?’

  ‘It would not surprise me.’

  Sophie’s tired brain conjured up images of Adam in all that carnage. But why would anyone want to hurt him? He was not one of the workers, unless they had turned on him. Her thoughts went round and round. Would they be in time? Had the letter been a mistake and she would find the man she loved, if not well, then on the road to recovery?

  * * *

  She was dozing fitfully in the corner of the roomy carriage when Mark put a hand on her shoulder and woke her. ‘We are here, Sophie.’

  She sat up with a start. The carriage had stopped before a large stone house which reminded her so much of Greystone Manor she thought she was home again. The feeling only lasted an instant before she came fully awake. Alfred Farley was standing in the open doorway. She scrambled out and hurried towards him. ‘How is he? He isn’t...’

  ‘He is holding his own, Miss Cavenhurst.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  ‘Would you not like to wash and have something to eat first?’ Mark said, knowing he would not be able to persuade her that it was not proper for a single lady to enter a gentleman’s bedroom.

  ‘Later. After I have seen Adam. Show me the way, Mr Farley.’

  Adam was lying on his back in a huge bed. His chest was swathed in bandages. His face was the colour of parchment, apart from the dark rings round his eyes. His eyes were shut. She fell on her knees beside the bed. ‘Adam, I am here. I have come to be with you and make you better.’ She turned to Farley, who hovered behind her. ‘Can he hear me?’

  The answer came from the bed, feebly, no more than a whisper. ‘I can hear you.’

  ‘Oh, Adam.’ She took his hand. It was burning with fever. ‘I came as soon as I received Mr Farley’s letter. Mark is here, too. He will take care of everything and I will look after you.’

  ‘My irrepressible Sophie,’ he murmured.

  ‘You m
ust not tire yourself trying to talk,’ she said. ‘I will be here. I will always be here.’

  Farley quietly left the room. Sophie hardly noticed his going. She continued to kneel at Adam’s side, holding his hand and murmuring to him. She talked about the times they had spent in London, the dreadful faux pas she had made and the protracted journey to Hadlea. ‘I was in love with you then,’ she whispered. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? I will love you until the day I die.’

  He did not answer, and all she heard was his laboured breathing. ‘I won’t tire you anymore with my chatter, but I am not going away. Go to sleep. I will be here when you wake.’ She got up from her knees and walked stiffly to move a chair close to the bed and sat down. His hand moved towards her. She grasped it and sat watching his chest rise and fall, though occasionally it stuttered as if it hurt him to breathe. So long as it continued to do that, he was still living.

  * * *

  Mark came and dragged her away two hours later. ‘Sophie, you must come and have something to eat and then go to bed for a few hours. Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, has had a room made ready for you.’

  ‘I cannot leave him.’

  ‘Someone will watch over him while you are away. You will be fetched immediately if there is any change.’

  She stood up and bent to kiss Adam’s brow. ‘I’ll be back, my love.’ She followed Mark from the room, passing the nurse who was to take her place.

  She was so tired she did not notice what the house was like as she followed Mark to a small dining room. The table was laid with cold meats and dishes of vegetables. ‘Sit and eat,’ he said.

  She obeyed and put a little of the food onto her plate and began to eat slowly, without appetite. ‘Mr Farley told me a little of what happened,’ he said, sitting down beside her. ‘Adam was, as I surmised, at St Peter’s Fields. They are dubbing it Peterloo, after the Battle of Waterloo. His account is more horrifying than the newspaper reports. It was complete mayhem. Adam went disguised in workman’s clothes to hear what the speakers had to say and speak himself if the opportunity arose. He had it in mind to try to calm the more hot-headed who were demanding violent action.

  ‘There was no sign that was likely to happen, but the magistrates panicked and ordered the cavalry in. They charged indiscriminately, slashing this way and that, uncaring that it was women and children they were hurting. Adam grabbed a child from the path of a galloping horse and took a deep sabre cut to the side of his chest as a consequence. It fractured his ribs. The doctor is afraid one of them may have punctured his lung.’

  ‘Isn’t it just like Adam not to think of his own safety?’ she said dully. ‘He is going to die because he tried to save a child.’

  ‘He did save him, Sophie, and Adam is not dead yet. There is still hope.’

  After she had eaten all she could, the housekeeper conducted her to a room next to Adam’s. ‘This was prepared for you as a dressing room when you became Lady Kimberley,’ Mrs Grant told her. ‘I hope it is acceptable. You will be able to hear if his lordship needs you.’

  Sophie thanked her and stretched out on the chaise longue without taking off her clothes. She did not think she would sleep, but she did.

  * * *

  The day of their wedding came and went and still Adam clung to life. Sophie could not make up her mind if he was getting better or worse. Some days his breathing did seem easier; other days it seemed every breath he took added to his pain and his face would reflect it. She watched over him devotedly, giving him sips of water and small spoonfuls of broth, persuading him to take the pain-killing medicine the doctor had prescribed and constantly wiping his brow with cold cloths in an effort to bring down the fever. She even helped Farley to change his nightshirt, though she left the shaving and washing the more intimate parts of his body to the valet.

  It did not cross her mind that she should not be doing it. The only women in the house were Mrs Grant and a couple of chambermaids. If they were shocked by her behaviour they would not have dared say so. Mark had made a small remonstrance at the beginning, to which she had retorted, ‘There is no one else to do it, and I would not trust them if there were.’

  There was one particular night when he was more than usually restless. His body seemed on fire, his face burning. According to the doctor whom Mark sent for, this was the crisis, and the next few hours would decide Adam’s fate. Sophie stayed by his bed all night, dipping cloths in cold water and wiping his face and upper body, talking softly to him. She was on the point of exhaustion herself, but would not rest. She prayed as she had never prayed before.

  * * *

  Towards dawn she could not keep her eyes open any longer and dozed, but she was instantly awake when she felt a movement in the bed. His eyes were open and he was smiling. ‘Still here, Sophie?’

  ‘Of course I am. Where else would I be?’

  ‘Very improper.’

  Pleased that he was alert and aware, she grinned happily. ‘Who cares? I do not. Besides, if you had been well we would have been married by now.’

  ‘Why? What day is it?’

  ‘Sunday, September the twelfth. It would have been the first day of our married life.’

  He smiled and shut his eyes again.

  * * *

  It was the beginning of his recovery. He was soon sitting up and beginning to eat proper meals and grumble about the time he had lost lying abed when there was work to be done. Mark had been managing very well with the aid of his estate manager and Mr Harcourt at the mill, but he was itching to see how everything was progressing. Most of all, he worried about Sophie. She was thin and pale and obviously exhausted. He was also concerned about the proprietary of having her in and out of his bedchamber all the time, especially now he was sitting up and all he was wearing was a nightshirt.

  * * *

  ‘I am going to dress,’ he told her one day about a week later.

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘You will not! Alfred will help me. It’s what I pay him for. So go away and amuse yourself elsewhere.’

  Hurt by his brusque manner, she left him and went to wander round the house. He had been right to describe it as half old and draughty and half an elegant modern home. Evidence of Anne’s exquisite taste was in the wing that had been refurbished: the drawing room, formal dining room, the breakfast parlour, the library and some of the bedrooms. The furniture was in the French style, the curtains were made of the richest fabric, no doubt woven in what was then her father’s mill. There were pictures and ornaments everywhere. One of the pictures in the drawing room was of a very beautiful young lady in a dress of amber silk. She had soft brown eyes and dark lustrous hair woven with a strand of jewels. A pearl drop hung on her forehead. Her gown was a rich pink brocade. She had small hands and dainty feet. This, Sophie surmised, was Anne. Beside her was a matching portrait of Adam dressed in a dark green coat and white breeches. He wore a sparkling pin in his cravat.

  With a heavy heart, she turned away and went to explore the rest of the house. It was just as it had been more than two hundred years before. The stone floors were covered with rugs, the wall hangings were faded and the furniture dark and heavy. She imagined the friars going about these rooms centuries before. She went back to the lived-in part of the house to find Adam in the small parlour, sitting in an armchair before a good fire. He was dressed in superfine pantaloon trousers and a shirt of fine lawn. He wore no coat or cravat. The sight of him apparently well and cheerful and almost back to his old self sent her heart skittering as it always did.

  ‘Oh, you are looking so much better,’ she said, walking towards him and kneeling at his side.

  ‘Yes, almost back to the man I was, thanks to you.’

  ‘I did not do anything that someone else could not have done.’

  He took her hand. ‘Oh, yes, you did. I may not have shown it, but I knew you w
ere there. All the time I was aware of you. You gave me the strength to fight and exhausted yourself in doing it. But why did you come?’

  ‘Mr Farley sent for me. He said you needed me.’

  ‘I shall have to have words with that gentleman.’

  ‘Why, did you not want me to come?’

  ‘I did not want you to see me in that unmanly state.’

  ‘You were never unmanly, Adam, and no one could have prevented me from coming as soon as I knew you were in mortal danger.’

  ‘I thank God for it, but now I am better you can leave me in Alfred’s capable hands. Go and rest. You look tired.’

  ‘You don’t want me anymore. I can understand that,’ she said miserably. ‘You are here, in your own home, surrounded by memories of Anne, and there is no place for me. I shall ask Mark if we can go home now.’ She scrambled to her feet and ran up to the room next to his where she had been sleeping, ready to wake and go to him the minute he stirred. She sat on the bed, put her face in her hands and wept. How could she hope to make him forget his first wife? How could she live with him among all those memories? She got up and began throwing clothes into her portmanteau.

  ‘Just what, in God’s name, do you think you are about?’ Adam stood in the doorway, breathing heavily from the exertion of climbing the stairs.

  ‘Packing. My job is done. It is time to go home.’

  He strode across to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and fell with her onto the small bed. ‘Sophie, I would spank you if I thought it would do any good. Perhaps this will do instead.’ And he kissed her long and hard.

  She began to struggle, but he was stronger than he looked and held her firmly, and gradually she relaxed and sank into a kind of euphoria that soon became something else as his kisses roused her, something sublime yet fiery, sweet yet passionate. There was a new feeling in the core of her, an opening out and at the same time making her want to draw this man into her, make herself one with him.