by Anne Gracie
“Yes, Mrs. Moffat, Lady Ashendon would like a tour of the house.” He turned to his wife and bowed slightly. “I will see you at dinner.”
Emm inclined her head. “Is there any part of the house, any rooms or furniture or, or anything decorative that you are particularly attached to, my lord?”
He glanced up, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“In case I want to make a few changes. It is your home, after all, and I wouldn’t wish to make any changes that would upset you.”
“I haven’t lived in this house since I was a boy,” he said indifferently. “You have carte blanche to make whatever changes to the household you desire, madam.”
* * *
Madam. He was putting her in her place. Lady Ashendon would like a tour of the house. He hadn’t even asked her if she wanted one. She felt dismissed, like a maidservant.
But she didn’t have the energy or the will to argue.
The interview with her husband had stirred up a past she’d done her best to put behind her. And the emotions that went with it.
For the first part of the tour, most of what the housekeeper told her went right over Emm’s head. She kept thinking of things she’d said, and regretted. And things she wished she’d said, and hadn’t.
Never mind the things she’d done and wished she hadn’t.
She’d taken one look at Sam and fallen recklessly, blindly, desperately in love. And he—or so he’d claimed—felt the same about her.
Even knowing it was wrong, that their love was hopeless—or maybe because it was hopeless, star-crossed and impossible—she’d been determined not to have a Romeo and Juliet ending.
So when Sam had pushed her, begged her, tumbled her down in the hay and thrust his hands under her skirts—shocking and wildly thrilling as it was—she’d let him. Physically it had been painful and a little disappointing, but the closeness, the thrilling intimacy of his hands on her breasts and under her skirts, the half-panicked, half-shocked sensation as he’d pushed himself into her and pumped hard for a few short moments, then collapsed with a loud, satisfied groan . . .
Foolish, ignorant, dreamy young girl that she was, she’d believed it was true love.
But for Sam, it was simply an opportunity.
It was a lesson she would never forget.
Pointless to be ashamed or to apologize or make excuses at this late date. What was done was done. She was an adult now, a different person from that young girl. She could continue to wallow in the disaster of her past and endlessly punish herself for it, or she could forgive the naïve girl she’d been and accept that she was flawed and imperfect.
And learn from her mistakes.
The only reason I will ever marry is for love. Oh, the irony of that youthful impassioned statement. The opposite of what she’d actually done.
But it was better this way—a practical, unsentimental arrangement, with clear, down-to-earth expectations and no messy emotions.
She would have to be vigilant about that. The feelings her husband had engendered last night when he’d coupled with her. . . But they were not emotions. They were physical sensations, and no doubt she would get used to them and not confuse them with anything else.
The way she was with Sam, she would have done anything for him—had, in fact, let him do whatever he wanted. She hadn’t actually been ready to give herself to a man, but he hadn’t asked—he’d just taken. And she, lost in the dizzy, rapturous state she’d imagined was love—she’d allowed it. She would have allowed him anything.
Looking back, she could hardly imagine that girl was her. Giving herself to love, to Sam, she’d lost all sense of herself, all sense of what she wanted, what she believed in. Everything was Sam. Sam and love.
And it was all a lie.
And then, two years later, it had come back to haunt her, and she’d almost lost herself again. She had lost her father’s respect and faith in her. And her trust in him.
When he’d heard the fresh rumors about her—when he’d been carefully fed those rumors, drip by cunning drip—he’d struggled against them for a while but had eventually succumbed. Because two years before he’d seen how blind, how reckless she’d been with Sam, and it had frightened him.
Knowing what she and Sam had done, and never having come to terms with it—that Sam had been a mere groom made it even more shocking to him—her father had eventually come to believe the rumors.
That she was doing it again.
The breach with Papa was like an open wound in her heart. He’d believed in the rumors and not the word of Emm, his only daughter. He’d loved her, but he had no faith in her.
That lack of faith, that betrayal of trust, or love, had cut deep.
It was another life lesson—that trust, once shattered, could never be mended. And what was the point of life if one didn’t learn from it?
She might regret Sam, she bitterly regretted how things had ended with Papa, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let her past destroy her future.
She had a new life now. And she would make of it the best she could.
* * *
Mrs. Moffat conducted a most thorough tour, giving a history of the house and family, as well as showing Emm every closet, cupboard and storeroom, and all the stores. It was the family stories that Emm was most interested in, and with a little encouragement, Mrs. Moffat opened right up, telling stories of Master Cal, who was—boy and man—very dear to her heart.
Emm got the impression of a solitary little boy, growing up under the eye of a cold, demanding father. He’d had no playfellows—his father wouldn’t allow him to associate with village boys, and his brother was ten years older and away at school.
“Very stiff-rumped was old Lord Ashendon, always knowing what was due to his consequence and not accepting anything less,” Mrs. Moffat confided. “But he did allow Master Cal to spend a deal of time in the stables, and the lads there were companions of a sort.”
“And what of his mother?”
“Oh, she died when he was a little lad. I doubt he even remembers her.”
“But his father married again . . .” Emm prompted.
Mrs. Moffat sniffed. “A beauty she was, and a good mother to her little girls, but”—she screwed up her nose—“not the sort who wanted the children of her predecessor hanging around. Especially not sons, when she’d only given her husband daughters.” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “No, little Master Cal was sent off to school—just seven he was, poor little lad—and we hardly saw anything of him after that.”
“But didn’t he go home for holidays?” Even as she said it, she remembered that after their mother had died, Rose and Lily had spent all their holidays with Lady Dorothea—even Christmas.
“Not much. He usually stayed at school, or stayed with friends.” She turned to Emm with a smile. “Oh, but when he did come home, well, those little girls followed him around like baby ducklings. Master Cal it was that put them up their first ponies. Soul of patience he was with them.” The elderly woman darted Emm a sideways glance. “Make a fine father, he will, now he’s home and in his rightful place.”
Emm didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Moffat that he was leaving again, and who knew when he’d return.
I haven’t lived in this house since I was a boy. And where had he lived since then? No wonder he didn’t care what she did to the house. It hadn’t been a home to him at all.
Emm determined then and there that she would make this place into a home—if not for her husband, who seemed to prefer life abroad, then for her and the girls. And, pray God, for any children she might have.
Mrs. Moffat continued, “And then he finished school and was off to the army, fighting that nasty Bonaparte. The fighting that boy did—well, it was a miracle he wasn’t killed—mentioned in dispatches I don’t know how many times. Of course we all prayed for him. Now the linen p
ress, my lady, needs a deal of refurbishment.”
The stories continued, much to Emm’s fascination, and it wasn’t until they were in the west wing, looking into dusty room after dusty room with furniture shrouded under holland covers, that she finally turned her full attention to the task at hand.
“Mrs. Moffat, what are these rooms? There seem to be a great many of them, all seemingly deserted.” For years, by the smell of stale air and dust.
“Old Lord Ashendon’s orders, m’lady. He wasn’t one for entertaining, and Mr. Henry never came near the place, neither. Not even after he became Lord Ashendon. I don’t remember when these room were last used.”
“Well, then, we must do something about that,” Emm declared. “This is going to become a family home. I want every room opened up, aired, cleaned, and the furniture inspected to see what we shall retain, what can be mended and what shall be replaced.” She shuddered. “Who knows what may be lurking beneath those covers?”
“Every room?” Mrs. Moffat faltered. Emm knew what she was thinking; it was far too much work for the few servants who’d remained to run the grand old house, many of them quite elderly.
“We will hire more staff, of course. I’m sure you know some girls in the village who can be relied on to give this place a good scrub and polish. Send for them at once. I want every room shining and clean throughout.
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Moffat’s eyes gleamed with a martial light. “How many girls?”
“As many as you need—you will know that better than I—and some men to beat carpets and carry furniture about and do what needs to be done. His lordship gave me carte blanche, if you remember.” She smiled at the housekeeper. “But we won’t try to do it all at once. We will start with the rooms most likely to be used—the hall, the dining room, that little sitting room you showed me that seems likely to get some sun—and work toward the least likely. And first on the list is to prepare bedchambers for the young ladies.”
The elderly housekeeper’s face lit up. “Lady Rose and Lady Lily, m’lady? They’re coming home at last?”
“Indeed they are, as well as Lady Georgiana, my husband’s niece.”
Mrs. Moffat looked doubtful. “I’ve never heard of any Lady Georgiana, m’lady. His niece, did you say?”
“A newly discovered addition to the family, I believe. All three girls are arriving together tomorrow. Now, show me which bedchambers you think they will like.”
Mrs. Moffat sent a message to the village to send up anyone who wanted a day’s work, and in less than an hour her workforce had doubled. Under Mrs. Moffat’s supervision Emm set some housemaids to scrubbing and polishing the girls’ bedchambers, airing their bedding, washing the curtains and beating the rugs on the floors.
Meanwhile she gathered every able-bodied man available and set to work on the great gloomy hall. She ordered the removal of all the grisly weapons and animal heads and banished them to the attic. The portraits of grim-looking ancestors she had removed to the portrait gallery, a place she’d been told of but hadn’t yet inspected.
Heavy curtains covered the windows, shutting out the daylight. Emm had them taken down to wash, and when they shredded with handling, she sent them to be burned. The room lightened considerably without them. She would commission some new ones in a lighter, less oppressive pattern.
She set two men to washing the mullioned windows, and another two rolled up the carpets—fine axminsters—and took them outside to be beaten. There wasn’t enough time to wash down the walls—the family would no doubt use this room for general gathering at night—but she had the floor mopped and polished and, after a good culling of all the most uncomfortable furniture, had the rest waxed.
A few hours later, Emm stepped out into the garden for some fresh air and to see whether there were any flowers or greenery she could cut for the house. The rigid formality of the interior had been quite gloomy and oppressive. Greenery would freshen and soften it.
Hearing the sound of hoofbeats, she glanced up in time to see her husband riding out with a man who was presumably his estate manager. Her husband—could she call him Calbourne, or Cal, or would he insist on Ashendon, or even my lord?—was mounted on a powerful black gelding. He rode well, as if born to the saddle. Which he probably was.
She watched him disappear into the distance, feeling a trifle wistful. She would have loved to ride out and see the estate.
Nonsense, she told herself. She had no reason to feel wistful. She’d been given carte blanche to make whatever changes she wanted. He couldn’t have made it plainer. Her duty was to the girls and the house, and if she wasn’t to have a honeymoon, well, it wasn’t a love match, after all.
She wasn’t about to complain. She was very lucky to have this beautiful old house to work on, and the prospect of the girls’ company when her husband returned to Europe. She was her own mistress. She was much better off here than at Miss Mallard’s.
And when Lord Ashendon was cold and dismissive, when he treated her as some kind of superior servant, well, that would serve as a good reminder. She had a foolishly tender, susceptible heart, and his coldness would remind her to reserve her love for her children. And for the girls.
She gathered an armful of greenery and returned to the house.
Chapter Fourteen
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
—ALEXANDER POPE, “ODE ON SOLITUDE”
“The whole household is excited at the prospect of your sisters returning,” she told her husband at dinner that evening. He’d arrived home just on dusk and hadn’t apparently noticed any change in the house. Emm was simultaneously relieved and irritated. “According to Mrs. Moffat, it’s been several years since they were here. It surprised me, since we aren’t very far from Bath.”
He shrugged. “My father probably didn’t want to be bothered with them.”
“Not be bothered with his own daughters?” She tried to hide her outrage.
“He disliked children.” There was no resentment in his voice. He sounded quite matter-of-fact. Emm thought of the boy who’d been sent away at seven and had rarely come home again.
“They’re hardly children now.”
He snorted. “Possibly not, but they’re still brats.” He cut himself another slice of chicken pie. She’d consulted with Cook and Mrs. Moffat and arranged for some of his lordship’s favorite dishes to be served.
“None of the servants seem to have even heard of your niece, Georgiana,” she probed.
“She only came to light after Henry’s death. Turned out he’d made a secret marriage when he was very young. A mesalliance, so he kept the girl hidden.”
“How—how unfortunate for her.” She’d been about to roundly condemn his brother, but her husband was obviously trying to be pleasant, so it wouldn’t be tactful to insult his brother. Yet.
What kind of a family had she married into? Though with her history, she couldn’t talk.
“It was a damned disgrace. Henry was a selfish swine.” He sipped his wine, his eyes silver-dark in the candlelight, and said almost apologetically, “Georgiana is a rare handful, I’m afraid. Stubborn as a mule and utterly undisciplined.”
She smiled. “She’s in good company, then.”
Cal shook his head. “She makes Rose and Lily look tame.” He looked at his wife, seated across from him, her skin glowing softly in the candlelight. She’d had several leaves of the large table removed, and dining was now a much cozier affair.
There were flowers in the room too, and branches of greenery. He didn’t remember anything like that when he was a boy. Their conversation over dinner had been pleasant, easy; she’d encouraged him to tell her about his day.
The last remnants of his anger with her faded away. She was trying to make things work.
She needed to know what she’d be dealing
with, so he told her how he’d met Georgiana, first by reputation from the members of the local hunt, whom she’d apparently terrorized and thwarted for years. “They positively begged me to take her away.”
She’d laughed—the first time he’d heard her laugh properly—a warm, low infectious sound.
He told her how, misliking his plans for her, Georgiana had leapt on her horse—a truly magnificent beast that ought to be far too strong for her but wasn’t—and disappeared into the hills. “For several cold, bitter nights. The girl is impossible—but quite fearless.”
He told her how he’d had to trick his niece into wearing a dress, and how she’d ruined one to spite him. And how he’d had to kidnap her to get her to Bath. He told her about Finn, the great gangly smelly wolfhound, and how he’d followed the carriage until Cal was forced to let him come. “I hope you like dogs,” he finished, “because she won’t be separated from the animal.”
“I love dogs,” she assured him, laughing. She was a good listener. This dinner had been the most pleasant and relaxed evening he’d had for . . . well, he couldn’t recall when he’d last enjoyed a woman’s company so much. Or had such a pleasant evening in his childhood home.
He was almost sorry now that the girls were coming so soon. But of course, he had no choice. He didn’t trust them an inch. And he had a job to do. Three Oxfordshire men were on his list and the sooner he checked on them, the better.
“I’ve sent for Georgiana’s horse too. All three girls are keen horsewomen. It will be something to keep them occupied.” And, with any luck, tire them out for any further mischief.
“I could—” she began.
“You’ll have your hands full with housewifery, I know. As long as a groom goes with them, they’ll be all right.” He paused, then, feeling he had something to make up for, asked, “You don’t mind, do you, that your honeymoon involves refurbishing my house, and that your peace will be invaded by three difficult young ladies?”
“Not at all,” she said, and somehow the warm, laughing woman had been replaced by the cool schoolteacher. “We married for convenience, after all.”