A Companion for Life (2 page)

Penryth took
his pipe out of his mouth and glanced up as the bracket clock
struck the twenty-third hour of the day. Exhaling a cloud of
tobacco smoke, his eyes refocused on the flames in the grate as he
settled deeper in his chair. His red silk dressing gown gaped over
his thighs exposing his nightshirt and naked hairy legs propped up
on the fender. He could hear someone knocking on the front door. It
was probably William returning from another card party or dance
attended by his beloved Grace. The boy couldn’t see past the girl’s
lovely face and delicate curves and there was no point trying to
disillusion him. Penryth himself hadn’t believed unkind reports
about Rosamund Leigh until he’d read in the paper that his fiancé
had married Mr Philips, the great nephew and heir to the Duke of
Carlisle by special license. She could only have married the silent
fat-bellied drunk for his prospective title; it wasn’t for his
conversation or his looks.

On hearing the
ninety-three year old Duke of Carlisle had married his nurse and
begot a son Penryth had sent the Duke his compliments along with a
Lordly teething toy. Mrs Philip’s hope of becoming a Duchess was
fading along with her beauty. There was no point wishing his nephew
had fallen in love with some other woman’s daughter. William was in
love with Grace Philips and unless she jilted him for an aging cad
with a title the two families would be joined forever in a union
sure to prove unhappy. Two years stretched out like a desert that
had to be crossed on foot. Until William married the girl, Penryth
would have to accompany William into that hellish pit at least once
a week. He could only hope he’d always find an excuse not to attend
another family dinner. As if being trapped for two hours next to
Rosamund wasn’t hellish enough, the house had an unpleasant
atmosphere as if the walls had become saturated with the noxious
personalities living within them. That dining room deep in shadows
had made him feel momentarily transported to Hades. He shivered as
he remembered icy chills running over his scalp as empty dark
corners seemed to writhe with movement. He could easily believe
that the Philips’ house was haunted, if not by the dead then by the
living.

He sucked on
his pipe and exhaled another lung full of smoke as he remembered
being watched by the sad creature with orange frizzy hair. Lily
Leigh had been a pretty girl who’d always greeted him with an
adoring shy smile, her eyes lighting up with pleasure at his
smallest kindness. It was difficult to imagine the fat adult cheeks
pinching into a smile. Her brown eyes looked as if all happiness
had been scoured from her soul. She was clearly in need of
deliverance, but he didn’t have any positions open that might suit
her upbringing and even if he did, making her his servant meant
she’d be a part of his life. Those eyes cut from autumn leaves
would worship him and he’d soon give in to a growing urge to make
her smile. No, he couldn’t hire her; if he made her smile he’d have
to touch her. If he touched her she’d end up in his arms and then
he’d end up proving himself a cad. That left marriage, but marriage
was too large to be an act of kindness and he didn’t want a wife. A
wife meant children and children meant expense and worry. In two
years his nephew would be legally independent and he’d be free once
again. As if to mock his resolve to die a bachelor his mind
conjured up a pleasant image of the plump woman lying in his arms
with that shy grateful smile; her naked skin draped with an
abundance of orange hair. The thought caused the strange warmth in
his chest to simmer his blood to a pleasurable boil. Lily was one
of those rare souls who’d be grateful for everything; she’d never
take his slightest kindness for granted. She’d be an exceedingly
pleasant companion… A knock on the door pulled his thoughts out of
the fire. “Yes?”

The door opened
and closed. “Master Bowen, there’s a lady who wishes to speak with
you about a private matter. I’ve told her you’re indisposed, but
she’s sat down and refuses to leave until she’s seen you. I’d put
her out the door, but she’s too heavy to move. She says her name is
Lily…that you’ll know who she is. Do you wish to receive her?”

Penryth inhaled
a lungful of sweet tobacco as his lips curled in a cynical smile.
He’d wager his fortune poor Lily was on an errand for her scheming
sister. “Bring her up.” Penryth listened to his servant return with
an extra pair of footsteps. Taking his feet off the fender Penryth
stood making sure his robe covered his nightshirt as the servant
knocked. “Come.” With his back to the fire he watched the deeply
hooded woman cautiously inch into the room as if she was expecting
to be ravished. “Close the door Jones. Do you wish to sit Miss
Leigh?” The hooded cloak inched further into the room, but stayed
in the shadows. The faceless cloak seemed to forget her mission as
she looked around the room and then finally in the direction of the
owner.

“Forgive my
state of undress. I wasn’t expecting company.”

The hood
lowered as if mentioning his lack of formal attire had embarrassed
her. “My sister, Mrs Philips, sent me to deliver a message.”

“What has sweet
Rosamund cooked up this time?”

“She…if you
allow Grace and Mr Bowen to wed in a week and a half she’ll…”

“She’ll
what?”

“She’ll be your
mistress.”

The hood bowed
further missing Penryth’s amused smile. “I wasn’t good enough to
wed, but I’m good enough to bed. Should I be flattered or
insulted?”

The cloak
inched closer; her hands outstretched like a beggar. “Please Mr
Bowen…won’t you change your mind and allow the two young people to
marry? Rosamund is desperate to make Grace happy. She’ll do
anything you ask if you’ll only give your consent.”

“And what do
you get for arranging this indelicacy?”

“Nothing…Rosamund is still an attractive woman and…and…”

“And you sound
like you’re reciting a bad poem.”

“Please…I’m
begging you…”

“What has she
promised you, a day off? A new hat?”

“No,
nothing…please Mr Bowen…”

“Miss Leigh, I
wouldn’t bed your sister if it would save me from the hangman. You
may tell sweet Rosamund that. Feel free to embellish…” His hooded
visitor hobbled into the firelight. She hadn’t hobbled when he
watched her leave the dining room three days before. “Have you hurt
your leg?”

“It’s
nothing…please Mr Bowen, consider Rosamund’s offer…I beg you…”

“Miss Leigh;
begging makes me uncomfortable.” The woman’s outstretched arms
folded underneath her cloak as she bowed her head in defeat and
sobbed. “Miss Leigh, it’s not the end of the world. Your spoilt
niece will doubtless jilt my nephew and entrap some other fool. How
could that be a bad thing?” Penryth stood there for several minutes
waiting for her sobs to ebb. “Come now…tears won’t change my mind
any more than begging.” Fearing he’d be standing there all night he
reached out a hand to give her a comforting squeeze on the arm. A
hiss of pain accompanied the woman cringing away from his hand.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing…”
There was too much despair in the word for it to be true.

Penryth jerked
off her hood to see her eyes and froze in horror. Her pretty fat
face was covered in bruises and fresh scars that looked
suspiciously like fingernails etched into the flesh around two wet
eyes ringed by purple and yellow bruises. Her lips were swollen and
cut. “Hell’s teeth! Who did this to you? Did Mr Philips do
this?”

Her battered
lips carefully parted as she stared at the floor. “It’s
nothing…”

“Will there be
more of this nothing if you don’t bring back good tidings?” Her
sobs was all he needed to know. “Don’t cry Miss Leigh, I’ve change
my mind. Tell sweet Rosamund to meet me in St Martin in the Fields
tomorrow at two. Tell her to wait for me as I might be late
arranging a suitable place to consummate our rendezvous.” This good
news seemed to have an averse affect on the woman who cried harder.
“Will you be at home all day tomorrow?”

Brown eyes
looked up at him in confusion. “Yes.”

“Good. Now what
are you going to tell Rosamund?”

“You’ll meet
her at St Martin in the Fields at…at two and to wait because you’re
arranging things.”

“That’s close
enough. Good night Miss Leigh.”

“Good night Mr
Bowen…thank you…”

“It’s nothing.”
She pulled her hood back over her face and hobbled out of the room
without looking back. As soon as he heard the front door close he
emptied his pipe into the fire. “Jones!”

His urgent tone
brought the man running into the room. “Yes Master Bowen?”

“Tell your good
wife to prepare a special dinner tomorrow for two. I hope to sit
down by three. Tell her to use the money she keeps in the cow
creamer if she doesn’t have enough and I’ll reimburse her. I wish
to have soup and
pâté
sandwiches with the crusts removed from the bread. Boiled eggs
would be good, but no fish, onions, turnips, cabbage or pickles.
For dessert a soft cheese, stewed apples and perhaps a sponge…”

“Is Master
William celebrating his nuptials?”

“No, I’m dining
with a lady.”

“A lady?”

“Don’t look so
surprised Jones. Sometimes a man needs a little female
company.”

“As you say
Sir…shall I inform Mrs Jones to be dressed to help the lady?”

“If the lady
needs any help I’m sure I’ll manage. Wake me at seven. I’m going to
have a busy morning.”

“Very good
Sir…”

“Oh and ask Mrs
Jones to send one of the maids first thing in the morning to buy
whatever greenery or flowers are on offer. I want a vase put in the
room next to mine; something cheerful. And ask Mrs Jones to ensure
there’s every convenience a lady might require.”

“Very good
Sir.” The servant stared in shock as his master swaggered off to
bed humming a haunting tune. Penryth Bowen had sworn on numerous
occasions that he’d rather be hanged then bring home one of his
lovers. He declared himself a confirmed bachelor who preferred to
keep his home free of interfering ladies who thought that because
he enjoyed their company he’d welcome their opinion on which
pattern to order for his new china or what colour would best
refresh his sitting room. Jones rushed to put out the fire and ran
to inform his wife that Master Bowen had not only changed his mind,
but that he was humming the Welsh song, ‘Shepherding the White
Wheat’. That could mean only one thing; the master was in love.

The news that
Mr Bowen had accepted Rosamund’s offer filled the Philips’ house
with screams of delight. Grace was happy knowing she’d be married
before Helen. Rosamund was relieved to hear Grace proclaim her the
best mother in the world while the younger children smiled knowing
their mother’s happiness would translate into sweets and toys. Even
Mr Philips paused in the middle of his latest bottle to raise a
cheer to the Welshman before exclaiming that he hoped his wife had
finally found a lover who’d inspire her to run away and leave him
in peace. The older children laughed while Lily hobbled away
unnoticed.

The next
morning, pale autumn light washed plain white walls with an icy
chill as Lily lay on her bed staring at the ceiling wishing she’d
died. Pain imprinted every part of her body, but was strangely
concentrated in her heart. Her face looked so gruesome Rosamund had
ordered her to remain in her room for two weeks for fear of causing
talk. For two glorious weeks Lily could pretend she was a novice
preparing to take the veil. Of course she’d be rescued at the last
minute by Mr Bowen, but that was a silly fantasy. She couldn’t be
nun because she wasn’t Catholic.

No, in reality
she’d lie in her cold room with an empty stomach because the
servants would forget to bring her food. Mr Bowen was hardly going
to appear at her door with a cake under his arm. The thought made
her laugh, which caused a symphony of pain bringing her thoughts
back to her sister. It couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes since
Rosamund’s carriage had carried her away to St Martin in the
Fields. It wouldn’t be long… Lily’s eyes gushed at the thought of
her sister lying in Mr Bowen’s arms. Before leaving Rosamund had
come to her room and promised to return and relate her sordid
adventure in unseemly detail. Lily didn’t have to pretend to be
jealous to save herself from another beating.

The thought of
Rosamund seeing Mr Bowen in his red dressing gown made Lily feel
sick. She didn’t want any other woman to see him looking like he’d
just slayed a dragon. The fact he was only bedding Rosamund so Lily
wouldn’t be pummelled gave her little comfort. One minute she
thanked God that the man’s kindness had spared her more pain. The
next minute she blamed God for not letting her die. If she’d died
Mr Bowen wouldn’t have changed his mind and her sister’s scheme
would have withered. Grace would have jilted William and William
would have been saved for a girl with a heart. Because she was
alive, countless lives would be ruined. If only she’d died, but it
was too late.

The sound of a
muffled conversation outside her door brought her thoughts sharply
back to food. Had the servants remembered to bring her a tray? It
was a miracle. The knock on the door made her stomach growl in
relief as she sat up in bed. “Yes?”

The door opened
and a masculine head of brown hair peered into the room. “Ah Miss
Leigh, you’re still alive. Good.” She stared wide eyed as Mr Bowen
closed the door behind him. “It’s rather cold in here; I can see my
breath. I hope you prefer a warmer house. If I had to choose
between coal and food I’d be a very thin man.”

The wool
bedding had pressed down all night on her numerous injuries like a
thick oak door. Lily was so numb she could barely feel the cold as
she lay uncovered in her worn flannel gown. “Mr Bowen? What are you
doing here?”