An Inconvenient Wife

by Constance Hussey

  “Absolute balderdash,” she said loudly into the empty room, and felt her face flush at her nonsense. She was not a dowd. A bit subdued in appearance, perhaps, but there was no way in…in hell she could compete with her predecessor, even if she wanted to, which she did not. All she wanted was a friend, some adult companionship. It seemed little enough. Which it may be, but more than you are likely to get. Appreciate what you have, Anne—a home, security, children, friends.

  She braced one cheek on her fist and closed her eyes. The children expected her to join them, but….not today, she decided. In a few minutes, she would send word to Miss Caxton to carry on without her. She needed some time alone, or better yet, a visit with Maggie. Juliette had grown to be a dear friend, but Maggie knew Anne better than anyone. A blessing, that, since you scarcely seem to know yourself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bloody hell. Westcott watched as Anne disappeared around a bend in the drive. He felt certain she was going to the Fenton’s cottage and that his boorish behavior had sent her fleeing to her Maggie for comfort. Smacking his hand against the sash with enough force to sting, he turned from the window and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him with a crash that did nothing to erase the hurt he had seen in Anne’s eyes. You are an ass, Westcott. What harm would it do to meet her overtures of friendliness at least half-way? Can you seriously look forward to a lifetime of living with a virtual stranger?

  Knowing the brittle relationship between them was entirely of his making added another layer of guilt on his conscience. Devil take it, he still did not know what drove her to Portugal! In truth, you know nothing of her, other than her generous and loving heart—and her eyes full of a warmth you want turned on you, just as you want to loosen her hair from its prim braid and see it cascade over her bare shoulders.

  “No, confound it,” he muttered, taking the steps to the schoolroom two at a time. He would not succumb to any base cravings. Never again would he become vulnerable to a woman, trust a woman. And heaven only knew what secrets this one hid behind that innocent manner. His beautiful daughter was all he wanted or needed.

  He slowed at the sound of voices, paused by the first of several entrances into the schoolroom suite, and smiled at the sight of Miss Caxton and Guy reading aloud. The boy looked more resigned than enthralled, but he was a good lad, and Westcott knew from Anne’s comments that Guy studied hard, however much the child preferred to be outdoors. Reluctant to interrupt, he walked quietly along the corridor to the last and most spacious room of the suite. Sarah’s favourite, with its wide windows allowing in a generous amount of light and a sweeping view of the lake.

  Laughter spilled from the room, the merry sound bringing him to a halt. Sarah was laughing, a full-bodied, infectious laugh he had seldom heard, Danielle’s quieter chuckle an underlying counterpoint. Then the giggles subsided, a few notes were pulled from a flute, and the buzz of excited whispers reached him.

  Stricken by the feelings of anger and hurt that engulfed him, Westcott moved away as quietly as he had come. Sarah’s new friend had supplanted him in her life.

  Although he knew it was not really true, he sensed that a balance had changed; no longer was she completely dependent upon him. What a selfish bastard you have become, Westcott; to begrudge the child some happiness because you are jealous. “No!” The denial burst out. He had not sunk that low. He would be—he was happy for her. Why then did he feel as if he were excluded from a charmed circle?

  Westcott ran down the main staircase and out of the house as if harried by a pack of hounds, hardly aware of the startled expression on the footman’s face. He had work, responsibilities, and no time to wallow in a morass of self-pity. But indulge in a short ride? Yes, and on that ill-mannered and badly gaited gelding. A fitting punishment and one that might shake some sense into him.

  ~* * *~

  Maggie looked up from her loom at Anne’s abrupt and noisy entrance and frowned. “Good gracious, girl. I don’t expect you to stand on ceremony, but you took a year off my life coming in as if the imps of Satan are behind you.” She peered at Anne’s face and her frown deepened. “That man again, I suppose, from the looks of you.”

  In spite of her ill humour, Anne had to smile. Maggie persisted in her habit of referring to Westcott as ‘that man’. She made no bones about her opinion of this marriage—unwise and not to Anne’s advantage.

  “I suppose, in a manner of speaking.” Anne folded her cloak and laid it on a chair along with her gloves. “But don’t think he has done anything horrid, because he would not and you know it very well.” She moved over to stand beside Maggie and studied the pattern of the piece on the loom, a colourful design of interlocking shapes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, and touched the soft wool lightly with one finger.

  “Don’t be putting your dirty hands on it now.”

  A scowl accompanied the sharp comment, but Anne heard the pleased note in Maggie’s voice. “My hands are quite clean.”

  Maggie’s enterprise was weaving and the discovery of this skill had come as complete shock to Anne, since she hadn’t even known Maggie knew how to weave, let alone produce the exquisite blankets and wall hangings that had several shopkeepers in the surrounding towns eager to sell her goods.

  “Humph.” Maggie stored her shuttles away and stood. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “That would be welcome.” Anne wandered around the simply furnished room while Maggie busied herself at the hearth. Westcott had offered to have a stove installed, but the Fentons declared they were content with the wide fireplace. A brick oven was built into one side and Maggie’s prized collection of teapots was ranged along the mantel. Some of her colourful creations hung at the windows and covered the table and chairs. All in all, the arrangement had worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. Bill enjoyed his work on the estate and, for the first time in many years, the Fentons had their own home. Anne envied them at times, but she was spoiled already, living in luxury, and would find it difficult to go back to the old way of life.

  “Sit. All that prowling around makes me nervous.”

  “Not likely, since I have never known you to get nervous about anything,” Anne said with a smile, but slipped into a chair and waited for Maggie to pour the fragrant tea into her cup. Declining cream, but adding a spoonful of sugar before she sipped at the hot beverage, Anne was the first to break the comfortable silence.

  “Westcott has purchased a pony for Guy and is going to teach him to ride.”

  “So I hear. I thought that is what you wanted?”

  “It is, yes, certainly.” Anne stirred her tea, her head bent to avoid Maggie’s searching gaze. “He also has a horse suitable for me.”

  “Good. You need to get out more. It’s decent enough of him and no burden I can see, so why are you upset?” Maggie’s foot beat an impatient rhythm on the floor while she waited for an answer.

  Anne let out her breath in a gusty puff. “Maggie, do you think I’m a dowd?”

  Whatever Maggie had expected to hear, it was not that plaintive question and she blinked and lifted her brows in surprise. “Whatever brought that on? He never said such a thing.”

  “No, certainly not.” At Anne’s quick denial Maggie’s expression turned from puzzled to curious, and Anne felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I had the thought that I should change my appearance, perhaps have my hair cut, and have more stylish gowns made now that I’m out of mourning.” She ignored the fact that she had been out of mourning for months, but judging from the twitch of Maggie’s lips the inaccurate statement had not gone unnoticed.

  Maggie’s gaze fastened on Anne’s dress. Quelling the urge to squirm under that intent examination, Anne sipped calmly at her tea, wishing she had paid a little more attention to her appearance before coming out. It is not a bad dress. Anne silently defended her choice. Just because it is brown does not make it unattractive. Be honest. It may not be ugly, but it is not especially becoming. The dress does nothing at all for you, in fact. Her
mouth tightened and she slumped against the back of the chair. “Don’t say it, Maggie. My clothes are not much to look at, are they?”

  “They are well enough, if you happened to be twenty years older and plain as a post. Which you are not and why you want to hide your assets is a mystery to me. Always has been, and don’t say it’s because of the Major, ‘cause you were inclined to it even before you met him.”

  Pushing aside her cup, Anne propped her elbows on the table, leaned her chin on her raised fists, and pushed her lips into a petulant pout. “I prefer not be the center of attention,” she muttered.

  Maggie stared at her, blinked, and then began to laugh, great gusty laughs that brought tears to her eyes. “You think a viscountess won’t be smack dab in the middle of the stage?” she whooped.

  “I did not think about it at all,” Anne said with a reluctant smile. She would be the center of attention, with so many people in the area looking to Westhorp for their livelihood and naturally the family was a leader of society amongst the local gentry. Not knowing of Westcott’s title when she agreed to the union was no excuse; she knew it soon after and had ignored the fact, just as she had ignored their unsatisfactory relationship. She had become quite adept at lying to herself, and it was not a comfortable admission.

  Shaking off the dismal thoughts, Anne straightened, met Maggie’s still-amused look squarely. “I need an evening dress, to be ready in two weeks, a new riding habit, and some new gowns for everyday. And I need you to help me.” That said, she leaned forward, arms outstretched and hands flat on the table. “What I know about fashion could fit in a thimble, as you very well know.”

  “I can advise you on colour and fabric, child, but I suggest you look to Lady Lynton for style.” Maggie swallowed the last of her tea and stood. “Go on with you now and let me get back to my loom. Tomorrow we might drive into Winchester to see what the haberdasher has in stock. I need some yarn anyway.”

  Anne rose, and surprising them both, gave Maggie a hug. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve yet to do anything.” Maggie pulled back, seeming a bit flustered at the display of affection and patted awkwardly at Anne’s back. She began to turn away, then hesitated, a half-serious, half-curious look on her face. “Why this sudden interest in your apparel? You’ve scarce given it a thought up until now.”

  “It seems more important now,” Anne said, and avoiding Maggie’s eyes, stepped aside to pick up her cloak and gloves. A lame answer, but what could be said when even she did not understand it?”

  “Does it indeed?”

  How Maggie managed to convey a wealth of skepticism in so few words was beyond understanding, Anne thought irritably, tossing her cloak around her shoulders. “I will make arrangements for tomorrow. Will the morning be agreeable with you?”

  “Morning is fine,” Maggie said.” She paused and an odd smile appeared on her face. “There is just one more thing, Anne. Are you doing this for him, or for yourself?”

  The question was so shocking Anne halted with one foot on the doorsill. A dozen thoughts and images vied for attention in her mind. Nicholas foremost, the children, Juliette St. Clair, and herself, the spectator. Not the role she wanted, and along with the sudden insight, a clear and positive answer. “Myself,” she said firmly and stepped through the doorway.

  ~* * *~

  Westcott was waiting for her outside the fence enclosing the Fenton cottage yard. Had been waiting for a good while, walking his puzzled stallion—he had not subjected himself to the gelding after all—back and forth along the lane. He was still not certain what impulse had led him here, other than the lingering distaste for the abrupt end to their earlier conversation. Anne hardly needed an escort along a private lane on Westhorp land, within a half-mile of the house, and he did not suppose her any too eager for his company.

  He and Maximus were making the turn back to the cottage when Anne emerged and walked slowly along the path, her head bent as if she were deep in thought. The hood to her cloak lay on her shoulders and her hair, loosened from its knot by the breezy wind, appeared unusually bright under the late afternoon sun. Not a diamond, his wife, but something finer, in his mind; a charming grace of movement, beautiful eyes and a smile as warm as the sun when he was fortunate enough to see it. She bestows it freely on the children and if you were not such a clod… Shying from that direction of thought, Westcott cleared his throat to get her attention, not wishing to startle her, or have her pass by him without notice—although Max was hard to miss.

  “Nicholas!”

  She was startled in any case, enough to forget the more formal ‘Westcott’ she’d adopted early in their relationship, if one could call this quasi-friendship such. The idea that it might be more if he so desired was rejected as swiftly as it crossed his mind. A more comfortable connection between them was his single goal. Keeping that belief firmly fixed in his head, Westcott stepped forward to open the gate for her.

  “Anne. I’ve surprised you, and my only intention was to ask if you might like to stop at the stables to see the mare I spoke of earlier. Forgive me.” He smiled down at her. “Did you have a pleasant visit with Mrs. Fenton? I see very little of her these days, now that her weavings have become so sought after.”

  “Yes, a pleasant visit,” Anne echoed, staring at him with apparent confusion. She moved slowly toward him and put a hand on Maximus’ neck, absentmindedly patting the horse while Westcott closed the gate behind her. Unsmiling, a question in her eyes, she gazed at him for a long moment before her attention turned, seemingly to his horse, and they began to walk along the lane. “I would like to see the mare, although I have every faith she will be as fine as the other horses in your stables, sir.” She smiled now, and again ran her hand along the neck of the animal pacing between them. “This grand fellow is a perfect example of your judgment.”

  Maximus tossed his head, as if in agreement, and Westcott chuckled. “I believe he knows what one says at times, and isn’t one for false modesty, are you, boy? He will gladly take the compliment, as will I, but I must say that much of what I know about horseflesh I learned from my father. He knew almost instinctively what an animal was thinking and its potential given the right training.”

  “There were a few such cavalrymen, according to my father; but it seems a rare talent,” Anne said after a moment, then in an almost diffident voice asked, “You were close, you and your father? I understand he died some years ago.”

  Westcott hesitated. The subject of his parents had never been raised, and the sudden realization that he felt able to speak freely of his father surprised—and pleased. “I suppose being the only child, and my mother dying when I was a boy, we were closer than most. Father spent very little time away from Westhorp. I don’t believe he ever missed a school holiday, and while he claimed it was necessary to prevent havoc, since St. Clair and Carlisle were often with me, he liked being around young people. Said it kept him ‘up to snuff’ and it was a parent’s job to pass along acquired wisdom, even if we were a “‘rascally, unappreciative bunch of rowdies.’”

  Anne’s chuckle brought a rush of memories; the roar of his father’s laughter whenever he charged them thusly uppermost, and Westcott swallowed against the sweeping feeling of loss. “He was trying to get home, during the worst storm ever to hit this area, when a tree came down, right across the road. They said it was quick, but they would say that, to comfort the family. I don’t know. I hope it was. I do know there is not a day gone by I don’t think of him.”

  Silence then, not uncomfortably so, while he thought about his father, and he supposed Anne’s father was in her mind as well. A bond of sorts, neither having living parents, and he made a mental note to ask her about them. He knew almost nothing about her life—almost nothing about her.

  “You were young to take on the responsibility of all this,” Anne said after a time, spreading her hands to indicate their surroundings.

  “I was of age—just—and able, with the help of my steward and Father’s man of bus
iness, to take over with a minimum of disruption. St. Clair’s uncle, Lord Strathmere, offered me invaluable advice as well. A fine man. You will have the opportunity to meet him at Juliette’s dinner.

  “Of course, I made more than a few mistakes; went rather wild for a time, actually, and made some unwise decisions.” Not the least of which was marrying far too young. But that was not something he spoke of to anyone. Grieving, desperate for a family, he had taken one look at Camille and was lost, his fantasy of a loving wife at his side and children at his knee overriding the cautioning words of those who advised to wait.

  Seeing Anne’s inquiring look, he lifted a shoulder, eager to dismiss the subject. “Young men frequently believe they know everything,” he said with a quick smile.

  “Young women are not immune to the belief,” Anne said thoughtfully.

  Bill Fenton’s cheerful greeting interrupted them as they neared the stable “Good afternoon to you, Lord Westcott, my lady. I see you’ve brought my good friend Max with you. I’ll just take him in, then, if I may.” Maximus shifted impatiently, too well trained to pull away as he clearly wanted to do.

  “He knows you are going to spoil him, but he has earned a good rubdown,” Westcott said as he handed over the reins “Send someone out with Belle, Fenton. I want Lady Westcott to take a look at her.”