The Wagered Wife (16 page)

He drew back and gazed into her eyes. He saw confusion and vulnerability in their depths. “I . . . I think we must talk,” he said.

“Yes.” He heard the apprehension she seemed to be trying to hide from him. “Yes. We do. Tomorrow. After you have seen what we have done here at Atherton. Then we can dis-cuss . . . everything.”

She stepped away, opened her door, and slipped inside. Trevor stood before the closed door, confused. Angry frustration was tempered by amusement at this peculiar predicament of wanting desperately to make love with a wife he did not quite trust.

A wife who seemed willing—but was she? Did not that closed door clearly belie the passion of her kiss?

Yet what choice did she have if he wanted to assert his rights? Perhaps she had welcomed his embrace because she could not afford to reject his advances. Trevor was well aware of the sheer power every husband wielded over a wife in modern England. To keep her child, a woman would probably endure anything. Anything at all.

Deep in thought, he sought his own empty bed. But sleep was elusive.

 

 

Caitlyn had hurried into her own room and dismissed her maid as quickly as possible. Trevor's kiss upset her, but even more upsetting was her reaction to it. How could she possibly remain in charge of her own life if she could not even control her response to a simple good-night kiss?

A simple good-night kiss, was it?
her inner imp challenged.
A simple good-night kiss would not convey the deep longing, the yearning for fulfillment this one had. Oh, no, my girl. You cannot fool yourself that there was anything “simple” about this kiss at all. That kiss on his cheek was “simple.” What followed was something else altogether.

Uneasy sleep that night increased her nervousness the next morning. Anxious to show Trevor what had gone on in his absence, she had ambivalent feelings on the matter. On the one hand, she wanted his approval as a validation of her work. On the other, she feared he would usurp her position and simply take over to push the estate in a different direction and leave her out. For five years she had identified her very self and measured her worth by her not inconsiderable achievements at Atherton. Was she about to lose it all?

Caitlyn was already in the breakfast room when Trevor came down. Aunt Gertrude had sent word she was having a tray in her room this morning. Caitlyn returned his cheerful “good morning” and went back to sorting through the post as he filled his plate.

“I am looking forward to the grand tour,” he said as he sat down.

“Yes. Well. I have asked Mr. Felkins to join us to answer such of your questions as I cannot.”

She knew she was being a coward There was not a single question about Atherton she could not answer herself. She simply wanted a third party along as a buffer—not only to parry objections, but also to keep the situation impersonal.

Trevor seemed thoughtful for a moment; then he grinned. “I was looking forward to getting you off alone, but we probably should have him along. From what I saw in the ledgers in London, I must have underestimated Felkins in the past.”

Flustered, Caitlyn looked down. She wanted to scream at him that it was not Felkins he underestimated, but if she did so, she would lose that buffer. Before she could reply, Merrill announced the arrival of Mr. Felkins, who was invited to have coffee as Trevor and Caitlyn finished their breakfast.

The meal over, they found John Coachman in front with an open carriage.

“I usually take the gig,” Caitlyn said, “but as there are three of us, John will drive us.”

Trevor handed her in, and Felkins joined John on the driver's seat.

“We will visit tenant farms first,” Caitlyn explained, “and then return to the home farm.”

“All of them?” Trevor asked.

She laughed. “No, that would take far too much time. Is there a particular farm you would like to visit?”

“No-o. I think not. Wait. Yes. The Hawkins farm. I remember that Mr. Hawkins was very kind to Terrence and me when we visited Atherton as children.”

“The Hawkins farm it is.” She had raised her voice slightly for the benefit of John Coachman, who flicked the reins to set the carriage in motion.

When they arrived at the Hawkins place, Caitlyn hoped Trevor saw what she saw in the neat, whitewashed buildings, the repaired thatch of the roofs, and the profusion of bright flowers. Hawkins, his wife, three half-grown sons, and two younger daughters came to greet them when the carriage approached.

Greetings over, Trevor asked, “Where are your sheep? We saw none as we drove up.”

“I got no sheep now, sir. Taylor and Adams, they got sheep. Porter's got some, too. Me an' the boys are raisin' chickens now.”

“Chickens?” Trevor shifted a surprised glance from Caitlyn back to the farmer.

“Doin' pretty well, too. Between us and the Watsons over t'other side o' the creek, we supply eggs for most folks hereabouts. Meat, too, for lots of 'em.”

“You don't say. I see you have quite a garden, too.” Trevor thus directed everyone's attention to a large plot that looked productive and well tended.

“I have fresh green beans already,” Mrs. Hawkins said with obvious pride. “You must take some to Mrs. Perkins, ma'am.”

“I shall do so quite happily,” Caitlyn replied.

“You want I should show you around, Mr. Jeffries?” Hawkins asked. He sounded eager to display his achievements.

“Yes. Please.” Trevor jumped down from the carriage and handed Caitlyn down. “Will you join us?” he asked her.

“You go ahead. I shall stay here and talk with Lena and the girls.”

Half an hour later they were back in the carriage and on their way to other farms where the scene—with some variations—was repeated. Along the way, they passed through the village.

Trevor looked around him with apparent curiosity and wonder. “I remember this little hamlet as poor and run-down. It seems quite prosperous now. I assume there are sufficient customers for the goods we see in these windows?”

“Oh, yes.” She signaled John to stop and explained, “I promised Aunt Gertrude I would pick up some yarn for her.”

They traipsed into the mercantile shop, which sold a bit of everything.

“Ah, Mrs. Jeffries. Welcome home.” White, the tall, mustachioed proprietor greeted her. “And Mr. Jeffries. We heard you had returned from the war, sir.” The man's voice was more reserved, impersonal in greeting Caitlyn's companion.

“How do you do?” Trevor offered the man his hand.

Caitlyn obtained the yarn and completed the transaction as Mr. White chatted on. “Please tell Her Ladyship we have a bolt of nice blue print she might like,” he said. “Oh. And here's a treat for our little miss.” He tucked a peppermint stick into the package.

“Now, on to the home farm,” Caitlyn said.

They arrived at the main house via the same route they had traveled the night before, but everything was clearly visible now. Instead of stopping at the entrance, the carriage swept around the house and the outbuildings beyond.

Caitlyn was proud of the now neatly landscaped home with its extensive gardens free of encroaching weeds. There was also a large vegetable and herb garden.

“What the . . .”

She heard the surprise bordering on shock in Trevor's voice. She looked at him questioningly.

“Those are all stables!” he challenged.

“Yes. They are.” She did not understand this statement of the obvious.

“We cannot possibly require so many animals for our transportation needs.”

Confused by his reaction, she laughed nervously. “Of course not. But we manage to supply the needs of others.”

Felkins offered one of his rare observations as he turned on the driver's seat. “Our business is fairly new, sir. We are truly just getting started, but already the Jeffries Farms are gaining a good reputation.” There was a note of pride in the steward's tone.

“Mighty fine cattle,” John Coachman added.

“And out there . . . ?” Trevor waved his hand at a neatly fenced-off area.

“Our track for training the racing stock,” Caitlyn said, beginning to feel truly apprehensive about his tone.

“Jeffries Farms. It was not Cousin Algernon at all,” Trevor said to the total mystification of his wife. He turned to her. “You allowed this to happen? You turned
my
property into a horse farm?

“Well, yes. I—”

“Without consulting me? Without even bothering to find out if I wished such a thing to transpire?”

He was fairly ranting now, and his anger both surprised her and sparked her own temper. The carriage had drawn into the central stable yard, and several workers there had stopped to observe on hearing Trevor's raised voice.

“It is potentially a very profitable endeavor,” she said through clenched teeth, “but I think we should discuss this elsewhere.”

He jumped down and held his hand to aid her. She wanted to ignore his help, but knew she might fall on her face if she did so.

“Yes, madam, we shall most assuredly discuss this.” He had never sounded so stern to her before.

Trevor had been alternately impressed and confused much of the day. Clearly, it had been a stroke of genius to have Atherton's tenant farmers diversify their crops and livestock. The greater variety and cooperation brought the people together in a working, profitable interdependence. But simple farmers did not have the wherewithal to initiate such changes themselves. Families who lived hand-to-mouth could not afford the capital investment needed to make such drastic changes.

Trevor congratulated himself on not being fooled for a moment about precisely who had really orchestrated the success of these new endeavors. Caitlyn might make a great show of deferring to Mr. Felkins, but it was apparent to anyone with eyes in his head where the real authority lay. That Felkins and the individual farmers knew this, too, was obvious in the way they all waited for Caitlyn's views and suggestions.

Hardworking farmers, descendants of stubborn Anglo-Saxon forbears, might harbor some misgivings about such a role for a woman, but Trevor sensed grudging admiration and pride in them for Atherton's eccentric mistress. He also observed genuine affection for her both in the men's deference and in their wives' eagerness to share their produce and pass along gossipy tidbits to the lady of the manor.

Still—how
had
she done it? The answer was clear once they drove into those elaborate stables. The alliance between Atherton and Ratcliff was obvious. Caitlyn had not only been carrying on with the man, but apparently she had agreed to allow Atherton to become an extension of Ratcliff Farms.

Now that the truth had so clearly manifested itself, Trevor was furious.

He told himself that his anger stemmed from the fact that she had pursued the one activity he would deplore: raising blooded horses for pleasure and sport. However, he was honest enough to admit that beneath this anger was a molten stream of fury that had nothing to do with the horses.

Now as he followed his wife to the house, he saw her own flare of temper in her determined pace and her tight grip on the small packet from the mercantile shop. And in the not-so-gentle sway of her skirt as she walked. Despite the seriousness of the situation and his own anger, he had to smile in appreciation of that trim female form in front of him.

“The library,” she said tersely, charging through the kitchen and the hallway beyond. She put the packet on a hall table and removed her bonnet with abrupt gestures. Several servants looked surprised and wary. Trevor followed as she swept into the library. He closed the door firmly.

“All right,” he demanded. “I want an explanation—and a full accounting.”

She whirled around. Bright spots of anger shone on her cheeks. “And just what is it you would like explained? Why I chose to make this estate a paying proposition?
Some
one had to do so when you so willingly ignored your responsibilities.”

“ ‘Ignored my—' You go too far, madam.” He knew that any semblance of control was slipping away from him. “Having been tricked into an unsavory marriage, I could hardly be labeled irresponsible in leaving such a wife firmly established on
my
property and in control of over half my own income.”

“ ‘Unsavory—' ”

He went on, ignoring her shocked response, “The army certainly never considered me ‘irresponsible.' ”

“You did not desert the army!”

They both stilled, each seemingly aware of the dangerous territory these invectives opened.

“So that's it,” he said in a quieter tone. “Your revenge was this horse farm.”

She, too, calmed down. “Revenge? Trevor, I have no idea what you are talking about. East Anglia is horse country. Newmarket is only a few miles away. It seemed a likely endeavor for Atherton.”

“Ratcliff's principal farm is also in the area—what? Five miles away?”

“Seven.” She gave him a questioning look.

“I suppose that is merely a happy coincidence.”

“I . . . Yes. It has been fortunate.” Her voice was hesitant.

“ ‘Fortunate.' ” He deliberately mocked her.

“Will—Sir Willard—has been most helpful to us. A good friend.”

“Oh, I'll just bet he has. ‘Will' says it all. You have allowed your ‘friend' to turn Atherton into an extension of his own farms, have you not?”

“What are you implying?” Her tone was dangerously quiet.

“Even an ignorant soldier knows that one does not—willy-nilly—decide to raise horses without a considerable outlay of funds, dear wife. I imagine Ratcliff thought this a fine investment from his standpoint. Especially if the soldier failed to return.”

“
‘Imagine.'
Yes. Precisely the right term.” Her eyes blazed.

“The money for breeding stock—not to mention improvements on tenant farms—had to come from somewhere. I know my family did not support this project. And I seriously doubt that your loving Uncle Fiske parted with any of the ready.”

“And you assume it came from Sir Willard Ratcliff.” Her voice held a note of curiosity along with barely controlled rage.

He shrugged. “Latham had no access to his fortune yet. Of course, there is always Graham. Lord knows
he
has been equally attentive.”

“What you are suggesting is entirely despicable.”

“Isn't it just? Adds a nice touch to your revenge—for surely you cannot expect me to believe you truly thought I would approve establishing a horse farm.”

She turned to give the bellpull a hard jerk. When she turned back to him, her voice sounded bleak, defeated. “Trevor, I no longer harbor
any
expectations or hope of your believing in me.”

With a knock, Merrill came in answer to her summons.

“Please ask Lady Hermiston to come in here,” Caitlyn said to the butler.

“Why are you dragging Aunt Gertrude into this?”

“You shall see.”

A few minutes later Aunt Gertrude entered. She apparently sensed that something was terribly wrong, for she kept glancing nervously from one to the other.

“You wanted something?” she asked Caitlyn.

“Trevor is quite concerned about where I obtained financing for our breeding stock,” Caitlyn explained.

Aunt Gertrude perched on the edge of a settee. “Did you not tell him?”

“I thought it would be better if he heard it from you.”

Trevor began to get a sick feeling about what Aunt Gertrude would say.

The older woman looked up, her face reflecting concern. “I sold my townhouse and some other properties to invest in this venture.”

“You allowed her to involve
you
in this risky business?”

“I persuaded Caitlyn to allow me to invest in it. It was all very legal and very formal. And I am beginning to realize a return on my investment, so it has not proved so very risky.”

“But—” Trevor began.

Ignoring his attempt to speak, Aunt Gertrude continued, “I had—and still have—great faith in Caitlyn.”

Caitlyn went to the huge oaken desk that dominated one wall of the library. Late afternoon sun from a window behind it glinted off a brass lamp and desk accessories. She pulled open a drawer and slammed a ledger on the desk.

“Here is your detailed accounting for Atherton,” she said coldly. “You will find Aunt Gertrude's investment fully documented there—along with measures for repayment.”

She gestured to the book and the chair behind the desk. He felt compelled to see the physical reality, but he also dreaded having to face his own misconceptions in front of her and his aunt.

Caitlyn, whose pacing seemed dictated by her emotions, made several circles of the room as she gave him the full accounting he had demanded. Her voice was clipped, formal, and impersonal.

“You see there precisely where the funding was spent. Several of our mares we purchased from Ratcliff Farms where they were bred. You will also see that Sir Willard has continued to offer such services of his farm in exchange for our training certain of his carriage teams, for he is much more interested in purely racing stock.”

She pulled a folder from a drawer in another cabinet and thrust it at Trevor. He took it silently.

“Here is the document formalizing the
business
relationship between Atherton and Ratcliff Farms.”

“I think you had best tell him about the first years of rents on the tenant farms,” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Aunt Gertrude. For the first two years, we—I—did not collect rents at all, with the understanding that each of our farmers would use that money to make improvements on his own holding. At the end of the two years, they would resume their rents as a percentage of their profits.”

“And . . . ?” he prompted.

“It was hard at first. We missed that income. But, as you can see, almost all of them are paying a smaller
share
of their own earnings in rent, but our revenue is greater than it was before.”

“In other words—” He looked up from the document he held, but she refused to meet his gaze.

“In other words,” she finished, “almost all our tenant farmers are on a more profitable footing than in the past.”

Trevor sat staring, unseeing, at the documentation laid out before him. “Caitlyn—Aunt Gertrude—I . . . I hardly know what to say.”

“An apology would be a nice way to start,” Aunt Gertrude said, but her voice was gentle.

“Of course. And I do most sincerely extend my apologies. Forgive me, Caitlyn.”

But he knew he did not deserve her forgiveness. Not since Terrence and Jason had died had he been so thoroughly filled with disgust at himself.

Still refusing to meet his gaze, Caitlyn said only, “I accept your apology.”

However, he suspected it was not going to be that easy to reestablish rapport between them. His suspicion was confirmed when she politely but coldly excused herself and left the room.

Trevor gazed at his aunt, who gave him a look filled with both exasperation and sympathy. He ran his hand through his hair in nervous distraction.

“Oh, Lord! I have fairly done it now, have I not?”

“Yes, you have.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but it softened as she added, “But Caitlyn is a very giving and forgiving person—although right now she is very hurt.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I should never have—”

She rose to leave. “But you did. And you deserve to stew in your own juices for a bit.” Her smile took the sting out of this rebuke. “Give her time, Trevor. She will come around.”

Several days later, Trevor was sure Aunt Gertrude's customary insight had failed her this time, for Caitlyn had not “come around.” She avoided being alone with him as much as possible. She was scrupulous about ensuring that he was informed on all matters of the estate, but these sessions always took place with Felkins in attendance. Caitlyn even made a point of deferring to her husband on many matters, especially if others—servants or tenants—were present.

When he met with Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude for meals, the conversation was likely to be formal, reserved—and meaningless. Only when they were with Ashley did Caitlyn allow him a glimpse of the warm woman behind the demeanor of cool formality.

Caitlyn continued to ride every morning, though the black gelding, he learned, had been sold before they left London. In fact, he was told, the black had been sold several weeks before, but Caitlyn insisted on refining its training. He thought she often drove her mounts too rashly.

Trevor tramped miles over the lands belonging to Atherton, sometimes carrying his lunch with him in a haversack. He discovered the lake—an artificially devised body of water, to be sure, but large enough to afford great sport in swimming or fishing. It was fed by the same creek that ran between certain tenant farms. Local boys could be found splashing around in it in the afternoons, but Trevor found he had it all to himself in the mornings.

Frequently as he returned from an invigorating swim, he would see Caitlyn with a groom returning from her morning ride. He thought nostalgically of such rides he once enjoyed with Terrence, Jason, and Melanie. Well, those days were over.

Still, he was drawn to the stables. On his first visit, the men working there greeted him with reservation and even suspicion. Obviously, word of his antipathy to horses had traveled rapidly along that mysteriously efficient route of communication among servants.

He watched with interest but without comment as trainers put young horses through their paces. He walked through the stables and noticed they were clean and smelled of fresh hay. A large chestnut with a white blaze on its head gazed at him over the half-door of a stall. A young groom worked nearby putting fresh straw in empty stalls.