Liberty for Paul (11 page)

Chapter 14

They next few days were nothing if not hazy. Liberty enjoyed spending time with Elizabeth. She could not have picked a better person to act as a companion to. She and Elizabeth got along better than she’d gotten along with anyone in recent weeks.

The dowager countess was friendly albeit blunt. Liberty nearly jumped with surprise the first time she’d heard Elizabeth refer to Mrs. Whitaker, one of the women in her village, as a “crotchety old bitty whose drawers are too tight for her own comfort”.

Liberty agreed that Mrs. Whitaker was a crotchety old bitty, but she didn’t know, nor did she want to know, the state of anyone’s drawers. Nonetheless, Liberty was still stunned to hear Elizabeth say such a remark. “Get used to it,” Elizabeth told her. “Despite my title, I’ve been on the fringes of society my whole life. Therefore, saying whatever pops into my head—whether nice or not—is my privilege.”

Though Liberty didn’t know the entirety of Elizabeth’s situation, she was soon informed of enough of it to render Elizabeth’s declaration valid. She was also told enough things about Mrs. Whitaker to take Elizabeth’s assessment of her as gospel truth.

Mrs. Whitaker, Liberty was quickly learning, was one of the most vicious creatures in the country and the crack about her drawers being pinched too tight was the nicest thing Elizabeth had to say about her.

During their visits, Elizabeth treated her as an equal and within only a few days she knew she’d made a friend she’d be able to turn to for life. That felt good considering she had so few of those to start with.

Mrs. Jenkins, the leader of the sewing circle, was extremely nice, somewhat bossy and slightly overbearing all at the same time. She conducted her sewing group like a small factory. She’d tell everyone what they needed to make and supervise their stitches. Liberty wasn’t the greatest seamstress, but she seemed to pass Mrs. Jenkins inspection all right.

The only negative about the sewing circle was the gossip that flew around the room. Much to her dismay, Mrs. Whitaker was self-appointed as second-in-command of the sewing circle. But instead of supervising the sewing, she was the ringleader of the gossip loom.

Nobody could weave gossip like Mrs. Whitaker. Thankfully Liberty hadn’t learned this the hard way. She took notice of the other women in the room and the way Mrs. Whitaker interrogated them as if she were an investigator for the Watch. When she got to her, Liberty put on her best bland expression and said, “I haven’t been in the district long enough to know anything about anyone.”

Her words were true enough. But that wasn’t the real reason she’d not wanted to gossip. She’d learned long ago what gossip can do to a person and decided she’d never gossip or give people a reason to gossip about her.

So far she’d had a little trouble with the second part, case and point being Paul. But she’d firmly held onto her vow not to gossip.

Bringing food to the sick and elderly was not a bad way to pass her days, either. She always felt good about it afterwards—no matter how many miniatures she’d had to feign interest in.

The only activity she was still uncertain about was helping the illiterate read. Most of the pupils were children, but there were a few adults. Helping them read was not the part she didn’t like. In fact, she enjoyed the faces of pure joy when one of them was finally able to read and write their name, no matter if they were five or thirty five.

There was a special little boy that was about six or seven named Seth that had taken a very strong liking to her. Though he struggled with his goal to learn to read, he always had a bright smile and adored Liberty in a way she’d never have imagined. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the boy had a
tendre
for her. It didn’t bother her that he clung to her skirts and was always trying to be near her. She found him quite enchanting and couldn’t help smiling every time he did. She’d even gone so far as to stay and play games with him while he waited for his usually late mother.

The part that was unsettling to her about going was the meetings were conducted above the local tavern and there always seemed to be a great deal of drunken men hanging about when she arrived. Though she’d only gone a few times, she knew this was something she could expect every week.

At night she’d occupy her time with organizing or reading her books. Since their fight in the carriage last week, she’d barely seen Paul. He didn’t speak to her when they took breakfast together. Instead, he’d hold a newspaper in front of his face and only drag his eyes away from it when he went to refill his coffee from the carafe. Typically he was gone for lunch. As for dinner, that meal would be considered tolerable at best. He’d insisted they take their evening meal in the formal dining room now. He barely spoke to her during dinner, and when he did, he'd address her as “Mrs. Grimes”. Then, after the meal, he’d vanish. He’d lock himself in his study, or if she was already in there reading one of her books, he’d retire to his room.

Any trace of the man she’d seen before was virtually gone. He’d turned into the perfect coldblooded English gentleman. As much as she thought she’d like him better this way, she was soon learning she was wrong. In a cruel twist of fate, she was realizing that being married to a man who lived by the rules was actually quite boring.

Feeling restless with her current bout of insomnia, Liberty slipped on her dressing robe and decided to go grab a book from the library. She knew she should have just brought it up with her, but recently she’d been losing books. As silly as it sounded, the books were literally disappearing right off her nightstand. Well, they weren’t disappearing exactly. She knew they couldn’t magically vanish. That’s just what she’d like to think was happening. The truth was, she had a suspicion Mrs. Siddons was stealing them. That was the only explanation she could fathom for why the books she’d leave in her room were disappearing. She’d considered bringing it up with her husband, but thought he’d laugh or say something demeaning to her for accusing his servant of stealing.

At the bottom of the stairs she noticed there was a little sliver of light coming from under the door to Paul’s study, which just so happened to be the same room as the library. Nervously, she bit her lower lip and contemplated if she should go in or not. It had been nearly a week since they’d quarreled, surely he wasn’t still upset. She knew she wasn’t. Why should he be?

At the same time, she’d always heard her father say Paul could have a mighty temper. Until last week, she’d never really seen it, and truthfully she had no idea if he held grudges.

Stiffening her spine and deciding if he behaved poorly she’d spout Bible verses at him, she slowly opened up door so not to make a sound.

The tableau waiting for her behind the door was the last thing she’d ever expected to see and not because her husband was clad in only his trousers and shirtsleeves.

***

“
What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Grimes?!”
Paul heard screamed from the doorway, causing his head to whip in that direction so fast his neck hurt.

He knew if she ever caught him doing this she’d be angry. He’d just hoped she’d never find out. But she just had, and his belief she’d be angry was not necessarily wrong. However, it might be more accurate to describe her as enraged or livid or infuriated, or perhaps a lethal combination of all three. Actually, come to think of it, nothing could describe the emotion that filled her face. She’d once expressed interest in seeing a part of him separated from the rest of his body, and, at the moment, he thought that very thing just might be about to happen.

“
I should ask you the same thing,” he countered. “What are you doing in
my
study?” He’d long ago realized answering a question with a question was an excellent way to defend oneself. He just hoped that would prove true this time. There really was no good way to explain his way out of why there were three of her etiquette books on fire in the hearth or why there was another one in his hand waiting to be pitched in.

“
I’ve come to get one of
my
books,” she retorted, stalking across the room to grab the book in his hand.

His hand tightened around the book he held. She wasn’t getting it without a fight. “You don’t need these,” he said more calmly than he felt. He was boiling with rage. He’d been boiling with it for almost a week now. Ever since the day of that horrid family affair at the baron’s house to be precise.

“Yes, I do,” she snapped, tugging harder at the book he held. “Give it to me,” she ground out. The tears in her eyes on the verge of spilling over.

Her tears didn’t bother him one bit. If they’d been shed about something—just about anything—else, he'd soften. But over etiquette books? No. “No,” he said, yanking the book from her grasp and flinging it into the fire.

The fire was too large for her to have any chance of recovering the book and a sob caught in her throat as she stood in silent horror, watching the flames engulf it. “How could you do this?” she sobbed, swiping at the tears that coursed down her reddened cheeks. “You are a monster!”

“No, I’m not,” Paul said flatly.

“Yes, you are. Only an unfeeling monster could do such a thing,” she yelled the best she could through her sobs.

Paul just stared at her. He’d been burning etiquette books every night since her father dropped them off. That night he’d come home to find her parents had dropped off five hundred twenty three books belonging to Liberty. Of those five hundred twenty three books, five hundred nineteen were about etiquette, manners, or some nonsense relating to behaving. It was infuriating. Poor John had likely spent hundreds of pounds on all that rubbish. Good thing the majority of them were treatises and not real leather bound books. “You’re wrong,” he said when her loud sobs had quieted down a few decibels.

“No, I’m not wrong,” she yelled with conviction. “Those were mine. You had no right to touch them. And not only did you touch them, you’ve destroyed them. Why?”

Grabbing her wrists, he forced her to face him. “Why do you want them?”

“Because they’re mine,” she cried.

“That’s not good enough,” he said, shaking his head.

Liberty tried to pull her trembling hands from his grasp, but his strong fingers tightened their hold on her delicate wrists. “Those books are important to me,” she said, glancing at the shelves where she’d lined them all up on only a few short days ago.

“Why are they so important?” he demanded, resisting the urge to let her go and light that whole bookshelf on fire.

Her glossy hazel eyes met his. “Because…because…they were helping me to get a husband,” she cried.

Abruptly his hands relinquished her wrists. “Well, you don’t need them and their invaluable information now,” he said mockingly. “You’ve got me,” he added, jabbing his index finger at his chest.

“It’s not the same,” she cried. “You’re nothing like the husband I wanted.”

“Well, not to worry, you’re not exactly the wife I pictured, either,” Paul retorted, taking a fraction of pride in seeing her blanch at his words. But the feeling was soon abandoned when only a second later, shame washed over him. By saying those words, he’d proven her earlier accusation of him true. “I’m sorry,” he said in a softer tone. “That was cruel and I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Don’t apologize,” she snapped. “You meant it. I know you did. It’s written all over your face.”

No point in arguing with that. He’d meant it; he just shouldn’t have said it. “Still, I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” she repeated sharply, cutting him off. She stalked over to where his theology and Latin books lined a shelf and started grabbing as many as she could hold.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, coming up right behind her and snatching books out of her arms.

“I’m sure you’ll recognize it in a moment,” she said angrily as she clutched tightly to the three volumes she’d managed to hold onto.

Paul put his arm around her, catching her at the waist and hauling her back up against his solid chest. “Don’t even think about it,” he breathed in her ear.

“Let me go,” she screamed, trying to stomp on his booted foot with her bare heel.

His embrace tightened. “Put the books down and I’ll let you go,” he said savagely in her ear.

“No,” she replied fiercely, attempting to squirm from his hold. “You burned my books; it’s only fair I get to burn yours.”

“It’s not about being fair,” he spat. “Those books are worthless. They serve no purpose.”

She snorted. “You’d be the one to think so.” Her voice full of pity.

“Name me one thing those books are good for,” he said, trying to hold her writhing body still.

“I already told you,” she ground out bitterly.

Paul pulled her down to the floor and maneuvered his body so he was lying almost directly on top of her, trapping her on the floor. “You told me they were to help catch a husband. And as I pointed out, you’ve caught one. Why do you think you still need them?”

“I just do,” she choked, pushing at his immovable chest.

He grabbed her hands and pushed them away. “What is so valuable in those books that would make you behave this way?” he asked with a snarl.