Regency Innocents (45 page)

D
eborah felt quite perplexed when the landlady of the coaching inn where they were to break their journey led her into a chamber quite separate from her husband's.

‘I think there has been some mistake,' she said, recalling his insistence she must share a room with him.

‘No mistake,' she heard his harsh voice ring out from a shadowy alcove, which turned out to be a connecting door to another room. ‘Walton sent a man ahead to book us a suite. That will be all, thank you,' he informed the landlady, who bobbed him a deferential curtsy and left.

She must have looked as perplexed as she felt, for he explained, ‘Unless you expect Linney to help you get undressed and into bed, as well?'

She gasped, appalled at the very idea.

‘No, I thought not,' said her husband. ‘A girl who works in this establishment will come to see to your needs. I will ring for you when I am ready for you, then you will come to me.'

Having delivered his edict, he turned and stomped from the room.

Deborah had always thought of herself as an even-tempered person, but right at that moment, she experienced an almost overwhelming urge to smash something. Or stamp her feet and scream.

Being far too much a lady to yield to either temptation, she settled for flinging herself into a chair and scowling at the door her irascible husband had just gone through.

If the Earl had not booked a suite for them and arranged for a maid to help her come and undress, would he really have been beastly enough to humiliate her by making his man undo her hooks and eyes?

She was his wife, she sniffed, untying the ribbons of her bonnet and lowering it to her lap. Just this afternoon, he had promised to cherish her.

She heaved a shuddering sigh, fighting back a wave of self-pitying tears. So far there had been precious little cherishing going on. On the contrary, it felt as if he had gone out of his way to demean her. She was tired and hungry and totally disoriented. She had no idea what town she was in, nor which direction from London they were heading. Even the news that the Earl had taken a hand in these wedding-night arrangements made her feel of less value to her husband. Everyone seemed to have had more input into the arrangements for her wedding than she had. Her wishes, her preferences, seemed to count for nothing!

A tap on the door heralded the arrival of a buxom young chambermaid, who said, ‘Would you be wanting a wash before I bring your supper up to your private parlour, madam? I can fetch a can of hot water in a trice.'

‘Oh, I … I am not sure …' A private parlour? Supper? And if the maid did bring hot water, was there any soap? Had Lady Walton packed a towel in the little bag of essentials that sat on the ottoman at the foot of her bed?

Something of her confusion must have shown on her face, for the maid said, ‘Your wedding night, isn't it? If you don't mind me saying so, you will feel much more the thing once you've had a bit of a wash. And you'll take a glass or two of wine with your supper, if you take my advice. Help you calm down, it will. Make it much easier for you.'

‘What!' Her spine stiffened. She might be feeling bewildered and isolated, but surely she was not such a poor specimen that even a serving girl felt she needed to give her advice.

‘Was only saying, that's all,' the girl pouted.

‘Yes, well, thank you. I would like a wash, I think.'

She did not know if she did or not, but at least sending the girl for the promised hot water got her out of the room. And while she was gone, she could hunt through the overnight case and find out exactly what it contained.

Though she was most definitely not going to face her wedding night in a state of inebriation. Lord knew Captain Fawley was hard enough to deal with when she had all her wits about her!

At least once she had washed and got the maid to help comb out the travel tangles from her hair, she felt a little less nervous about facing her husband across the supper table.

Her husband did not rise when she entered their
private parlour, but merely motioned to Linney to help her into a chair facing him. She was just racking her brains to think of some suitably haughty remark, which would indicate her refusal to feel intimidated by the set-up, when her stomach rumbled loudly.

Linney shot her a startled look, then, his mouth working as though he was trying not to laugh, remarked, ‘Hungry, miss? I mean, madam?'

‘Yes. Ravenous, actually.' She shot her husband what she hoped was a darkling look. ‘I have not had a chance to eat anything since noon.' She felt satisfied that the dart had gone home when he looked a little chagrined.

A tavern servant brought in a tureen of soup and set it on the corner of the table. Linney dismissed the man, serving her first, and then his master.

It was a delicious, wholesome broth containing a lot of pearl barley and a small amount of mutton. She slathered butter on to a deliciously fresh bread roll, and once she had finished, leaned back in her chair with a contented sigh. She had been trembling when she had come to the table, but her hands were quite steady now. She did not even feel anywhere near so cross with her husband now she had taken the edge off her appetite.

Linney rang for the next course, which turned out to be a whole roast chicken, and a game pie, along with several side dishes of vegetables.

It was not until Linney began to cut up the food he had placed on Captain Fawley's plate into tiny pieces, that Deborah had any inkling of just how awkward her husband found it to feed himself. She lowered her eyes
to her own plate as he scooped up a mixed portion of meat and vegetables with a spoon.

Now she knew why he never stayed to supper at any of the gatherings where she had met him in London. He must feel so clumsy, so … so exposed to the pitying stares or snide comments of others.

She raised her eyes to his, briefly, and met a challenging, almost hostile look. It was as though he was daring her to make any comment. Startled, she realised that, in having her to sit down and eat with him, he was permitting her to witness a vulnerability that he normally never revealed to anyone. True, he was uncomfortable with her being here, but it was a start. She dropped her eyes at once, flustered by a strange feeling of intense intimacy.

‘That was delicious.' She sighed once she had demolished the contents of her plate. Raising her eyes to his, she attempted a smile. ‘No wonder Lord Walton hired rooms for us here, if he has sampled the cooking.'

‘I see that it was certainly to your taste. I only wonder, having witnessed that demonstration of just how much you manage to put away at one sitting, that you manage to stay so thin,' he replied, cuttingly.

Deborah eyed him with sadness. It was as if he was determined to rebuff her attempts to lighten the atmosphere or establish any sort of rapport with him. He confirmed that suspicion by then saying, ‘If you are finished, you may return to your room until I send for you.'

He did not even wish to while away the last few moments of the day in conversing with her. Where had the man who used to be so kind to her, at the balls where she had been a wallflower, gone?

Puzzled and hurt, she pushed back her chair, and left him in solitary possession of the dining parlour.

Why bother to send for her at all? Or insist he wished her to share his bed? It was not as if he wanted to cuddle her, or talk over the problems of the day, which was what her parents had always told her was the main purpose of having their own big bed. He did not seem to want her as a companion at all.

And when he saw her in the nightdress Lady Walton had packed for her, he would probably laugh out loud. She was far taller than the Countess, and much thinner. She had known that the confection of silk and lace was entirely insufficient to keep her warm in a draughty inn, from the first moment she had set eyes on it. But once she had put it on, and seen how little of her it managed to cover, she felt positively annoyed. Why had Captain Fawley not warned her he intended to leave town at once? She could have packed her own, warm nightgown, and the thick flannel wrapper that would have covered her from neck to toe. Even the Countess's wrapper exposed more than it covered, she grimaced. Once she had dismissed the maid, she went to the bed, seized the coverlet, and wrapped it round herself like a cloak. Then she padded barefoot to one of the armchairs that flanked the empty fireplace—for, naturally, the Countess had not thought to pack her a pair of slippers—and curled up in it. Before she knew it, she had pulled her plait over her shoulder, and begun chewing on the end of it.

Disgusted with herself for reverting to a childish habit she had firmly believed she had grown out of,
angry with her husband for pushing her until her nerves had reached such a pitch, she spat it out, got to her feet and padded over to the window.

Night had fallen while they had been eating supper, but the yard below her window was still a hive of activity. With a determination born of desperation, Deborah concentrated on the little figures bustling about, refusing to allow her mind to drift back to her own sense of ill usage. She did not wish to arrive in her husband's chamber in an angry frame of mind. Their first night together would set the tone for the whole of the rest of their married life.

She forced herself to remember that she had married him because she thought she loved him. It was not easy to dredge up any fond thoughts of him, after the abominable way he had treated her today, but she could refuse to allow her mood to teeter over into downright hostility. She frowned down into the bustling yard, wondering what demons had driven him to act as he had done.

At the supper table, she had glimpsed how uneasy he felt to have her sharing something as simple as a meal. Unwittingly, she slipped the end of her plait into her mouth again, chewing at it absently as she struggled to make sense of his attitude towards her. She already knew that he was convinced he was ugly, and clumsy and that no woman could possibly like him, never mind love him. How could she make him see that she did?

She sighed. She had thought she could tell him she loved him, once they were married, but right now, she was so upset with him, she knew such a declaration would ring hollow. And she was afraid that if she tried
to show her affection in a physical way, he would rebuff her. Her mind went back to the day when she had caught a party of village boys scrumping apples from her orchard. In their haste to escape, one of them had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. When she had gone to his aid, he had pushed her away, the belligerent expression on his face almost exactly like the one she had seen in her husband's eyes today when she had been watching Linney cut up his food.

‘An injured male is a dangerous creature,' she remembered her mother explaining to her when she had asked why the boy had been so rude, when all she had been trying to do was help him. ‘Rather than accept sympathy, they are inclined to lash out. Just like a wild animal, which would bite your hand should you try to help it escape from a trap.'

Suddenly everything he had done and said today made sense. Far from being grateful to her for helping him to achieve financial independence, he resented the necessity of having her involved at all. He equated admitting to any kind of need as a slur on his masculinity. That was why he had behaved with such uncharacteristic unkindness, she decided, letting her plait fall from her mouth. Though how she could convince him to cease hostilities, she could not imagine. The little village boy's hostility had been obdurate. In the end, she had been obliged to leave him in a crumpled heap at the foot of the tree and go and fetch a doctor.

She rather thought her husband's hurts were of the sort no doctor could treat. While she was still pondering how she could express her regard, without wounding
his male sensibilities any further, there was a knock on the door, followed by the gentle cough, announcing Linney had come to fetch her.

He said not a word, merely opening the connecting doorway, and ushering her through. If anything, he seemed even more embarrassed than she felt as she marched past him, the coverlet clutched to her chin.

‘What the deuce have you got on?' were her husband's first words when she entered his chamber.

‘A blanket,' she replied, as Linney softly closed the door on his retreat. She noticed that a fire was smouldering gently in the grate, and though she had vowed not to give in to her sense of ill usage, she could not help saying, ‘My room is really cold. And you should have seen the ridiculous get-up Lady Walton packed for me to wear!'

‘I should like to see it,' he agreed. ‘Knowing Heloise, it was probably intended to show off rather more than it covered.'

‘How did you know that?'

He shrugged one shoulder, with a knowing smile.

‘How any woman could consider wearing such an impractical outfit to bed mystifies me completely. Never mind lending it to a friend. What was she thinking?'

‘Impractical,' he said, an arrested expression on his face. ‘How do you mean, impractical, exactly?'

She advanced on the bed, in which he reclined against a bank of pillows. His right hand lay on top of the coverlet. His left arm, the one which she knew ended just below his elbow, was concealed beneath the blankets. A single candle burned in a holder on a night-stand, to the right of the bed, illuminating his uninjured
side, and casting his left into deeper shadow. Her heart went out to him. Just having her invade his room was a monumental concession for him. In fact, she frowned, she did not really know why he was forcing himself to go through this torment.

‘Well, it is certainly not designed to keep a body warm. There is hardly anything to it. And what there is, you can see right through! What is the point of donning a covering that does not cover anything?'

‘I expect she thought I would keep you warm tonight.'

‘Oh!' She looked dubiously at his chest, which was completely bare. Her father had always worn a nightshirt to bed. And usually a cap too. And had drawn thick velvet hangings round the battered old four-poster, to keep out the draughts. ‘You don't exactly look as though you will be very warm tonight, either,' she said with concern. ‘Were you in too much of a hurry to remember to pack a nightshirt?'