Carla Kelly (22 page)

“Works every time,” David commented, then looked at Susan, apology in his eyes. “I’m going to stay here and see what else needs to be done. Take the gig, Suzie. Tom will unhitch it for you.” He wiped his hands, then put them around her waist. “You’ll have to tell Lady Bushnell the glad tidings.”

“But when . . .”

“As soon as I can, love.” With a look to make sure that Owen was staring at the lambs, he kissed her with all the fervor of that first kiss in the barnyard. “Make me a warm spot in bed.”

***

Cora Skerlong’s stodgy suitor had taken her and Mrs. Skerlong to the village, so there was only Lady Bushnell to tell, and she took the news with equanimity and obvious pleasure, once she had satisfied herself that Susan had made no sacrifice. She patted the side of her bed and took Susan’s hands in hers.

“I imagine that all the Hamptons have risen as one to tell you what a goose you are.”

Susan nodded, feeling wary.

“Then you don’t need that from me, too, my dear,” Lady Bushnell said briskly. “I am most grateful that you have convinced my daughter-in-law that I am not suffering from any neglect that will reflect on her. She can be positively frightful at times.”

“You should really thank Colonel March,” Susan said. “It was he who convinced Lady Bushnell and paid for the special license.”

“A man of sense,” she agreed, her eyes merry. “Charlie once told me that he thought Edwin March should have commanded the regiment.”

And so he should have, Susan thought, remembering with a chill the desperate letter from New Orleans. “In a married state, the colonel and Lady Bushnell deem us worthy to keep you from the cocoon of the family estate,” she assured the widow. She looked down at her hands then, suddenly shy. “David thinks it best that he move into the house with me.”

“So do I,” Lady Bushnell said. She patted Susan’s hand. “Only think how convenient this will make our trip to Waterloo this summer! I own I was wondering how we were going to do it.”

“Oh, Lady Bushnell, I don’t think . . .” Susan began.

Lady Bushnell put her finger to Susan’s lips. “Hush, child! This will appear altogether more sanguine to you in the morning, after a good night with the bailiff.”

“As to that, I believe the sheep have his attention tonight,” Susan said in an agony of embarrassment.

“I doubt it,” the widow replied briskly. “Get yourself ready for bed, then bring us some tea.” She smiled at Susan, shedding the years. “It appears to me that you could use some advice.”

What I need is courage, Susan thought as she poured hot water from the Rumford, took it to the laundry room, and washed herself thoroughly. She smiled. And someone to scrub
my
back. She reached for the cold water bucket to douse her warmth, gasping at the change in temperature, wondering at her own eagerness for the bailiff, felt even through her nervousness. The wretched Professor Fowler says that all maidens are reticent, and only surrender—oh, what nonsensical phrase did he use—ah, “that pristine prize most precious”—silly twaddle—with the greatest reluctance. She dried herself until she tingled, then put on nightgown and robe. “I think, Professor Fowler, that your wife is to be pitied,” she said out loud as she prepared the tea tray and went back upstairs, her bare feet quiet on the stairs.

Lady Bushnell was dozing, and Susan almost set down the tray and left the room. No, I need some advice, she decided as she clattered the cups in their saucers and was rewarded with one eye, then two, staring at her.

“Well, pour it and sit down,” said the dowager. “First I suppose you should get me those dratted medicaments from the bureau that the doctor insists on dosing me with. I assure him I have never felt better, and he becomes almost rude in reply.”

“You cannot fool him, Lady Bushnell.”

She handed Lady Bushnell the glass of water with powders dissolved in it. She drank it and made a face. “I pay him enough to overlook my occasional nastiness, if I will overlook his,” she retorted. “Sit down now, and tell me what you need to know.”

Susan was silent, not knowing where to begin.

“Do you need to know
everything
?” Lady Bushnell asked finally. “What is the matter with modern youth?”

“Oh, no!” Susan assured her. “What I mean is, I understand the . . . the fundamentals. What I don’t understand . . . what I want to know . . . oh, Lady Bushnell, is it
fun
?”

Lady Bushnell smiled, and motioned for Susan to fluff her pillows. “Trust your Aunt Louisa to scare you to death! No wonder her own daughters are so pasty-looking.” She snorted and settled herself lower in the pillows. “I don’t suppose any of their husbands will ever see them even by candlelight with their clothes off!” She reflected on that a moment. “Not that anyone would want to, I think.”

“That’s all right, then?” Susan asked. “I mean, I was wondering how . . .”

Lady Bushnell reached up and touched Susan’s cheek. “My dear, it is vastly fun and impossible to overrate. If you’re scared silly now, that will change.”

“Well, not precisely scared silly, my lady,” Susan argued.

“Then you are more sensible than I was!” The widow laughed out loud. “On our wedding night, I locked myself in the dressing room and refused to come out.”

“I don’t think I will go that far,” Susan said.

“I didn’t think so! And there was my husband, pounding on the door and saying, ‘Lydia, I am a major!’ over and over!” She laughed, then wiped her eyes. “Dear me, but that is a memory.”

“You came out finally?” Susan asked.

“No, actually,” Lady Bushnell continued, the merriment welling up in her again. “He took the door off the hinges and then just sat there on the floor and laughed until I thought he would perish from want of breath. I cried a little more, got the hiccups, and he held my nose and made me sip porter by the teaspoon until they stopped.”

“And then?” Susan prompted.

Lady Bushnell regarded her with bright eyes. “He consoled me most successfully.”

“I suppose you will not tell me any more now,” Susan teased. She gently took out one of the pillows behind Lady Bushnell’s head, and smoothed her hair back until it was tucked under her sleeping cap again. “You will tell me I must find out for myself.”

“Of course, my dear,” the widow said as her eyes closed. “You will have your own stories to tuck away in your memory.” She opened her eyes. “Do you know, Susan, I think you and I should write down my life story.”

“Including the major, hiccups, and hinges?” she asked.

“Perhaps not everything,” she said, her voice drowsy now as the powders took effect.

“Tell me one thing, Lady Bushnell, and then I will know enough,” Susan said after a moment’s hesitation. “The first time, does it . . .”

“Hurt, my dear?” Lady Bushnell opened her eyes and motioned for Susan to sit beside her on the bed again. “Let me answer you this way by telling you something about David Wiggins.”

She did as Lady Bushnell directed. “I suppose you will tell me now that Sergeant Wiggins was the regimental Don Juan.”

“Far from it! As far as I knew, he was completely loyal to Jesusa.” Lady Bushnell took Susan by the hand. “What I am telling you has nothing to do with his conjugal abilities. How would I know? But I do know this about him: I cannot recall a time, except just before or after battle, when he did not help Jesusa draw water, or gather wood. He was a sergeant! He could have delegated such homely tasks, or left them to her entirely, as other men, but he did not.”

Susan looked down at her wedding ring and turned it thoughtfully on her finger. “I think I understand what you are telling me.” She looked at Lady Bushnell, done with reticence. “He will use me kindly.”

“I am certain of it. I must say that it gives me some satisfaction to think that, all Hamptons aside, you just might be the luckiest woman in England.” She patted Susan’s hand, then released it. “Go get some sleep now! When the sergeant decides that the sheep will keep, you’ll be busy enough.”

It was food for thought, and consoling enough to suit her. She went thoughtfully to her room after hearing the Skerlongs return home and going downstairs to tell them of her marriage. She finished her commentary in a room absolutely silent, asked the dumbstruck housekeeper to leave the back door unlocked for the bailiff, and hurried upstairs with a grin on her face.

Lady Bushnell was right; Susan found it much easier to sleep this time. After a night of no sleep, and the discomforts of the mail coach, she gave herself up to the mattress without a qualm. She woke up once in the early hours and patted the space beside her, but there was still no bailiff. “Damn the sheep, anyway,” she murmured before closing her eyes again.

***

He came to bed when the sun was making preliminary motions to rise, and the room was just lightly pinked with early dawn. Sunk down as deep in sleep as she was, he did not startle her. He sat in the chair by the cold hearth, regarding her as he eased his feet out of his boots with a sigh. She came to life gradually, her drowsy eyes moving from his stockinged feet to his stubbled face, to his lively eyes.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Mmmm,” she replied. Some fussbudget in the back of her brain was telling her to pull down her nightgown, because, after all, who was this strange man with morning stubble? The more alert section of her brain—the one that seemed to be speeding up her heartbeat and breathing—was reminding her that she was married now, and wasn’t that a fortunate thing, especially since she was pulling back the covers to welcome him into her warmth?

“Mrs. Wiggins, you are a sight to behold.”

Still webbed in the fuddle of sleep, she looked over her shoulder for Mrs. Wiggins, then reddened and came more awake. “Oh . . . me,” she said, feeling stupid and randy at the same time.

He grinned and took off his clothes. Her eyes widened, but she gulped and made room for him in the bed. He sank down with a sigh, putting his arm out to gather her in. He smelled quite strongly of sheep, but the odor, she was discovering, was far from unpleasant. After the tiniest hesitation, she moved into the space he created, so close to his heart, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand on his bare chest.

He was content to stretch out and let go of the long night, quiet, peaceful—boneless, almost—beside her. His feet were cold on her bare legs, but not for long. Gradually her own warmth took off his chill, and he moved his feet away.

If she had thought to be afraid of the bailiff, there wasn’t any reason. He took her hand, kissed her fingers, and moved it lower until her eyes grew wide again. “My stars,” she breathed. “I didn’t think you would be so . . .” she paused, her fingers gentle.

“Large?” he asked, grinning at her.

“No. Soft. But not precisely soft,” she amended, discovering trouble forming words as he allowed her to explore him. She gave up the attempt at speech and kissed him instead. She thought to protest his whiskers as he kissed her, then as he nuzzled her neck and breasts she couldn’t think why it had mattered, and then she couldn’t think at all, beyond the fact that she was on her back now, and she didn’t want to be anywhere else in the galaxy.

She followed his advice, softly whispered in a voice not really like his own, trusting him with all her heart. She relaxed as much as she could, wincing only slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, then devoting herself to his rhythm, which became hers, too. If there was anyone or anything else in the world except the two of them, she didn’t know of it. The joy she felt was beyond any contentment a hundred Lady Bushnells could have explained. Finally his whole body relaxed on hers, and no matter how heavy he felt, she knew she could sustain him forever.

He raised up finally to look at her out of focus, eye to eye, nose to nose, completely part of her. When he lay beside her again with another sigh, she felt a loss all out of proportion to her previous fears. She couldn’t explain why, but she had wanted him to continue his motions.

He stretched out his arm to pull her in close again, and she moved without hesitation this time, resting her legs on his. “I had all the fun this time,” he said into her ear, tugging on the lobe with his teeth, which caused her eyes to roll back in her head, an anatomical response she had never been aware of before. “We’ll remedy that with practice.” He kissed her cheek and caressed her breast, then stopped and whispered, “All this lanolin, Suzie, and your chest will be so oily you’ll slide right out of your shift.”

“I think I already did,” she whispered back, smiling when he laughed and continued his efforts. In a few moments, his hand stopped, and he slept, warm and heavy and totally to her liking. She dozed a few more minutes herself, then carefully eased herself out from under his hand.

She hunted around on hands and knees until she found her nightgown by the door, where the bailiff had tossed it. She put it on again and thought about adding coal to the fire, but it was more exertion than she wanted just then. She sat in the chair instead, surrounded by the clothes he had dropped, wondering idly if he was inclined ordinarily to pick up his clothes or leave them strewn about. She drew her legs up close to her body, pleased to know there was no pain at all, only a little tightening of muscles unused to a husband.

She watched the bailiff, certain there was no handsomer slumbering man in all the British Isles. The prominent lines of his face, so firmly Welsh, seemed to loosen as he abandoned himself without a struggle to sleep. No matter how minuscule her experience in these matters, she knew she had some function in furnishing the depth of the rest he now enjoyed. I suppose I share that honor with sheep, she thought with a smile, and a late night’s work. She stood up and stretched. But he will not be looking for sheep when he wakes up, she considered, flexing her fingers over her head. I think I will find some warm water. I wonder if Lady Bushnell will mind terribly if I am late to piano practice this morning?

Chapter Eighteen

Lady Bushnell did not seem to mind that Susan missed piano practice entirely that morning when she rushed in, breathless, to apologize, and dashed out again. Likewise, Mrs. Skerlong made no comment at Susan’s tiptoed trips to the Rumford for warm water. She merely looked up from her knitting and managed a long, slow wink that set Susan giggling like a schoolroom miss. On Susan’s last trip to the kitchen before lunch, the housekeeper went so far as to suggest to her that tomorrow would be a fine day to wash sheets, if she wished to bring hers down. When Susan blushed and nodded, she offered some whispered advice on how to deal with sheets in future that seemed practical. Susan went back upstairs thoughtfully, serene in the confederacy of women.

With some reluctance, the bailiff left for the sheepfold after lunch. She decided it would be easier to send him on his way sooner if she could quickly break him of the habit of pulling her up close in such a tight embrace and keeping her there until she started to feel peevish and put her hands places Professor Fowler would have gasped over. It’s your fault this time, she thought as she contemplated another trip downstairs and resolved to get a larger water can for their room. He surprised her by going for water himself, and coming back, his face red.

“Mrs. Skerlong has a way of looking at me,” he complained. He smiled to himself as he squeezed out the cloth and tossed it to her. “Wash yourself this time. That may be part of my problem.”

And so it was later in the afternoon before she sidled into Lady Bushnell’s room and seated herself to continue her enlargement of the letters. She wrote in silence, deeply aware of Lady Bushnell’s eyes on her as the widow rested in her chair close by. When she finally looked up, their eyes met and they both burst into laughter.

“Mrs. Wiggins, I take it that no one had to remove any hinges this morning?” the widow said as she dabbed at her eyes.

“Not even one, Lady Bushnell,” Susan said. She reached out impulsively and touched the woman’s face. “You were quite right about David.”

“I thought so,” she returned her gaze to the window. She leaned forward, her attention on the view as she motioned Susan over. “My far vision is better, Susan, but still I wonder: is that your bailiff on the near slope?”

Susan stood behind the widow’s chair. “Yes,” she said. Oh, Lady Bushnell, I could spot him two counties over, I know I could, she thought. She felt peevish again, and restless, even though he was at least a hectare away. “Oh, and look, I think he is going to direct the plowing.”

The widow watched, her lips twitching with amusement. “A busy man is our bailiff. He plows all morning
and
all afternoon!”

They laughed together, Susan’s hand on Lady Bushnell’s shoulder. “I think it is the Waterloo wheat, my lady,” she said, her voice soft. “I think he is going to plant it where you can see it from your window.” I did not think it was possible to love you any more, my dear bailiff, she thought, but I do now. “He’s going to share it with us.”

“He is also going to take us to Belgium this summer,” Lady Bushnell said briskly. “Help me up, Susan.”

She did, knowing she should say something about Lady Bushnell’s dreams, but was unable to comment beyond, “Oh, Lady Bushnell,” which only earned her a sour look.

Lady Bushnell directed her to the bureau, where she leaned against her and rummaged in the top drawer. “Susan, there is another, older packet of letters there. To the left. Under those handkerchiefs, I think. Ah, yes. Take them out. You can transcribe them later. And beside them, that little box. Help me to bed now.”

She did as she was asked, shocked but silent at the pain on Lady Bushnell’s face from so little exertion, and the way her hands trembled as she guided her carefully to the bed. She helped her into bed, cringing almost at the tremendous effort Lady Bushnell made to stop the trembling, and then chagrined at the disgust on the widow’s face at her own weakness. She held up her shaking hands to Susan, staring at them as though they were not her own.

“Susan, I have wrestled with army horses and sawed on more reins than your bailiff ever will, and look how they tremble now! I despise old age.”

She closed her eyes in exhaustion, and Susan hurried back to the bureau for the doctor’s powders. Lady Bushnell offered no objection this time as Susan raised her head so she could drink the potion. She lay silent, visibly gathering her strength about her as Susan knelt by the bed and leaned her cheek on the woman’s hand.

She moved her hand finally, and patted Susan, her touch, in its own way, as gentle as the bailiff’s. “There, pet, did I worry you?”

Susan nodded, deeply moved at the endearment. She put her forehead against the coverlet for a moment, overwhelmed at the love she felt for Lady Bushnell, too. I wonder if it is possible to die from as much love as I have had this day, she thought. I sincerely hope not.

She opened her eyes on the velvet box by Lady Bushnell’s hand. Around the clasp, the nap of the green fabric was worn with much opening and closing. She rested her elbows on the bed and picked up the slender box, looking at Lady Bushnell with a question in her eyes.

“Open it, my dear. I think your bailiff has one of these, too.”

She did as she was bid, to look upon a circle of silver elegant in its austerity, with the profile of the Regent. She pushed the token around with her finger, turning it over to see seated Victory, Waterloo, and the date. She looked at Lady Bushnell again.

“It is a Waterloo medal, Susan, given to all participants, officers and men alike,” said the widow, her eyes still faded from heart pain, but less so than only a moment ago.

“Whose is this?” she asked, fingering the dark red ribbon the color of blood, edged in blue.

“This is Charles’s medal,” she said softly. “His widow was in Ireland, visiting her grandparents’ estate, when it was sent to Bushnell, and then forwarded to me here by mistake. I should have returned it, of course, but I did not.” She took the medal from its case and held it close to her eyes. “I like to look at it, but, Susan, I also wonder if Charles deserves it.”

Susan felt the familiar chill again. She got up off her knees and sat beside Lady Bushnell. “Perhaps you could return it now to your daughter-in-law?”

“I could,” she agreed. “Mostly I want to go to Belgium, look the bailiff in the eye, and finally get the truth from him about that day at Waterloo. I do not believe he is telling me everything.”

***

“I’ve told her all I’m ever going to tell anyone about Charlie and Waterloo,” the bailiff commented that evening as he weighed out the Waterloo wheat in the succession house and she sat at his drafting table, watching him.

“Are you being fair?” she asked, soaking in the beauty of his face. “She is used to honest dealing, and didn’t you promise her you would never lie again?”

He sat back on his heels, stroking the mother cat who wove herself around him. “I also promised a broken hulk of a man at the bottom of a gorge that I would take care of her, no matter what, my love. I don’t think he meant for me to break her heart again. Now you tell me what to do.”

She was silent, looking down the row of boxes in front of her. The bailiff had uprooted the experimental wheat, and only the bare soil remained, ready to receive the next strain. We tried so hard not to let her daughter-in-law kill her with kindness, but I wonder, are we being any fairer? she reflected.

The bailiff set down the cat and came to the drafting table, draping his arm over her shoulder. “What? I know you mean to say something. Say it, please.”

She leaned back against him. “Perhaps Lady Bushnell is the best judge of what she should know. He was her son, after all.”

It was his turn for long silence. He kissed her neck finally with a peremptory smack then went back to the wheat in the sack. “We’ll have to differ in our opinion, then, Suzie. I choose not to tell her, and I hope that you will respect my wishes.”

“Of course I will,” Susan replied, getting off the stool to rescue a kitten determined to explore a grain bucket. She saved the baby teetering on the edge and returned him, squeaking, to his mother. “As a woman and, I hope, a mother someday, I will always want to know the minds and hearts of those I love,” she said, her hand on the bailiff’s head as he knelt by the sack again. “But I respect your wishes in this matter.”

He smiled up at her and poured a careful handful of the experimental grain in the leather sowing sack. When he finished, he sat back on his heels and regarded her with such animation in his eyes that she blushed and looked away, feeling again the tension so little understood yesterday, but a permanent part of her emotions today.

“I sent Tom the cowman to stay with Ben and Owen tonight,” he said as he stood up and hung the sowing sack on a hook out of the reach of any mice. “That means I have to get up early and milk, and begin the sowing.”

“And? And?” she teased.

“And I thought you wouldn’t mind if I sowed a little tonight,” he concluded, taking her by the hand and leading her from the succession house. “Or a lot.” He kissed her then, and she wondered if they would even make it as far as the first-floor landing, if they even got as far as the house.

“Mrs. Skerlong told me once that farmers. don’t really have time for this sort of thing in spring,” she murmured as he hurried her up the stairs.

He pulled her into their bedroom and started on his buttons. “I’ll have you know that old Lord Bushnell himself once complimented me on my organizational skills. Don’t just stand there laughing at me, Suzie. Take off something!”

She decided in May that Mrs. Skerlong, estimable woman in so many ways, was certainly wrong about farmers and wives in spring. She also discovered that the odor of lanolin had the curious effect of making her look about for the bailiff or start counting the hours until they could decently excuse themselves for bed. It was knowledge she chose not to pass on to the bailiff. He already has enough power over me, she told herself as she rested on him after one particularly passionate interlude. I would have to be stupid to tell a sheep farmer that lanolin makes me randy.

She discovered that other things did, too, even some of the letters she was copying over now for Lady Bushnell, the little packet she had hidden away in the bureau with Charles’ Waterloo medal. They were love letters the old colonel had sent to Calcutta from Lucknow, when he was engaged in the field and she was awaiting the birth of their son from the safety of the city. While Lady Bushnell dozed in her bed—as she did more and more now—Susan sat at the desk by the open window, fanned herself, and told herself she was ridiculous to squirm over the colonel’s frank expressions of longings for his wife. Just copy it, Susan, she told herself.

She finished two letters in her large, careful printing, made sure Lady Bushnell was soundly asleep, and went in search of the bailiff. He was never hard to find, and never too difficult to distract, either. Other than a simple admonition to lock the door of the succession house, and then the calm observation, twenty minutes later, that they must have scared the kittens, he was eager to let her have her way. “Just as long as you leave me to worry over the major decisions, Suzie, I am ever so obliging,” he told her as he helped her back into her dress and did up the buttons.

“And what constitutes a major decision?” she asked, contented enough now to return to the copying of letters.

“Oh, whether we go to war with the United States over tariffs, or, let me think, whether I’ll make a profit on this year’s wool clip. I leave the rest to you.”

He didn’t, of course. There were times when he came in search of her, giving Lady Bushnell such flimsy excuses that Susan could only roll her eyes and look everywhere but at her employer. Lady Bushnell’s earlier comments to the contrary, he was never gentle with her then. She couldn’t have cared less. Her own fervor amazed her, and she had to agree with the bailiff when he had said after their first night together that all they needed was practice, and lots of it.

She discovered that she also treasured those times when they just strolled the hillside in the evening to stand among the Waterloo wheat. Being with the bailiff, in bed or out of it, was its own reward. If she could have taken out her heart and handed it to him, she would have.

“Why did you plant the wheat on a slope?” she asked one evening before the sun went down as they stood in their usual spot on the hillside.

“It’s how I remember it, Suzie, sloping like that to Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte,” he said, squatting in the field to run a practiced hand over the grain, measuring its height. “Only after that first night when we dug in, and it rained so hard the field was a trampled mess.” He shook his head as though trying to clear his brain of the memory. “Then at the end of that endless day, it didn’t look like a field at all, but a cemetery where the ground had been turned over and all the corpses flung out on top.” He smiled up at her, something of embarrassment in his expression. “I guess I want to see it this way, and not muddy and bloody.” He shrugged and looked over the field toward the manor house. “I think every soldier has his way of dealing with battle; this is mine.”

Tears came to her eyes, and she sniffed them back.

“Don’t cry, Suzie. If it’ll make you feel better, I also look at this field and think how lucky I am to be a steward over my Waterloo wheat. It’s good grain, and it will make us a seed farm, someday,” he said as he tugged her down to sit beside him. She leaned against his shoulder, secure in the knowledge that she was the most fortunate woman in the British Isles.

It was easy then to tell him of her increasing fears for Lady Bushnell. She had never been around someone dying before, but she knew in her heart that Lady Bushnell was facing death, and soon. Dr. Pym never told her. He came three times a week, full of town gossip and good cheer and more potions that Lady Bushnell only shook her head over. “My lady, we’ll see you well and hearty before harvest,” he said, concluding his most recent visit.

When he closed the door behind him, all bay rum and bluff humor, Lady Bushnell only looked at Susan, and they both knew.