Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Isolde unbuttoned her mistress’s gown. “It is the way of the world, Baroness.” Ignoring the girl’s soft protests, she wrestled the sweat-soiled gown from Lady Satiné’s body. Although the girl had recently given birth, Lady Swenton was quite thin. Too thin in Isolde’s estimation. She was far from knowing a full figure, but in contrast with the Baroness Swenton, Isolde was an Amazon. “Would you care for a quick wash, M…?” Isolde stifled the word “Ma’am” before it escaped her lips.

  “Perhaps next time,” Lady Swenton said weakly.

  Isolde nodded her acceptance and set about dressing the girl in a clean nightrail. “Shall I brush your hair? Plait it for you?”

  “Brush it,” the baroness instructed. Her head turned to take in her surroundings. “I see you have kept my husband company,” she charged as her eyes fell on the chessboard.

  Isolde’s lips twisted in disapproval. “I meant to provide the baron with a few hours to tend to his own rest. He has remained your servant since he carried you into these quarters. However, Lord Swenton could not see himself clear to desert you. There was nothing untoward in my motives.”

  The baroness’s tense appraisal dwindled. “I am not critical, Isolde. Enjoy the baron’s attentions as often as you like. It serves my purposes perfectly.”

  Chapter Five

  Isolde wished she had either denied the baroness’s insinuation or had sought a clarification of “serves my purposes perfectly,” but Baron Swenton had returned with bread and butter and tea for his wife. He faithfully tended his lady, assisting her with the simple refreshments while Isolde dutifully brushed her mistress’s hair. Therefore, she kept her thoughts to herself, but it galled Isolde to watch how the baroness obviously feigned her weakness to please her husband’s vanity.

  It also bothered her the baron was so easily duped by his wife’s flutterings. “I should…return to my bed,” Lady Swenton said in a breathy rush. She purported to stand, but, as predicted, the baron had immediately swept his wife into his arms

  “Permit me to support you,” he said with honest concern.

  Lady Satiné swayed against him and clawed at the baron’s shoulder. “I still suffer greatly.” Isolde wished to speak out against the girl’s duplicity, but it was not her place to do so.

  “I understand.” Baron Swenton lifted her closer. “Although I consider you quite handsome, the disease still remains upon your lovely skin. Miss Neville seems to believe it may take as long as a fortnight before you know complete health.”

  The baroness smiled easily upon Isolde, but she suspected her mistress meant Isolde everything but goodwill. “Isolde has been a loyal servant.” Lady Swenton permitted the baron to carry her to the bed. When she was settled, the baroness continued, “I insist you keep Miss Neville company while I recuperate. I cannot have my companion the target of speculation while aboard ship. Isolde’s reputation reflects on mine.”

  Baron Swenton protested, “I assure you, my Dear, any time Miss Neville and I spend in company, we act upon your behalf.”

  Satiné caressed her husband’s cheek. The lady evidently knew the effect she had upon her husband. “I never thought otherwise. Yet, even a ship in the middle of the sea is not a safe place for a woman alone. Please extend your protection to Miss Neville.”

  The baron shot a quick glance to where Isolde awaited his instructions. “As you wish, my Dear. However, as Miss Neville serves as your companion, she is already under my protection.” He tucked the blankets about his wife’s form. “You should continue to know rest. I wish you hardy by the time we reach England.”

  “And I wish the same for you,” Lady Satiné said sweetly. “Isolde will remain with me this evening; please find your quarters and know your bed.”

  The baron looked to Isolde again. “If my wife knows additional discomfort, you must promise to come for me immediately.”

  “Certainly, Sir.”

  “Very well,” he announced, “but only because it is your dearest wish.” The baron bent to kiss Lady Satiné’s forehead, but her mistress pulled him closer for a more passionate kiss. Isolde turned her head so as not to observe the intimate moment. However, from her eye’s corner she noted the initial surprise in the slant of the baron’s shoulders and then his succumbing to his wife’s display of affection. For some unknown reason, Baron Swenton’s susceptibility to Lady Satiné’s manipulations maddened Isolde. Her very practical nature said a man of his experience in the world should not be so gullible.

  When the baron stood, Isolde returned to her duties. Perhaps what she felt was her own vulnerability springing forth. No man had ever looked upon her in the manner Baron Swenton had shown his wife. At her age, Isolde was well on the shelf in English Society, and her prospects would be thin to none as long as she remained in her position as a lady’s companion. Although her dowry was adequate, by English standards, she was essentially without fortune. Essentially without immediate family. In addition, her Irish ancestry would be a detriment to her finding marital bliss among the English. Mayhap it is time to return to my homeland and to find a man who holds the same values and speaks the same tongue, as do I, she thought. While the gentleman bid his wife a “good evening,” Isolde made herself a pallet upon the floor from the bedding the baron had used over the three previous evenings. Instinctively, she brought the linen to her nose. It retained the essence of him…of sandalwood and masculinity.

  Shaking off her maudlin, she folded the linens into a makeshift mattress before returning to Lady Swenton’s side. “What may I do to make you more comfortable, Baroness?”

  Her mistress waited until the baron had made his exit before she responded. “I would like a few drops of the laudanum.”

  Isolde frowned dramatically. “Are you in pain, Ma’am?”

  Lady Satiné’s petulance had returned. “Certainly, I am in pain. I am miserable. These marks…” She gestured wildly to the reddish-colored rash upon her skin. “They itch constantly.”

  Isolde knew Lady Swenton’s words an exaggeration, but she said, “As you wish, Ma’am.” She prepared the laudanum in a bit of the cooled tea. The rash had begun to spread from her mistress’s hairline and down Lady Satiné’s trunk. From what she knew of the disease, Isolde expected Lady Swenton had been exposed to the sickness a week or so before their leaving Vienna. That particular fact bothered her for Miss Satiné had rarely left her quarters, nor had Miss Aldridge accepted company from those outside the house. Lady Swenton had left the house only twice in the time before she spoke her vows to the baron, Isolde mused. Miss Aldridge said she had called upon her man of business. However, Isolde wondered, With whom could she have come in contact? “Drink this, Lady Swenton.” She handed the cup to the girl.

  Perhaps it was best for both her and the baron if Satiné Swenton slept through the worst of the illness. In administering to the girl, Isolde noted Lady Satiné’s nose had taken on a reddish tint. That fact would signal the second phase of the disease had arrived. Isolde must remind the baron of the dangers of his wife’s respiratory difficulties. Pneumonia could be an issue if they were not observant to the baroness’s changes. She would also warn Baron Swenton to be aware of convulsions, hearing loss, and a stiff neck. It pleased her she could recall so many details of her grandmother’s teachings. Mayhap I have Gran’s touch, after all. If so, I could find an exulted position in one of the villages.

  When the baroness finally found her labored sleep, Isolde slipped from the room long enough to beg the ship’s cook for a pail of hot water. Returning to her mistress’s quarters, she systematically scrubbed the exposed items, including the chess set she and the baron had shared. Afterwards, she had washed Lady Satiné’s soiled gown and three handkerchiefs. Finally finished with her cleaning, Isolde bedded down upon the pallet. It was comforting to know the room cleaned of her mistress’s mark and more than heartening to be surrounded by the scent of Baron Swenton upon the bedclothes.

  *

  John had made his way along the darkened passage to the s
mall room in which his mother’s body rested. When he had declared no qualms regarding spending the night with Lady Fiona’s remains, his had been false bravado. It was not as if he feared ghosts; in fact, John was quite certain he had long ago banished any ghosts, which meant to plague him. His hesitation came from the idea he and Fiona Swenton had never known an easy time together.

  He entered the room and locked the door behind him. Removing a flint from his inside pocket, he lit the candle he had placed upon the table by the door. With the light, his eyes instinctively traveled to the wooden box draped in satin. “I am here, Baroness,” John said to drive away his trepidation.

  Keeping his eyes on the box, he undressed and then sat heavily upon the bed. “I hope you do not mind sharing the space; I am sorely in need of restorative sleep. I suppose you know Satiné has taken ill, and I have been tending her.”

  John stretched out upon the thin mattress as if he possessed no cares in the world, but his mind did not cooperate. “I doubt if you would have approved of my joining,” he said to the ceiling rather than to turn and look again upon the box. He held no idea why he spoke aloud to Lady Fiona’s of his marriage, but it felt right to do so. To tell his mother all the things he wished he could have said while she remained alive. “I knew when I married Satiné she did not hold me in deep regard, but I mean to win her affections. Just this evening, Satiné kissed me without my prompting a response.”

  John thought of the kiss he had shared with his wife. Initially, her actions had shocked him, but he had quickly accepted her forwardness as a token of her gratitude.

  Is it gratitude you wish, Johnathan? He heard his mother’s voice clearly ask.

  He turned upon his side to view the box’s position on the floor. “Of course, I desire more than gratitude,” he protested. “You of all people know how much I require love. It was the one thing you always denied me.”

  Am I to blame?

  John scrubbed his face with his right hand. “How am I to know who is to blame,” he said through exhaustion. “All I know is if I do not know love soon, I will never survive.”

  *

  And so the days had passed. Some evenings he spent the night in Satiné’s quarters. Other nights his mother kept him company, while Miss Neville had tended the baroness. As the lady had predicted Satiné had gotten worse before she turned for the better. His wife had taken a severe ague–the congestion most uncomfortable. It had taken more and more of the laudanum to keep her quiet and not to draw attention to their ruse. At one of the ports of call, he had disembarked to purchase more of the medicinal. It was the only means to provide Satiné relief.

  Finally, after nine days, her fever had broken, and natural color had returned to his wife’s cheeks. She had been most displeased when she realized the rash would peel. “When we reach England, I will require Gowland’s lotion to treat my skin properly,” Satiné had said with a snit. As he had made notice of his wife’s progress, her temperament had become more peevish. She disapproved of each comment John spoke. Reflexively, he had placed the blame purely on Satiné’s confinement to her quarters for such a long period.

  What bothered him the most was how Miss Neville had held herself aloof when they encountered each other. Since his wife had announced her approval of his keeping company with the baroness’s companion, Miss Neville had effectively avoided him beyond necessary conversation regarding Lady Satiné’s care.

  “Have I offended you, Miss Neville?” he asked when he cornered her upon deck, her once again tending to Rupert.

  She glanced at him oddly. “No, Sir.”

  He did not practice the role of diplomat, and hauteur appeared in his tone. “Yet, you have set yourself the task of shunning my company.”

  Miss Neville stared at him, astonished. “I…I have been preoccupied, Baron. Between the baroness and the child, my days are full.”

  “No more so than prior to the baroness’s statement that I should extend my protection to you.” His dark eyes sharpened.

  The lady cast a disdainful look in his direction. “You have chosen my lady, Sir. You have no need to think a responsibility toward her household servants beyond what is generally required. You pay me well, and I shall endeavor to perform admirably. Now, if you will excuse me, I should return the boy to Mrs. Tailor’s care.”

  John’s response held marked bitterness. “Perhaps your way is the best, Miss Neville.”

  *

  Even after her recovery, his wife had refused to leave her quarters, claiming the sun would make her too brown, and to prove her point, Satiné had noted the pink touch to the Miss Neville’s skin. Personally, John saw nothing ill with the lady’s appearance, but he smartly swallowed his words of approval. Instead, he set himself the task of keeping Satiné company. His wife repeatedly hinted he should insist she be returned to the larger quarters, but John deflected each of her attempts with the reminder they would soon arrive in England.

  On the day they cleared the waters surrounding Gibraltar and turned toward England, he released a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Only a few more days,” he announced. Against her objections, he had escorted Miss Neville upon deck after supper. He dreaded returning to his wife’s quarters. Each evening, they played cards or he read while Satiné set to her embroidery. John found the time tedious. “You are anxious to return to your estate?” the lady noted.

  “I am anxious for a sense of normalcy,” he admitted.

  Miss Neville stared at the imposing sight of Gibraltar in the distance, and a wistful expression crossed her countenance, something deep inside teased at John’s soul. “I have been considering a return to Ireland: I miss my home terribly.”

  John grimaced. “You would leave the baroness’s service?” he said testily. “I thought we held an agreement.”

  She, too, made a face. “I am certain with Lady Swenton’s return to her home, your lady shall choose to employ her maid from Manchester as her dresser, and as a married woman, the baroness no longer requires a companion.”

  “Yet, what of locating your father?” he protested. “I promised you my cooperation.”

  She looked upon him with sympathy, and John wondered from where the emotion had come. “I shall remain with the baroness until she and the boy are settled in their new home, and then I mean to know my own family. If my father has returned, he will be in Dublin, and, if not, I have aunts and uncles and cousins who will welcome my return and take up his search.”

  *

  As he led his small party of women along the docks at Dover, John breathed a bit easier. In Austria, he would preferred a booked passage to Hull, but the Western Moon would cross the channel to Calais and the French coast and so he had accepted a stop in Dover. From the East Midlands, he meant to set a course to York. He had risen early to oversee the loading of his mother’s remains to shore, and then he had assisted his wife, Miss Neville, Mrs. Tailor, and the boy to the Dover wharf. He was proud to have Satiné on his arm. More than one man had turned to look upon his wife’s perfection. However, it did not slip John’s notice that Miss Neville also garnered the interest of passing gentlemen, and irrationally, that particular fact bothered him.

  He had directed his “family” to a respectable inn and had ordered tea and refreshments. “I will return shortly,” he whispered to Satiné. “I must rent two coaches for our journey to York, as well as employ someone to escort Lady Fiona to her home.”

  His wife’s frown lines met, but before she could respond, John heard a familiar voice call his name, and he winced internally. A smiling Brantley Fowler announced John’s poorly constructed lie would soon become public.

  “Thornhill!” he called as he presented the duke a proper bow.

  Fowler shrugged off the gesture. “None of that among friends,” he declared good-naturedly. “Did you just arrive? No one seemed to know the date of your return.” He shook John’s hand enthusiastically, but the moment Thornhill recognized John’s traveling companion became more than evident on the duke’s countenanc
e. “You, Devil!” the duke declared excitedly. “You have brought our sister home.” Fowler stepped around John to capture Satiné’s hands. “My Dear,” he said affectionately, “you and my Velvet could be the twins in the family. Why did you not inform us of your return to England?”

  John swallowed his trepidation. He claimed Satiné’s arm before saying, “We are brothers, in truth, Thornhill, for Miss Satiné is now Lady Swenton.”

  John counted silently to five before Fowler recovered his composure. “Then I am most pleased. I wish you happy, but when did all this occur?”

  John gestured to the table. “Perhaps it is best if you join us for tea, and the baroness and I will explain the urgency of our vows.” Thornhill nodded his agreement, and John continued. “But first permit me to make you acquainted with the baroness’s companion and my son’s nurse.”

  The duke’s eyebrow jerked upward, but he said evenly, “Certainly, Swenton.”

  John’s heart raced double time. He had practiced this speech repeatedly in the privacy of his quarters aboard ship, but he knew there were gaping holes in his fabrication. “Thornhill, may I present Miss Neville and Mrs. Tailor. Ladies, it is with pride I bring you the acquaintance of the Duke of Thornhill. His Grace is married to the baroness’s eldest sister.”

  Miss Neville made a proper curtsy, while Mrs. Tailor executed a wobbly one. “Your Grace,” Miss Neville murmured softly. Then to John, she said, “Mrs. Tailor, the boy, and I will wait over there, Sir.” She gestured to another empty table. “You and Lady Swenton require privacy to discuss family matters with the duke.” Miss Neville curtsied to the table before catching Mrs. Tailor’s arm to escort the woman away. John appreciated the woman’s quick thinking.

  He seated Satiné and then waited for what he knew would be barrage of questions from Fowler. Finally, the duke asked, “Does Wellston know of this development? I am not certain I approve of the speed of this joining.”