“To the village again?” she had asked drearily.
John placed preserves upon his toast. “No. Mr. Sampson requires my attention at the Olde Cottage.”
“Olde Cottage?” A flicker of curiosity had arrived.
Lord Worthing had not been far from the truth when he had declared Satiné quite childlike in many ways. “Yes. It is the cottage my grandfather three times removed had built for his mother when she became the Dowager Baroness. It remains one of my favorite spots on the estate. One can see the fields of heather upon the surrounding moors. It is quite picturesque.”
His wife’s indifference had returned. “I assume you will show me this cottage,” she said with irony, “before it becomes my permanent home when our son, if the Lord is willing, follows you as baron.”
John studied Satiné carefully. Although she spoke with a bit of terseness in her tone, at least, she had acknowledged her duty to produce an heir for his title. “I am pleased you intend to outlive me, my Dear,” He stood slowly. “I have been thinking we should take a short journey before the weather changes. I have long desired to view the renovations to the church at Durham. Society will not be as grand as in London, but you might enjoy what the town has to offer in shops and accommodations. In the autumn, we may enjoy time in Brighton or Bath. You may choose. “
“It would be pleasant to have additional company,” Satiné admitted.
He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Why do you not ask the stables to saddle Destiny? You appear as if you could use a bit of air, and it is a fine day. However, as you do not know the estate well, please be certain you ask a groom to accompany you.”
“I shall consider it,” his wife said softly. “Ride safe, my Lord.”
“You, too, Baroness.”
John looked upon the ransacked room. He had erred: Jamot had sought coverage in the Olde Cottage. “Appears your bullet found a home, Sir.” Mr. Sampson extended a bloodied towel in John’s direction.
John instinctively bent to gather the broken vase his grandmother had presented to his mother when Fiona Moraham married Jeremiah Swenton. It bothered him more than John could say to have his family’s mementos destroyed. They were the connection from his past to his future.
“The dogs have hit on a scent,” Sampson explained. “Ye wantin’ us to give chase, me Lord?”
John gave his head a hard shake to drive away the maudlin. “Probably best,” he reasoned, “but warn the men to practice care. If the culprit is Murhad Jamot, he will not hesitate to attack. The Baloch is injured and desperate. It is not worth capturing a thief if it means I lose a valuable employee.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“I will return to Marwood and organize those who would see to setting Olde Cottage aright.”
Sampson shook his head in disbelief. “It be a shame, Sir. I recall the day yer father brought yer mother to this very cottage to celebrate their wedding night. The baron beamed from ear to ear for he had won a worthy wife.”
John had heard his father speak often of the Olde Cottage. Had heard Jeremiah Swenton curse the day he laid eyes on the structure. The previous baron had claimed the cottage was not worth maintaining and should be burnt to the ground with everything in it. “What of my mother’s countenance on that day?” John asked curiously. He could not recall the servants ever speaking of the former baroness or of his parents’ marriage. He supposed his father had threatened their dismissal if any dared to express an opinion.
Sampson, who had been born upon Marwood and who would likely die without ever leaving the estate, smiled a toothy grin. “Lady Fiona be the prettiest bride I ever did see. She looked upon the late baron with surprise, and I think a bit of love. The previous Lady Swenton, well she be more than the gossips say. Smart and independent, yes, but never vicious. In truth, I never thinked the previous Lord understood his wife’s need to gallop across the countryside on that devil mount she brought with her from Warwickshire or how Lady Fiona thrived on climbing to the top of the old Roman fort. They be lovin’ each other, but not knowing how to express it. Begging your pardon, Sir, but you come by your stubbornness naturally.”
John chuckled. It was an eye-opening conversation. “There are not many men from whom I would accept such criticism.” The servant blushed with the realization of his error. John slapped Sampson good-naturedly on the back. “Call on me when you return to Marwood if you discover anything new.”
*
In the sennight, which had followed their wedding, he had visited Satine’s room four times to the same result. His wife refused to participate in their intimacies. Satiné had not denied him, but each night John had left her room feeling as if he had violated her. He continued to tell himself his actions were for the sake of his future children, but his reassurances did little to erase the feeling of disgust coursing through his veins.
Last evening, he had encouraged her, “Touch me, Satiné.” John had kissed her shoulder blade, attempting to prepare her for his entrance into her body.
“Touch you?” she asked in disbelief. “How? Where?”
John stared down at her. He practiced Coyle’s suggestion: Teach your wife of the marriage bed. “A man enjoys a woman’s touch. Permit your fingers to learn my body.”
“But I could not, my Lord,” she insisted. “It would be so…”
“Personal,” John had growled. “Marriage is personal, Satiné, and I have a name. It is John. I expect you to use it when we are thusly engaged.” Without preamble, he had entered her. John realized immediately he had caused her pain, but at the time, he had wished to punish her. However, afterwards, as she sobbed into her pillow, he had offered his sincere apologies and had cradled Satiné in his arms. “I will pray for restraint,” he had promised.
“The early post, my Lord.” Mr. Fenton placed the salver beside John’s empty plate and bowed his exit. As had become his custom of late, John spent a second, more moderate, meal with his wife when Satiné came down from her quarters. In that manner, he could monitor what his wife consumed for her breakfast. John flipped through the letters of business, and then his heart froze. A letter from Miss Neville, likely the last one he would ever receive, had come at last.
Reaching for his knife, John broke the seal. Motioning his footmen away, he lifted the paper to his nose, praying it held even the smallest essence of her and was not disappointed. A flood of memories surrounded him. Savoring the moment, he unfolded the page to read…
My Lord Swenton,
I am pleased to inform you my father has recovered from his illness, as have his shipmates. All that were once inflicted sing your praises, and you will be happy to know Doctor Timmons means to publish his findings. You have aided the man in bringing about a medical advancement. As for my father and me, we owe you the greatest debt of all, for your kindness has provided my family a new life. Papa and I shall depart Newcastle on Friday. We hope to sail for Ireland within a fortnight of our arrival in Liverpool.
“At least I have executed good judgment in one particular lady,” John murmured as his fingers traced her script. He wished they traced her soft curves instead.
My father means to have you know reimbursement for the outlay of expenses in his care. Once we return to Dublin, you may expect timely payments until the debt is paid.
“Foolish girl,” John grumbled. “I want not your father’s money. There is only one thing I would wish from Eoghan Neville, and it is something I can never possess.”
Now, I must beg your forgiveness for I must speak my heart if only this once. I can no longer leave unspoken the words I have given my heart permission to know. Mine is as miserable an existence as is yours. Every day brings fresh memories of our short acquaintance. I must remind myself to smile–to pretend we had not come so far. I dream of you beside me until the early morning light, and, each day, I pray for your well being and happiness. You shall remain the scale by which I shall measure all others. Only with you have I considered jumping into the abyss without fear someone would catch
me. I shall never know such freedom again. With every beat of my heart, I remain your Isolde.
A rush of heat skimmed the back of John’s neck, and he sighed deeply. In his narrow sightedness, he had missed what likely could have been his great love. More than an arrow’s tip full of regret stabbed his heart. He braced himself inwardly against the pain he knew would follow. Their acquaintance had been brief, even fleeting, but John readily recognized its potential for completeness.
In some ways, he almost wished Isolde had never declared her blossoming affection. He was miserable–every day, every minute–and now he knew for certain the lady had experienced the same revelations as he. Carefully, John refolded the letter. It would remain forever among the memories from his past: a treasured toy horse his mother had purchased for him some three days before her departure; an essay he had written on political intrigue during the Tudor reign, which had won him honors and recognition while at university; and his father’s favorite ring, one handed down through five generations of barons at Marwood Manor. When his fingers had thickened with age, he had placed the ring with the other items, thinking to one day present it to his son. Now, Isolde’s simply written letter would have a revered place among his keepsakes. John shook his head in disbelief. “Previously, I was afraid to trust God’s plan for my life; now it is too late. I have chosen a path not meant for me.”
*
He and Satiné awaited his guests in the drawing room; John had finally convinced his baroness to host a small supper party for his neighbors. Earlier in the week, he had approached her. “When I was in the village today, several of the more curious asked of my new baroness. Would you accept the opportunity for company?”
“As you wish, my Lord,” his wife had said dutifully.
John had struggled against the white-hot frustration coursing through him. He had despised Satiné when she had argued with his suggestions to retreat to York, but he absolutely deplored this submissive role even more. Coyle had returned to London a week prior, and John had already discovered his wife slipping into her previous ways. If what he suspected proved true, Satiné’s emotional upheaval was due for a violent high again soon for his wife had been depressed for well over a week. “All I wish,” he whispered softly, “is to observe a genuine smile upon your lips.”
She had stared at him for the longest time, and John had held the idea, it was the first time Satiné had actually seen him. She nodded and with the slightest inclination of her chin, his wife had made her decision. She did not inform him of her choice, but he was certain his baroness had softened toward him, and surprisingly, John’s hope flickered to life once more.
The drawing room had filled quickly; John’s neighbors remained interested in his choice of wife. “Fáilte, Tá fáilte romhat,” he had said as he extended his hand to Lucas Cleary, the master of the estate adjoining his. “Conas atá cursaí leat?”
Cleary’s customary smile widened. “I am well and anxious to have the acquaintance of your baroness. We have long thought you should have entered the Marriage Mart.” Cleary caressed the back of his wife’s hand where it rested upon his friend’s arm.
John wished Cleary’s good humor would translate into John’s life. “Then come. I will make you known to Lady Swenton.” He led the Clearys to where Satiné kept company with the Marwood Chapel curate and his wife.
“Yes,” she explained. “Lord Swenton and I married in Vienna, but we repeated our vows in the Church once we arrived in England. My husband was most insistent it was so. His Lordship wished any heirs to be recognized by the Crown.”
John was thankful his wife had responded appropriately, but Satiné offered too many details. His covert service to the government had taught him a liar always crossed each “t” by covering every possibility.
“Our faith is important to us,” he added to placate the curate’s curiosity. “Now, if you will pardon us, the baroness has another admirer who begs her acquaintance.” The curate bowed his exit before John began, “My Dear, it is with great pleasure I present our nearest neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Cleary. Cleary, my wife, Lady Swenton.”
The trio of strangers executed the obligatory bows of greeting with Cleary bending low. “Lady Swenton, tá sé mar onóir.”
Satiné stiffened. “I fear, Mr. Cleary, I speak only English. I am not familiar with the Irish tongue.”
Cleary blushed, but John heard the man’s wife murmur under her breath, “Ní leor teanga amháin.” In truth, John agreed privately with Mrs. Cleary: too many Englishmen thought inwardly, when to know success they should open themselves to new ideas. It was true: One language was never enough.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Swenton,” Cleary declared. “Mrs. Cleary and I had heard there was a cultured lady at Marwood who had once called Ireland home. Naturally, we thought such a woman must be Marwood’s new mistress. I meant no disrespect, Baroness. I simply spoke of the honor of finally possessing your acquaintance.”
“I assure you,” Satiné said with ungracious overtones, “I rarely have had the occasion for developing a relationship with those of Irish ancestry. In London, the Irish are not considered good ton, even those with a title.”
John wished to dissolve into the night’s mist. In her vanity, his wife had succeeded in driving a wedge between him and those with whom he must associate.
Mrs. Cleary caught her husband’s arm. “Then perhaps Mr. Cleary and I should withdraw, Lady Swenton. Like many in York, we call Ireland our homeland.”
“Lady Swenton did not mean to offend,” John rushed to explain. “My wife is from Manchester and has witnessed many of her uncle’s business endeavors undercut by the feuds between Irish workers and Baron Ashton’s long-time employees. My baroness has known few Irishmen beyond the ruffians found in the Manchester garment district.” Now it was his turn to spin an elaborate lie. “The woman of whom the servants spoke was my wife’s lady’s companion, an astounding woman whose service Lady Swenton was sore to lose.” John wondered if Satiné had even realized Miss Neville was no longer in the house. Sometimes his wife was perfectly lucid and at other times disconnected from the world.
“Miss Neville’s father was part of Lord Elgin’s expeditions and had gone missing. Word came a month prior of his weather-beaten ship’s arrival in England. Despite Lady Swenton’s dependence upon Miss Neville’s excellent guidance and the lady’s bountiful kindness, the baroness released her trusted companion to tend to her father’s recovery. As you can easily observe, my wife puts value on those who demonstrate loyalty.”
“Eoghan Neville?” Cleary questioned.
John breathed a bit easier. “Yes. The Nevilles are from Maynooth, west of Dublin. Are you acquainted with the family?”
Cleary shot John a grim smile. “Only by reputation. My family is from Dunboyne.”
John’s eyebrow rose in interest. “I shan’t ask upon which side your family stood during the Irish Rebellion.”
Cleary chuckled, “Inaction upon your part would be most wise, Lord Swenton,” His neighbors nodded to Satiné. “You are welcomed in York, Baroness.”
“Such an odd couple,” Satiné observed snidely as the Clearys joined several of the others of his customary company. “I pray you shall warn me of whom I should speak next time.”
John leaned closer. “Consider yourself warned. There is a large Irish population in Yorkshire. Guard your tongue, or we will have no company upon which to depend.” As he walked away from her, John supposed he should count himself fortunate his wife’s mercurial nature had not created a greater spectacle upon which his neighbors could dwell.
*
After her customary breakfast on the day following their first entertainment, she had begged John to permit her to retire to her suite again. Her nagging depression of late had returned, and Satiné possessed no means to overcome it. Other than the one night His Lordship had taken his anger out on her, Lord Swenton had treated her kindly. He often surprised her with a trinket or a glass bauble from the village shops, and he
had made an effort to spend time with her on a daily basis. His conversation was never lacking, and the baron was well educated in many fields. “I suppose I might have earned a worse husband,” she admitted grudgingly. Yet, Satiné could not shake the feeling she had abandoned her hopes of knowing Henrí as her husband too soon. “Henrí spoke of his love,” she reasoned. “A man does not soon forget. I should have followed him to London. Should have insisted that if Henrí wished to claim Rupert then he must also accept me. In hindsight, I should have expected Henrí to avoid the public censure by claiming Rupert as his princess’s issue; but, even so, I could have been Rupert’s stepmother in public; the world possessed no reason to know the truth. I should not have accepted the baron as an alternative.”
She stared longingly at the distant vista outside her window. “What would Lord Swenton do if I chose to leave Marwood? Do I dare confront Henrí in London?” Satiné knew the prince had tarried as Prinny’s guest. The newspapers Lord Swenton read for information on Parliament and upon his many business ventures also contained a societal section. When the baron finished with the newssheets, Satiné had asked her maid to bring her the pages of news from London. Although the sheets had spoken of Auersperg’s return to Vienna, Prince Henrí had remained in England’s capital. There were rumors Henrí meant to join Prince George at Prinny’s summer retreat in Brighton.
“Baron Swenton said I may choose one of the royal family’s watering holes for my pleasure. If Henrí remains in Brighton, my choice will be made.” Yet as soon as she had said the words aloud, Satiné questioned her sanity. “I could easily ruin everything if Henrí rejects me a third time, and I have achieved a ‘peace,’ of sorts with Lord Swenton.” However, her heart screamed for its freedom to love, and her joining with the baron had been a business arrangement–one formed from duty–a loveless marriage. “Even with His Lordship’s many kindnesses,” she admitted aloud to provide her thoughts truth, “I feel smothered, as if I cannot breathe. If there were a way to undo my marriage to the baron, perhaps then I could convince Henrí to change his mind. I am certain only the prince’s pride has turned his interest.”
Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor Page 29