Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Satiné knew such thoughts ridiculous, but she could not keep then from haunting her. It was bad enough she had so easily succumbed to Henrí’s seduction. “Although Uncle swore otherwise, I thought myself ruined by Charters. I was so naïve. I gave my heart, my body, and my soul to a man who no longer desires me.” Fresh tears formed in Satiné’s eyes. “Some days I think it might all drive me mad. How do I align logic and reason with what my heart desires?” With a shrug of resignation, she returned to her escritoire.

  Reaching for a sheet of foolscap, Satiné sat heavily at the small escritoire in her quarters. It had become her practice to write Mr. Coyle to tell the man of her day and to seek the gentleman’s advice. She had been grateful Lord Swenton had tolerated the expense of so many letters. Never once had her husband complained or even questioned her need for a confidant beyond him. When she had commented on the situation in one of her previous letters, Mr. Coyle had explained the baron had stood the cost of her posts and Coyle’s responses. “Lord Swenton deserves better than he has received of me,” she murmured as she wrote the date: 10 July 1818. She had been at Marwood for a little over two months. All those in Town would now be at their countryseats. “What does it matter?” Satiné said wistfully as she dipped the pen into the ink well a second time. “All your plans were for naught. Henrí never wanted you: All for which he cared was the boy. His son. It is the way of men.”

  Poised with the pen, she searched for how best to explain to Mr. Coyle the difficulty of finding peace in a world of which she no longer felt she belonged. Her eyes fell upon the date, and Satiné froze–the pen in mid air.

  “10 July 1818,” she whispered to the empty room, and the realization of her earlier thought struck her: She and Lord Swenton had been married a little over two months. “Two months!” she croaked. “And no monthlies. Oh, my Heavens!” Satiné sank deeply into the chair. “Could I be carrying His Lordship’s issue?”

  Immediately, she was on her feet and pacing. “Think,” she chastised. Satiné tapped her head hard with her knuckles. “Think. When were the last ones?” Regrettably, she wished she had recorded such dates in her journal. “While Uncle and I took residence in the hotel,” she recalled at last. In explanation of her actions at Briar House, Satiné had placed the blame of her violent reaction to Thornhill’s news of his household’s retreat to Kent on the onset of her female woes. “Then the short stay at Swenton Hall, followed by our retreat to York.” A groan of despair escaped Satiné’s lips. “Our wedding night was at the end of the regular monthly call,” she reasoned. “But since when have I known a natural means?”

  Satiné jammed the knuckles of her fist into her mouth to stifle her cry. “Am I capable of doing this again?” The thought brought her up short. She rushed to the long mirror to study her figure in reflection. Her fingers flattened the gown’s cloth along her abdomen. There was no evidence she could be increasing. “Only the little bump from Rupert.” No matter how often she had gone without eating, the “bump” had remained.

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “A larger waist. Breasts sore with milk.” Satiné closed her eyes to the image still prominent in her mind. The first time she had caught a glimpse of herself fully with child had been in a storefront window. Devastated by the reflection, she had rushed home to lock herself away until she had returned to her former self.

  “Do not panic,” she warned the girl who once held her expression. “It could all be a mistake. Mr. Coyle has suggested I could see changes in my body if I could return to normalcy.” Satiné stomped her foot in irritation. “But I have not returned to normal. I never will.” She swallowed the tears that pricked her eyes. “A hard ride,” she spoke with determination. “A hard ride and perhaps later a brisk walk. I must convince my body it is too soon to know Lord Swenton’s child.” She jerked upon the bell cord. “I must practice patience,” she warned her skittering composure. “A few weeks will prove the pudding. Either my monthlies will return or Lord Swenton will know his desire.”

  *

  His thoughts of late returned often to his parents. He could not shake the idea all he had once thought absolutes had been turned upon their heads. He had always assumed the arranged marriage between his parents had been a matter of business only, but if Mr. Sampson spoke the truth, perhaps Jeremiah and Fiona Swenton had known a bit of happiness, and if so, the possibility existed that he and Satiné might do so likewise. John had recognized his father’s love for Lady Fiona, but he had assumed her withdrawal had signaled his mother did not reciprocate. “But Sampson said my mother had looked upon the baron with affection,” he reasoned. “Perhaps my father did not know how to love a woman who had refused to be his possession–a woman as strong willed as he.”

  “Pardon, my Lord.” Mr. Fenton appeared at John’s study door.

  “Yes.”

  “The post, Sir. The rider is likely to be here soon.”

  John’s mouth twisted in confusion. “And the problem, Mr. Fenton?”

  “It is the baroness’s post, Sir. To Mr. Coyle.” He extended the thick letter in John’s direction. “The missive’s seal has come dislodged. I thought you might wish to secure Lady Swenton’s message before the rider arrives.”

  “Why not present the letter to the baroness?” John did not feel comfortable being privy to Satiné’s letters. He had convinced himself his wife’s keeping confidences with Coyle was for the best. His baroness had shown flickers of recovery, but if she discovered he had read her secret ramblings, Satiné might feel violated, and any understandings they had achieved would dissolve completely.

  Fenton shifted his weight impatiently. “The baroness rode out this morning and then walked the gardens and orchard. Her maid says Lady Swenton is exhausted and cannot be disturbed.”

  John reluctantly accepted the folded sheets. The letter had to be at least eight pages thick. He tapped on the wax seal, and it fell away in flakes. Unfolding the pages, he noticed several dates at the top of the pages. “This appears to be three separate letters,” he told his waiting servant. “I will reorganize the pages and reseal them. Return for them in a quarter hour to permit the wax time to dry properly.”

  “As you wish, Sir.”

  John examined the dates to separate the pages into three stacks, but despite his resolve not to read Satiné’s private thoughts, his eyes scanned the pages. His wife spoke of her impressions of his estate and of his staff and of the loneliness she had experienced since returning to England. Then his eyes fell on the words John had always hoped to learn: “I must wait to know for certain whether my fears or Lord Swenton’s desires will prevail. It is too early to know if I am again with child.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  His wife’s words of her possible enciente had shaken John to his core. His hands visibly trembled, and his heart raced with anticipation. His first thought had been to rush to Satiné’s side, but he could not. His wife had not confided in him; instead, she had shared her suspicions with Mr. Coyle. “Calm yourself,” he had chastised. “The baroness is not certain. That alone is her reason for not speaking openly of her suspicions.” He read the passage again. “At least Lady Swenton has sought Coyle’s advice.” Most wholeheartedly, John was grateful his baroness had established a relationship with the physician. Initially, their confidences had been slow to go, but Coyle had won Satiné over. Her confiding in the good doctor indicated his wife was considering the merits and the consequences of her increasing. “However, it bothers me my lady speaks of fears.” John was not certain whether her anguish rested in the changes in her body or the new dynamics in their relationship or something he had yet to consider.

  John refolded the letter: He could not broach the subject with the baroness. Her mental condition was too fragile to risk upsetting Satiné. His baroness’s personality had mellowed since those early days in York; yet, she was far from predictable. “Best wait and watch. Satiné will speak on our future when surety arrives.” Dutifully, he resealed each of the letters. Then he took up his
pen to send off a quick note to Coyle. He would ask for the man’s medical expertise on how best to respond if it proved true that Satiné carried his child.

  *

  And so John watched her–watched every move Satiné made and every bite his lady consumed. He knew if his baroness did carry his child she must learn to accept the changes in her body for the child’s sake. Each day, his wife rode out across the estate. Although John recognized the dangers of her riding while with child, he thought the fresh air and exercise would do her well; therefore, John had not spoken his inherent objections. Instead, he had modified his daily routine so he might remain close to her.

  He had counted the days since their first joining to estimate when his wife might know for certain the answer to the question, which never left his mind. John had casually asked several upon the estate about their wives and children. With his tenants, he had taken on the mien of a caring master while delving for facts regarding a woman’s gestation. Surprisingly, his men were quite open with the facts of what they had incurred with each of their wives’ lying ins. As he worked beside them in the fields and barns, they had spoken honestly of the changes in their wives’ bodies and personalities. “When yer baroness comes to child,” Old Sapp said with a toothless smile, “ye be bowin’ and scrapin’ tu please her.”

  “I suspect I will,” John had good-naturedly agreed.

  His biggest concern was the knowledge some women became ill during the pregnancy and turned up their noses at food. With Satiné’s history, it would necessary for him to be cognizant of the dangers the situation held. “Old Sapp said this particular condition occurs somewhere around month four,” John had mused when alone in his quarters. “As best as I can guess Satiné could be no more than two or two and a half months along. Sapp also said most women could not name the day until three to four months gone. My heart is impatient to know the truth of the matter, but I must temper my enthusiasm. Please God,” he whispered to the empty room. “Permit it to be so. I wish so much for this marriage to know comfort and respect.”

  *

  “The post, my Lord.” John nodded his gratitude before reaching for the small stack of letters. He shuffled through them until his eyes fell upon an unknown script, but marked with an Irish posting. “From her or from her family,” he mused. Isolde Neville was rarely far from his thoughts. Despite the calm of late, John often found himself thinking of “what if.” He meant to palm the letter to read later in his study, but when he looked up, Satiné studied him carefully.

  “Is something amiss, my Lord? You appear pensive.”

  John schooled his expression. “Simply letters of business.”

  “Nothing for me from Mr. Coyle?” Suspicion remained in his wife’s tone.

  John had received a response from Coyle, which had cautioned John to be supportive and undemanding–to ignore Satiné’s moodiness. “None that I see,” he said calmly. “I am certain Coyle will respond soon. He has never failed you.”

  His wife frowned. “Does it not appear odd to have your baroness correspond with another man? In London, you were extremely protective of my acquaintances.” Her eyes were shrouded with confusion.

  “If you ask if it pleases me for my wife to seek the counsel of another, it does not. In my conceit, I would wish to be all things to you; yet, it was I who encouraged your acquaintance with Coyle, and Coyle’s advice has brought you some comfort. Therefore, I have nothing of which to complain. As your husband, your well being must be tantamount to my pettiness.”

  “And what of Miss Neville?” His baroness’s gaze never wavered, but John recognized the customary defenselessness in the slant of her shoulders. Some governess had trained Satiné well. His wife had learned the art of passive confrontation.

  “I do not understand.” John wondered if his baroness had observed the unusual directions upon what was likely Eoghad Neville’s letter. “What of Miss Neville? I have not seen the lady since before I departed Newcastle.”

  With a flick of her wrist, Satiné motioned the footman’s withdrawal. “Twice you have whispered Miss Neville’s name when we were…” She blushed thoroughly, and John understood immediately what she did not say.

  He searched his memory: he could think of no time when he had succumbed to the throes of desire. In her bedroom, John performed his obligation. He spoke in hushed tones, “You believe I have called out Miss Neville’s Christian name? That I have used the name ‘Isolde” while enjoying your person?”

  A look of stunned disbelief crossed his wife’s countenance. “Not Isolde, she whispered. “But Izzy.”

  John knew instantly his baroness’s assertion to be false. He could admit privately to keeping Miss Neville’s image before him when Satiné remained unresponsive, but he had never thought of the lady as “Izzy.” That familiar name belonged to her family. To John, the woman would always be “Isolde,” an Irish princess, who like her namesake had stolen her lover’s heart. No one would ever think of Princess Isolde as Princess Izzy. If so, her magnificence would fall into disrepair. “I assure you, Baroness, I would never dishonor you with such an ill-abused gesture. I likely said ‘easy,’ as a reminder to protect you from my desires. I often offer a self-chastisement.”

  “Perhaps,” she said fretfully.

  “There is no perhaps, Baroness. You are my wife, and I will honor you with my life. No one else holds my loyalty.”

  Later, while tending to his ledgers, John replayed the conversation in his head. He wondered if his blossoming affection for Miss Neville had become so transparent. He thought he had hidden his admiration for the woman, but obviously not. Although he was certain he had not spoken Miss Neville’s name while experiencing intimacies with Satiné, somehow his baroness had discovered his secret. In the future, it would be necessary for him to practice more caution. Thinking thusly, John retrieved Neville’s letter. He would read it and then burn it. If Satiné discovered it, his wife might view Neville’s missive as proof of her earlier accusations.

  Breaking the seal, he unfolded the two pages. As suspected, the letter was from the senior Neville. Isolde’s father began with words of gratitude for John’s participation in reuniting Neville with his daughter and for John’s standing for the extensive cost of the treatment of a dozen shipmates.

  Finally, Neville spoke of his daughter’s relationship with John. “It grieves me, my Lord, to see my beautiful daughter, normally, so full of life, walking about with the cloak of despair. I beg you to release Isolde to a future not of your making.”

  John swore beneath his breath. He never thought to leave Miss Neville tormented. He had made his choice and meant to live his life with Satiné. He had written to Isolde of his commitment to his baroness, and John had begged Miss Neville to find her happiness with another. As to releasing Isolde, he would search for a means to make the lady’s life easier. “Would it not be more sensible if Miss Neville never hears from me again? How would my contacting the lady serve her father’s purpose? Mayhap when I know for certain Satiné is enciente, I can inform Isolde, or better yet, convince Satiné to deliver the news. Then Miss Neville will recognize the finality of our connection.”

  *

  A fortnight had passed, but still his wife had spoken nothing of what could be the answer to John’s prayers, and so when the second letter from McAdam had arrived, John had welcomed the distraction, while cursing the inconvenience. “I have business in Penrith. I shan’t be gone more than a week. Likely less,” he told her when he called upon Satiné that evening. “Might I bring you something special; Penrith is a thriving market town.”

  “I require nothing, my Lord.” As was typical, Satiné had quickly covered her legs and hips with her gown. Although his wife still did not respond to his intimate ministrations, John had found the act less appalling. He continued to imagine Isolde’s countenance and accepted his duty.

  He leaned over for a quick kiss. He was thankful his wife no longer recoiled from his touch. Such thoughts were the basis of his hopes for the
future. “I would not depart; however, my contact, John McAdam, means to return to his home in Scotland soon.”

  Although she spoke more from duty than genuine interest, his baroness asked, “What is McAdam’s importance?”

  John ignored the indifference in her tone. “McAdam is an engineer and road builder. He has invented a new process for building roads with a smooth hard surface. You would understand better if were to travel to Bristol. McAdam has remade the Bristol Turnpike, using crushed stones bound with gravel on a firm base of larger stones. I hope to bring his methods, and perhaps even the man himself to York. Better roads mean improved situations for both master and tenants. We might move harvests and stock more efficiently.”

  “It is a grand plan, my Lord, and it sounds quite costly.”

  John frowned: He had hoped Satiné might see the scope of his plans and consider them life changing. “I shan’t stand the complete cost. The surrounding villages must agree, but first I must convince McAdam to join us in York. Soon, McAdam’s methods will be the standard.”

  “Then I wish you God speed, my Lord,” she said unquestioningly.

  “I mean to leave at dawn,” he spoke with obligation. “While I am absent from the estate, why do you not ask some of the ladies to call for tea? I am certain you would enjoy the company.”

  Satiné fluffed a pillow to place behind her head. “I shall consider it, my Lord, but, in truth, I am content with my own company.” Although John did not agree with her that her solitary plans were the best course, he did not lodge his objections. Since coming to a “truce” of sorts, he had been sore to disrupt the hard peace he had earned.

  *

  Her husband had been absent but three days; yet, Satiné had felt the void more than she had expected. There was little for her to do other than to ride out each day. She had never accepted the responsibility of overseeing Lord Swenton’s house for the baron had employed a competent housekeeper, and Satiné had had no inclination to step into the fray. In private, she had reasoned doing so would announce her complete surrender of her hopes and dreams, and Satiné did still dream of Henrí and of her desire to be his princess. Often when the baron called upon her, Satiné closed her eyes and pretended His Lordship was her prince and she his princess. Unfortunately, when she opened them, reality was difficult to swallow.