But new or not, she was mistress of Lyningthorp now. What kind of example would she be setting if she failed to show even the most basic concern for the villagers’ welfare? And she wasn’t likely to be missed here at the house. David was occupied with estate business.
Before her, the face in the mirror went from doubtful to resolved. Perhaps this first call might be a bit awkward, but she liked looking after people—mothering them, her cousin Charlie liked to say. It was one of the few things she was good at.
She smiled over her shoulder at Coyle, who was busy with the buttons at her back. “Would you inform Mrs. Epperson I’ll be needing a few items from the stillroom and the larder? And I’d like to order one of the carriages...”
* * *
David rode up the narrow, pebbled lane, drawing Balthasar to a stop before a half-timbered cottage on his left. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ventured this far into the estate village, or had the desire to do so. His estate manager kept matters in good order, and had done since his uncle Frederick’s day.
But it worried him to know Rosalie was here. According to his housekeeper, Lady Deal had gone to call on an ailing cottager. So why had she been absent almost two hours now? Why hadn’t she simply—well, done whatever it was ladies did on such calls, left a pot of soup and an extra blanket perhaps, then hurried home to Lyningthorp? What could she possibly have to say to these sullen, cold-eyed strangers?
He tethered Balthasar to the corner hitching post and rapped on the cottage door. From within, he could hear the sound of conversation—light, feminine voices, mixed with the occasional ripple of laughter. Laughter, in a sickroom?
At his knock, there was a muffled remark, followed by a burst of mirth. He waited. The din of conversation swelled as the door swung open, revealing a young woman in a plain osnaburg gown and linen apron. She wore a smile of greeting—until she saw who was standing on her doorstep, whereupon her smile vanished and the residents of the room behind her went abruptly silent.
“Good afternoon,” David said, determined to ignore the unfavorable reception. “I’m Deal. Is my—”
“Wait!” Rosalie’s voice came from inside. “Don’t let him in!”
He stood on the doorstep, confounded. He’d hardly expected a warm welcome, but to be barred from a laborer’s cottage—and by his own wife? And not just his wife, but sweet, anxious-to-please Rosalie. He must have looked almost as startled as the girl at the door, who was still gawking at him as if she’d turned to marble.
With a swish of skirts, Rosalie appeared at the young woman’s side. She peered out at him, her face pinched with anxiety. “Have you had the mumps, David?”
Ah, so that was what this was about. “Yes, when I was a boy.”
Rosalie relaxed with a visible sigh of relief. “Thank heavens. I was afraid you might catch them now, and for a grown man they can be—well, it’s a good thing you’ve had them already.” She smiled at the young woman beside her. “Might he come in, Sarah?”
The girl snapped out of her trance. Still speechless, she sank into a low curtsey and moved aside to admit him.
He stepped over the threshold, taking in the room at a glance. He’d expected to find Rosalie alone with the ailing cottager and perhaps another family member or two, but to his surprise a half dozen young women ringed the room—and, in addition, more than twice that many children sat playing together on the floor, most still of an age to be in leading strings.
But if the size of the gathering surprised him, he was even more thrown by the stark interior of the cottage. Outside, the estate village was a model of good management, with well-ordered lanes, neat, whitewashed houses and tidy gardens. A line of freshly painted doors overlooked scrubbed doorsteps. Most of the cottages even sported flower boxes in the windows. He’d expected an interior at least as welcoming.
This room, however, looked so spartan and so threadbare, he wondered for an instant if he might be the butt of some practical joke. Though the space was ill lit, its dim light revealed the sum total of a typical family’s furnishings—a worn bedstead, a battered table and mismatched chairs, all crowded together in this single room. Rushes littered the earthen floor, and despite the mild May weather such a chill lingered in the air, David peered with narrowed eyes at the meager fire burning in the grate.
The women had all risen at his entrance, offering stiff, grudging bobs. “Do please sit down,” he said, and after a brief hesitation they sank back to their seats, eying him warily. He had the impression they’d been talking and laughing freely together, Rosalie included, until his arrival had spoiled the party mood.
Rosalie gestured with a tilt of her head in the direction of the bed. “Poor Betsy Bridger here has mumps, as you can see, and these mothers have brought their children to play in the hope that they’ll catch the illness and be done with it.”
David glanced at the patient, only to look quickly away. She was dressed modestly enough, a linsey-woolsey jacket over her nightdress, and with the mumps distending her cheeks and neck she was hardly in a condition to inspire lustful impulses. Nevertheless, stepping into the room with a half-dressed girl flat on her back made him uneasy, even if his new wife and half a dozen young mothers were looking on in witness.
Rosalie gave him an anxious smile. “You know everyone, I’m sure.”
“Yes.” In truth, he could count the villagers he knew by name on one hand, but for some reason he felt it incumbent on him to agree.
The women stared at him in hostile silence, as if calling him a liar with their eyes. Or were their unfriendly, mistrustful glances simply a reflection of what they thought of him in general—that he was haughty, arrogant, possibly as unstable as his father?
A young child playing in the middle of the room let out a squawk, locked in an apparent squabble over a toy. At the sound, two of the young mothers dove at their children, hurrying to separate them as if they feared David might take it into his head to strangle the offending toddlers with his bare hands.
He looked about him, wondering how the children could possibly be comfortable. “Why is it so cold in here? Is that to bring the fever down?”
The women said nothing, sitting tight-lipped. Finally one looked down and muttered, “It’s hard to make the coal stretch.”
“But Lyningthorp provides the coal allowance for the cottages here.” It was part of the longstanding arrangement between the estate and its workers. Some landlords paid higher wages but provided fewer essentials. Since it was cheaper to buy coal in bulk, David paid less but supplied more.
No one answered.
At the deafening lack of response, Rosalie launched into a nervous stream of talk. “Betsy was kind enough to let me play apothecary. I made her a ginger paste to help with the swelling. It did help a little, didn’t it, Betsy?”
“Yes, my lady,” the unfortunate girl replied, as David wondered at the strange silence that had met his earlier mention of the villagers’ coal allotment. “More than a little. I’m not nearly so sore.”
“If I had Indian gall nut I could try another remedy, but who knows where to find Indian gall nut in these parts? It’s a shame, for they set great store by it in India. It was their castor oil, bitter but good for whatever ailed one.”
There was a subdued chuckle from the other women, who had no doubt suffered through swallowing—and administering—more than enough castor oil in their time.
“Though that was not the worst medicine they used there,” Rosalie plunged on. “They had one particularly dreadful-smelling remedy called hing, which we would call asafetida. I tried to give it to my father once for a bad tooth, but the smell was so revolting he said he preferred the toothache.”
Poor Rosalie. She looked so pretty in her simple eyelet gown, so earnest and eager to please, his heart went out to her. What was she doing here, wasting her breath and her goodwill on these surly, narrow-minded villagers? They were incapable of appreciating it.
But to his surprise, one of the young mothers
spoke up. “I use a salt rinse for toothache. It tastes bad but works wonders.”
Rosalie nodded. “And there’s no unpleasant smell.”
“A raw onion works, too,” said another young woman. “Or if you’ve no onion, a raw potato.”
“Or oil of clove,” said another, lifting her toddler to her lap. “Even a dried clove helps. When my John had the toothache this winter, it was the only thing that gave him relief.”
“That and a third glass of gin punch, eh?” said the woman who’d recommended a salt rinse, and there was a chorus of laughter from the others—until they remembered David was in the room. In a flash they sobered, casting uneasy glances in his direction as if they feared his presence might have unpleasant repercussions for poor tippling John, with his bad tooth and his dried clove.
Why hadn’t he made his exit sooner? David wasn’t sure what to say, but he felt he should say something, if only to reassure the women he didn’t begrudge the poor toothache sufferer some measure of relief, estate worker or no. “My uncle Lord Frederick Linney was partial to brandy for toothache. He never touched a drop otherwise, but a bad tooth could drive him to the bottle every time.”
“Did he suffer much from toothache?” Rosalie asked.
“He certainly looked as if he did,” said the woman who’d made the jest about the gin punch.
The room erupted in peals of laughter.
“Oh, dear.” Rosalie cast a look in David’s direction that was half mirth, half apology. “I’m sure he can’t have been as bad as that.”
“He was every bit as bad,” David said, smiling at the woman who’d made the remark. For once, it was easy to smile, for he was in on the jest. “He had the look of a bulldog sucking on a lemon.”
There was another ripple of laughter—quickly stifled, but laughter nonetheless.
A little boy who couldn’t have been much more than three years old planted himself before David and held up a toy. “Fix my cart?”
“Daniel!” His mother sprang from her chair and darted toward the boy. “I’m sorry, your lordship, he doesn’t know who you—”
Despite David’s limited contact with the villagers, the anxious mother looked vaguely familiar. He recalled seeing her at the smithy. Yes, he was almost certain she’d married the blacksmith’s son. And if the blacksmith was named King, that would make her...
“Don’t worry, Mrs. King. He simply needs the wheel of his cart replaced.”
She looked surprised—no, astonished—that he should know her name. She wrung her hands on her apron. “He doesn’t mean to be a bother, your lordship, truly.”
“Of course not. What good is a cart with three wheels?” Bemused by the woman’s obvious agitation—terror would not have been too strong a word—he pushed the wheel back on its wooden prong and smiled down at the little boy, a round-faced cherub with a riot of dark curls. “Here you are, Daniel. Fortunately the axle isn’t broken. My coach broke an axle once, and believe me, it was a most costly repair.”
The village women had been staring at him as if he’d sprouted a third arm. As David handed the boy his toy, they traded puzzled glances.
Though David pretended not to notice, he couldn’t help feeling stung. What had they imagined he was going to do, tear the child limb from limb? He liked children. They were more genuine and less judgmental than most of the adults he knew.
Weary of the constant scrutiny, he told Rosalie, “We’re expected at Lyningthorp for dinner.”
“Oh, yes.” Quickly, she said her goodbyes, acknowledging each of the mothers by name. David stood by the door, waiting.
They emerged back into the daylight. Compared to the ill-lit recesses and chill air of the cottage interior, it was like passing from the winter doldrums directly into spring. He took a deep breath, relieved to be done with the call, glad to be back out in the sunshine—and strangely comforted to have Rosalie to himself again.
He was preparing to hand her into the landau when she raised her eyes to his in appeal. “I hope you don’t mind too terribly, David. It was kind of you to make sure my call was going well, but I could tell you don’t often come to the village. You needn’t feel you have to involve yourself just because I wish to. Not if it’s awkward for you, I mean.”
It had been awkward, especially at the beginning. What did he have in common with the young wives of the estate village? Exactly nothing. But the atmosphere had grown a bit less strained as the call wore on, and after all, no one had forced him to come. He didn’t want to make Rosalie feel she’d done something wrong, especially after the way he’d treated her the night before.
If anything, he was touched that she seemed so worried about his sensibilities.
He smiled down at her. “I don’t mind. To be honest, it was rather eye-opening.”
Chapter Eleven
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease.
— William Shakespeare
Rosalie changed for dinner with a feeling of guarded optimism. Arriving home from the estate village, David had seemed in a better mood than he had the evening before—a bit more talkative, a shade less wary. She hoped he was already regretting his decision of the night before. Though she’d resolved not to push him, it would be lovely if he’d changed his mind about sharing her bed. She went down to dinner humming.
Humming, but curiously fatigued. As she took her seat on the carved mahogany chair across from David, she sank down gratefully, as bone-weary as if she’d spent the entire day on her feet. Perhaps she should have taken a less ambitious ride that morning. Her weeks on the Neptune’s Fancy had left her unused to outdoor exercise, and now her back ached. Even picking up her soup spoon seemed to require more energy than it should.
Strangely, though, David didn’t look at all tired, though he’d not only ridden to the estate village and back but also risen earlier than she had. Sitting across from her, broad-shouldered and elegant in his dinner clothes, he looked fit and strong.
He glanced up, and she had to yank her gaze away to avoid being caught staring.
His eyes darted from her face to the bowl in front of her, narrowing slightly. “Is something wrong? You haven’t touched your soup.”
She looked down in dull surprise. He was right, though she usually loved white soup. For some reason, she had no appetite at all. In fact, the glistening almond pool with its garnish of watercress looked altogether unappealing. “I’m not very hungry.”
“I hope you’re not coming down with the mumps.”
“Oh, no, I can’t be. I had them when I was ten years old, during my first winter at Miss Stark’s Seminary for Girls of Good Family.”
His mouth curved in a smile. “Ah, yes, the purgatory where you were forced to copy out passages from Dr. Johnson’s dictionary.”
“Exactly so—though I suppose that punishment must seem trifling to you, when boys are usually made to suffer so much worse than girls in that respect. My cousin Charlie claims he was flogged so often at school, he quite wore out the birch rod.”
To her surprise, David’s smile faded. “I sometimes think I should have been the better for a few more birchings.”
Oh, dear. What had she said wrong now? It seemed every conversation with David was fraught with hazards, most of which she didn’t even understand. She lowered her eyes to the table. “I only meant I didn’t wish to complain, mentioning Miss Stark’s.”
He studied her as the footman cleared away the soup, and his moodiness of a moment before vanished as if it had never been, replaced by a look of sympathy. “But you were unhappy there.”
She nodded. “Yes—though to be fair, I went there unhappy. That was the year my mother died, and my father had no notion how to raise a ten-year-old girl on his own. I was little use to him at that age.”
What a bleak time that had been. She’d gone to Miss Stark’s midterm, arriving on a cheerless winter day to a school where the students had already sorted themselves into friendships, lea
ving her the odd girl out. She’d had to learn the rules and customs of the seminary through trial and error, and mostly through error. Meanwhile her father had been doing his utmost to outrun his loss, attempting to escape his memories of Rosalie’s mother by allowing his wanderlust free rein. Rosalie had waited outside the door of Miss Stark’s modest office every afternoon, hoping to receive a letter from him, but such letters had been few and far between. She’d never felt so alone, not before or since.
Thank heavens Papa had judged her old enough two years later to join him on his travels. She’d set out on her first voyage determined to make herself indispensable to him. Just one trip, and surely he would remember the happiness they’d known together at Beckford Park. They’d return home and she would never be lonely again.
One trip had turned to two, however, and then to three and four, until travel had become a way of life for them. But at least Papa hadn’t sent her back to Miss Stark’s. They’d had nine happy years together. Now she just had to find a way to make herself indispensable to David.
She picked desultorily at her fillet of sole. Indispensable. That was the problem. She had no idea what David needed in a wife. He was too young and healthy to need a nursemaid, too wealthy to require a careful manager, too unsociable to desire a brilliant hostess. The only real lack she could address would be to please him in bed and provide him with an heir, and so far he wasn’t interested in her for that. No wonder she’d lost her appetite.
David cleared his throat. “You’ve done something different with your hair.”
Rosalie looked up in surprise. Bridger had returned from her sister’s cottage in time to assist her with a new coiffure—loose curls in the front, an artful topknot in the back. “Yes.”
Lord of Secrets Page 13