“Just how often”—she had to pause to draw a breath—“those needs might arise.”
“Ah,” James sighed sympathetically. “Poor wife, kept so thoroughly in the dark. Perhaps a demonstration would make it most clear?”
When he nuzzled her shoulder, the sheet finally gave up its hold and fell away. He bent his head immediately to his task.
“Oh, yes,” Sarah gasped. “A demonstration.”
He proved over the next few hours that a man’s needs might arise quite often between husband and wife. And Sarah proved herself a quick student of her new role.
SWEPT AWAY
KRISTI ASTOR
For the “Debs,”
otherwise known as Romance Unleashed:
Sandy, Teresa, Cynthia, Lori, Laura, Flo, Jackie,
Sophia, Pamela, Caroline, Kathleen, Kathy, Sally,
Barbara, Irene, Paula, Kate, Eve, and Jessica.
I’m so glad we found one another,
and am eternally grateful for your friendship!
CHAPTER 1
“He’s like Mr. Rochester and…and”—Christobel searched her mind for a proper literary example—“and Mr. Darcy, all rolled into one brooding, supercilious parcel.” Yes, that was it. Precisely. “Without the redeeming characteristics, of course,” she added with a sigh.
“Come now, Christobel,” her mother scolded. “Don’t be so dramatic. Mr. Leyden isn’t as bad as that.” She paused, chewing on her lower lip as she often did when dissembling.
Christobel gave her mother a knowing look. “Isn’t he?”
“Well, even if he is,” she relented, “he’s Jasper’s cousin and you must endure his company with good grace. I won’t have you acting childish and snippy—”
“I’ve never been anything but pleasant to Mr. Leyden, Mother. But goodness, you must admit he’s a terrible bore.”
In all the years they’d been acquainted, she’d tried to see past his deficiencies—his brooding silences and arrogant attitude coupled with his common birth and an ever-so-slight yet discernible limp—to find something to admire. Yet for all her trying, she’d found nothing in his character to merit more than a passing interest.
This never failed to puzzle her, as he was exactly the type of specimen she was often drawn to. Never could she walk past a starved dog or a bird with a broken wing and not take such a creature into her heart, to see to its care and comfort as best she could. Yet for Mr. Leyden, her brother-in-law’s most devoted cousin, she felt nothing more than a vague annoyance.
Perhaps, Christobel realized, it was because Mr. Leyden made his disapproval of her so very evident. How many evenings had she suffered beneath his stare, his brow raised in censure as he watched her across the room while she laughed and coquetted? As if such activities—laughing and coquetting—were inappropriate behaviors for a young lady of her situation.
Christobel sighed heavily as she glanced out the train’s sooty window, the autumn colors blurring into a glorious canvas of reds and golds. What else was an unmarried girl to do at a house party but flirt and enjoy oneself? She shook her head, plucking absently at the folds of her skirt, wishing the train were taking her anywhere but to Edith and Jasper’s home—and Mr. Leyden’s unavoidable company.
“Don’t frown, dear. It isn’t good for your complexion.”
Christobel shifted her gaze from the window back to her mother, seated directly across from her in the train’s compartment. Beside her mother sat Simpson, her head tilted at an awkward angle as she dozed, snoring softly.
“How does she sleep so soundly, with all this noise and activity?” her mother asked with a smile.
Dear, dear Mother, who never frowned despite the misfortune that had plagued them since Father’s death. Indeed, the woman had smiled in the face of the insurmountable debt and near financial ruin her husband had left behind.
Her mother’s smile hadn’t faded as they’d been forced to sell off their furnishings and leave the only homes Christobel had ever known—their lovely country estate in Surrey and their town house in Wickham Road.
And now they were reduced to this—rented flats in London during the summer season, and traveling from one of Christobel’s three sisters’ homes to the next for the remainder of the year.
The only servant they’d been able to keep on was the ever-loyal Simpson, who had been their housekeeper but now served as lady’s maid, housekeeper, and sometimes cook, at least when they were in London.
The situation was mortifying at best, almost enough to make Christobel wish to marry, simply so she could have a place to call home. Of course, it wasn’t as if she had many options, as far as her future was concerned. She could either marry or continue to remain the spinster sister, forced to rely on the charity of her siblings and their husbands.
She wasn’t entirely opposed to marriage, of course. It was just that their funds had been limited, especially after Father’s death. They’d not been able to afford a true season for her, not after the expense of putting out three girls before her. By now she’d become almost complacent, used to her mother’s companionship. They’d fallen into a comfortable routine, the two of them. No man of her acquaintance had inspired her to change her course, not yet.
“Whom do you suppose Edith has invited this year?” asked her mother. “She’s always so clever with her guest list.”
“Clever?” Christobel couldn’t help but laugh. “She’s shrewd, is what she is. Almost mercenary.”
Her mother nodded, a smile of satisfaction on her face. “Successful matches that led to marriages three years in a row now, isn’t it? Your sister is becoming a legend.”
“There must be a better use for such talents,” Christobel muttered uncharitably, then instantly regretted it.
After all, with what else had her sister to occupy herself, living so far north where genteel company was hard to come by? Poor Edith.
Of course, she could not blame Jasper for the misfortune of his place of birth. After all, Hadley Hall was a nice enough estate and would be more than tolerable were it located in, say, Kent or Surrey or Dorset rather than Lancashire.
Dull, gloomy Lancashire, where mills and factories often dulled the sky to gray. Part of Jasper’s family’s fortune had been made in the mills—cotton mills, to be precise. Unfortunate, yes, but there had been enough good breeding in Jasper Hadley’s lineage to make him an acceptable groom for Edith, nonetheless.
Indeed, Jasper was a dear, a worthy match for Edith. If only… Christobel let the thought trail off. No use wishing the impossible. Her mother had done the best she could after Father’s death. A wave of guilt washed over her, shaming her. She should be grateful for her sister and brother-in-law’s generosity. Yet she could not help the feeling of unease that crept into her heart as the train chugged northward.
She glanced at the watch she wore on a thin, gold chain around her neck, then dropped it back against her blouse.
Across the train’s compartment, her mother smiled at her—a warm, fond smile. “Why don’t you sleep, dear? We’ve still a ways to go before we reach Manchester.”
A weary Christobel nodded. Indeed, hours of travel still lay ahead. Nearly two hours remained till they reached Manchester, and then they must change for the Oldham Loop to Cranford, where Jasper would fetch them and drive them the short distance to Hadley Hall.
Too tired to read the volume of poetry that lay on the seat beside her, she closed her eyes and allowed the train’s rhythmic movements to lull her into a dreamless sleep.
“And Mr. Godey has requested a room next to Lady Margaret’s, so I’ll put him here.”
“Good heavens, Edith! However can you keep it all straight?” Christobel shook her head in amazement as Edith laid down the last of the cards on the table before them—each card representing one of her expected houseguests. Later, the cards would be placed in special holders on each guest’s door.
Edith just shrugged. “It’s been much less difficult this year. Except for the complication
with Mr. Aberforth, that is.”
Apparently a Mrs. Lovelace had requested a room beside Mr. Aberforth, which wouldn’t be a problem except that a Mrs. Roth had requested easy proximity to Mr. Aberforth’s room, too. Had Edith known that Mr. Aberforth was currently keeping company with two ladies, she would never have invited them both.
How could Edith look so calm and serene, Christobel wondered, dealing with such arrangements as this? But as usual, Edith looked entirely unruffled, her warm brown eyes as tranquil as ever. Edith had always been the great beauty of the family, the one on whose shoulders the greatest responsibility of marrying well had lain.
After all, everything about Edith was the height of fashion—the feminine ideal—from her dark, glossy hair to her porcelain-hued skin and deep brown eyes lined in kohl.
Christobel, on the other hand, had never been a beauty. Oh, she was perfectly attractive enough, she reasoned, just nothing as extraordinary as her sisters were, all doe-eyed beauties like their mother. She’d inherited her father’s green eyes, eyes that were too sharp, too expressive to be fashionable.
And though Christobel spent far too much time out-of-doors, she refused to paint her face with enamel before brushing it with rice or pearl powder. Thus, her skin was noticeably tanned, with a dusting of freckles that were hard to conceal and gave her mother much to fret about.
It wasn’t that she eschewed cosmetics altogether—she enjoyed visiting Madame Rachel’s salon in Bond Street as much as any other young lady. She had pots of face and lip rouge, bottles of Jordan Water. Still, her looks would never rate above average, a fact that didn’t bother her in the least.
With a shrug, Christobel turned her attention back to the cards spread on the table. “What of these?” she asked, tapping two cards with unfamiliar names written in Edith’s precise script. “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with either.”
“They’re new acquaintances, both. Miss Bartlett is a lovely girl, quite fair of face. Bookish, I suppose, and somewhat solemn.” Edith raised her brows, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I was hoping that she and John Leyden might suit.”
“No!” Christobel exclaimed, laying a hand on Edith’s wrist. “You’re actually hoping to make a match for Mr. Leyden?”
Edith nodded. “It’s high time, don’t you think? He spends far too much time at the mill. He’ll never meet the proper sort there.”
Christobel couldn’t help but smile as she reached for her teacup and took a sip. Knowing Edith as she did, she was certain that much time and consideration went into selecting this Miss Bartlett. She likely was a good match for Mr. Leyden, and Edith would no doubt make her intentions quite clear on the matter. How fascinating it was going to be, watching Mr. Leyden squirm under such machinations.
“Shall I ring for more sandwiches?” Edith asked, picking up the cards from the table and placing them in a neat stack beside her saucer.
A feeling of unease skittered across Christobel’s consciousness. Wait a minute…“What about the other? Sir Edmund Blake, it says.”
“What about him?” Edith asked, busy neatening the stack of already-neat cards. “He’s a fine gentleman, charming and full of life. A baronet of some means, with a country house in Kent.”
Christobel could barely credit it, but Edith positively refused to meet her eyes. No, Edith wouldn’t dare. “Indeed? Single, I presume?”
“What good fortune that he is,” Edith said brightly.
“With whom were you hoping he would suit?” Christobel asked crisply, though her sister’s uncomfortable demeanor was answer enough. “Either of the Misses Allen, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” she answered with a shrug.
“Edith Hadley!” Christobel rose from the table, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. “Tell me you did not invite this Sir Edmund on my account, or I’ll get right back on that train and return to London at once.”
At last Edith met her gaze, her dark eyes flashing. “With no chaperone, and no home to return to? Of course you won’t.”
Christobel could only huff indignantly, so flummoxed was she by Edith’s impertinence.
“Sir Edmund went to Eton with Jasper. He’s a charming man, one with whom I’d like to get better acquainted. And if the thought did cross my mind that perhaps the two of you might suit, well, what of it?”
“I do not need you playing matchmaker on my behalf, Edith. I’ve told you so on more than one occasion.”
“And before now, I’ve always heeded your protestations. Can’t you at least allow me one attempt? I am such a good matchmaker, after all. And where is Mrs. Gardner? I must have more sandwiches.”
“You’ve already eaten a plateful,” Christobel muttered, feeling churlish. “Besides, you’re looking rather plump, if you ask me.”
“And perhaps there’s good reason for that,” Edith shot back, a smile playing on her lips.
Realization dawned on Christobel at once. “Edith, dear! But I thought…after the last time…” Christobel trailed off miserably. Edith had already suffered two miscarriages, though the doctor had assured her that, physically, there was no reason she could not carry a child to term.
“I can’t help but try again. Anyway, the doctor said I’m perfectly well as long as I’m not vexed—”
“You wouldn’t dare use this to…to convince me to go along with your meddling,” Christobel sputtered.
“But of course I would,” Edith answered with an angelic smile. “However could I resist? Now please, sit back down and enjoy your tea. Ah, there’s Mrs. Gardner now with more sandwiches.”
The portly woman carried in a silver tiered tray laden with sandwiches and scones, then whisked away the empty one.
Christobel reached for a cucumber sandwich so thin you could almost see straight through it, then slumped back in her chair with a scowl. “I’ll never forgive you this, you know.”
“Of course you will. And you’ll be nice to Sir Edmund, else you might vex me.” Edith’s smile was triumphant. “And if a gentleman compliments you, you will smile sweetly and accept it graciously. You’ll hold your tongue, too, and keep your suffragist notions to yourself.”
“But you agree with—”
“Of course I do. Privately. But everyone knows that speaking of such things will not land you a husband. At least, not a suitable one.”
“Very well. Anything else?” Christobel asked tartly.
“Yes, try and be nice to John, too,” she added. “I need him in good humor if I’m to make a match for him. Lord knows he can be disagreeable enough without any help from you.”
Christobel merely glared at her in reply.
At the sound of footfalls, both women turned toward the doorway.
“There’s Mother,” Edith said, effectively ending the argument. “Shall we tell her my good news?”
At once Christobel’s ill temper was replaced by fear—fear for Edith’s health, her happiness. How badly she must want a baby, to risk heartbreak once more. Tears burned behind her eyelids, and she averted her gaze from her smiling sister to the window and the gray skies beyond.
It’s this blasted northern air, she thought, anger joining her fear, further fraying her nerves. She’d only been in Lancashire one day and already she longed for Surrey’s tidy green pastures and neat hedgerows, for the lazy, languid days so typical of Christobel’s youth.
Why ever hadn’t Edith stopped to consider what it would mean, living in the industrial north where everything moved far too briskly, where the winters were severe and unforgiving, where smokestacks belched and obscured the horizon?
“Christobel, dear, did you hear the news?” her mother called out cheerily. “We’ll take good care of her, won’t we?”
“Of course we will,” Christobel said, forcing her lips to form a smile. “But are you sure it’s prudent to host a house party at a time like this? I worry about you overtaxing yourself.”
“Don’t be silly,” Edith said with a smile. “The doctor says I’m the model of good hea
lth. The other two times…well, it was just bad luck, nothing more.”
Christobel nodded silently, hoping that her sister was correct. Forcing away her misgivings, she hurried to Edith’s side, reaching for her hand and clasping it tightly in her own. “Still, I’ll make sure you get plenty of rest and pampering, beginning straightaway. Sit, and let me pour you some more tea. Shall I pour for you, too, Mother?”
Her mother nodded. “That would be lovely, dear. Come, now, let’s all sit, and Edith can tell me about the guests.”
“Don’t fret, Edie,” Christobel whispered into her sister’s ear as she leaned over to pour the fragrant brew into the cup set before her. “I’ll behave; I promise.”
At the very least, she would try.
CHAPTER 2
John heaved a sigh as he turned the car into his cousin’s long drive. A cloud of dust billowed up around the vehicle, clouding his goggles and nearly making him choke.
Dust or no, he was excessively fond of his motorcar, a 1906 Darracq speedster that had set him back nearly three hundred pounds—well worth every quid, in his opinion.
In fact, at that very moment he longed to be racing his motor through the countryside, the scenery blurring like an impressionist painting as the wind whistled in his ears.
Instead, he was sedately motoring up Hadley Hall’s drive at a snail’s pace, the house looming larger as he approached. He’d promised Jasper and Edith he’d attend their annual autumn Saturday-to-Monday, as he always had.
And, as always, Jasper had convinced him to arrive early. His mother-and sister-in-law would be there helping Edith prepare for the guests, and Jasper had insisted that he’d go mad listening to the hens cluck about, if left to his own company. Indeed, Jasper was never content to suffer alone.
So, here he was—arriving several days early, as promised. The drive curved sharply to the left, toward the house. Dead ahead, beyond a roughly hewn fence, the lawn stretched out before him. There, beneath the drooping branches of a yew, a lone figure stood, shielding herself from the sun with a parasol. John’s hands gripped the wheel as he turned it.
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