by Wilma Counts
Then an impish demon in the back of her mind suggested that she knew other men who were equally handsome. None of these caused her to experience the shortness of breath and flood of awareness that assailed her whenever her husband was near.
What kind of woman would welcome the advances of a man who had once so forcefully rejected her?
A strumpet, of course. But, God help her, she thought she might welcome Trevor’s presence in her bed again.
She sat in a lacy bedgown and brushed her hair vigorously. Then she tried to pick up a book she had tucked into her portmanteau. Her mind kept drifting, her thoughts punctuated by the merriment floating up from below.
Finally, she climbed into bed, turned the lamp low, and waited for Trevor’s arrival.
And waited.
And waited.
She hardly knew whether she was angry or disappointed about his continued absence. Drowsiness overcame her and she slept. It was much later when she heard a key turn in the lock. She was instantly alert, but she lay still, feigning sleep.
She heard clothing rustling and the soft thud of his boots hitting the floor. Then she felt his nearness next to the bed. She caught the scent of his shaving soap mixed with brandy. Beneath her lashes, she saw him bend over to touch her hair spread on the pillow. Then he straightened, heaved a sigh, and extinguished the light. He moved away to settle himself on a chaise longue in the corner.
Caitlyn felt a distinct sense of loss.
Trevor awoke early the next morning, hurried through his ablutions, and left the room before Caitlyn arose. She had awakened, however, to bid him a shy “good morning.” When he returned shortly for breakfast, Aunt Gertrude and Ashley had joined them.
The journey started with Ashley again in her parents’ coach. The conversation was limited to answering her interminable questions and sharing in her chatter with her ever-present doll.
Trevor had not slept well on the chaise longue. Even as he had conversed earlier with Jenkins and Moore, his mind had drifted to the thought of Caitlyn alone in the room above. He had wanted to go to her then, but was unsure of his welcome. Now whenever he closed his eyes or stared, unseeing, out the coach window, the same image haunted him: Caitlyn lying in bed, her hair fanned out on the pillow. The temptation to take her right then and there had been nearly overwhelming. Why had he hesitated? She was his wife. Husbands had certain rights, did they not?
Then he answered his own foolish question. Trevor Jeffries had never in his life taken a woman against her will. He certainly would not start with his wife.
It was another long day of travel. Darkness was settling in as they arrived at the familiar driveway to Atherton. Trevor could see little, but he thought the general scene was neater. There was a sense of trim, clean lines about the place. Lanterns showed the stone steps leading to the entrance swept clean, and there were pots of bright flowers on either side.
The door swung open to reveal a golden glow of light from within. Merrill seemed unsurprised to see him. Was that the customary stoicism of a well-trained butler? Or had Caitlyn sent word ahead? Both, he decided.
Inside, the transformation was astonishing. Treated to a quick tour, he found that such floors as were not covered with carpets, as well as every other noticeable piece of wood, were highly polished. The walls were clean, and the furniture showed not a speck of dust. Some familiar pieces had been refurbished. New pieces had been chosen with care and good taste.
“Very comfortable,” he said, and Caitlyn seemed pleased.
“I have had your things put in here.” She opened the door of what he knew to be the master bedchamber—one they had previously shared. She apparently read his unasked question, for she went on, “I shall have the room next door.” She had sent word ahead, then.
The master chamber had been completely redone, but he was pleased to note that the style was subdued, the colors restful blues and greens. In fact, every room he entered showed subtlety and restraint in the use of style and color. Nor had modern comforts been ignored. Gaslights in the hallways and lamps in each room provided soft illumination.
The London travelers were exhausted and all retired early that night. Before seeking his own room, Trevor decided to look in on Ashley. As he opened the door to her room, he saw the glow of a candle. Beside the bed, Caitlyn looked up as he entered.
They stood in companionable silence gazing at the angelic countenance of their child asleep. Trevor could not resist reaching to touch an errant blonde curl.
“She is so beautiful,” he whispered. Profoundly moved, he turned to Caitlyn and made no effort to hide his emotions. “Thank you. Thank you for giving me this child.”
Her response was a soft, nervous laugh. “Perhaps I should thank you. Ashley is quite simply the best thing that ever happened to me.” Her eyes shone brightly in the candlelight.
Not knowing what to say, he reached for her hand and locked his fingers tightly with hers. They stood in quietness for a few moments, each lost in thought; then she gently disengaged her hand. She extinguished the candle as they left the child’s room and descended the stairs to their own chambers. Reacting to the shared moment, Trevor felt a wave of desire, not just to possess her woman’s body, but to erase her concern, to protect and cherish.
At her door, she quickly stood on tiptoes, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “Good night, Trevor.” She put her hand on the door latch.
Stunned, he hastily placed his hand over hers.
“Caitlyn, I—”
Her name was an anguished groan on his lips as he pulled her into his arms and pressed his mouth to hers. She stiffened and for a fraction of a second was very still. Then—wonder of wonders—she was responding, her arms around his neck, her mouth welcoming.
He drew back and gazed into her eyes. He saw confusion and vulnerability in their depths. “I . . . I think we must talk,” he said.
“Yes.” He heard the apprehension she seemed to be trying to hide from him. “Yes. We do. Tomorrow. After you have seen what we have done here at Atherton. Then we can dis-cuss . . . everything.”
She stepped away, opened her door, and slipped inside. Trevor stood before the closed door, confused. Angry frustration was tempered by amusement at this peculiar predicament of wanting desperately to make love with a wife he did not quite trust.
A wife who seemed willing—but was she? Did not that closed door clearly belie the passion of her kiss?
Yet what choice did she have if he wanted to assert his rights? Perhaps she had welcomed his embrace because she could not afford to reject his advances. Trevor was well aware of the sheer power every husband wielded over a wife in modern England. To keep her child, a woman would probably endure anything. Anything at all.
Deep in thought, he sought his own empty bed. But sleep was elusive.
Caitlyn had hurried into her own room and dismissed her maid as quickly as possible. Trevor’s kiss upset her, but even more upsetting was her reaction to it. How could she possibly remain in charge of her own life if she could not even control her response to a simple good-night kiss?
A simple good-night kiss, was it? her inner imp challenged. A simple good-night kiss would not convey the deep longing, the yearning for fulfillment this one had. Oh, no, my girl. You cannot fool yourself that there was anything “simple” about this kiss at all. That kiss on his cheek was “simple.” What followed was something else altogether.
Uneasy sleep that night increased her nervousness the next morning. Anxious to show Trevor what had gone on in his absence, she had ambivalent feelings on the matter. On the one hand, she wanted his approval as a validation of her work. On the other, she feared he would usurp her position and simply take over to push the estate in a different direction and leave her out. For five years she had identified her very self and measured her worth by her not inconsiderable achievements at Atherton. Was she about to lose it all?
Caitlyn was already in the breakfast room when Trevor came down. Aunt Gertrude had sent word she was hav
ing a tray in her room this morning. Caitlyn returned his cheerful “good morning” and went back to sorting through the post as he filled his plate.
“I am looking forward to the grand tour,” he said as he sat down.
“Yes. Well. I have asked Mr. Felkins to join us to answer such of your questions as I cannot.”
She knew she was being a coward There was not a single question about Atherton she could not answer herself. She simply wanted a third party along as a buffer—not only to parry objections, but also to keep the situation impersonal.
Trevor seemed thoughtful for a moment; then he grinned. “I was looking forward to getting you off alone, but we probably should have him along. From what I saw in the ledgers in London, I must have underestimated Felkins in the past.”
Flustered, Caitlyn looked down. She wanted to scream at him that it was not Felkins he underestimated, but if she did so, she would lose that buffer. Before she could reply, Merrill announced the arrival of Mr. Felkins, who was invited to have coffee as Trevor and Caitlyn finished their breakfast.
The meal over, they found John Coachman in front with an open carriage.
“I usually take the gig,” Caitlyn said, “but as there are three of us, John will drive us.”
Trevor handed her in, and Felkins joined John on the driver’s seat.
“We will visit tenant farms first,” Caitlyn explained, “and then return to the home farm.”
“All of them?” Trevor asked.
She laughed. “No, that would take far too much time. Is there a particular farm you would like to visit?”
“No-o. I think not. Wait. Yes. The Hawkins farm. I remember that Mr. Hawkins was very kind to Terrence and me when we visited Atherton as children.”
“The Hawkins farm it is.” She had raised her voice slightly for the benefit of John Coachman, who flicked the reins to set the carriage in motion.
When they arrived at the Hawkins place, Caitlyn hoped Trevor saw what she saw in the neat, whitewashed buildings, the repaired thatch of the roofs, and the profusion of bright flowers. Hawkins, his wife, three half-grown sons, and two younger daughters came to greet them when the carriage approached.
Greetings over, Trevor asked, “Where are your sheep? We saw none as we drove up.”
“I got no sheep now, sir. Taylor and Adams, they got sheep. Porter’s got some, too. Me an’ the boys are raisin’ chickens now.”
“Chickens?” Trevor shifted a surprised glance from Caitlyn back to the farmer.
“Doin’ pretty well, too. Between us and the Watsons over t’other side o’ the creek, we supply eggs for most folks hereabouts. Meat, too, for lots of ’em.”
“You don’t say. I see you have quite a garden, too.” Trevor thus directed everyone’s attention to a large plot that looked productive and well tended.
“I have fresh green beans already,” Mrs. Hawkins said with obvious pride. “You must take some to Mrs. Perkins, ma’am.”
“I shall do so quite happily,” Caitlyn replied.
“You want I should show you around, Mr. Jeffries?” Hawkins asked. He sounded eager to display his achievements.
“Yes. Please.” Trevor jumped down from the carriage and handed Caitlyn down. “Will you join us?” he asked her.
“You go ahead. I shall stay here and talk with Lena and the girls.”
Half an hour later they were back in the carriage and on their way to other farms where the scene—with some variations—was repeated. Along the way, they passed through the village.
Trevor looked around him with apparent curiosity and wonder. “I remember this little hamlet as poor and run-down. It seems quite prosperous now. I assume there are sufficient customers for the goods we see in these windows?”
“Oh, yes.” She signaled John to stop and explained, “I promised Aunt Gertrude I would pick up some yarn for her.”
They traipsed into the mercantile shop, which sold a bit of everything.
“Ah, Mrs. Jeffries. Welcome home.” White, the tall, mustachioed proprietor greeted her. “And Mr. Jeffries. We heard you had returned from the war, sir.” The man’s voice was more reserved, impersonal in greeting Caitlyn’s companion.
“How do you do?” Trevor offered the man his hand.
Caitlyn obtained the yarn and completed the transaction as Mr. White chatted on. “Please tell Her Ladyship we have a bolt of nice blue print she might like,” he said. “Oh. And here’s a treat for our little miss.” He tucked a peppermint stick into the package.
“Now, on to the home farm,” Caitlyn said.
They arrived at the main house via the same route they had traveled the night before, but everything was clearly visible now. Instead of stopping at the entrance, the carriage swept around the house and the outbuildings beyond.
Caitlyn was proud of the now neatly landscaped home with its extensive gardens free of encroaching weeds. There was also a large vegetable and herb garden.
“What the . . .”
She heard the surprise bordering on shock in Trevor’s voice. She looked at him questioningly.
“Those are all stables!” he challenged.
“Yes. They are.” She did not understand this statement of the obvious.
“We cannot possibly require so many animals for our transportation needs.”
Confused by his reaction, she laughed nervously. “Of course not. But we manage to supply the needs of others.”
Felkins offered one of his rare observations as he turned on the driver’s seat. “Our business is fairly new, sir. We are truly just getting started, but already the Jeffries Farms are gaining a good reputation.” There was a note of pride in the steward’s tone.
“Mighty fine cattle,” John Coachman added.
“And out there . . . ?” Trevor waved his hand at a neatly fenced-off area.
“Our track for training the racing stock,” Caitlyn said, beginning to feel truly apprehensive about his tone.
“Jeffries Farms. It was not Cousin Algernon at all,” Trevor said to the total mystification of his wife. He turned to her. “You allowed this to happen? You turned my property into a horse farm?
“Well, yes. I—”
“Without consulting me? Without even bothering to find out if I wished such a thing to transpire?”
He was fairly ranting now, and his anger both surprised her and sparked her own temper. The carriage had drawn into the central stable yard, and several workers there had stopped to observe on hearing Trevor’s raised voice.
“It is potentially a very profitable endeavor,” she said through clenched teeth, “but I think we should discuss this elsewhere.”
He jumped down and held his hand to aid her. She wanted to ignore his help, but knew she might fall on her face if she did so.
“Yes, madam, we shall most assuredly discuss this.” He had never sounded so stern to her before.
Fifteen
Trevor had been alternately impressed and confused much of the day. Clearly, it had been a stroke of genius to have Atherton’s tenant farmers diversify their crops and livestock. The greater variety and cooperation brought the people together in a working, profitable interdependence. But simple farmers did not have the wherewithal to initiate such changes themselves. Families who lived hand-to-mouth could not afford the capital investment needed to make such drastic changes.
Trevor congratulated himself on not being fooled for a moment about precisely who had really orchestrated the success of these new endeavors. Caitlyn might make a great show of deferring to Mr. Felkins, but it was apparent to anyone with eyes in his head where the real authority lay. That Felkins and the individual farmers knew this, too, was obvious in the way they all waited for Caitlyn’s views and suggestions.
Hardworking farmers, descendants of stubborn Anglo-Saxon forbears, might harbor some misgivings about such a role for a woman, but Trevor sensed grudging admiration and pride in them for Atherton’s eccentric mistress. He also observed genuine affection for her both in the men’s
deference and in their wives’ eagerness to share their produce and pass along gossipy tidbits to the lady of the manor.
Still—how had she done it? The answer was clear once they drove into those elaborate stables. The alliance between Atherton and Ratcliff was obvious. Caitlyn had not only been carrying on with the man, but apparently she had agreed to allow Atherton to become an extension of Ratcliff Farms.
Now that the truth had so clearly manifested itself, Trevor was furious.
He told himself that his anger stemmed from the fact that she had pursued the one activity he would deplore: raising blooded horses for pleasure and sport. However, he was honest enough to admit that beneath this anger was a molten stream of fury that had nothing to do with the horses.
Now as he followed his wife to the house, he saw her own flare of temper in her determined pace and her tight grip on the small packet from the mercantile shop. And in the not-so-gentle sway of her skirt as she walked. Despite the seriousness of the situation and his own anger, he had to smile in appreciation of that trim female form in front of him.
“The library,” she said tersely, charging through the kitchen and the hallway beyond. She put the packet on a hall table and removed her bonnet with abrupt gestures. Several servants looked surprised and wary. Trevor followed as she swept into the library. He closed the door firmly.
“All right,” he demanded. “I want an explanation—and a full accounting.”
She whirled around. Bright spots of anger shone on her cheeks. “And just what is it you would like explained? Why I chose to make this estate a paying proposition? Someone had to do so when you so willingly ignored your responsibilities.”
“ ‘Ignored my—’ You go too far, madam.” He knew that any semblance of control was slipping away from him. “Having been tricked into an unsavory marriage, I could hardly be labeled irresponsible in leaving such a wife firmly established on my property and in control of over half my own income.”