An Untitled Lady: A Novel

by Nicky Penttila

  “You still want me?”

  “I do. But I want you to feel the same. If you can.”

  “I can. I was. Then.” She shook her head. Where had that image come from? Nothing in her life had been remotely as terrifying as that nightmare.

  “It’s all that fire and brimstone they feed you at church. You’ll find it’s not at all like that.” He pulled the covers down and she wriggled into bed. He slid down beside her.

  “Don’t you wear anything to bed?”

  “I haven’t. I can change if you wish it.”

  “Must I be naked, too?”

  “Only if you wish it.”

  “Do you wish it?”

  He turned her on her side away from him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her into his front, as if they were spoons. “Does this frighten you?”

  She listened inside. Where had that screaming bit disappeared to? “No.”

  He sighed against her neck. He kissed the lobe of her ear, and then whispered, “I would love to have your skin next to mine, in passion or in sleep, but only if you, too, wish it.”

  “I like this.”

  “Then I like it, too. Your hair smells of honeysuckle.”

  They lay together, and gradually the muscles in her legs relaxed. Her shoulders eased. Her breathing became more regular. Her zigzag thoughts started to slow. It had never been so easy to fall asleep.

  * * * *

  Nash did not fall asleep. When he was sure Maddie was deep under, he gently pulled his arms back, pressing the covers in place around her. He rolled over and up to sit with his back against the headboard, his knees up.

  What the hell?

  Having a wife was already more work than he’d expected. He’d hope his bride would shriek, true, but with pleasure. This one’s voice held pure terror. He devoutly hoped the Willises hadn’t overheard.

  Something had hurt her, something fierce. Had she spent years at the feet of some vicar who equated pleasure with sin—or death? Had her headmistress been a secret sadist, teaching her poor charges how filthy they were? She’d read too many of the wrong sort of books?

  He’d seen the terror well up, her gasps for air forcing her eyes wide and dark. She’d fought to find her breath, to warm to him again, and she had—until another wave knocked her away and out of the bed. She had passion enough. He grew harder at the memory, and shifted his position. But then—the abyss.

  Nash cursed himself in a whisper. He had worked so hard to pull this wedding off quickly, but had forgotten that marriage followed hard upon it.

  His wife had no idea of Manchester, no friends, no relations. He did not know her habits, her likes or dislikes. Would she enjoy a concert or a poetry reading, or was she a dancer and gossiper?

  He had not known her a week, and not even seen her half those days. He did know that she was cut adrift, looking for purchase, and he had failed at anchoring her. What had Mrs. Willis said? He’d dumped her on the stoop like so much cabbage. His housekeeper was kindness itself, but perhaps a bit fearsome looking to a stranger.

  What had his new bride thought to see this house, when she’d dreamt of castles all her life? Had he been in the same position, he might have had the same snappish feelings, too. In fact, he was lucky she’d only bitten his head off this evening. She should have punched him. He would have. He’d acted worse than Deacon.

  She deserved better than him. At the least she deserved a decent home, with dress-presses and cupboards and what all. In that nightdress, her hair in loose braids, she had glowed. He liked the heft of her, the shape of her here in his bed. He hadn’t even minded that the canvas was down. With a finger, he kissed her neck, the lightest of caresses. She sighed in her sleep, and something locked tight in his chest released. He traced her shoulder, then over the blanket covering her hip. This part he could get comfortable with. If only she were this pliable when awake. Or in heat.

  That shriek had been raw fear. Whatever had installed the fear wasn’t going to have to clean up after its mess, Nash was. He wasn’t sure where to start. He didn’t know if he had the patience. He only knew that if he did not do something to repair the damage, his own sad cock would be sorry indeed.

  { 15 }

  The next afternoon, Maddie turned her new key into the lock and let herself into the hatbox that was her new home. Sitting through the sermon at St. Mary’s, and simultaneously pondering whether her vicar of old had planted that seed of terror in her mind, had worn her out, but her first encounter with her mother’s resting place in full sunlight brought some peace. The air was lighter when the mills were closed.

  She dropped the key into her reticule and took the stair to her boudoir to hang up cloak and bonnet. At least they had places now. Even at church, she’d felt singled out, and not because she’d come without her family. That would have been true in Bath. Here most of the parishioners looked like working women and their children; both groups stared openly at her. The rector hid his surprise with more skill.

  His sermon, on doing one’s duty, only served to vex her further. What was her duty now? Follow the lead of her husband, but he didn’t appear to want much of her, and what could she rightfully demand of him? What he had wanted, last night, she’d failed to give.

  Some of the women followed her same path home, over Shude Hill and through Thomas Street. They didn’t speak to her, but nodded amiably enough. Two stopped to watch her enter this house. She was the news of the neighborhood by now. She hoped their stories reflected well on Nash, despite her soft Southern accent and foreign-made cloth. By what else could they judge her?

  She found him in the main room, reading yet another newspaper. “More protests?”

  “Not in London.” He set the paper on his lap and rubbed at his brow.

  “I missed you this morning. When did you leave?”

  “Shade past six. Weavers are an early crowd.”

  “On Sunday?”

  He shrugged. “They wanted to deliver today. I’m told there’s a rally in Oldham tomorrow. You’ve missed dinner. Churching takes so long?”

  Maddie glanced at the clock on the mantle. Four o’clock. The half-hour she thought she’d spent clearing her mother’s place must have been twice that long. “I visited my mother’s grave again.”

  It felt so strange, having another mother. She’d already been to Mary Moore’s graveside more than she ever had that of Lady Wetherby. It was not thought proper for a child to haunt her parents’ grave; the new viscount had forbidden it. She sat sidewise on the chair in front of the folded-out writing table.

  “Why so far away?”

  Butterflies, suddenly awakened in her stomach, raced toward her throat. She gulped them back down. “I apologize for last night,” she said formally, as if distant words could mask the immediacy of her emotions.

  His face stilled, his expression intent on her. He didn’t say anything. No longer butterflies but bees of panic shot out to her limbs. He patted the chair beside him, offering it to her. Maddie scolded herself for jumping to conclusions as she sat down. Her rotted imagination ruined everything.

  “I do not believe an apology is necessary. You obviously could not help what you felt. I did not realize how repellent I am.” He softened his words with that self-deprecating half-smile, but his indigo eyes were sad. She wanted to reassure him, but didn’t know how he would take to reassurance. He seemed a hard man.

  “You must know you’re catnip to the ladies.”

  “Now I know you taunt me.” But he laughed, and Maddie’s buzzing bees settled back to sleep. He took her hand, stroking it, over and over. But soon enough his thoughtful frown returned. “Last night, it frightened me, as well. What could have caused it? Has it ever happened before? You looked scared to death.”

  She shook her head.

  “Something that happened only once, perhaps, but now you avoid the activity, or the color, something, that caused it. Anything?”

  Maddie was sure she didn’t know what he was getting at. Then she did r
emember something. A scent.

  “The barbershop.”

  “The barber? When would you ever go there?”

  “Never, except for the once. We girls wished to buy a gift for one of our teachers, who was returning to the continent. We collected money to buy him an aftershave, because he often smelled of mothballs and we thought he might have more luck with the ladies if he carried a sweeter bouquet.”

  She had gone to the busiest barber on High Street. The man had been kind to a rather nervous young miss. She hadn’t been afraid at all of him, until she nearly fainted.

  “I see now it wasn’t the barber that frightened me. It was the scent.”

  After she’d explained her errand, the barber had opened up a small bottle of powerful perfume. He hadn’t even told her the price before she had run out of the store feeling as if she were chased by hounds.

  “All this time I thought it was him. I even whipped up a tale of terror for the girls. Another girl went to a different barber. He must have given her a different scent, for when Mr. Purdy dabbed it on, I didn’t need to run.”

  “A scent.”

  “That can’t be it. You weren’t wearing anything last night. Besides, I like your smell.”

  His eyes sparkled, and she realized what she had said. The bees painted her face hot red. “That’s a comfort.”

  The blush burning her cheeks reminded her she’d missed bathing this morning. “Do you think there’s enough water to bathe today?”

  “Aye, but not enough hands. The Willises are off until tomorrow. Didn’t you have a bath yesterday?”

  That was only a sponging wash, barely enough to signify. She needs must wash once a day. It was part of her, part of Godliness. Bathing was not negotiable. She would have put it in the marriage contract had she known she’d be living in a house that had to collect the rain for bath water.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure they refilled the pitchers before they went. I had to push Mrs. Willis out the door. They with a new grandchild to see. All she thought of was you.”

  He leaned in. She held still as he kissed her temple. “I like your smell, too.” She blinked slowly, the bees settling down, sated.

  He leaned back. “I’ve arranged for us to be invited to sup with the Heywoods. She can introduce you to the crowd, and then you can begin making calls. How do you like that?”

  She’d like rather for him to give her more of those kisses. “I’d be grateful to them.”

  “Heywood has been a mentor to me. We’ve joined in a fabric scheme that could bring steady work to Manchester. Now that Deacon has put off the daughter, your being on good terms with his wife could mend things.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “The dinner’s not for a few days, though. So what do you say to a tour of the warehouse tomorrow?”

  The secret sanctuary?

  He grinned at her expression. “Monday’s are a bit slow. We could wait until Tuesday. That’s a market day.”

  “Tomorrow is better.” And perhaps she could return on Tuesday, and Wednesday, too. If she could convince him to share this part of his life, maybe she could convince him to share more.

  * * * *

  “You don’t seem as fearful tonight.”

  Nash undid the hooks at the back of his wife’s dress. She’d already sent five of her trunks back to the castle, a good sign. At dinner, she talked about the household budget, and how it would need at the least an incremental increase. Painful, yet also a good sign. Plus, she wasn’t screaming in fear. Yet.

  He tried to remember which touch, which sound, had set her off. Was it her thigh, her hip, her belly, her breast? He ran a finger up from the base of her spine, bare now but for her shift. She shivered and leaned into the touch. Good. As he neared the nape of her neck, she pulled away, turning so fast he caught a glimpse of giant green irises before they shrunk back to normal. What could have happened to her neck?

  He knew she wanted him to say I’m not going to hurt you. But it galled him to be distrusted so. He turned away from her, silently cursing the man or beast that had wrecked this moment for her. He prayed the damage wasn’t permanent.

  She laid a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “I’m sorry. Please.”

  “Come to bed.”

  When she slid in beside him, she wasn’t wearing anything but gooseflesh. “I’m not afraid.” Her voice shook.

  He pulled her into an embrace, his chin at the top of her head. At first, it felt like hugging a female scented tree trunk. Soon, her arm eased, and wrapped itself about his waist; her hummingbird heart slowed to a steadier rhythm.

  He skimmed his hand along the side of her face, up over her ear, over and over, always avoiding the neck. Her breasts caressed his chest, but the nipples weren’t hard. He was, though. He hadn’t had a woman since he returned to town, first simply to make sure he was still clean, later because he spent himself on his work. Perhaps his cock had had something to do with this sudden interest in securing a bride.

  She didn’t flinch as his hand dropped to the rounded corner of her shoulder, but she did pull away. That frightened look was in her eyes, like a cat unsure if you are going to stroke it or strike it. But her mouth was firm and practical. He wondered if he could kiss it soft again.

  She clamped her jaw shut and rolled onto her back. “I’m ready.”

  “For what?”

  “It might be better to do it quickly.” Before the screaming started, she didn’t need to say.

  Her eyes big and water-bright, her mouth a straight line, she looked as terrified and as brave as a sailor facing his first gale wind.

  “So you are a virgin.” He traced her brow.

  Fear forgotten, she glared up at him.

  “Forgive me.” He kissed the line he’d traced. “But I’ve never seen a naked woman in bed less ready.” He couldn’t take her like this, no matter how hard his body ached for it.

  “When, then?”

  “Tomorrow, or tomorrow, or tomorrow. No rush, Em. We have our whole lives together.” He pushed on her shoulder, and she rolled onto her side, like the night before. He slid his arms around her middle, under the soft weight of her undertouched breasts, and pulled her close.

  “I like this.” She sighed into him, wriggling her buttocks deeper into his groin.

  “Me too,” he said, lying only by omission.

  “I like Maddie. Not Em.”

  “Maddie, then.”

  He’d nearly nodded off when she spoke again. “We’re a family, aren’t we?”

  He wasn’t sure what she was asking. “We make up a household, yes.”

  “I had a family, once. Father, mother, brother, me. Like your family.”

  “I should hope not.” She stopped cold. Nash felt his shame wash over him. Here she was talking fondly of her dead family, when he only pretended to want his dead. “Do you miss them?”

  “Every day. But I don’t remember them. I wasn’t yet four when they all died. I’m haunted by ghosts of memories.”

  “Shhh. Why tell me this now?” His eyelids were so heavy. He blinked hard to stay with her.

  “I want to find my family. My real family.”

  That woke him up.

  She sighed. “My father must be alive. Richard Moore, Seventeen seventy-seven, but no date of death. He might be in this town, tonight.”

  This was a bad idea, but Nash couldn’t quite put his finger on why. He sighed into her honeysuckle hair. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  She quieted, and quickly fell asleep. He felt he’d dodged a bullet that he hadn’t known to watch out for.

  Perhaps she would forget by tomorrow. He would make her forget. He had an entire warehouse with which to distract her.

  { 16 }

  The warehouse, just off the newly widened Market Street, resembled nothing more than a defunct opera house. More than four stories high, its front had once been a warren of windows. Now the window frames held dingy canvas tarps, giving the impression the building was a slee
ping spider.

  “Had to cover the panes to avoid the window tax.” Nash handed her out of the hack coach to the neatly swept courtyard. “Boards would have been cheaper; we have to wash the canvas every few months. But the fabric lets in some light, at least. Some of the rooms would be caves without it.”

  A handful of people, most carrying bolts of cloth, were making their way to the front of the building, marked Quinn & Sons in four-inch-high letters. He saw her staring at the sign. “It read Brown & Sons, and I was too cheap to paint over the whole sign.”

  “Or optimistic. These are all your workers?” Both the men and the women dressed in simple cloth, their clogs clacking on the cobbles as they walked.

  “So to speak. They are hand-laborers, spinners and weavers. They do their work at home, in Middleton, Ashton, and Oldham. They bring in finished work and take the raw materials, cottons and some silks, home to finish.”

  “It was weavers you came to trade with yesterday.”

  “This crew must not be going to the meeting.”

  Maddie wanted to hold his hand, but held back. Just to be allowed to see the warehouse was a treat, Mrs. Willis had told her. The housekeeper herself had only been once, at Christmastide, and that was only to hand out gifts of food.

  The courtyard looked quiet enough, but when they walked around to the side, she saw a line of horses and carts and young men darting to and fro.

  “These are come to deliver Saturday’s orders. Customers come in a few hours, order their goods, and by the time the carts return, they are loaded up again. On a good day, we finish with less inventory than we started with.”

  “Do you ever run out?”

  “Better to run out than sit on an inventory from quarter to quarter. Although there’s not much one can do when the winter-weight fabric doesn’t arrive till spring, or a packet of intricate buttons during a workers’ strike.”