Falling in Love Again (13 page)

“I heard you arguing with him in the library.”

“Yes, we said bitter words to each other. I said more than he did, and more than I should have. He told me I should be grateful, that he could have turned me out to an orphanage and the workhouse. I shouted back that I wished he had.”

“Then you married me because you felt you had no choice?”

“I married you because Father told me you and your mother would lose your home and be left destitute if I didn't. He was the sort of man who would have done it, too, if that's what it took to get his way. But what of you, Mallory? Were your motives to marry me so pure?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “What your father
threatened was true. If we hadn't married, Mother and I would have been sent away from Craige Castle, which has been in my family for centuries, and forced to live with my aunt in Cornwall.”

“Not Cornwall!” he said with mock distaste.

“My sentiments exactly,” she agreed.

They lay beside each other quietly. Mallory began to feel sleepy.

John spoke. “So there you have it. We're not exactly a love match.” He paused a moment before adding soberly, “Although I wasn't happy to discover you had to be drugged for our wedding night. Something inside me snapped when I tasted the wine. It was that moment when I decided to take control of my life. I wanted to be a man, Mallory, not my father's puppet or a bastard coward who couldn't stand up for himself. Nor did I want to be a bridegroom who had to buy his wife.”

Mallory felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. “John, I didn't know about the drugged wine. My mother prepared it without my knowledge. She knew I was nervous and wanted to make matters easier for me…but I drank too much.”

His hand brushed a tendril of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “And did it make things easier?” he asked quietly.

Mallory looked away, unwilling to admit aloud that she remembered very little of their wedding night and nothing of the consummation.

“Don't frown so,” he chided softly. “It's in the past. Remember?”

She nodded before lowering her head and curling up by his side. She felt drained, exhausted. “I would have been a wife to you. I meant my wedding vows.” She closed her eyes.

John studied the fire for a moment, his thoughts on the past. Then he said, “You know, we could try to make this marriage work.”

He waited for Mallory's response.

Nothing.

Coming up on one elbow, he peered down at her. Even in sleep, she appeared worn out, and he felt a stab of guilt. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. It was his fault she was gallivanting around the countryside instead of safe inside her precious castle.

Then, to his surprise, she murmured, “I don't think it will work, John. You aren't good husband material.” She snuggled her nose into the pillow.

Stung by her words, he demanded, “Why not? Because I no longer have any money?”

He never received an answer. His wife had fallen fast asleep.

 

Mallory woke the next morning shortly before dawn to find John sleeping on the floor. He could have slept by her side all night; she wouldn't have known or cared.

But he hadn't.

She wondered why. His actions weren't consistent with his rakish reputation.

She called his name softly and he woke instantly. His gaze met hers, and he gave her a sleepy smile. “Feel better?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He stretched and stood up on bare feet. She didn't remember him taking off his socks. He'd removed his shirt, too. Seeing him in hardly anything but the doeskin breeches left little to the imagination—and she had a very active imagination.

She quickly raised her gaze to his face. His hair was sleep tousled, his blue eyes lazy and dark. He helped himself to a glass of cider. “Do you want some?” he offered over his shoulder.

“No, thank you.” She got out of bed. Her brown dress was hopelessly wrinkled. Her braid was half undone, hanging in a tangle down her back.

John drained the glass and reached for his shirt. “I want to be at the barn before Terrell and the others arrive. If I don't, he'll try and slide out of the work I've planned for the day.” He pulled on the shirt and tucked the hem in his breeches. Already the fine lawn of his dress shirt was showing wear. He sat in a chair and reached for his boots. “Mucking out stalls isn't his favorite activity, and we still have a good portion of the barn to clean out.”

“What about the fields? Have you taken a look at the crops?”

John shook his head while stamping his foot into a boot. “Tomorrow. Will you go out with me?”

“Of course.”

“And stop by the barn today if you get a chance. I'd like to hear your opinion of what I'm
doing. I think the hog pen needs to be cleaned out, but Terrell disagrees. Do you know anything about hogs?”

She smiled. “A little.” At one time, Craige Castle had boasted several swine herds.

He returned her smile. “I thought you might.” He stopped in front of her, the light in his eyes warm as he said softly, “You're an uncommon woman, Mallory Barron.”

Before she knew what he was about, he kissed her forehead, and said with a wink, “We're a fine pair, aren't we?”

Her nose tingled where he'd touched it. She raised her hand to it.

“I'll see you later,” he said. He picked up a meat pie off the table, raised the bar, and went outside.

Mallory rushed over to the doorway and watched him as far as she could until he disappeared around a bend in the path. Thoughtfully, she closed the door.

Something had happened between them. Something she hadn't expected.

She and John were starting to become friends.

 

John had left his jacket hanging on a peg in the wall. Mallory sewed up the sleeves. With Mrs. Watkins's permission, she borrowed Terrell long enough to kill one of the chickens, which she plucked and stewed for their supper.

Later, in the early part of the afternoon, Mrs. Irongate sent Lucy to fetch her. Apparently it was felt that as the steward's wife, Mallory should help with some of the chores around the manor
house. Mallory didn't mind. She delivered John's lunch to him, meat pies and a jug of cider, and after taking a moment to offer a few suggestions on his work in the barn, went to help Mrs. Irongate.

The housekeeper wanted the silver polished. The job was easy enough; however, Mallory discovered she would have lots of help while she was at it in the kitchen. Mrs. Irongate and Mrs. Watkins were both widows—Mrs. Watkins three times over—and they were interested in John. He'd made a dashing impression on them the few times he'd been up to the kitchen, and they couldn't help comparing him to other men they had known.

They'd known a good number of men.

As mistress of Craige Castle, Mallory had been friendly but had never fraternized with the servants on such a personal level. She found Mrs. Irongate and Mrs. Watkins and their earthy conversation disconcerting. She answered their questions awkwardly, wishing John would arrive and rescue her with his charm and easy lies.

“Why haven't you and the mister had children?” Mrs. Irongate asked baldly.

Before Mallory could frame an answer, Mrs. Watkins leaned against the kitchen table, a flour-covered hand on her hip, and said, “Don't tell us he has a problem with Dickie Diddle. He's such a handsome figure of a man, it will break my heart if he does.”

Mallory frowned. She wasn't certain what Mrs. Watkins meant. “I don't believe John knows Dickie Diddle,” she answered seriously.

The two women howled with laughter. Mrs. Irongate almost fell off the high kitchen stool, she was laughing so hard. Even Lucy giggled.

And then Mallory understood what they meant. She blushed so furiously that the tips of her ears burned hot.

She lifted her chin. “This conversation is inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Mrs. Irongate repeated, dabbing the tears of laughter from her eyes with her apron. “We're not the ones who said her husband doesn't know Dick!”

Her words sent everyone back into screams of laughter. Mrs. Watkins even pounded the table with her fist in her merriment.

Mallory threw down the polishing cloth. “Stop it! Stop laughing at me! That's not what I meant.”

Mrs. Watkins moved to place her hand on Mallory's shoulder. “Ah, now, we're just having a little jest.”

Mallory pulled away, brushing the flour print of Mrs. Watkins's fingers off her brown dress. “I don't think it's funny.” Her tone could have frozen water.

For a long second, silence reigned in the kitchen.

“Well,” Mrs. Irongate said. “I guess you've told us, haven't you,
Mrs
. Dawson.”

Mallory realized they had considered her their peer, and now she had spoiled any bonds of friendship she might have formed with these women. Picking up the polishing cloth, Mallory reminded herself that she wasn't hired help, not
really. She was Lady Craige. It shouldn't matter what a cook and a housekeeper thought of her.

But it did.

They spoke among themselves now, pointedly ignoring her. Mallory felt awkward. The worst part was that she had no idea how to make amends. Not only was she naturally reserved, but she'd never had any really close female friends. Her whole life had been spent at Craige Castle surrounded by people who treated her deferentially.

The revelation that she might have been self-absorbed while growing up shocked Mallory. She stared at her reflection in the silver serving tray. She'd always thought herself very equal minded where servants were concerned—and polite. She was unfailingly polite. But she'd never thought of them as her peers.

Nor did she have any idea how to smooth over her unintentional rudeness with Mrs. Irongate and Mrs. Watkins.

Mrs. Irongate came over to her. “I know you didn't mean to come across so high and mighty,” she said in a low voice.

Thankful for the opening, Mallory murmured, “In East Anglia, people don't talk as openly about personal matters as they do here.”

Mrs. Irongate shot a look over her shoulder at Mrs. Watkins before answering, “Well, Emma and I enjoy a good joke, and we like our men, too. If we offended you, then we're sorry for it.”

“I'm not,” Mrs. Watkins said. “I don't like stiff-necked people.”

“Oh, Emma,” Mrs. Irongate started, but a bell tinkling over the kitchen door interrupted her. The housekeeper gave a start. “That's the master. Ready for his tea, he is.”

“Lucy,” Mrs. Watkins called. “Do you have the tray ready?”

“Right away,” the kitchen maid said.

While Mrs. Watkins and Lucy worked on the tray, Mallory asked Mrs. Irongate if she'd ever seen the book Lord Woodruff was writing.

“Heavens, no! And I don't want to see it, either.”

“Has he been working on it long?”

“Years!” Mrs. Irongate set a vase with a single rose on the tray. “About five years ago, a man came from London to talk to Lord Woodruff about his book, and since then he's been scribbling away frantically. I left him after lunch, drawing lines through everything he'd written this morning and muttering, ‘It's not right. It's not right.'” She wiggled her head back and forth while she mimicked Lord Woodruff's frenetic talk. Everyone in the kitchen laughed. “Makes a person wonder why anyone would subject himself to that type of nonsense,” she added, picking up the tray and bustling from the kitchen.

Mrs. Watkins and Lucy gave Mallory their backs once Mrs. Irongate had left. Mallory finished the silver quickly. She was about to return to the cottage when Mrs. Irongate returned carrying a heavy leatherbound ledger.

“I'm glad you haven't left yet, Mrs. Dawson,” Mrs. Irongate said. “Lord Woodruff wants you to give this to your husband.”

Mallory took the book. “What is it?”

“It's the rent record. Lord Woodruff wants his new steward to collect the rents, and good luck to him, I say. No one has succeeded yet in getting what is owed from the tenants. Stubborn lot they all are, and sly to boot.”

Mrs. Watkins spoke for the first time to Mallory. “An unpleasant job if ever there was one. Here, take this round of cheese and a jug of ale for
Mr
. Dawson's supper. He's been working hard and deserves a good woman's care.”

Mallory ignored the slight. Instead, she turned to Mrs. Irongate. “I noticed that cabinet over there in the corner.” She nodded to a small cupboard about waist high. “I noticed it was empty, and if you don't need it, I could use it in the cottage.”

Mrs. Watkins scowled and started to say no, just as Mrs. Irongate answered, “Of course, dear, and Lucy will help you carry it home.”

Lucy pulled a face to let Mallory know she didn't want to help her, but Mallory didn't care. She appreciated Mrs. Irongate's generosity. Picking up the cheese and ale, Mallory would have started out the door, but Mrs. Watkins's voice called her back.

“Wait a minute. Why should Lucy be carrying the cupboard while you take the lighter load?”

Mallory felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. She hadn't stopped to think how her actions would be interpreted. She'd just naturally assumed the kitchen maid would be on a lower pecking order than the steward's wife. Apparently, Mrs. Watkins disagreed.

Her back straight with pride, Mallory handed
the cheese and jug to Lucy. She picked up the heavy little cupboard. “Thank you for the cupboard,” she said to Mrs. Irongate. Deliberately, she turned to Mrs. Watkins. “I thank you for the cheese and the ale. My husband will enjoy them this evening.” And Mallory would make a point of not letting a single bite or sip pass her lips! She and Lucy left.

They had taken two steps down the path for home when Mrs. Watkins's carrying voice announced to Mrs. Irongate, “I don't like her. She acts like the lady of the manor.”