An Unlikely Countess (35 page)

She took Prudence to where the gown was hung out to dry.

The blue had become a muddy gray and the new embroidery, so carefully color-matched, was now a stark black that made the gray look worse.

“Never mind,” she said. “It’s better than nothing for now.”

Prudence returned to her rooms feeling weighed down by minor problems. None of them would matter if she were welcome here, but apart from Cate, she felt friendless. She, too, missed Perry. He had a way of making things seem lighter.

Letters, she thought. That would be contact with the wider world. Neither Aaron nor Susan was a friend, but now they almost felt like it. Hetty shouldn’t be a friend, but Prudence might weep to see her cheerful face.

She wished she had Toby with her, but he was definitely not a countess’s dog.

She used the fine paper to write to Aaron, trying not to weave in spines of recrimination or glee. She asked him to keep the news quiet for now, and to consult Tallbridge about Draydale, for her husband was writing to him. She kept the tone cool and said nothing of future meetings. She knew she’d never be able to cut herself off from her brother, but he and Susan could grind their teeth over it for a while. She folded the letter and lit the candle for the wax. There was a metal seal with a crest, but she didn’t use it. Let the contents come as a complete surprise.

It was doubtless unchristian of her, but she wished she’d be there to see their faces.

She put another sheet on the writing surface, but then thought such rich stuff might be too much for Hetty. She chose a sheet of her own paper, and began to write.

She wanted to share the whole story, but if she did the news would be all around Northallerton in hours. Hetty could keep secrets, but she’d need someone to read it to her. Would the reader be able to resist telling the world that Prudence Youlgrave of White Rose Yard had become a fine milady? And Cate hoped to keep White Rose Yard secret forever.

She still wanted to share some of her good news, so she simply said she was married to the handsome gentleman who’d come to Northallerton in search of her, and was currently living at Keynings, a very grand house. That alone would have White Rose Yard exploding for days.

She realized a little bit of her missed White Rose Yard. Here, she felt so alone. She’d felt lonely in the various places she’d lived with her mother, but she’d had her mother for company and also the knowledge of people around, people to watch. In White Rose Yard she’d been a little more connected to the neighbors by Hetty. In Darlington she’d made acquaintances, but the time had been too short for friendships.

Except that she and Cate had become friends in a day.

Oh, for the modest circumstances she’d expected, and the cozy house where they’d not be apart so much. Oh, for the business of the middle-class wife, supervising a few servants and doing many tasks herself. Here, she felt at a loss. She was mistress of a great house. How could she have nothing to do? She was almost tempted to invade the kitchens, or try to wash blankets.

She probably should prowl the place in case the dowager or Artemis was usurping her authority, but she simply hadn’t the spirit for it right now. Instead, she went to the library to stock the shelves in her boudoir.

She hadn’t yet met the current librarian, Mr. Rathbone, and she’d imagined him young and bony. When she encountered him in the library, however, he was a portly gentleman in his fifties, unashamed to show his baldness. What was left of his graying hair was tied back, but most of his head shone in the sunlight.

She expected a welcome, but instead he was cool. She had no spirit to fight that, either, but turned to explore the shelves. When she came across a volume she fancied, she put it on a table.

“My lady, what are you doing?”

“Choosing books for my boudoir, Mr. Rathbone.”

“For . . . for your boudoir? I must protest.”

She turned on him. “Why?”

He flushed at the confrontation. “The collection is my responsibility, my lady.”

Prudence wondered if she was in fact committing an outrage, but she couldn’t believe it. “The books here are not to be read, Mr. Rathbone?”

“Er . . . yes, my lady, of course.”

“Only in here?”

He must have realized he’d walked onto uncertain ground. “The other ladies do not take books from my library.”

“Perhaps the other ladies don’t like to read. I shall remove what I wish from
the earl’s
library, Mr. Rathbone. You may return to your duties.”

He turned crimson. She wondered if he’d refuse and what she’d do then, but she would not, could not allow such insufferable insolence.

By the time he turned to stalk away, she was shaking. He left the room entirely, which allowed her to collapse and gather herself. How
dared
he behave like that? If she told Cate, she knew he’d dismiss the man.

Therefore Rathbone didn’t believe she would.

Why? What did he know?

She straightened, took her pile of books, and returned to her sanctuary very inclined to take out the brandy bottle and get drunk.

Instead, she picked up the copy of
Candide; or, the Optimist
, by Monsieur Voltaire, pleased to have found a copy in translation. She’d heard much about it, and the title sounded hopeful.

It was quite the opposite. Dr. Pangloss’s insistence that everyone lived in the best of all possible worlds hardly fit when Candide was unfairly ejected from his uncle’s castle and forced into the Prussian army. She read on, waiting for matters to improve, but they didn’t.

She shut the book and put it aside. Clearly Monsieur Voltaire’s message was that optimism was folly and life was nothing but misery. She’d have none of that. Instead, she sat at her desk and began to lay out a story of a heroine, Honesty, who was cast out of her home unfairly, but went from triumph to triumph, defeating demons at every step. Demons of cruelty, demons of injustice, demons of malice . . .

“What are you so intent on?”

She turned, guiltily aware of her scribbled pages, to find Cate had come in.

“Have you ever read
Candide
?” she demanded.

“No, what is it?”

“A story by Monsieur Voltaire, containing the most miserable events. I’m writing an antidote.”

“With enthusiasm marked by blotches. You can tell me the story as we stroll in the gardens. It’s lovely outside.”

Prudence realized it was gone five o’clock—and that she had inky fingers. She went to wash them, but of course the ink remained. She pulled on gloves before joining him.

“So, tell me your joyful story,” he said as they went downstairs.

“It’s only silliness. What’s occupied your day?”

“Not silliness, but a lot of it seems pointless.”

“Then why must you do it?”

“Because if I don’t, the fabric of society will crumble into dust. Or so I’m told. So much of life is pointless if looked at directly, don’t you think?” As they crossed a room toward glass doors open to a terrace, he asked, “Why, for example, do we wear clothes when it’s hot?”

“Decency.”

“Then why anything other than the simplest? A toga might be sensible. Perhaps I should propose a law.”

“You’d have the mantua makers and silk weavers after you with scissors.”

He laughed. “I would, wouldn’t I? An English silk weaver slashed the gown of a woman wearing French silk. And the jury let him off.”

“Excellent. People need work.”

“Odd that the end of war brings hard times.”

“This isn’t a day for gloom,” she said as they went down the shallow steps to the lawn. “I shall relate the triumphs of Honesty, vanquisher of demons.”

She amused him as they strolled over lawns and through gardens all in a daunting state of perfection. She would like a little more nature and a little less artifice, but didn’t mention it.

“Ah,” he said. “The swing.”

She saw that a wooden board hung on ropes from a branch of the majestic beech tree in the center of this part of the lawn.

“Let me push you,” he said.

“Me?”

“Afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Trust me.”

With that, she had no choice. She sat awkwardly on the plank and clutched the ropes. He pushed her gently from the front, and the swing went back and forth.

She smiled. “This does feel rather nice. A bit like flying might feel.”

He pushed her a little harder. “You can fly higher.”

She squeaked with alarm, but then laughed, feeling free of burdens as well as the ground. When he pushed her higher still, she looked up at the magnificent tree and the glimpses of sky, wondering what it was like to be a bird, free to go anywhere without sore feet or rough roads. To go only in feathers, as nature designed, unhindered by clothing. As she swung down, she kicked her legs and saw him grin. He must have quite a view.

“Rascal!” she called.

“Temptress!” he called back, and they both laughed. She hoped she was a temptress, however, because he tempted her to the point of insanity.

She swung backward and forward, exhilarated and happy. Yes, this was happiness, unhindered happiness, and she didn’t remember feeling this way before.

She looked toward the house, so lovely in its lines, and warmed by the sun. But then she saw a dark figure in an upper window, watching. She had no true way to be sure, but she knew it was Artemis. She also knew that this was Artemis’s swing, which her husband had pushed for her so little time ago.

When Cate would have pushed her again, she said, “No, that’s enough for now,” and let the swing work down to earth.

He lifted her off and pulled her close for a kiss, but she couldn’t even enjoy that properly, knowing Artemis was watching, seared by bitter loss.

He didn’t say anything about her mood, but she knew he would have noticed. The words escaped: “When will Artemis leave?”

He looked at her in surprise, and perhaps with disappointment. “I’ve promised her she can stay here as long as she wants.”

Prudence looked away to hide her sinking heart. “I just feel she must be unhappy. Now I’m here, now you’re married, it must have opened wounds.”

“All the same, it’s been her home for ten years. It’s been her daughters’ home all their lives. If it comforts her to stay, she must.”

He was disappointed with her, and she couldn’t explain. Probably soon Artemis would drop hints that Prudence was avoiding her, and she wouldn’t be able to explain that either. If she told Cate the truth, he might not believe her. If he asked Artemis, she’d deny all malice. Prudence could only hope that either Artemis did leave, or she showed her true colors soon.

They strolled back to the house hand in hand, talking of changes they might make. Without saying it, they agreed that there could be no hasty alterations, but it was pleasant to discuss some less orderly gardens and the possibility of climbing plants to soften the walls of the house, especially as they were talking of their home. This wasn’t the home either of them had expected, but it was theirs to shape.

All the time, Prudence was thinking of the approaching night. It was like an anticipated feast. Their true wedding night.

How early could they retire?

Not immediately, for when they entered the house, he said, “I must go and visit Mother. I’d rather let her stew, but I’m at fault for marrying out of hand.”

Prudence suppressed her less worthy reactions. “I hope you can ease her mind. I hope to meet her soon.” As she returned to her rooms, she realized she could put the time to good use. She asked Karen, “How do I have a bath?”

“There’s a tub, milady.” The maid went into the dressing room and opened a cupboard in the wall to pull out a small wooden tub. Susan had a larger one made of enameled tin, and Prudence was surprised Artemis had made do with this, but she reminded herself that not long ago such a tub would have been pure luxury, especially with servants to carry up buckets and buckets of hot water.

She was soon sitting in water at just the right temperature, washing herself thoroughly, relaxed even about her nakedness. Karen seemed to make nothing of it, and she was necessary to manage the extra jugs of hot and cold water.

Such delightful luxury. Even when she was clean, Prudence sat back, playing her hands in the water and thinking dreamily of the best parts of the day. Being with Cate. Especially being alone with Cate. And the promise of the night. She wasn’t quite clear what it all involved, but she knew she wanted it. Cate’s kisses and touches had taught her of delights to come.

“Begging yer pardon, milady, but if you don’t get out soon you’ll wrinkle.”

Prudence stood so Karen could rinse her off, and the rinse water was cool enough to make her shiver. All the same, she felt wonderful.

She dried herself with the large, soft towel; then, as the sun was going down, she put on the lovely nightdress with her woolen robe over it. She sat to comb out her hair again, hoping Cate would come in.

Alas, he didn’t. Was his mother keeping him, jealous of his other interests?

What to do with her hair? Normally, she wore it in a plait at night, but she suspected that Cate would like it loose.

She liked his hair loose.

She liked him naked. That was a shameful confession, even in the secret parts of her mind, but she did. She liked what she’d seen of his hard, scarred body and hoped to see more of it, soon.

Last night he’d worn a nightshirt. Was that the way of it? Instinct said no, as had some pictures Draydale had shown her. He’d had a way of suggesting things without going completely beyond the pale. As she’d confessed her knowledge of classics, a book on classical art had not seemed outrageous, but some of the illustrations were, and some of his comments even more so.

They’d spoken of the East India trade, and he’d brought her a book about India, insisting that they look through it together. When she’d turned away from some illustrations of carvings, he’d chided her, saying they only depicted marital matters that they’d soon enjoy. The people in the pictures had been naked, and the men had been extraordinarily formed. Draydale had murmured that she’d soon find he could compare.