Wenna

by Virginia Taylor

  “I left Snow to decide on our menu. He seems to have added a couple of plates and two glasses. Here, I’ll cut that pie. What size piece do you want?”

  “Half that. What’s in these bottles?”

  “Ginger beer.”

  “How do I take the stopper out?”

  “Pass the bottle over, and I’ll do it.” Dev loosened the wire. The glass stopper shot out, and the ginger beer exploded, drenching his shirt and wetting his hair. “Wretch. You knew that would happen, didn’t you?”

  She returned his smile. “Better you than me. I can wash your shirts, but washing my gowns is a little harder.” She kneeled over him, leaned down, and kissed his lips.

  “What was that for?”

  “You’re happy. I love to see it.”

  “No more of that.” He rested his hand on the side of her neck. “I’m too impressionable.”

  “Oh, I doubt it.”

  He laughed. “One thing I like about you is you’re not gullible.” To disguise the fact that he did, indeed, appreciate her, he picked a native dandelion flower and joined the stem to another by splitting a hole in the stem of the first.

  She watched his fingers. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m making a necklace of sunshine for you.

  He picked another and another. She helped, scrambling around on her hands and knees to find every flower she could. When he untied her hat and dropped his prickly creation onto her braided head, she glowed. He’d never felt so guilty in his life. She received a circlet of flowers as another woman might have accepted diamonds.

  Blinking rapidly, she raised her eyes to his. “It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.” Slowly, she rose to her knees and put her arms around his neck.

  “Save your thanks for something real.”

  “What could be more real than you making a gift especially for me?” Her mouth curved into a smile, but the downward tilt of her head showed a touch of sadness. “Once, long ago, I made a plaited grass bracelet for Mumma. In the end when she was dying, she reminded me about the bracelet and a chopping board Da made for her. She didn’t mention a gown she owned, or a piece of lace, not a single thing that’d been bought. I doubt that even a gold brooch or a hundred pounds would have given her the same memories. We made those things for her because we loved her.”

  “Such a romantic nature you have hidden under that practical streak of yours.” He cupped the sides of her face, examining her earnest expression and realized that he certainly had feelings for her, a combination of respect and desire.

  Her innate strength, her eagerness to move ahead, her willingness to work, her uncomplaining acceptance of the appalling living conditions he had presented her with, and her utter enjoyment of his body gave him the heart to keep pushing on, despite his shifting goals. Hers had never moved. He had no illusions about her feelings for him, numbering none—other than a healthy tolerance mixed with a desire to shake his complacence. Not bothered by either, he succumbed to the lure of her mouth, taking the kiss far deeper than he meant.

  Every reason to put aside his emotional attachment to her flashed through his mind while she accepted and returned his kiss. Never had he appreciated a woman quite as much in bed. Her hand crept over his abdomen, and her tongue played with his. He tried to remember where he was, but he heated and hardened anyway. Unable to help himself, while supporting himself on an outstretched palm, he shifted his other hand to the outer side of her breast.

  She turned her triumphant eyes to his. “I believe I could tempt you into coupling with me right here.”

  “I’m more than tempted, but we don’t want the workers down there to get an eyeful,” he murmured into the clean fragrance of her beautiful hair.

  She leaned back, glanced at his house below, heaved a sigh, and slid her hands into her lap. “I didn’t plan to make an exhibition of myself, which reminds me of your mother’s plates.”

  He grinned. Women’s minds could never be unraveled, but at least she gave him a chance to subside.

  She looked offended. “I might use some of the vases I’ve unpacked. Do you mind having your family’s possessions on display?”

  He stared for a moment, considering. “They would be my mother’s family’s possessions. At home we used the Courtney plates, which naturally my father wouldn’t send out here, since everything belongs to the estate. I imagine those dishes were part of my mother’s dowry.”

  “Does that explain the crest? The letter ‘M’ entwined with vines?”

  “Her family would have had that done for her wedding.”

  “And nothing was ever used?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea, but I’m her only heir, so it’s mine now.”

  “All her linen is initialed, too. Do you think she did the embroidery?”

  “In my memories, she worked at that sort of thing all the time.” He lifted his knee, where he rested one elbow. “In my study, I have another box of old things, mainly personal papers. I think I might have other possessions of hers there, too, but don’t worry about unpacking it. I’ll get that done now that the study is not a sitting room, too.”

  She sighed. “We almost have a real house.”

  “Speaking of real houses...” He glanced sideways at her. “Would you like to see the house we’re building below?”

  “Of course. That was a lovely lunch. Thank you.”

  He introduced his wife to his builders with an amount of trepidation, afraid one might mention the place was his. Perhaps his face warned them off. He managed to show her every room without any of the men saying a word. “What do you think?” he asked her in the gig on the way back to the city, after she’d also said nothing at all.

  “Someone will be very happy there. The rooms are a good size.”

  “If you had a house like that, would you change your mind about living in Cornwall?” He held his breath.

  “If I planned to live here for the rest of my life, that house would suit me. If I thought the garden would grow the way the owner has planned, the garden would suit me. But I plan to live in Cornwall, and I know that in this hot dry country, finding enough water to keep fruit trees alive is difficult. Having a having a lush green garden here is impossible.”

  “Plenty of people here have lush green gardens.”

  “Only the rich. And with a husband who works only when he wants to, I’ll never be rich.”

  Miffed, he stared straight ahead. She saw him as a slacker. He would like to tell her who he was and that he would never want for money, but he would rather she valued him for himself, for the hard work he put into this property. He had meant to, today. He had hoped she would admire the place and he had expected to proudly confess that the planning and a part of the building had been done by him. His mouth curved ruefully.

  His dream to live here would never be fulfilled. She planned to live in Cornwall, and he couldn’t break his promise to her.

  * * * *

  Devon slept with his back to Wenna that night, but she didn’t mind. Lately he had seemed more interested in congress in unexpected places, which suited her. By his own rule, congress other than in bed was for pleasure, and she didn’t have to worry about her sponge.

  With no teas to deliver in the morning, she hummed as she dragged out the second of Devon’s mother’s boxes. Curiosity drew her on. The more she could learn about her husband and his family, the better, if she had to spend the rest of her life in England. She had given herself an hour, for today she planned to start work at Mrs. Busby’s shop as soon as the doors opened. Heaven knew Wenna had increased her own customer base threefold. Even with Maisie’s help, she could barely keep up. Almost six weeks ago, she’d picked through this box, looking for tablecloths and fabric she could use for curtains. She had also found the lace for her evening gown in here, but she hadn’t yet gone past the tissue-packed top layer yet. On her knees, she lifted out a series of monogrammed pillowcases edged with ex
quisite lace, matching sheets she would need to freshen in the sun, more table linen, and a paisley shawl, which she arranged around her shoulders. She could certainly use this.

  In the very bottom of the box, she found a leather case. Inside were three hairbrushes, a set of tortoiseshell combs, six glass bottles with silver tops, and an ivory fan. Likely she could use all these, too.

  She slid the case back into place and noticed a paper lodged in the corner of the box. Pulling, she discovered a scruffy, stamped, unopened letter addressed to The Honorable D. Courtney of Rundle Street, Adelaide. A letter with a Rundle Street address among his mother’s things? On the day she had collected his mail, she had left the pile on the top of this box. The letter must have fallen through.

  She rose to her feet, her forehead creased. The postal clerk had called him the Honorable Mr. Courtney. Wenna thought that had been the clerk’s joke. She had no idea why any man would be addressed as “honorable.”

  Puzzled, she put the letter aside, draped the sheets and pillowcases on the clothesline outside to air, and came back to her mess. All the spare linens would be better stored in the second bedroom. She took as much as she could carry upstairs, and jammed on her hat. Devon’s clock informed her that she needed to leave for the hat shop.

  When she had finished her hairstyles for the day, she carried the rest of the linens upstairs, remembering the misplaced letter this time. Guiltily, she placed the envelope among a few others, sitting on top of the box of papers he had stored in his study. He would find this fast enough without her having to explain her blunder.

  Chapter 14

  “Bec, look over here. This peony pink is just your color.”

  Wenna’s back stiffened. Frozen in place, she stared at the doorway into the hat shop, where the loud, over-privileged voice of Miss Patricia continued extolling the virtues of a hat. Wenna’s seated customer, a well-corseted, gray-haired grandmother, glanced up at her from the mirror.

  Wenna saw her own panicked reaction reflected back at her and realized that she still held a hairpin mid-air. “Dear me,” she said, her voice a wobbly semblance of her usual tone. “The woman’s voice so close startled me, and now I’ve lost my train of thought.” As she pushed a curl into place, she made an effort to control the tremble of her hand.

  If Miss Patricia walked through to have her own hair done, she would doubtless name Wenna as “Mrs. Courtney,” not “Miss Chenoweth.” She would doubtless make a song and dance about Wenna working in the back of a hat shop. By the next cricket match, Devon would be snidely mentioned as a man who needed his wife’s income to maintain his lifestyle.

  Eventually, Miss Patricia’s voice retreated, and the doorbell tinkled. Wenna breathed again. For the first time, she had to face the fact that any of the wealthier hat shop customers might be tempted to avail themselves of the services of the hat shop’s hair stylist, despite having maids of their own—an unlikely event, but still possible.

  Her day earned her six shillings, two of which she paid to Maisie, who grew more proficient by the day. Wenna arrived home by four, in time to change for dinner and redeem her mistake with Devon’s letter by sorting out his untidy box of papers in the study.

  As he had said, the box mainly held papers and old letters, but in the bottom, she found parts of a horse’s bridle, a leather-bound Bible, three illustrated books about plants, a pair of canvas gaiters, and a tobacco box. She sat on the floor beside his mess. On her haunches, she sorted the mail into one pile and his invoices into another.

  Most of his mail came from a London solicitor, A. M. Merriwether, addressed to The Honorable Devon Courtney. She presumed “The Honorable” was a title, perhaps granted because of his services to the governor. This warmed her cheeks with pleasure for herself as well as him. Apparently she’d married a man out of the ordinary, which was confirmed when one of his letters had been so roughly jammed back into the envelope that she could read “Marchester” monogrammed on the thick expensive paper.

  Mumma had served Lady Ann, the Earl of Marchester’s countess. A proper wife would simply refold this correspondence and place the message more neatly back into the envelope, but Cornwall seemed so close when Devon had correspondence with her mother’s mistress’ family. She smoothed out the paper and read. Marchester himself had wanted to discuss farming matters with Devon, whom he addressed informally, which would have been interesting if she understood the half of it. Meanwhile, Devon would be home soon.

  She found a place in the bedroom for his gaiters, and lined up the Bible and the books on his desk, using the tobacco box as a book end. The broken bridle, apparently a keepsake, went back into the box, and his papers sat neatly on his desk, with his letters on top. The study now looked more like a purposed room than an empty space that needed filling. Pleased with herself, she sat on Devon’s desk chair and swiveled the seat around, planning a set of bookshelves beside the desk in the very least, if not some sort of filing cabinet.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Devon appeared in the doorway, his hardy work shirt sweat-stained and his trousers dirty on the knees.

  “I’ve sorted out your papers, but I had to leave them on the desk because your drawers are crammed already.”

  He nodded. “What a treasure you have turned out to be.” Since the picnic, she hadn’t seen his smile. He’d been grim ever since.

  “I see you know the Earl of Marchester.”

  He stood stock still, an expression of shock on his face. “Have you been going through my letters?” Reaching across her, snatched his papers up.

  “No, of course not. You hadn’t put that letter back in the envelope and when I caught sight of the name... Well, I read that one.” Her cheeks slightly warm, she offered a placating smile.

  “Which one?” His eyes turned icy blue.

  “Something about stocking cattle in one of his fields.”

  “Cattle.” He sounded indifferent. “Then you would have been thoroughly bored.” He tossed his papers and envelopes back onto his desk. The looser pages continued the impetus, flying in a cascade onto the floor.

  “Extremely.” She bent from the chair seat to pick up the sheets. Using the flat of his desk, she evened the edges and set the lot back on his desk again, glancing at topmost gold-embossed card. Her eyes read a few words and her breath halted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you see?”

  She straightened her spine. “Nothing important.” Her palm sat flat over the invitation, as if the words didn’t exist if she couldn’t see them.

  Devon moved her hand, read, and examined her face. “I planned to refuse this invitation.”

  Her jaw tensed. “Of course.”

  “I’m invited to many balls. I rarely go.”

  “Oh.” The back of her neck ached.

  “You wouldn’t want to go to a formal function.”

  “Of course not.” She raised her chin. “Not when I wasn’t invited.”

  “I received the invitation before I met you,” he said, his forehead creased.

  “That’s convenient.” Her mouth twisted into an uncomfortable smile. She knew a polite excuse when she heard one.

  He sighed. “Lady Grace has met you. I haven’t answered yet. I’ll accept.”

  “It’s a week away.” She drew an agonized breath. “You can’t answer now. It’s far too late. Anyway, I don’t want to go to a ball. I don’t know how to dance. And I don’t have a ball gown.” Nevertheless, her eyes prickled.

  He had hoped not to take her. She embarrassed him.

  “Easily fixed. Use the money you held back for furniture, and you can buy yourself one.” With a lordly tilt of his eyebrows, he stalked off into the bedroom. His autocracy seemed to be inborn.

  Mightily annoyed by his attitude, she waited for him to change for dinner, arms crossed and staring at the folded invitation. Sighing, she decided that she could socialize with Adelaide’s richest, if only becaus
e she’d married an honorable gentleman.

  With this in mind, and utterly terrified, before she went to work the next morning, she entered Millie’s Mode, Adelaide’s most exclusive dress shop.

  “Good morning, Miss Chenoweth.” The owner herself, Mrs. Miller, smiled at her. The lady, dark haired and somewhere in her middle thirties, wore a blue gown of impeccable cut, which few people would recognize as deliberately plain. “I’ve been hearing about you and the great turnaround in Madam Fleur’s.”

  Wenna put a hand on her chest to still the nervous quickening of her heartbeat. She had expected to be recognized as Mrs. Brook’s maid, rather than as the local hairstylist. The rate that gossip travelled up and down the street was enough to make a person’s head spin. “She’s made some changes, and her business is evolving.”

  “Evolving.” Mrs. Miller laughed. “I could do with a bit of evolving around here too. Not that business is bad—no, indeed. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to buy a ball gown for myself,” Wenna said, not willing to meet Mrs. Miller’s gaze. Should her hopes be upset, she could appear blasé rather than crushed. “I need one for next Saturday.”

  “Lady Grace’s ball? That’s only five days away.” Mrs. Miller’s face creased. “I don’t know...we have so many orders...” The discreet little doorbell tinkled.

  “Good gracious, Daphne. Do you see who I see?”

  Wenna’s shoulders stiffened. Patricia Brook. Again.

  “It’s Mrs. Courtney. You know, the redheaded maid that Devon Courtney has some interest in.”

  “Good morning, Wenna,” Daphne Grace said, dropping Patricia’s arm.

  Wenna could see the girl’s dilemma. She didn’t know how to be rude. “Good morning. I’m buying a gown for your mother’s ball.”

  “I’m here to pick up my mother’s dress and mine,” Patricia told Mrs. Miller, ignoring Wenna. Clearly she expected the dressmaker to tend to her before Wenna, leaving Mrs. Miller with a dilemma, too.

  Mrs. Miller drew a long breath. “Miss Grace, Miss Brook,” she said politely. “I’ll call Miss Bunter to attend you.”