Secrets of Surrender

by Madeline Hunter

  Rose ambled closer to watch Prudence work on the pastry. “I make pies too.”

  “Do you now? I didn’t think ladies baked much.”

  “Most don’t. I like to, though. I could help, if you like.”

  Prudence moved some apples and a bowl to one side. “You can pare and slice them into this.”

  Rose set to work. “Where is Kyle?”

  “He walked down to the village. I expect he will visit with the vicar, then have a pint with the men at the tavern. He would have taken Harold in the carriage, but Harold was asleep. Tomorrow maybe. Harold misses his pints with the lads.”

  Rose pictured Kyle, walking the half mile or so back into Teeslow. Walking back into his old life. Would he shed his coats as he went? Remove the layers of education and change he had accepted in order to find his fortune in London? Lapse back into the accent that marked Harold’s speech?

  It would not be the Kyle she knew in that tavern. It would be the Kyle who remained a stranger to her.

  “Is he good friends with the vicar?”

  Prudence laughed. “Well, now, friends is not the word. The earl charged the vicar with teaching Kyle his letters and numbers and Latin and French. A hard taskmaster he was. Warmed his students’ bums with a rod on occasion. Kyle didn’t like that, but he knew the lessons might mean a different life so he kept going back.”

  “The earl? Do you mean the Earl of Cottington? He was Kyle’s benefactor?”

  “None other.”

  He had never told her. Not outright. She just assumed the benefactor had been—someone. Not an earl. Not Cottington. Not Norbury’s father.

  It explained so much. The partnership with those new estates. His presence at that dinner party.

  “Why would the earl do that?”

  Prudence fixed her attention on scraping sugar off a cone. “The earl came to know Kyle by accident. Saw at once what was in him. Saw he wasn’t no ordinary boy, but smart and brave. He knew my nephew would be wasted in the mine, even though as a boy he could already do the work of a man. So he told the vicar to teach him so he could go to schools and such when he grew.” She gathered the sugar into a cup. “A good and just man, the earl is. Such as they ever are.”

  The little story made questions jump in Rose’s mind. Too many to ask Prudence without quizzing her as if she was in the dock.

  She knew very little about her husband’s life. She was very curious, but she had never asked him for the information even though he was the most likely source of it.

  She had never asked, but neither had he explained. She did not believe it was because Kyle was embarrassed about his past or even because he was not a man who spoke much about himself.

  They both avoided all of that because talking about his past would mean talking about Norbury.

  The shadow of that affair affected even their knowledge of each other.

  “Goin’ to be trouble. No two ways about it,” Jon said. He gulped some ale for emphasis.

  Kyle drank in agreement. Jonathan was a miner of about his own age. They had entered the pit about the same time when they were boys, and carried baskets up the ladder together.

  Now Jon was a radical, which made him indiscreet with the fellow in fine coats who had lived here long ago.

  The rest of the miners were friendly enough, even jovial. They had raised pints in salute when Kyle entered the tavern and peppered him with questions about London. They had been unwilling to talk about the real happenings in this town, however. A misspoken word might affect their livelihoods.

  “Three times now the committee has gone to the owners and objected to reopening that tunnel and explained the danger,” Jon said. “Cheaper to lose a few men than to do what needs doing, though. We seen it before, and it will happen again.”

  Kyle had certainly seen it before. His father’s bones still lay in that sealed off tunnel. It had been too dangerous to dig those men out. The first attempt had only caused another cave-in.

  “Have you gone to Cottington?” he asked. “He sold most of it to others long ago, but he still has influence. The surrounding land is still his.”

  “Two of us tried. He is so sick they won’t let anyone near him. Even you could not get in last time you were here. As for petitioning his heir…” Jon’s expression conveyed his opinion of that, and of the son in question.

  Jon glanced over his shoulder. He ran his hand through his blond curls, then leaned across the table to speak in confidence. “We are organizing to speak and act as one. Not just here. We’ve had meetings with other groups in other towns, and them that work for other owners. If we all stand shoulder to shoulder and talk as one, we will be heard.”

  “Be careful, Jon.”

  “Careful, hell. The Combination Act is dead now, finally, and we’ve a right to join together. What can they do? Kill me? They can’t kill us all. They can’t put us all out. You talked about this yourself years back, before—” He looked away, then gulped more ale.

  Before you went away and became one of them.

  “When you stand shoulder to shoulder, every man must be in that line. Every man must be willing to go hungry. There’s always those who will break.”

  “If we walk out, no man will go back in. We’ll see to that.”

  “There are always others who need the work.”

  “If those lines are in front of the pits, it won’t matter.”

  “They will call out the yeomanry. It will be another Peterloo.”

  Jon slammed down his fist. “Stop talking like my wife. Have you forgotten what is down there? Go back to that fine house you built for Harold and borrow his boots and clothes. Come in with me tomorrow if you are forgetting why the danger doesn’t matter to such as us.”

  That “such as us” did not include Kyle. He was one of them, but also no longer one of them. This was his home, but he had traveled so far from it in so many ways that each time he returned he was less a part of this world.

  He felt it. Nor could he stop it. His ties here were like sand that ran through his fingers no matter how closely he pressed them together.

  How long before few even recognized him when he walked these lanes? The day would come when he would enter this tavern and the voices would fall silent while eyes examined the intruding gentleman.

  “I am going up to Kirtonlow while I am here,” he said. “I will speak to Cottington about that tunnel.”

  Jon’s shrug communicated his lack of faith in that making any difference. He called for more ale and set the conversation aside along with his empty glass.

  Kyle returned to the house in time for dinner. Rose helped Prudence set out the food. The conversation revolved around small things the way talk among strangers often did. Finally Uncle Harold could not stand it. He demanded to know what had been learned at the tavern.

  “They don’t come here much. Too far to walk after a day’s work,” he explained.

  Aunt Pru weakly smiled her apologies for what sounded like lack of gratitude for the house. Kyle let it pass. Harold knew they would not visit much even if he still lived in the village. A man too weak to get to the tavern was a man isolated.

  “There is talk of reopening the tunnel,” he said. “I heard of it in December, but it sounds like it will happen for certain.”

  “The fools. The greedy fools.” The news agitated Harold so much that he lapsed into a coughing fit.

  “At least maybe your father and the others can have a Christian burial,” Pru quietly said.

  Rose looked over in surprise. An expression entered her eyes that Kyle had seen several times tonight. Curiosity. Maybe reevaluation. Something was on her mind and this reference to that tunnel piqued it.

  Aunt Pru brought out one of her pies. Its aroma was enough to lighten everyone’s mood. Pru had a famous hand at pasties of all sorts. It did not matter if the fruit had been in a root cellar all winter, she still managed to conjure excellence.

  He felt like a boy again, anticipating a treat only available then
on paydays, when some sugar could be bought.

  Prudence sliced. “Rose helped me make it.”

  “Did she now?”

  “Nothing like cooking together for women to get to know each other,” Harold said. “I’m glad to see your wife likes to bake, Kyle lad. It is good to know you won’t be deprived down there in London now.”

  “Rose is an excellent pastry cook,” he said. She beamed at the compliment. He eyed the piece of pie in front of him. “So, I’ve you to thank for this, dear?”

  “I did not do much. I only cut the apples.”

  He dug in. No, she had not helped much. It tasted wonderful.

  Rose watched him swallow every bite. Again that look entered her eyes. Something had her thinking again.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Rose wanted some conversation with her husband. It annoyed her when he did not retire with her, but allowed her to go up to the bedchamber alone.

  As soon as she got there she realized why he had not accompanied her. Sharing this room meant having no privacy. Preparations normally done separately would now be performed with him right there.

  She wondered about that while she removed her dress and stays and chemise and hose. She slid her nightdress on and sat on the bed to take down her hair. She imagined him here, undressing too.

  She looked at the bed. Prudence and Harold had shared one all night, every night, for years. They did not go their separate ways after the marital duties were performed. What must it be like, to have one’s life so completely intertwined with another’s?

  Quite nice if there were love, she guessed. Horrible if there were hatred. Intrusive if there were indifference.

  She heard his boots on the stairs soon enough to know he had indeed delayed in respect for her delicacy. There was a lot of that in this marriage.

  She left the lamp burning and climbed into the bed. It was not an overly large one. All kinds of intimacies would be forced on them during this visit.

  He knocked before he entered. She doubted Harold had ever knocked to make sure Prudence would allow him in.

  She fought the impulse to turn on her side so he too would have privacy. But he wasn’t a delicate flower and she wanted to talk.

  He removed his coats and hung them in the wardrobe.

  “Did you enjoy the pie?” she asked.

  He sat on the chair and pulled off his boots. “Yes, very much. It was almost as good as yours.”

  She found herself unable to speak. Her heart filled with an emotion sweet and poignant.

  The truth was that she made mediocre pies. No one had ever taught her how to do it. As a girl, out of necessity she had experimented until she came up with something deemed more or less edible by her brothers. The result in no way compared with Prudence’s magic.

  She had watched Prudence today, and seen what had been missing all those years from her own baking. She had tasted the difference too.

  Yet here Kyle was, lying so she would not feel bad. He could have just not mentioned her pies at all. Just like he could have eaten only one small piece the morning after their wedding.

  He probably choked on every mouthful that day.

  “Prudence said you would probably visit the vicar today. She told me how he had taught you your first school lessons.” She debated whether to go on. They could live their entire lives without broaching the questions that had risen in her mind today. It might be best to do that.

  Only she would not sleep if she did not ask them. The answers affected not only her knowledge of the stranger, but her understanding of the Kyle she knew.

  “She said that it was Cottington who had the vicar give you lessons. That the earl was your benefactor. You never told me that.”

  He pulled off his cravat. “You never asked.”

  “That is true. I never asked. I am asking now. I want to know about this.”

  “You want to know for the wrong reasons.”

  What was that supposed to mean? “I want to know because you are my husband, and this extraordinary occurrence changed your life and made you the man I married.”

  He sat back in the chair and looked at her. “Fine. I came to the earl’s attention when I was twelve. He decided that I had abilities that should be nurtured. He arranged for the vicar to give me lessons, then paid my fees to learn from an engineer in Durham for two years. He arranged that I take entrance examinations to the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris, then sent me there to study architecture. When I returned he handed me one hundred pounds and the largesse ended, although he continued as a friend and as an occasional business partner.”

  And that one hundred had been turned into one thousand, then more and more. “It is an amazing story. That you astonish is a given, but I find the earl astonishing too. Why did he extend this patronage to you? Because of your father’s death in the tunnel?”

  “He had no idea that I was the son of one of those men. That had happened three years before.” He went to work on his cuffs. “I am not sure why he did it. I think it was because I had thrashed his son. Maybe he admired my audacity. Perhaps he just believed the son needed thrashing and was glad another boy dared to do it for him.”

  “You thrashed Norbury? How delicious. It is unfortunate, however, that this story touches on him.”

  “Unfortunate but inevitable, Rose. Do not pretend that you did not know where the story would lead when you first asked the question.”

  He stripped off his shirt. He poured water in the basin and began washing.

  She had never seen him this unclothed since their wedding night. After that he had been no more than a silhouette in the dark. She had felt those shoulders and embraced his nakedness, but not seen it.

  The low light flattered him, but his strength would have impressed even in the glaring summer sun. Nothing soft could be seen. No threatening corpulence due to easy living. His muscles did not appear bulky, but just the size and tautness required for his height. Like his face, his body appeared roughly sculpted, and it managed to imply contained energy that waited to burst forth. She wondered if that tension ever disappeared. Maybe when he slept it went dormant.

  He so captivated her attention that she almost abandoned the conversation. Her silence drew his attention, and he caught her watching him. He returned to his washing.

  “I suppose that I did know where the story would lead,” she said. “That you know Norbury so well has always been a surprise. That you now continue in a partnership with him, and use his family lands—”

  “My business is with Cottington. It always has been. Norbury is involved now only because the earl is veryill.”

  This conversation was leading onto dangerous ground. She saw the space between them suddenly full of crevices and holes. His tone said it would be unwise to try to walk there.

  “If the earl is so ill, Norbury may be in your life a very long time,” she said. “He already has been, from the sounds of things. He is in both our lives now, Kyle.”

  He threw down the towel. “When I must see him, I see him. Then he is gone from my thoughts along with his presence. He is not in our lives.”

  “How can he not be, with how we met? I feel him; he is like a specter. I do not think that he leaves your thoughts at all where I am concerned. I think that you try hard to forget my affair, but—”

  “Yes, damn it, I try hard. The alternative is to want to kill him. For the shameful way he treated you at that dinner. For the way I suspect he treated you before it. I picture him with you and—” His fist clenched and unclenched. He tensed hard, and forced a dark calm on himself. “It is not in my mind when I am with you, however. It does not reflect on you.”

  “How can it not? He affects everything. That night affects everything, even how you treat me as a wife.”

  “If you are talking about my command about your brother—”

  “My brother? Goodness, my brother is one thing we share that Norbury does not touch. I did not like that argument, but at least for once I spoke wit
h the man I married. The whole man. The real man. Not the careful, polite creation who dresses so perfectly and talks so perfectly and gives me pleasure so correctly and with such perfect respect.”

  She doubted she would ever see him so surprised again in her life. It only lasted a few seconds. Then his gaze focused on her in a way that made her heart rise to her throat.

  “I treat you with respect, like a lady, and you are complaining?”

  “I am not complaining. I know that I am fortunate to have such a considerate lover. I just think that you are so careful with that respect for reasons that sadden me.”

  He did not like the criticism. No man would. “It sounds like you know my mind and my reasons better than I do, Rose.”

  She should retreat, apologize, be silent and grateful. Only if she did, all he would remember was an insult that she had not intended to give.

  “Perhaps I do, Kyle. Or maybe the little that I know of your mind has me misunderstanding. Just tell me this. If not for that terrible night, if not for my affair, would you feel that you needed to be so carefully respectful? If you had married an innocent girl from this village, or a woman who had never been called a whore, would you even think of such a thing all the time? If you had not been born in this village, but in a manor house, and offered me marriage under other circumstances, would you believe it so important to treat me like a lady?”

  At least he did not look even more angered by her outpouring. Intense and serious, but not furious. The time pulsed by so slowly, so silently, that she regretted her words anyway.

  “I am sorry. I should not have—” She picked at a loose thread on the coverlet. “I just sense, when we are together—you are almost always wearing your perfectly tailored coats, Kyle. Even in bed when you have nothing on in reality.”

  She had made a bad situation worse. She flopped onto her back and pulled the coverlet high, to hide from the flotsam of the shipwreck she had no doubt just made of this marriage.

  She wished that she were a writer or poet and could explain what she meant. She wished there were words to express how she felt the way his birth and hers, his redemption and her scandal, his awareness of her affair and her need to not be treated like a whore, had built these invisible barriers of formality.