Honor's Players (8 page)

“This house is a ruin,” he said abruptly.

Elizabeth blinked and cocked her head to one side as she warily observed him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “You have certainly let the estate fall into disrepair.”

“Not I. It was in this state before I inherited it. But it is perfect for my purposes,” he said, tossing off his glass of wine and rising to his feet in one fluid movement.

Elizabeth was so surprised by the suddenness of his movement that she involuntarily took a step backward.

“Afraid, Bess?” he asked, taking a step closer and smiling lazily down at her.

Elizabeth felt a strange lurching feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked up into his face. Flustered for a moment, she strove to relax and speak icily to him in return.

“We were speaking of this manor, rather this excuse for a manor house. I understand you lived out of the country for a time; am I also to understand you have developed a taste for the barbaric, slovenly life style?”

“Blame it on the sun. It seems to be the catch-all for my sins.”

Elizabeth held herself erect. The only sign of her tension was her hands clasped tightly before her. “Not even that could explain them all,” she said scornfully, then gasped, “No!!” as he reached out for her, but his hands only rested on her shoulders to propel her around and before she could stop him, he ruthlessly pulled the pins from her hair until it fell down around her shoulders. As it fell, St. Ryne caught a handful of the silken stuff, then let it fall, combing it into place slowly with his fingers. His touch sent shivers down Elizabeth’s spine. She pulled sharply away, her color high and her eyes bright. To cover her confusion she lashed out at him.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Then don’t put your hair up,” he said, tossing the hairpins into the fire.

Elizabeth made an inarticulate cry and grabbed his arm to stop him, but was too late. She stared into the flames for a moment longer before becoming aware she still held his arm. She backed away swiftly, or would have had not St. Ryne caught her around the waist. She struggled to get away from him yet he held her firm. She knew his strength was superior to hers, and knew the futility of trying to break away; so she abruptly stopped and looked coldly up at him, hoping he did not notice her rapidly beating heart.

St. Ryne loosened his hold when he felt her struggles cease and to her surprise, let her go. With one long finger he tipped her chin up to him and smiled down into her rigid features.

“Don’t fight me, Bess,” he said softly, then dropped his hand and turned away toward his chair.

A knock at the door startled both of them. It was Atheridge, come to announce dinner.

“My lady,” St. Ryne said, offering Elizabeth his arm. Elizabeth looked at it scornfully and moved to walk past him, but he caught her and draped her arm over his, chuckling as he did so. “You have a lot to learn, my spoiled darling.”

Elizabeth chose to ignore him, knowing she had not found a way to get under his skin at all and also knowing he had gotten under hers.

The dining room was in the back of the house with windows on three sides all heavily draped in a dark velvet material so old and discolored that Elizabeth wondered at its original color. A burgundy, she surmised by the silk tassels that still retained some of that hue. It was a large room with a rococo-style ceiling and a large marble fireplace. But if the two rooms she had seen thus far had perturbed her with their layers of dust, the dining room was revolting. The thought of eating any food in such filth was nauseating. Cobwebs covered the ornate chandelier and covered the delicate designs in the ceiling. The table had obviously been given only a cursory swipe with a dust cloth in anticipation of their meals and Elizabeth, looking at the chairs, was certain the dress she was wearing would be more gray than mauve when she rose again from dinner. To her consternation, St. Ryne appeared not to notice the condition of the room but blithely conducted her to a chair to his right while he took the chair at the head of the table.

“We will dine informally tonight, all right, my love?”

Elizabeth glared at him but did not deign to respond. If she could not get the best of him verbally, she would try silence and see how he liked that.

Atheridge served dinner and it was a meal to further depress Elizabeth’s appetite. The soup was thick and floury, but the lamb was revolting, swimming in its own fat and was barely warm. St. Ryne reacted to that, demanding to know why he must serve them cold meat.

“Beg pardon my lord, but it being so far from the kitchen—” the man whined in return.

“Remove it man! If that is your best, we’ll fast tonight and mend matters tomorrow. Come, Bess.” He grabbed her by the elbow and pulling her out of her chair, propelled her before him, stopping long enough for the port bottle and his glass before guiding her into the library once again.

“Sit down,” he said, pushing her into a chair across from his. Without a word she sat stiffly, looking everywhere save at her husband. She was very tired and felt her shoulders long to droop and relax; however, she forced herself to remain rigid. She would have loved to go to bed but was afraid to suggest it fearing what actions he would take then.

She did not feel ready to deal with the intimacies of marriage, particularly to this stranger who was her husband. The day had been a mockery. Would he also make a mockery of the marriage bed? She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back a freshening of tears. Glancing over at him, she noted him drinking steadily and dimly hoped he would drink himself to sleep as her father was wont to do.

She was surprised when sometime later she felt a soft touch on her shoulder and looked up to find the Viscount’s eyes inches away from hers. With a start she realized she’d fallen asleep and was leaning back against the cushions, her cheek pillowed against the chair wing.

“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand.

Without thought, Elizabeth placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet. His free arm swept around her waist to guide her toward the door. At his touch, all realization returned to Elizabeth and the color fled her face. St. Ryne dropped his arm as he opened the door for her and followed her out. Elizabeth walked slowly toward the stairs, her heart in her throat. She was surprised when St. Ryne did not take her arm again. She hurried slightly ahead of him up the stairs to avoid contact. He laughed softly and followed her into the bedchamber.

“Are you so impatient for my caresses, my love?”

Elizabeth froze. She began to tremble and crossed the room to the fireplace to warm her hands though she knew full well she was not trembling from the cold.

Behind her she heard St. Ryne breath in sharply. She closed her eyes, trembling once again while she tried to will her body to stop, to be cold and aloof. She concentrated so hard, she did not hear St. Ryne cross the room and was only snapped into awareness by the click of a closing door. Startled, she straightened and looked around the room. St. Ryne was gone.

Swiftly she crossed to the connecting door then the main door to lock them, only to find there were no keys. She eyed the furniture, but unfortunately they were all solid, heavy pieces—too big for her to move in front of a door.

A little uncertainly, she removed the mauve dress then swiftly donned her new, white, lawn nightgown. She looked about the room again, half expecting St. Ryne to appear. Bewildered, Elizabeth picked up her brush from the vanity and sat before the fire, waiting and listening as she brushed her hair with long even strokes. Eventually she heard St. Ryne moving about in his dressing room. She froze, expecting him to enter. She closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand to the neckline of her nightgown, drawing it more closely about her. She winced as first one boot then the other was heard to hit the floor followed by a muffled rustling. She opened her eyes and rose slowly to face the door. She strained her hearing to catch the first signs of the door opening. Instead she heard the narrow bed she had seen in St. Ryne’s dressing room creak as it received his weight, then the house was silent. Confused, Elizabeth tentatively crossed to the big empty bed on the dais. Crawling in, she pulled the blankets snugly about her as she huddled on one side. She was exhausted and her stomach churned in hunger. Sleep, however, was a long way away.

Where is the life that late I led?

—Act III, Scene 3

It was a feather faintly brushing her nose, a grain of pepper floating in the air; sleepily Elizabeth twitched her nose then turned her head to bury her face deep into the pillow. The irritating tickle remained. After squirming uselessly under the covers for a moment, she raised her head. There appeared to be no stopping it. Her eyes clenched shut, almost tearing from the plaguing irritant.

Ah-Ahchoo!

Elizabeth’s eyes flew open in horrified dismay. Quickly she looked about, her befuddled mind wondering if anyone had been witness to her very unladylike sneeze. Dazedly she surveyed her surroundings. This was not her room. This was not Rasthough
Ah-Ah-Ahchoo!
House. Then she remembered with sickening clarity St. Ryne, the wedding, the house. She bolted upright in bed, flinging off the bed covers, sending a cloud of silver motes into the air.

Ahchoo! Ahchoo!
Sneezes racked her body, her eyes watering. Elizabeth fumbled for the reticule she had discarded so casually the day before, searching frantically for the square of linen it contained. How could she ever have forgotten all the dust?
Ahch
— She jammed the handkerchief tightly to her face and closed her eyes thankfully when the threatening sneeze stopped. As quietly as possible, she blew her nose until the tickle subsided then slumped down in relief on the edge of the bed.

Dust. Even in the morning dimness of a room shut off from the outside, dust was evident everywhere. Only her fatigued state, shattered nerves, and the flickering shadows cast in the candlelit room the evening before had prevented her from noting how thick the bedchamber was with dust. Reluctantly she rose and crossed to the terrace windows, dragging the heavy curtains back to let strands of pale autumn sun into the room. For a moment she just stood, her face turned up to the sun, feeling the warmth seep into her body. She looked out the windows onto the grounds of the park below.

Silver dew clung to bushes and branches, glinting off the tangled growth. There was a strange beauty to the park, a sense of unreality. Was this all a dream, some nightmarish incantation to lure and confuse? Childishly, Elizabeth pressed her face up to the glass. The cold touch sent her shivering back a step though her eyes never left the peace she perceived in the tangled growth below.

Rounding the corner of a wild overgrown hedge came St. Ryne, sending a shimmer of water droplets flying as he brushed past. Instinctively Elizabeth drew away from the window, not wanting to be seen yet by her husband. She didn’t understand the events of the previous day. Her dreams had been fraught with confusion and anguish. She needed time to sort through her myriad emotions and experiences. Curious, she stood to the side of the curtain and watched. He appeared to be talking to someone. A rotund gentleman followed from behind the bush. He wore brown buckskin breeches and a brown homespun coat and vest. The top of his head was bald and shiny in the morning sun, while his fringe of hair at the sides was thick and unfashionably long. He held his hat obsequiously in his hands before him. She saw St. Ryne glance up to her windows while absently nodding to something the gentleman said. The man continued to speak, gesturing in the direction of the stables. Finally St. Ryne rounded on him, his expression full of exasperation. Then, with an arrogant wave of his hand, indicating the fellow should follow, he led with quick strides toward the stables.

Elizabeth watched until they were out of sight, not realizing how hard she had clenched the edge of the curtain until she slowly uncurled her fingers and an agony of released tensed muscles brought her to her senses. Sighing, Elizabeth turned away from the window to face the room, the sun at her back illuminating its woebegone appearance.

A simmering anger swept her. Now fully awake, she took in all the details around her while replaying the events of the previous evening in her mind. She looked toward her dressing room, a delicate eyebrow raised. “All right,” she muttered wrathfully. “If it’s a housekeeper you want, it’s a housekeeper you’ll get. No more, no less.” She stalked over to the bell pull, giving it an imperious yank, and then entered the dressing room to contemplate her choice of attire.

Mrs. Atheridge arrived as she was struggling with the hooks of a dun-colored gown. Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief. Though the gowns St. Ryne provided were in color and basic styling all demure, some, she discovered to her dismay, did need assistance from an outside source.

“Mrs. Atheridge, would you get these hooks, please?”

“I ain’t no lady’s maid.”

Shocked, Elizabeth rounded on her. “Believe me, Mrs. Atheridge, there are a number of things I am aware you are not.” She paused, drawing her dignity about her. “The question of a lady’s maid shall be remedied immediately, nonetheless, until such time as this household is properly staffed, you shall provide any services I deem needing to be completed by your person.” Her voice was low, almost pleasant; however, the gold metal glint in her eye told another tale and Mrs. Atheridge took a step backward.

“Of course, my lady,” she returned sweetly.

Elizabeth squelched a rising desire to throttle her.

The swish of the housekeeper’s skirts as she approached reminded Elizabeth of the silk petticoats hiding beneath. A twinkle brightened her eye. It was time this black beetle crawled.

“Our want of proper staffing will, I am afraid, increase our burdens. This house is an insult to my husband’s rank and, of course, we cannot let it remain in such a condition. We shall begin work following breakfast, that is if you have anything decent to serve.”

“Bread and a mite of cheese, is all.”

Her deletion of a title of respect was quite obvious. “That will do. I shall request Atheridge to go down to the village to see if there are any people available for day labor.” She rooted through her portmanteau for a kerchief. “Some women and perhaps some young men for the heavy work, I think, if they can be spared from their normal labors. You will gather as many buckets, mops, rags, and assorted cleaning paraphernalia as may be had,” she said, draping the kerchief over her hair and tying it behind her head. “If necessary, we will also send Atheridge to buy or borrow additional supplies.”

Mrs. Atheridge nodded sourly and turned to leave.

“Mrs. Atheridge!”

“Yes, my lady,” she said sullenly, turning back to Elizabeth.

“I suggest you remove the silk petticoats.”

Affronted, the housekeeper stood up straighter, clasping her hands crisply before her. “My lady?” she asked in feinted bewilderment.

Elizabeth noted her eyes shifting slightly. “With all I have planned, they will become quite ruined, you know. That will be all.”

“Oh, do be careful, Thomas.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Elizabeth anxiously watched the young man standing on the tall ladder unhook the glass pendants from the chandelier. “Though it is a fright now, I daresay it will be lovely when properly cleaned. Can you get it down?”

“I think so, ma’am, if we removes these bobbles first.”

"My Lady, to you, young man,” screeched Atheridge, entering the dining room with more rags in hand.

Elizabeth frowned, though she ignored Atheridge’s words. He dumped the rags at the foot of the ladder, scowled up at Thomas, and turned to shuffle out of the room.

She and Thomas exchanged speaking glances. Throughout the morning, her doubts and concerns about the butler and housekeeper had magnified. She found them trying to hinder everything she desired to do. Atheridge only went to secure the help she needed to clean the manor after she threatened to go herself. Mrs. Atheridge tried to claim a lack of proper buckets and cleaning utensils until Elizabeth suggested she go to the stables, collect the unused buckets there, and proceed to scrub then until they were fit to carry clean water. Miraculously four buckets were found within the house. Though her blood boiled at the obvious duplicity, Elizabeth pretended a delighted surprise which she was far from feeling. What puzzled Elizabeth was the reason for their obstructive actions. Despite the lack of cooperation from the Atheridges, the work commenced.

The shadows were lengthening, and it was near teatime. By this hour Elizabeth knew the shelves and cupboards in the kitchen and the fitted stone floor had been scrubbed, and all cobwebs swept away from dark corners. Fresh, simple foods had been fetched from the village and filled clean pantry shelves. The dining room, though not completely clean as yet, no longer revolted her appetite. The rotted drapes had been removed revealing beautiful mullioned windows. The furniture, while unfashionably heavy and dark, took on a rich warm hue when cleaned and oiled. Elizabeth was convinced that once cleaned, the chandelier above would sparkle and cast rainbow lights into the room. If the restoration of the master bedroom and the library were going half as well, she would be pleased. She should check on the workers’ progress since it was time to send them on their way. She hoped they would return on the morrow.

Elizabeth drew the back of her hand across her forehead, brushing an escaping lock of dark hair out of her eyes. She was bone-tired, yet strangely it felt good. She had worked beside the village help, pulling down musty curtains and wall hangings, shifting furniture about, attacking cobwebs. She had been too busy to think about her marriage and St. Ryne’s actions, which suited her perfectly. A brief frown creased her brow. He would most likely be returning soon, if he hadn’t run from his mockery of a marriage as he had from their conjugal bed, a circumstance, she admitted, not without favor. Her stomach rumbled. She clamped a hand to her middle as if to still the vulgar sound while she watched Thomas carefully take apart the chandelier.

St. Ryne stood quietly in the doorway of the dining room. The manor was a veritable beehive of activity. It would appear half the village had come to help clean Larchside, undoubtedly out of curiosity more than any other reason. Were they sated? What stories would be passed over a mug of ale, in the shops, and on the road? He watched Elizabeth directing the efforts of a strapping young man removing the chandelier. She was concentrating intensely and a small frown played across her features. The hem of her gown was black, the large cook’s apron she’d tied on over her dress was streaked with gray, and a smudge graced her cheek-bone. A hideous kerchief covered her glorious hair, though a few wisps escaped to curl and cling to her damp brow. Shadows were lengthening, and it would soon be too dark to work. St. Ryne felt a curious tightening in his chest as he watched her. Was this his shrew? His Katharine?

He saw her press her hand to her middle. Was she not well?

“My lady.” His voice sounded rusty and harsh to his ears.

She whirled around to face him, a slight flush creeping up to stain her cheeks. He cleared his throat, but the tightening in his chest seemed to have affected his voice as well.

“St. Ryne?” she queried, a watchful wariness in her voice.

“It appears all the dirt of Larchside has been transferred upon your person.” He managed a slight smirk to cover his confusion.

Elizabeth stepped toward him, a self-mocking smile upon her lips. “It is not to be surprised.”

“How so? Are there not servants to attend to the manor?”

Her smile vanished. “Nay, sir, there are not! These are good village folk, come to help clean this wretched sty, and come more out of curiosity than for coin.”

St. Ryne’s eyes flew to Thomas poised on the ladder, listening intently to their conversation.

Elizabeth caught his glance and flushed anew.

“Thomas,” she said carefully, drawing herself to her fullest height, her hands placed primly before her. “I fear it is too dark to do more today. We may cause the chandelier to fall if we work in fading light. Will you come tomorrow?”

“Certainly, my lady.” Thomas scampered down the ladder, his inquisitive eyes capering between the Viscountess and Viscount.

“Thank you. Please convey my thanks to the others and ask that they return tomorrow as well, if they please.”

“Yes, my lady.”

After Thomas left, Elizabeth smiled, recalling her day’s labors. St. Ryne, seeing her secret smile, wished he knew her thoughts and fleetingly regretted she did not smile so for him.

“They worked hard today,” she said softly. She glanced ruefully down at the soiled apron covering her dress. “I could not begin to direct their labors without knowing what must needs be done myself.”

St. Ryne raised an eyebrow. “To judge what must be done requires doing?”

“To judge what will stay and go, to examine long-closed rooms and shut-away items, in short answer, yes.” She rounded on him, tiring of the smirks and innuendos she perceived. He would not again get the best of her in a verbal duel. “Lest you would desire to live in a sty or stable. If that is the case, I can in good conscience recommend the stable. I haven’t sent anyone to clean there.”

“Pray, don’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“In truth, I am debating the merits of removing the structure entirely and building anew.”