“It is still melancholic,” his wife argued.
“Personally,” Miss Neville ventured, “I would find it comforting to escort my father’s remains to our home in Ireland. It would be far better than never to know his fate. Farewells should be spoken for resolution.”
Satiné gathered the blanket to her neck. “There are times, Isolde, that your optimism is burdensome.”
John held the random thought Miss Neville’s optimism outshone his wife’s attitude. “We must make an immediate decision. Time is of an essence. Do you have an alternate suggestion, Satiné?”
Grudgingly, his wife said, “No, my Lord.”
John turned to Miss Neville. “I will dress and reorganize my belongings if you will see to the baroness’s things. When I have moved into the smallest cabin, I will return to assist in transferring my wife’s baggage to my current quarters. Please act with haste before members of the crew take note of our actions.”
Within three-quarters hour, John had carried Satiné to the bed–his bed, the one he should have shared with her the previous evening. It was quite satisfying to hold her against his chest–to nuzzle her neck and to inhale her scent. His wife’s fever had returned, and she rested listlessly against him, snuggled closer to him. Some part of him acknowledged the danger of her illness, but John did not fear her demise. He could not believe God would deliver Satiné Aldridge into his arms and then snatch her away so quickly. “I will tend you once I have you safely settled,” he whispered into her ear. She did not respond, simply pulled closer, and John knew contentment. Certainly, he could not say their path had been easy, but he held the hope of a more fulfilling future.
John lowered her to the narrow bed and then went about tucking Satiné in. Retrieving fresh water, he poured some into a small bowl. Using a cloth, he washed her face and arms. Satiné slept restlessly, and he watched her carefully. When the Realm had been in Brittany, one of Fowler’s most trusted servants had succumbed to measles. He recalled the physician overseeing the man’s care remarking how the fever and the diarrhea and the nausea were the most significant symptoms.
“Do you require my assistance?” Miss Neville asked from the partially opened door.
John glanced up with gratitude. “I was just considering what I knew of my wife’s condition,” he said softly so as not to disturb Satiné.
“The first three or four days are usually the worst,” Miss Neville shared. “My younger cousins were often so afflicted. “Most who know the disease find too much light hurts their eyes, and it is customary for the person to suffer for a fortnight.”
He nodded, pleased for the information. “I had thought to tell anyone who asked after the baroness that my wife is not a good sea traveler. Such an excuse would explain Satiné’s prolonged taking to her bed, as well as her lack of appetite.”
“An excellent choice,” Miss Neville whispered. “I shall instruct Miss Tailor to respond as such.” With that, the lady presented him a quick curtsy. “I told the boy’s nurse if you did not require my assistance, I would return to tend the child so Mrs. Tailor might enjoy her breakfast in peace. May I have someone bring you a tray?”
“I worry the smells could cause Lady Swenton discomfort. I am not of the persuasion to act purely from my own desires.”
Miss Neville remarked prosaically, “I doubt, Baron, you possess a selfish bone in your body.”
*
Isolde caressed the cheek of the sleeping child before planting a soft kiss upon his fine dark hair. Since the child’s birth, she had regularly stolen away to the nursery, especially when Miss Aldridge had slept through her meal times rather to consume the food Cook had prepared for the household. “Your mother shall lose enough weight to cinch her waist tightly; soon she will no longer require her tight laces,” she told the boy as she cradled him in the crook of her arm. “I shall have the appearance of a boulder,” Isolde declared with an ironic chuckle. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
She rose to place the child in the cradle. “Your mother has no idea how precious you are, my Sweet.” The first time Isolde had laid eyes on the boy, her heart had melted. He was wrapped loosely in a small blanket, his face scrunched up in a cry of protest, but she had thought the child a dark angel: A wriggling, squirming dark angel. The remembrance brought another smile to Isolde’s lips.
Miss Satiné had ignored the child completely, and her mistress’s actions bothered Isolde more than she cared to admit. Isolde had come from a large, animated family, one with what often felt to contain a hundred cousins. She would relish having a family of her own to add to the bedlam. Thinking upon her family always brought on a restless desire to be among them again.
Generally speaking, she had enjoyed her employment in Miss Aldridge’s household; after all, the work had not been exhausting nor had it been beyond her abilities; yet, Isolde was no longer so certain she would remain under Baron Swenton’s employment once she reached England. The baron had sworn a vow to assist her in locating her father, but as much as Isolde desired news of Eoghan Neville’s fate, she did not wish to be party to the pain she expected Baron Swenton would experience at his wife’s hands. Since having the man’s acquaintance, Isolde had become more than an interested observer. Baron Swenton was quite besotted with his baroness, and he had repeatedly proved himself a worthy suitor; yet, Miss Satiné had not shared in the baron’s enthusiasm. “Foolish, foolish girl,” Isolde muttered under her breath. “Love’s perfection is within your clasp.”
*
For three days and nights, he had tended his wife’s fever. Other than when Miss Neville had relieved him for meals and his personal requirements, John had remained by Satiné’s side. It was his duty to perform, and he had proudly fulfilled his responsibility. His wife–a concept that did not feel as foreign as John had expected–had suffered greatly. During her fever-induced rants, Satiné had abused him thoroughly for bringing her upon this “God-forsaken journey”–for “assuming advantage of my situation”–and for “not being Henrí.” The man’s name, Henrí, had rung clearly in his head each time John closed his eyes to seek rest. Henrí. Likely the boy’s true father. The man his wife had “loved” enough to present him her most precious gift. The man who had known Satiné first. It ripped John’s heart raw to experience the contempt in his wife’s tone, and although he told himself Satiné’s words were spoken when she was not in her right mind, a part of him wondered if some truth in her condemnations could not be found buried in Satiné’s soul: She had resented accepting his proposal and joining with him.
As he bathed her face and arms in cool water, John battled the urge to seek out Miss Neville and question the woman regarding what she knew of Henrí. Yet, he knew without a doubt, it was not fair to involve the woman in his marital strife. Yet, the obsession had grown. Had Satiné loved Henrí? John’s first thought was it must be so, but there remained the hope she had succumbed to a rake’s wiles. If she had loved the mysterious Henrí, could his wife essentially learn to love him? Kerrington, Crowden, and Fowler had known an instant attraction to their wives; but Wellston, Kimbolt, and Lowery had earned their ladies’ affections. John prayed to follow the examples of the earl, viscount, and baronet.
“John,” his wife murmured as her eyes flickered open and closed.
“I am here,” he said as he washed her face with the cooling cloth.
“Water.”
He lifted her head to brace her against his chest before offering the glass to her lips. “Easy,” he cautioned. When she shook off his offer of a second drink, John lowered Satiné to the bed. “Do you wish me to change the linens?” he had commandeered additional bedding and had removed the ones wet with sweat and replaced them with dry ones. He would prefer to have the linens freshly laundered, but on ship, that possibility was next to null.
“Later.” Satiné whispered. “Just sleep.”
John kissed her forehead. “Your fever is less today,” he had assured lamely. He was not certain what would bring Satin
é comfort. In fact, before his marriage, he would have proclaimed to the world that he knew his lady better than did her Uncle Charles, but over the past few days he had realized he knew very little of Satiné’s personal favorites: colors, treats, time of the year, foods, or sleeping position.
“Drops?” she asked groggily.
To prevent her from scratching the disease’s characteristic whelps, John had placed socks on her hands. When that did not solve the situation, he had taken the coward’s path and had added a drop of laudanum to the water he had fed her by spoon so his wife might rest easier.
“Yes.” He brushed the damp curl from her cheek. “Just rest. I will watch over you until you are well and beyond.” Her shallow breathing announced her return to sleep. He wished she had acknowledged his efforts–to express one moment of affection; yet, he knew his longings irrational: He had never known love, but he knew with every fiber of his soul, the lack of love was a terrible malady to endure.
A half hour later, he emerged on deck for a few minutes of fresh air and a stretch of his legs. He should have waited for Miss Neville’s return, but he had reasoned as his wife slept soundly, no one would know the difference.
“Baron Swenton?” a voice called, and he turned to see Miss Neville sitting in an improvised chair between two barrels stored on deck.
John smiled easily. “Miss Neville, I thought you in your quarters.”
“I brought Rupert up for a bit of sunshine. My father was always one to say the sun made children grow as tall and strong as any flower.” John noted her accent had thickened since they had boarded the ship. The Western Moon had several Irish sailors, and he suspected the men sought out the company of an Irish miss.
He propped a hip on a stacked rope to lean closer for a long look at the boy. “How is Rupert doing? I know children often have difficulty adjusting to the rocking motion of the sea. Any sickness?”
“None which is evident to Mrs. Tailor.” Miss Neville adjusted the blanket about the child. “Would you care to hold him, Sir?”
John smiled down at the child. The boy gurgled a milky bubble, and John’s heart lurched. He hoped his own children to be equally adorable. Rupert’s angelic countenance reminded John of the child’s mother. “I would enjoy learning more of Satiné’s son.” He assisted Miss Neville to her feet before cradling the boy in his arms. “I meant to stretch my legs. Would you care to join me for a walk about the deck?”
Miss Neville glanced about anxiously. “Should I not see to the baroness?”
John shook off the suggestion. “My wife rests soundly.” He whispered into the lady’s ear. “A drop or two of laudanum keeps the baroness from attacking her infection.”
Miss Neville chuckled. “A creative solution, Sir. Doctor Berhardt gave Miss Satiné a bottle of the medicinal after Rupert’s arrival.”
John frowned. If he had known Satiné had become accustomed to laudanum, he would never have given her more. He knew several of the aristocracy who used the pain drops as freely as pouring a glass of wine. He would watch Satiné carefully for any signs of dependency. “Thank you for the information. I appreciate your candor.”
She accepted his arm, the one upon which the baby’s head rested. “You appear a bit gaunt, Sir,” she said with concern. “Have you not slept? You cannot serve your wife well if you permit illness to dog you too.”
Surprisingly, John did not find the lady’s remarks offensive; it was strangely comforting to have someone take note of his appearance. “I have made a pallet upon the floor in the baroness’s quarters. I would prefer to tend Satiné personally. In sickness and in health…”
“Yet, you did not expect to be called upon your vows so soon,” Miss Neville cautioned.
“No,” he said with faultless courtesy. John shifted the child in his grasp. “However, I would like to think my wife would show a like devotion if the situation were reversed.” A hard knot formed in his stomach as quickly as the words left his lips. His mind screamed, If you were Henrí, perhaps. However, would Satiné come to your rescue? Somehow, he doubted it.
Miss Neville scolded, “I insist, Baron, this evening you find your bed while I sit with the baroness. I will not have you both unwell.”
John chuckled as he directed her steps away from the turning mast. The lady had paid no more attention to the change of the ship’s line than did he, and he suspected Miss Neville an experienced traveler. Only those familiar with the ways of sailing ships walked freely upon the deck. “Perhaps I might agree to your company while the baroness sleeps. Do you perchance play whist or chess? It would pass the time, and I think it acceptable with Satiné in the room.”
“Even though the baroness rests heavily?” she asked skeptically.
John admitted, “I had thought the idea of my wife’s companion assisting her would draw attention from the growing speculation on the nature of the baroness’s seasickness. During breakfast, several of our fellow travelers commented on Lady Swenton’s continued withdrawal.”
The lady smiled up at him, and John felt an unfamiliar tug in his groin. “You, Sir, are dangerously devious. I shall not quickly forget the fact.”
*
“Your father was aboard the Tagus?” John asked in disbelief. They had set up a chess set on a small table in the corner of his wife’s quarters. Earlier, John had rigged a rope across the space and had draped a blanket over it to block the light from invading the area where his wife rested.
“Yes, but, in truth, I have been unable to discover any record of his actually boarding the ship. He was part of Giovanni Lusieri’s team,” she explained.
John knew of the controversy in Parliament over the removal of antiquities from Athens and the surrounding area, but he did not know much of Lusieri. In England, Thomas Bruce, seventh Earl of Elgin, was the face of the debate on what was known as the Elgin marbles. “When we reach England, I will ask my friends, Sir Carter Lowery and Mr. Aristotle Pennington, to assist in your search. As part of the Home Office, they have numerous resources.”
“And Sir Carter and Mr. Pennington would act upon your request?” the lady asked suspiciously.
John smiled easily. “They are my dearest companions. Sir Carter and I served upon the Continent together, along with five others. You likely heard me speak to the baroness regarding those among my company. My wife’s sisters are married to two with whom I served: the Earl of Berwick and the Duke of Thornhill.”
Miss Neville’s response was a befuddled shake of her head. “I understood you to possess no siblings, Baron. How came the heir to a barony to King George’s service?”
A pang of ice pierced his heart: John had rarely spoken to anyone of his reasons for joining Wellington’s army; yet, he thought the woman who shared his wife’s cramped quarters trustworthy. It seemed a bit ironic he had not shared such intimacies with his baroness, but Isolde Neville made him feel “safe” with expressing his thoughts. It was odd, but John would not complain of the connection: Perhaps it was the idea after her services were no longer required, Miss Neville would disappear from his life, along with his admission. “When Lady Fiona abandoned her position in my father’s household, the former baron’s hopes for a large family vanished; therefore, the baron became quite obsessed with the line not ending before I could assume the title. To make a long story much shorter, when my father passed, I meant to see more of the world than my estate in Yorkshire,” he confessed.
She said with all wide-eyed innocence, “To prove yourself invincible.”
John felt the heat rise to his cheeks. “I am far from indestructible,” he declared. “The war proved none of us are.” He sighed melodramatically. “But, yes, I needed to prove…”
Without artifice, Miss Neville reached across the table to squeeze the back of John’s hand, making him tense all over, but it was with awareness, not repulsion. “You are remarkable, Sir,” she whispered. “Most men would have accepted their futures without thinking upon the fault.”
John stilled, as if afraid to
accept the lady’s praise. “It was the most foolhardy of acts, but it was also brilliant. I learned so much about myself and of the world.”
Before Miss Neville could respond, a raspy voice called him from the lady’s closeness. “John?”
He rose quickly to be at his wife’s side. “I am here.” He knelt beside her bed and smoothed Satiné’s hair from her cheek.
“I heard voices,” she said through dry lips.
Miss Neville appeared above him. “It is I, Baroness. I came to assist the baron with your care.”
Satiné forced her eyes to focus on him and her companion. “Could I…change my things?”
“Certainly, my Dear.” John had shifted out the bedding, but he had not provided his wife a fresh nightrail. Somehow, it felt inappropriate for him to undress her. They had yet to share such intimacies, and he was not certain he could control his lust if he touched Satiné intimately. He stood to lift her from the bed. “I will straighten the bedding if you will permit Miss Neville to assist you.” He carried her to the chair he had recently abandoned.
Satiné’s head rested heavily on his shoulder. “Why the blanket?” she whispered against his neck, and John relished her closeness.
“To block the light from disturbing your sleep,” he explained.
She nodded weakly. “May I have some broth or some bread?”
John assured, “I will see to it immediately.”
Miss Neville appeared beside him. “I have found another gown among the baroness’s belongings. I shall dress your lady, Sir, while you call in at the galley.”
John caressed Satiné’s arm before saying, “Thank you, Miss Neville. I shan’t be long. Do not move the baroness without my assistance.” He presented them with a quick bow before exiting.
*
Isolde glanced to the door. “Your husband has been most attentive, Ma’am.”
Satiné Swenton appeared bleary eyed, but her tongue remained sharp. “Ma’am?” she murmured harshly. “One day a woman…is a girl…a ‘Miss’…the next…she is a ‘Ma’am.’”
Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor Page 6