The Lonely Wife

by Val Wood

  It’s true, I have, she thought as she went outside again with her bonnet shielding her face. I feel quite excited at the thought of living here and having the liberty to do whatever I want without having to consider convention, or constantly having someone with me, except of course if I should be calling on acquaintances.

  She asked Charles about their neighbours as they headed down the meadow towards the wood. ‘Will anyone call on us, do you think? I do hope they do, as I – we – will know no one at all.’ She looked up at him. ‘Unless you already do, of course?’

  He took hold of her hand and tucked it under his arm. ‘People will call,’ he said. ‘Everyone in the neighbourhood will want to know the new owner and his bride, so that they can be first to boast that they have met Mr and Mrs Charles Dawley.’

  They were approaching the woodland and Beatrix was delighted to hear the sound of birdsong and rustling in the trees which she felt sure would be squirrels. She saw too that some of the trees were shedding rusty gold leaves.

  ‘Be careful you don’t trip and fall,’ Charles urged as they found a path into the wood. ‘There are broken branches and brambles underfoot. There’s a lot of thinning out to do. I’ll get someone in to do it over winter. There’ll be plenty of available labour once all the harvest is brought in.’ He turned towards her and pulled her close. ‘May I have a real kiss now?’ he asked. ‘Not just a chaste kiss on the cheek?’

  She lifted her face to his. She had never been kissed before and wondered how it would feel; she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue but flinched as he put his hands about her waist and then slid them up and ran his thumbs across her breasts, over her nipples, before putting his lips to hers.

  ‘You are an innocent, aren’t you?’ he murmured, and she nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and couldn’t have said how she felt, except rather afraid, but in an excited way. She hoped that he didn’t want anything but a kiss. She wasn’t ready; she wasn’t prepared.

  He drew away from her. ‘I won’t hurt you!’ he murmured.

  She dropped her gaze. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s just that I know nothing about love. How could I? But I will trust you and I’ll try to make you happy in our marriage.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m sure that you will,’ he said, and smiled down at her, but she felt that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and hoped that she hadn’t disappointed him with her lack of passion.

  ‘I think we must come on another day to look at the wood,’ he said, turning to go back. ‘After it has had a clearing out of dead wood. We don’t want you falling and injuring yourself. Shall we walk back and you can perhaps tell me how you envisage the garden; there used to be flower beds when I was a boy, and rose trees.’

  ‘Roses would be lovely,’ she enthused. ‘And the perfume would drift towards the house. Is there an orchard? It would be nice to see apple or pear blossom in the spring.’

  ‘At the back of the house,’ he told her. ‘There’s an apple orchard, or there used to be. When Uncle Neville inherited the estate as a young man he planted an orchard and brought pigs in to graze on the windfalls.’ He gave a huff of breath. ‘He became a proper farmer, didn’t just play the role. Luckily for him there was enough inheritance to bring the place up to scratch; his own father had neglected it, being always busy with business matters and never having time to look after the estate.’

  ‘And will you do the same?’ she asked. ‘Will you continue his good work?’

  He turned a slightly startled gaze towards her. ‘I can’t actually see myself getting my hands dirty, but it has to be worked at a profit or it will fail, so I’m hoping to find a manager to oversee it. I know nothing about livestock, or looking after land for that matter.’

  ‘But you were pleased to have inherited it?’

  ‘It’s worth a good deal of money.’ He gave a short derisory laugh. ‘Of course I’m pleased.’

  That wasn’t what I meant, she thought. I was thinking of the production of crops and what will be made from them, and keeping dairy cows for the milk or sheep for their fleeces. Am I just a city person with romantic ideas of country life? I realize it will be hard work and not always successful, but surely there would be more satisfaction in bringing in the harvest than counting up numbers in the banking world.

  She sighed. But I know nothing, except – she breathed in the aroma of corn, of long grass, of wood smoke and scents of the coming autumn – I feel that I could be happy here.

  Rather oddly, Charles seemed to be bored with looking over the estate. He only glanced at the long meadow grass and didn’t go in the barns and stable block at the rear, and when they glimpsed Beatrix’s mother through the windows of the annexe he suggested that she should join her and have a look at it together.

  ‘Charles, what will we do with the cottage?’ she asked. ‘And we must speak of carpets and hangings and furniture for the main house – and how much should be spent.’ She pressed her lips together, frowning anxiously. ‘I have never had to ask for money; Papa always took care of our finances.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘What a dear little thing you are,’ he said. ‘I have never in my life known a young woman who considered money to be of the slightest importance except for spending on gewgaws.’ He laughed, this time with genuine amusement. ‘I can quite see that you will never overspend your allowance!’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ she said, open-eyed in astonishment that he might even consider that she might. ‘Once I know what it is I will be exceedingly careful.’

  ‘We’ll discuss that after we are married, my dearest Beatrix. Don’t you worry your sweet little head about it.’ Gently he pinched her cheek between his finger and thumb. ‘Off you go with your mother. I’m going to see if I can find some coffee beans in that vault of a kitchen. Come back when you’re ready.’

  She watched him as he walked towards the main house, wondering exactly what it was about what he had said and the manner in which he had said it that made her think he was treating her like a child.

  She stood outside the front door of the annexe and looked down towards the wood. There was a dust cloud hanging in the air and she could hear occasional shouts and laughter coming from neighbouring fields, and she thought how perfect the weather must have been for harvesting. Next year, she thought. Next year perhaps we might bring in our own harvest. I don’t know how long it takes to till the land and sow the seed and gather in the crops, but I would like to find out.

  As she turned to go inside, a fluttering thought struck her that she might be growing something within herself in another year; perhaps she would be carrying a young farmer or landowner to continue tradition. She took a deep trembling breath. For I think I might have been chosen for that very purpose.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Beatrix and her mother discussed carpets, curtains and furniture on the train journey back to London. They’d made notes of what was needed for both houses, and Charles had been right: the carpets had been in a deplorable state and some of the curtains were threadbare and would need replacing.

  ‘Did you see the piano, Mama?’ Beatrix asked. ‘Pushed up into a corner of the hall? I missed it when we arrived.’

  ‘So did I,’ her mother said. ‘Though I don’t know how. I tried out a few keys; it definitely needs a good tuning!’

  Charles was listening with half an ear and an amused smile on his lips. Finally he broke in and said, ‘Have you thought of which church you will choose for our wedding, Beatrix?’

  ‘Well, yes, I have,’ she said shyly. ‘I’d thought at first that I would choose St Giles …’

  Charles took in a whistling breath and began to shake his head.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Beatrix said, ‘and my father felt the same. St Giles is too close to the Rookeries, and we don’t want any trouble from anyone living down there.’

  ‘Quite right, we don’t; nor do we want our guests to be fearful of losing their pocketbooks. And then
of course there are the new sewers that are being built in the vicinity. Most of the nearby roads are being dug up!’

  Her eyes opened wide at his comment; she hadn’t known about the sewers. ‘So I thought St George’s in Bloomsbury; it’s a beautiful church, and not far from Russell Square.’ She bent her head as she was speaking, suddenly shy of what lay ahead.

  ‘A good choice, Beatrix. I quite agree,’ Charles said, glancing at her mother, who gave an understanding smile and a nod. ‘Shall we say April?’ He slipped his hand inside his coat pocket, withdrew a slim leather diary and flipped through it. ‘The first week in April? Would that be a suitable time for a wedding? Can you dear ladies be ready by then? The banns will need to be read and we’ll also need an appropriate location for the wedding breakfast; would you like me to arrange that or would Mr Fawcett prefer to organize it himself?’

  ‘He won’t object if you should suggest somewhere, Charles,’ Mrs Fawcett told him. ‘In fact I rather think he would be relieved. You will know of somewhere suitable. Mr Fawcett is not someone who is used to socializing,’ she added.

  Beatrix was relieved too. Her father wouldn’t know of a fitting venue for the wedding breakfast of a wealthy man and his young bride whereas Charles would, even though her father would pay the expense of it.

  Oh, my goodness, she thought. Is it happening? I’m going to be married! Am I ready for this? I love the old house and the countryside where we will make our home, but my friends and parents will still be in London and I’ll be alone in another county, away from everyone and everything I know, with a husband who is very rich and rather handsome, with whom I have agreed to spend my whole life without knowing if he is in the least kind or loving.

  Once they were home again events proceeded at speed. She and Charles, with Dora accompanying them, visited St George’s church together to arrange the reading of the banns and confirm the wedding date. Afterwards they went for coffee in a café and he asked Beatrix where she would like to spend her honeymoon.

  ‘What about Paris?’ he asked. ‘Have you ever been?’

  She confessed that she hadn’t and that she would like to. ‘But is it safe?’ she asked. ‘It has had some trouble, I understand.’

  He shrugged dismissively. ‘Where is safe?’ he said. ‘There is turmoil in any country. But it seems to be. We could of course go to the Lake District in the north of England. It’s peaceful there and the scenery is beautiful.’

  I have never been there either, she mused. In fact I am not widely travelled. Papa would never go further than Brighton and Mama and I knew every inch of it and got terribly bored.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’m sure it will be lovely; and then afterwards we can go straight on to Old Stone Hall instead of coming back to London.’

  ‘Old Stone Hall!’ He laughed. ‘Is that what you call the house?’

  She blushed. ‘It seems like a good name for it. It’s built mainly of stone with some brick at the back, and maybe if we give it a name the locals will stop thinking of it as Neville Dawley’s old house.’

  He lifted his chin and gazed at her under lowered eyelids. ‘Mm,’ he murmured. ‘You’re quite right. What a clever little thing you are; not only beautiful, but astute too.’ He took hold of her hand, beneath the table for Dora was sitting nearby tucking into cake, and said quietly, ‘I think you will make a good mistress of Old Stone Hall. You are discerning and probably imaginative and will put your touch on what is at the moment a crumbling, decaying old mansion. In a few years’ time in the right hands it will probably be worth a lot more than it is now.’ He gave a meaningful nod. ‘And if we hire a manager to bring the estate up to date, that too will increase in value.’

  She became a little alarmed. Was he only thinking of the place as an investment? She hoped not; she was thinking of it as a home, somewhere to enjoy living in and bringing up a large family, not only the one son Charles required to secure his inheritance.

  ‘I’m really excited now,’ she said, ‘and looking forward to making the house into a home, Charles. I do hope that you don’t have to spend too much time in London, because—’

  He interrupted briskly. ‘I’m not a farmer, Beatrix. Not even a gentleman farmer with a team of labourers or a farm manager to do my bidding; I’m a banker.’

  ‘But surely you could be, with the right man in charge.’

  He laughed. ‘Absolutely not! I’m a city man. Oh, yes, of course I’ll spend time in the country, make sure my little wife is safe and well and that everything is running smoothly, but I must continue with my business interests. You surely must understand that?’ He paused, almost, she thought, as if he were taking stock of what he had said.

  ‘And,’ his thumb stroked the palm of her hand and around her wrist, making her feel fluttery, ‘you’ll probably want to come to London too, to see your friends and your parents?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course I will. Your town house will be so convenient, won’t it?’

  He paused momentarily. ‘Yes, yes indeed, if in fact I keep it. I have given thought to the idea that I might sell it and get something smaller. I won’t entertain there once my base is in Yorkshire. We’ll see.’ He closed the conversation. ‘If your girl over there has finished her second slice of cake, shall we leave? Much to do; April comes ever closer.’ He smiled, and she was reassured.

  Beatrix and her mother decided that Dora would benefit from some tuition in the art of becoming a lady’s maid. To brush off her rough edges, as Mrs Fawcett said, and polish up her rather harsh London accent; she would also be taught how to look after Beatrix’s wardrobe and how to dress her hair for visiting or receiving guests.

  Beatrix wondered about the last suggestion, as she didn’t think there would be much in the way of social visiting, in spite of what Charles had said about neighbours wanting to meet them. The house needed attention before they could think of entertaining. If anyone invited them to call, they would have to make clear that the invitation couldn’t be reciprocated immediately.

  She was keen to begin the renovation of the house and wondered if Charles knew of anyone who could start the work, or even whether she might suggest that they ask Edward Newby to recommend someone. She was unsure if that proposal might be treated with scorn.

  Charles sent a note to her father a few days before Christmas to ask if he might call on Beatrix, and on being told she was filled with a mixture of trepidation and elation until her mother said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. He is probably bringing you a special gift before your marriage.’

  ‘What?’ Beatrix whispered. ‘What might it be?’

  Her mother shook her head and sighed. Beatrix was becoming a bag of nerves and tension. She ran her fingers around the third finger of her own hand where she wore a simple gold band. Mr Fawcett had never thought of giving her a ring to mark their engagement; they were not fashionable when she and her husband married, although she would have liked to possess one, but no amount of hinting had penetrated her betrothed’s understanding.

  ‘An engagement ring?’ Beatrix breathed. ‘He did say he had seen one that he thought I might like, but has never mentioned it since.’

  ‘Well, I might be wrong,’ her mother teased. ‘Perhaps it is only a box of bonbons.’

  But it wasn’t. It was as her mother had suggested. A very pretty ring with a single diamond surrounded by a cluster of others to make the shape of a flower. They were alone in the drawing room when Charles slipped it on to her finger.

  ‘It’s taken quite a long time,’ he said. ‘And I dare say you might have thought I’d forgotten, but I hadn’t. It was the jeweller who was delayed. He is extremely busy at this time of year.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, feeling very emotional and weepy, and wondered how she could ever have doubted him.

  That’s got that over with, he thought with a breath of relief as he left Beatrix’s home and drove back to the house he shared with Maria. Beatrix was happy with the ring he had given her, and now he was a
bout to give Maria the one she had chosen from another jeweller, which had cost him twice as much as the one he had given Beatrix. Tempestuous Maria had to be pacified. When he married Beatrix he would be forced to keep Maria sweet. There was no knowing what she might say or do, and she knew her worth; she wouldn’t be kept silent with mere baubles.

  And who could blame her? He pulled into the inn yard where he stabled his mount and kept the chaise. She had already suffered under a brutal husband; she was vulnerable, and kept everything of value that Charles had ever given her locked away against any eventuality for fear of being abandoned, even by him, which was impossible, he assured her time and time again.

  But she simply nodded and smiled seductively and didn’t trust any man, not even one who had pledged his undying love.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Christmas was spent quietly at home, with Charles making a brief visit on Boxing Day. Beatrix had written to Charles’s sister Anne, inviting her to be an attendant at her wedding; she had also written to her friends Sophia and Eleanor, commonly known as Nell, whom she had known for many years. Both had replied immediately, expressing their great pleasure, and Sophia in particular saying she was thrilled to be asked as she was sure it would be the wedding of the year and she hoped to meet a beau there. Anne, however, took over a week to send a formal reply indicating that the date in her diary was free and she would be able to attend.

  ‘Please yourself,’ Beatrix muttered and put the acceptance card on the drawing room mantelpiece, whereas she took Sophia’s and Nell’s upstairs to her room.

  There had been no letter from her brother Thomas who was serving in Ireland with his regiment; Beatrix’s father had written to tell him of his sister’s forthcoming marriage, and then her mother had written too, but still there was no reply. Beatrix shrugged; she would be disappointed if he didn’t come but he was a lazy letter writer in any case and rarely penned more than a few lines. She suggested to her parents that perhaps he had been moved on now that Ireland seemed to be quieter, and maybe was on the high seas or travelling through the deepest of jungles, for she was fairly sure that the last time they received a letter, about six months ago, he was expecting to be posted abroad again. Maybe he’d gone to India or Burma where there always seemed to be an uprising or trouble of some kind.