“Yes, or hear word of who is in the area.”
“Good,” John said with a smile. “You and I will go to Horsham tomorrow.” He didn’t wait for an answer but dropped a light kiss on her forehead and disappeared out the door.
Mallory watched him go, a bemused smile on her face. Her whole day seemed suddenly brighter because he had taken the time out to pay a surprise visit. The terrible anger she’d felt against him yesterday morning had abated somewhat.
She’d just set the bread to bake when she had another visitor, Mrs. Irongate. Mallory offered her a cup of tea.
“I say, Mrs. Dawson,” the housekeeper said, after they’d talked about several mundane subjects, “is that your bed mattress out in the yard?”
“Yes, it is.” Mallory suppressed a smile. Now she understood what had lured the curious housekeeper to the cottage that morning. Mallory knew the other servants must be whispering about the mattress but was sure none would have the courage to ask John.
“Why is it out there?” Mrs. Irongate asked.
“Because it is wet.”
Mrs. Irongate’s lips formed “oh.” “Is there a leak in the roof? Did the mattress get wet in yesterday’s rain?”
“Oh, no,” Mallory assured her. She paused, looking over the brim of her cup before some mischievous imp urged her to say, “It got damp because I threw a bucket of water on my husband, who was sitting on the mattress at the time.”
Mrs. Irongate’s eyes opened as wide as an owl’s. “You don’t say. Did he deserve the bucket of water?”
“I thought so then.”
The housekeeper burst out laughing and slapped her knee. “Oh, this is rich; this is rich, indeed. Wait until I tell the others.”
Mallory set down her cup. “Please, Mrs. Irongate, I don’t think you should bandy it about—”
“How could I not, Mrs. Dawson? It’s so seldom we poor women get the last laugh on our men.” She wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “I’d have paid to’ve seen the expression on his face.” She placed her elbow on the table, getting cozy with her topic. “Sometimes with a man as handsome as your husband, it’s good to rattle him up every once in a while. Of course, I imagine the reconciliation for your misdeeds was worth the trouble, right, Mrs. Dawson? We’ve all been talking about it in the kitchen ever since Ruth reported the mattress in the yard and Evie noticed the coverlet by the pond. You must have had a busy night last night, Mrs. Dawson.” She waggled her eyebrows up and down.
Embarrassed to be the subject of such speculation, Mallory didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, Mrs. Irongate changed the subject.
“Have you started the plans for the harvest home? Mrs. Watkins and I have some ideas.”
Mallory refreshed the tea in their cups. “I’m to meet with Sylvie Hanson this afternoon on that subject. Why don’t you come with us?”
“We’d like that very much.” The housekeeper reached across the table and patted Mallory’s hand. “When I first met you, I said to myself, that woman thinks she is too good for us.”
“And what about me made you believe that?” Mallory asked, truly curious.
“Oh, it was the way you carried yourself, all stiff and quiet. Then there was that afternoon in the kitchen when you got so hoity-toity about our doing a bit of teasing. But you’re not such a bad sort, after all.” She lifted her cup to lips. “Besides, I have to admire any woman can keep a man like Mr. Dawson chained to her side.”
Her words startled Mallory. “Chained to my side?”
Mrs. Irongate waved a dismissive hand. “Not actually, but you know what I mean. The man adores you. Everyone’s noticed it. They say he picked you up and twirled you around at the Hansons’ the other night and made all the other women so jealous, their own men had to do the same. The lads are all grumbling that they got dizzy trying to keep pace with Mr. Dawson.”
“Are they, now?” Mallory said thoughtfully.
“Aye, they are. And in church yesterday, the man could barely keep his eyes off you. If I hadn’t asked Mr. Dawson myself and found out you’ve been wed a good seven years, I’d have thought you both newlyweds.”
“And why is that?”
“This may come as a surprise to you, my dear, but most husbands don’t act the way yours does, not after the first year or two of marriage,” Mrs. Irongate confided.
Mallory could well believe that. “And how do most men act?”
“Well, if it is a bad or mediocre marriage, the wife is ignored a good deal of the time. You should consider yourself a lucky woman to be married to a man who still enjoys ripping your clothes off and taking you to bed.”
“Mrs. Irongate!” Mallory protested, her cheeks turning hot.
“You can’t pretend with me. I saw your clothes thrown all over the floor every which way.” She heaved a jealous sigh. “You must have had a wonderful night.” With a wink, she added, “I’m surprised you don’t have a score of children.”
Mallory didn’t want to touch that subject. “What is a good marriage, Mrs. Irongate?” she asked instead.
Mrs. Irongate gave a moment’s serious thought to the question before replying, “A good marriage is where you and your husband know each other very very well and still like each other in spite of all the flaws. Of course, it helps if you enjoy a little Dickie Diddle every now and then. Smoothes over the bumpy times.” She placed her teacup on the table. “I must be off. Thank you for the tea, and Mrs. Watkins will meet you at the barn to ride over to Mrs. Hanson’s house.”
Mallory thought about what Mrs. Irongate had said while she cleaned out the mugs. When she’d first seen John in London, she couldn’t have imagined him as a father…but now she could. He’d be a good one.
I’d never condemn a child to the half-life I’ve lived…that was what he’d said when she’d asked if he’d fathered children out of wedlock.
Yes, he would take his responsibilities seriously, just as he took his responsibilities on the farm seriously. Even Hal, who was the very soul of reliability, would not have worked as hard as John had been working.
For a moment, she let herself dream she was pregnant. John’s babies would be beautiful, especially if they had his eyes, and they’d be healthy. He was a strong man and she could expect strong children from him.
Of course, the same could be said for Hal—or could it? Her mother had pointed out that all three of Hal’s sisters were sickly. Mallory didn’t want weak children. She couldn’t imagine any pain sharper than the death of a child.
She rose from the chair and set the cups in the cupboard. What nonsense was she thinking? The kind of father John would be and the health of his babies were not of importance to her, particularly since she knew she wasn’t pregnant. Her menses had started that morning.
Telling herself not to be a goose, Mallory left for the pond to fetch the coverlet.
However, later, when John came in for the midday meal, Mallory caught herself studying him. She’d always admired his easy grace and long, tapered fingers. Now, while he slathered butter on a slice of her fresh bread and ate it, she noticed he had good teeth, his forehead was the right height, too. She didn’t admire men with high foreheads, and she didn’t want it for her children.
“Mallory, a shilling for your thoughts.”
“What?” She shook her head, coming to her senses.
“You’ve been wool gathering,” he told her, moving to stand by her, next to the hearth. He picked up the heavy iron teapot and poured boiling water into his cup. “You had such a frown on your face, I was afraid you were thinking of me.”
He placed one arm against the mantel, his other holding his teacup, and Mallory was surprised by how close he was standing. “My thoughts weren’t very interesting.”
“I don’t believe that. I find everything about you interesting.”
For a second, she thought he was going to bend down and kiss her. Then he walked away…and she felt a small stab of disappointment.
“Freddie Hanson wants to accompany
us tomorrow,” John said. “I told him he could. Is that all right with you?”
“What? Oh, yes.”
John sipped his tea and nodded at the stack of papers on the table. “We’ll take these reports over to him when we pick him up. I discussed them with him this morning and he is actually excited by the prospect of filling them out. He considers them his link to Tyndale. Furthermore, he already has records based upon his crops. If Tyndale is smart, he’ll hire Hanson as steward after I’m gone. The man’s a bookkeeper as well as a damn good farmer.”
“Most good farmers are,” Mallory said. She busied herself by putting up the bread and butter, but she couldn’t help admiring how long John’s legs were, stretched out in front of him, and she had to step over them to cross to the cupboard. She’d want her sons to have long legs.
“Mallory, are you all right?”
She paused. “Of course, why would you think differently?”
“You keep looking at me. I’m starting to feel like a prize horse at Tattersall’s and you’re the buyer.”
“John, that’s ridiculous.”
He laughed and rose from the chair. Before she realized what he was about, he planted a kiss on her lips, a light, quick one. “I’ll see you this evening. Enjoy your afternoon with Sylvie.”
Mallory thought about his light kiss all afternoon while she and the women planned the meals to be served during the harvest, when the workers would stop for a midday meal. John’s light caresses had more power to slip by her defenses than his hungry, demanding kisses did.
She wasn’t sure she liked being under siege—while another part of her liked it all too well!
It took a great deal of organization to feed people during the harvest. However, Mallory discovered, the menus and schedules that used to take her weeks to prepare when she was mistress of Craige Castle took merely hours with the competent help of Sylvie, Mrs. Irongate, and Mrs. Watkins. She enjoyed the work more, too, and wondered why she hadn’t asked for assistance from the wives of her tenants at Craige Castle all these years past.
That evening, she and John discussed the plans that had been made. He was interested in every detail. When it came time for bed, he took her hand and with the coverlet and sheets under one arm, led her up to the barn. The mattress was still too damp to sleep on.
He made a bed for them in the same stall they’d used the night before, only this time he lay down on the covers beside her. Mallory considered protesting, but when John rolled over and fell into a sound sleep, she realized how silly her protest would have sounded.
Instead, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Freddie Hanson was good company on the way to Horsham. He had John stop beside several wheat fields and the three of them checked the grain heads. Mallory agreed with Hanson’s opinion that the fields could be harvested at any time, especially if the good weather held.
In Horsham, amid the activity in the market square, they had very little trouble contacting a harvesting crew. After the price had been negotiated, Hanson ordered the crew to arrive at Cardiff Hall the following Monday. “We’ll start with Lord Woodruff’s fields first, then cover mine, and then the others.”
John agreed.
Having accomplished their goal, John asked Hanson if he’d excuse them for an hour or so while they did a little shopping of their own.
Mallory was surprised by his request, but she was delighted when a few minutes later, John bought three new ribbons for her hair and a straw bonnet.
“I thought you said you liked my freckles,” she teased, as she tried on the hat. It had a wide brim and shaded her face perfectly.
“I do,” John answered with a lazy smile, “but I also want my wife to feel like a proper lady. In fact, why don’t we go in here?” He nodded at a dressmaker’s shop.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, suddenly shy. “I’m sure she won’t have anything made up.”
“Let’s ask.” He opened the door and a merry tinkle signaled their arrival.
Mallory stepped inside the cluttered little shop. A table in the center of the room held bolts of fabric. Tiny clippings of material littered the floor. The dressmaker sat in a windowseat where the light was good. She was hemming a lovely pale yellow muslin dress with tiny, perfect stitches.
She lay the dress aside and rose to assist them.
“I’m looking for a dress for my wife,” John said.
The woman took in their ragged appearance from the toe of John’s scuffed boots to the neckline of Mallory’s worn out brown dress. “Can you pay?” she demanded rudely.
“Would I be here if I couldn’t?” John said.
The woman sniffed her answer. “I may have something that will work. It’s secondhand but quite serviceable.” She hurried into a back room hidden behind a curtain.
Mallory drifted a finger over the pale yellow muslin, the color of sweet butter cream. She was tempted to lift the dress up to admire its cut, but hesitated.
“The color would be beautiful on you,” John said close to her ear. He reached around, picked up the dress, and held it against her. The muslin fell gracefully to the floor at her feet. A green velvet ribbon trimmed the empire waist, and the short sleeves and modest neckline were exactly to Mallory’s taste.
“I’d like to see you in this dress,” John said.
“The dress is already sold,” the dressmaker replied from behind them. “And I’ll ask you to set it down.”
John and Mallory turned as one. “But I’d like it for my wife,” he said reasonably.
“I don’t think you can afford it,” the dressmaker said bluntly. She’d folded a dress over her arm, which she now shook out. It was a gray cotton printed with small purplish-blue flowers. “This is what I was thinking of. I can let you have it for six shillings, sixpence.”
John considered the dress. “Do you like it, Mallory?”
She stepped forward. It was clean, and, as the dressmaker had said, “serviceable.” “It’s fine.”
He smiled. “Good, we’ll take the gray dress and the yellow dress.”
The dressmaker made a sound of impatience. “Sir, the dress is not for sale…and even if it were, you would not be able to afford it.”
Mallory shifted nervously. She didn’t want a scene and tugged gently on John’s coat sleeve. “I believe we should go, John.”
He didn’t budge. “I will give you fifty pounds for the gray and the yellow.”
The dressmaker’s mouth fell open. “Fifty pounds?”
“Fine,” John said, taking the money from his pocket. “I’ll give you sixty pounds for it.”
“Sixty pounds?” The dressmaker raised a hand to her forehead. “But what shall I tell Lady Elizabeth? She wants this dress for a house party next Thursday.”
John started counting out the money. “You can either make a new dress or think of an excuse. Tell her she doesn’t look good in yellow.”
He offered the money to the woman, who didn’t hesitate to take it. “You’re right, sir. She looks terrible in yellow. It makes her complexion sallow.” Tucking the money in her bodice, she said, “Let me finish the hem and then I’ll wrap up both gowns.” She disappeared with an armful of clothes into the back room.
Mallory, who’d been watching the bargaining in amazement, found her voice. “John, where am I going to wear a dress like the yellow muslin? It’s ridiculous to pay that price for a simple dress.”
“You’ll wear it to the harvest home. Besides, I’ve paid three times that amount for dresses before.”
“For your mistresses?” she asked archly.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You knew I wasn’t a saint.” In a hopeful voice, he added, “Jealous?”
Yes. “No.”
The dressmaker returned with both dresses wrapped in paper tied round with string, and John and Mallory left.
Their next stop was the tailor’s, where John found a linen shirt like the ones most of the men in Tunleah Mews wore. It was also sec
ondhand.
They were on their way to meet Hanson when John spied an ancient cavalier’s hat hanging from a traveling peddler’s cart. He grabbed the hat off its hook and plopped it on his head. “Look, Mallory, what do you think?” He struck a pose.
“I think you look a spirited young blood in that hat, sir,” she told him dramatically.
“Do you, now?” he said, taking it off. “Do you think my valet would approve?”
“Of course. You shall set a new style,” she teased.
John turned to the peddler, waving the hat with a flourish. “My lady admires this hat and I must have it.”
The grizzled peddler raised doubtful eyebrows and named an outlandish price. After a bit of haggling, John had a hat to wear for the reasonable price of ten shillings.
Freddie Hanson almost doubled over with guffaws at the sight of John’s hat. “You look like a regular lord,” he declared. “Lord John, the lord of the harvest feast.”
“I knew you would be jealous.” John held out a paper cone full of lemon drops they had purchased at a confectioner’s. “This is for your children.”
“Thank you,” Hanson said. He nodded toward Mallory’s packages. “I see you’ve done a bit of shopping. Your hat is charming too,” he told her.
She sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Hanson, but I fear that standing next to my husband, I’ll go completely unnoticed.”
“That would be impossible,” John countered. “They would see your lovely smile and the light of laughter in your eyes and wonder how did such a foolish bumpkin like me end up with you on my arm.”
Mallory at first thought he was teasing and then realized from the serious expression in his eyes that he wasn’t.
Before she was forced to reply, Hanson cut in good-naturedly, “No, Dawson, we’d all assume she’s blind.”
The three of them laughed and in high spirits headed for home.
On the way, John and Hanson began to discuss politics. Mallory should have warned John that whenever farmers got together there were only three topics of discussion: the crops, the weather, and politics. Actually, Hanson did all the talking and John listened.
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