Rags-to-Riches Wife

by Catherine Tinley

  She laughed. ‘I believe it is the servant in me who seeks tidiness everywhere! But of course you are right. The wildness is beautiful in a different way.’

  They conversed amiably on a range of matters as they ambled through the gardens towards the lake. He could not resist telling her something of his childhood adventures there.

  ‘Why, you sound just like Mr Millthorpe!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yesterday and this morning he was telling me tales of his own childhood adventures and mishaps. His stories are uncannily similar to yours. Boys are eternally boys, I suppose.’

  ‘So you sat with my uncle again this morning? It is becoming quite the habit.’

  She stiffened. ‘Oh, but there is nothing in it!’ Her brow was creased. ‘I am not trying to come between you, or to take your place in his affections.’

  He chuckled. ‘I know that, Miss Bailey.’

  Her innocence was clear to see—there was no guile in her.

  ‘I shall be gone very soon and I shall never return,’ she repeated earnestly.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Although her assertion had been an attempt to reassure him, and it echoed his own thoughts from earlier, it also created in him a sense of foreboding.

  Never to see her again?

  They walked in silence for some minutes before he belatedly realised that hers was the silence of anxiety. ‘What is it, Miss Bailey?’

  She looked at him, clearly considered pretending that nothing was the matter, and then thought better of it. How well he could read her now!

  ‘I am pleased to have had the opportunity to meet my—to meet Mr Millthorpe, but I am perfectly content with my life. I told him so yesterday.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’

  My grandfather. That was what she’d almost said. Was she ready to acknowledge her background, then?

  He decided to proceed with caution. ‘Was your mother reluctant for you to travel here?’

  She grimaced ruefully. ‘She has no reason to like Mr Millthorpe, so I am glad she agreed that I should come. I wonder how they are all going on at Ledbury House? It is strange to think of it now. My existence here is so different—so peculiar and unnatural.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, please do not think I am not respectful of your family, and your life here. It is just—it is entirely foreign to me.’

  As she spoke, a robin on a nearby branch tilted its head, as if listening to her.

  I agree, he told it silently. Even when she discusses commonplace subjects she is fascinating.

  ‘Tell me of the differences. What would your typical day involve as Lady Kingswood’s maid?’

  She did so, and he drew her out on the details.

  In the end, he had to exclaim, ‘I declare my eyes have been opened! I did not realise maids worked so hard.’

  ‘Oh, but my work is easy compared to some,’ she offered earnestly. ‘When I was a scullery maid—now, that was hard work indeed!’

  He was interested to hear more, and they passed the time doing so as they walked to the two-mile point at the far side of the lake before turning back.

  By this stage he had had a fair education in the hard physical work involved in keeping fires lit, chambers clean and vegetables cut. Such services he had always taken for granted. His own valet magically ensured he had a selection of crisp white cravats and spotless shirts when he needed them, and the man spent hours each day polishing his boots.

  He glanced down. His boots—glossy and clean when they had stepped outside—were now daubed with mud. ‘Oh, dear!’ He pointed out the mess. ‘I now feel guilty for the mess I have made of my boots!’

  She moaned. ‘And just look at my dress—oh, Lord, poor Nancy!’ Her tied-up skirt had a few spatters, while the hem of her petticoat was brown with mud. ‘I shall clean it myself.’ She nodded decisively.

  ‘Really? And how would you feel if Lady Kingswood suddenly decided to wash her own clothing to save you from having to do it?’

  She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Lord! I should feel unwanted, and useless, and I would worry about being turned off.’

  He decided on judicious silence.

  After a few moments she asked, in a small voice, ‘So you think I should allow Nancy to see to my clothes?’

  ‘Only you can decide what you wish to do. But sometimes a situation that seems straightforward is in fact complex and entangled.’

  ‘Entangled...yes.’ She glanced at him. ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded, and they proceeded in perfect amity.

  Entangled. Complex. Like you, us...this.

  He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and thoroughly kiss her, yet he could not. Too much was uncertain. Her future. Her status. How much she had been harmed by what she had suffered at seventeen. His mind delineated all these reasons, yet nothing dimmed the impulse, the yearning for her.

  Summoning every ounce of self-control, he walked on by her side.

  * * *

  During the next few days Jane felt the comfort of an emerging rhythm to her time in Beechmount Hall. In the mornings she ate a meagre breakfast—years of early-morning work meant that her stomach was not ready for food on first waking. She would then sit with Mr Millthorpe until noon, and after nuncheon she would walk with Mr Kendal in the gardens and grounds.

  Sometimes, if the day was dry, they would climb to the small tree-crested hill that gave the house its name. She could sense Mr Kendal’s love for the place in the way he talked of it, and in the certain look in his eye when he gazed at the house and grounds from that vantage point.

  At times she thought she imagined another look in his eye—something that called to her, leaving her breathless and hoping for a kiss. Yet it never happened.

  In the evenings, after dinner, she would sit with the ladies in the salon until the men joined them. She and Mrs Kendal were forging a firm acquaintance. She was, of course, predisposed to like Mr Kendal’s mother, and in truth found her engaging and warm, if a little yielding.

  She frowned. She could not say the same of Mr Kendal, for all that he chose not to engage in some of his battles.

  Mr Kendal was habitually reserved, she had found, and she thought it surprising that the relaxed, candid gentleman who was her friend could become so taciturn and even aloof at times in the company of his uncle and aunt.

  Perhaps he worries for his mama.

  Mrs Kendal often seemed anxious in Mr and Mrs Millthorpe’s company, despite the fact she had lived there for nigh on twenty years.

  In truth, my grandfather is something of an autocrat, Jane acknowledged ruefully.

  Mr Millthorpe generally made his wishes and opinions known in no uncertain manner, causing much unneeded tension and conflict in the family. At times, the glint in the old man’s eye made it seem to Jane that he was deliberately trying to get a rise out of Mr Kendal, who steadfastly and coolly refused to give him the satisfaction of engaging with him. Mr Kendal was as stubborn in his own way as her grandfather.

  And Mrs Millthorpe was full of opinion—much of it ill-informed or simply untrue. As a servant, Jane was used to buttoning her lip and not speaking of family controversies, but on occasion she was severely tempted to respond to the outrageous statements of her grandfather’s second wife. This was especially difficult when that lady was critical of Mr Kendal, who did not escape her jibes. But Jane’s instinctive wish to defend him had to be suppressed. He did not require her aid.

  To be fair, Mr Kendal often looked amused by these barbs, and they were tempered by the occasions when his aunt spoke fawningly of him. These tended to be the moments when her husband had displeased her, so Mr Kendal was temporarily elevated from irritant to paragon in comparison.

  He took her praise with the same indifference as he did her criticism. It seemed it simply did not matter to him.

  Of all of
the family, Mrs Millthorpe was the only one Jane struggled to like. She was habitually sour-faced, irritable and judgemental, and she seemed to take delight in the misfortunes of others. Her contribution to the household seemed only to be to trouble others.

  On Sunday they all travelled by coach to the small chapel in Arkendale. It took Mr Millthorpe almost ten minutes to get from the carriage to what was apparently his usual pew, but he managed it. Jane, who could see the pride in his eyes as he sank gratefully into his seat, felt a sudden lump in her throat at watching him.

  During the service she was conscious of the relentless scrutiny of the congregation. A stranger in their midst—especially one staying at Beechmount Hall—was clearly of great interest to them. Immediately afterwards Mrs Millthorpe whisked her straight into the closed carriage, before she might be questioned, and they waited inside with the curtains closed for the others to join them.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ her hostess muttered. ‘For a moment I thought I should be forced to introduce you to Mr and Mrs Dodsworth.’ She shuddered. ‘A servant...sitting with the family in church!’

  All of this was clearly aimed at Jane, although Mrs Millthorpe had maintained her peculiar habit of talking indirectly at Jane, rather than to her. As such, Jane did not feel able to reply, for fear of being accused of impertinence. So they sat in silence, Jane trying not to move or even breathe loudly.

  Eventually they were joined by Mr Millthorpe, Mrs Kendal, and finally Mr Kendal. He gave her a keen look as he entered the carriage, but said nothing.

  The other three were in the sought-after front-facing seats, and Jane and Mr Kendal were seated together in the rear-facing position. Jane looked down, enjoying the sight of his leg so close to hers. If she closed her eyes she would better feel the sensation of warmth coming from his body, where it was near hers.

  I do not care that I am rear-facing, for he is beside me.

  No more than three hours after the service, and just when Jane and Mr Kendal had returned from their usual walk, the sound of a carriage was heard outside the window of the salon.

  ‘Visitors!’ exclaimed Mrs Kendal. ‘Well, now, I wonder who it could be?’

  She addressed Mr Millthorpe, who was half dozing in his chair by the fire.

  ‘We have visitors, Uncle.’

  ‘Eh? Visitors?’ He lifted his head. ‘Blast it! What do they mean by disturbing our peace in this way? Who is it?’

  Mrs Kendal had gone to the window and was peeping out from behind the curtain. ‘It is Mrs Dodsworth. And her husband, too. Oh, and Miss Dodsworth is with them.’ She looked directly at Mr Kendal.

  Jane’s senses were suddenly fully awake. Why had she addressed that last part to her son?

  Inside, she was still struggling with the undoubted pull she felt towards him. Like a flower turning towards the sun, she was drawn to him in company, and she blossomed and shone when they were alone together. He had become the friend she had never had, although she was even now unsure as to his opinion of her at times.

  Mama was Mama, and Miss Marianne was Miss Marianne, but neither were as interesting as Mr Kendal. Nor were they as interested in her—in her opinions, her thoughts, her history... Certain topics were off-limits for both of them, but in general there was an affinity between them that she had never experienced with anyone else.

  That does not mean it is special, she told herself. It may just relate to my sheltered life so far. Perhaps he has felt this partiality for many women before me.

  Her body’s reaction in his presence continued to be intense, confusing and exhilarating all at once. Occasionally as they walked his arm would brush hers, or he would assist her with a brief hand on her elbow. Invariably her insides would melt, her heart would pound a now familiar tattoo, and her breath would catch. These exhilarating moments would not awaken the fear inside her, and she was becoming increasingly confident that her strong connection to Mr Kendal was healing some of the brokenness inside her.

  As she was pondering all of this, she suddenly noticed Mrs Millthorpe staring at her. A level, fixed, implacable stare.

  She started, finally understanding what was expected of her. ‘Oh! I should—I must go to my chamber. I have—I have things to do.’ She stood.

  ‘What things?’ barked Mr Millthorpe.

  ‘Well, I should write to my mama.’

  ‘Again? I paid for a letter to go just yesterday.’

  She flushed. ‘I do not think I should be here if you have visitors.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘My dear—’ began his wife.

  Mr Millthorpe’s gaze swivelled around to her. ‘Do you have something to say about the matter?’

  Eugenia subsided, her lips a thin line of disapproval.

  Helplessly, Jane sank back into her seat.

  The footman admitted their guests, and Jane rose with the others, shrinking inside. She recognised them from the chapel—a middle-aged couple with a pretty daughter about Jane’s own age. They were greeted warmly by the others, Mr Millthorpe even going so far as to warmly welcome the lady and her daughter, while shaking the gentleman’s hand.

  Miss Dodsworth had fair hair, deep blue eyes, and a warm smile. She was dressed elegantly, Jane noted, in a celestial blue crape frock, worn over a white satin slip. There was a deep border of net lace around the bottom, and pretty blue embroidery. Jane sighed. Her own printed muslin seemed drab in comparison.

  Jane was introduced simply as, ‘Miss Jane Bailey, visiting from Bedfordshire.’ She made a curtsey, feeling an air of dreadful strangeness as she did so.

  Miss Dodsworth’s eyes sought Jane’s and they were filled with curiosity. Jane gave a shy smile, and was rewarded with a smile in return.

  ‘Miss Bailey, eh?’ Mr Dodsworth lifted a quizzing glass to peer at her through it. ‘You’ll be related to the Farnham Baileys, I’ll wager.’

  Before Jane could even think how to answer this, Mrs Millthorpe cut across her visitor to address his wife.

  ‘My dear Mrs Dodsworth, I apologise for not being able to speak to you directly after church this morning. A twinge of colic sent me scurrying to the carriage.’

  ‘Colic? Oh, my dear, how dreadful! I declare there is nothing worse than colic!’

  Mrs Kendal added her support to this position, and the three ladies then engaged in a prolonged discussion about the gastric sufferings they had endured. Mr Dodsworth, lifting his eyes to heaven, moved to sit with Mr Kendal, and they were soon engrossed in a wide-ranging discussion about politics and farming.

  Mr Millthorpe had lapsed into his customary silence, and was currently contentedly engaged in looking into the fire.

  ‘Miss Bailey!’ Miss Dodsworth had come to join her on the yellow satin-covered settee. ‘I am delighted to find another young lady in the district.’

  ‘Oh, but I am here for only a fortnight. I shall return home to Bedfordshire after that.’

  ‘What a shame! I confess to be missing the company of people of my own age.’

  ‘What of Mr Kendal? Surely he—?’

  Miss Dodsworth made a dismissive sound. ‘Oh, Robert is like an older brother to me! No, there is something particularly delightful in meeting a lady near my own age.’ She smiled sunnily. ‘I myself am three-and-twenty.’

  ‘I shall also be four-and-twenty on my next birthday, in August.’ Jane tilted her head on one side as a sudden thought struck her. ‘How old is Mr Kendal?’ She grimaced. ‘I apologise if that is an impertinent question.’

  ‘Not at all!’ A dimple peeped in Miss Dodsworth’s cheek. ‘I shall make a bargain with you. You shall guess, and then I shall give you the answer.’

  Jane tried to work it out. ‘He came here when he was around eight, I think... And he mentioned being here more than fifteen years...perhaps twenty. Is he five-and-twenty or thereabouts?’ She frowned. ‘But that cannot be right.’

&n
bsp; ‘Why not?’ Miss Dodsworth gave her a puzzled look, and then she giggled. ‘Let me divine it: you think he cannot be five-and-twenty because...’ she leaned forward to whisper ‘...because he acts so much older!’ She straightened. ‘There! Now it is I who am being impertinent!’

  Jane could not help chuckling a little. It was indeed Mr Kendal’s dignity and sense of reserve that had left her feeling as though he must be older.

  And yet I have seen another side to him.

  She recalled certain moments when they had laughed together over some trifling matter. He had always seemed young and carefree then...

  Mr Kendal had caught the sound of their laughter, and was eyeing them both quizzically from the other side of the room.

  ‘Oh, dear! He has divined us! Now he will plague us to know what is so amusing!’ Miss Dodsworth was refreshingly irreverent.

  Jane threw him a saucy look. Their conversation, though indeed a little impertinent, was harmless. She would tease him about it later.

  He replied with narrowed eyes and a mock glare, which sent Miss Dodsworth into a peal of laughter. Jane was conscious of an unexpected thrill of enjoyment. She liked Miss Dodsworth. And she liked Mr Kendal. And she relished this raillery and jesting. It was entirely new to her.

  She smiled broadly and made her decision. ‘I declare Mr Kendal to be nine-and-twenty. No more and no less.’

  ‘Close! He turned eight-and-twenty in November.’

  Jane nodded sagely. ‘I am content with my supposition.’ She considered for a moment. ‘He should slacken more...devote some time to his own interests.’

  ‘He has taken on the burden of responsibility from Mr Millthorpe as he has aged.’

  Jane glanced at her grandfather. He was apparently engaged in observing the different conversations, his blue eyes sharp and alert. Jane felt an unexpected wave of affection for the elderly patriarch. Despite everything, she found herself more and more in charity with him as time went on.

  Tea was served, and they all clustered around Mrs Millthorpe as she passed them each a dish of tea, coffee, or in some cases a glass of wine. She even put the teacup directly into Jane’s hand.