Sheri Cobb South (12 page)

Mr. Brundy and his bride departed for Manchester five days later, traveling at a more leisurely pace than he had set while traveling alone. Consequently, night had fallen by the time they broke their journey at Warwick. Mr. Brundy bespoke a private parlour at the Rose and Crown, and they sat down to a simple but satisfying repast of boiled chicken and vegetables before climbing the narrow staircase to their room.

Here Lady Helen froze on the threshold. The room was tidy but small, its furnishings limited to a bed, a single straight chair, a wash stand on which stood a bowl and pitcher, and a rag rug before the fireplace in which a cheery fire burned.

Mr. Brundy, climbing the stairs in his wife’s wake, surveyed the room over her shoulder and formed a fair estimation of her thoughts. “You can ‘ave the bed, ‘elen. I’ll sleep on the rug.”

Lady Helen examined first the rug, then her husband. He was not a tall man, but even the most cursory glance revealed that his feet—or his head, whichever he preferred—would certainly extend onto the bare floor.

“Nonsense,” she said with a bravado which she was far from feeling. “We are, after all, man and wife, and there is no reason why we should not share the bed—provided we each stay on our own side,” she added as a caveat, lest he should think to take advantage of a situation which neither of them had anticipated.

As Mr. Brundy had no real desire to make his bed on the floor, he conceded to this plan, and the pair turned their attentions to the portmanteaux which had been deposited beside the bed by the innkeeper’s strapping son. Here, too, problems arose, as Lady Helen looked in vain for a private spot where she might change into her nightrail. Once again, Mr. Brundy rose to the occasion.

“I think I’ll ‘ave a look about the tap-room before I retire,” he said, and promptly suited the word to the deed.

Alone in the tiny room, Lady Helen removed her travel-stained carriage dress and quickly donned her nightclothes, uncertain how long she might count on her husband to remain below. When this task had
been completed with no sign of him, she took down her hair and brushed it out, and by the time he returned, she had laid claim to one side of the bed and lay there with the counterpane drawn up to her chin.

Whether for the sake of his own modesty or the benefit of his wife’s, Mr. Brundy snuffed out the candle before donning his nightshirt. But although Lady Helen could not see the man in bed beside her, she was fully conscious of his presence, and was reminded anew every time the mattress shifted beneath his weight.

As for Mr. Brundy, he was painfully aware that his lawfully wedded wife, whom he adored and whom he had promised not to touch for six months, lay mere inches away. Consequently, both man and wife lay ramrod-straight on either side of the bed, separated by as wide an expanse of clean white linen as they could contrive. Each too conscious of the other’s presence to sleep, they lay for half an hour in complete silence before Lady Helen was emboldened to put it to the test.

“Mr. Brundy,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”

“Yes,” whimpered her husband.

“Oh.” Lady Helen pondered this reply, but knew not what to make of it. “Good night, Mr. Brundy.”

“Good night, ‘elen.”

Eventually, however, the long journey took its toll, and the deep, regular breathing emitting from the other side of the bed informed Lady Helen that her husband was indeed asleep. For the first time since she had been ushered into the tiny chamber, she was able to relax, and soon her eyes grew quite heavy. As sleep overtook her, so too did the vague awareness that there was something strangely comforting about the rhythmic rise and fall of her husband’s breathing. She rolled over, instinctively drawn to the sound.

Unfortunately, the slumbering Mr. Brundy also chose that moment to roll over—and as a result they met in the middle of the bed. Awake in an instant, Lady Helen scrambled for the safety of her own side, clutching the counterpane tightly to her palpitating heart. Without a word, Mr. Brundy picked up his pillow and headed for the hearth rug. This time his wife did not attempt to dissuade him.

At length Lady Helen fell into a disturbed sleep, only to awaken some time later to discover that the fire had burned itself out and the room held a distinct chill. The moon had risen, casting a pale silvery light onto the sleeping figure of her husband, huddled on the floor before the cold hearth. Something about the sight tugged at Lady Helen’s heart. Dragging the counterpane from the mattress, she spread it over his recumbent form and slipped back into the bed.

Mr. Brundy awoke stiff and sore the next morning to find himself covered with the counterpane. After allowing himself the indulgence of a moment to marvel at his slumbering bride, he pulled on his breeches and donned a clean shirt, then went downstairs to order coffee and await his wife.

She joined him half an hour later, looking as fresh and well-rested as if she had never left London. Clearly, Lady Helen had not been troubled by the same sort of dreams which had made his own slumber a torment from which he wished never to awaken. By tacit agreement, neither mentioned the events of the previous evening, but the silence which reigned in the private parlor where they partook of breakfast told its own tale.

Tensions eased somewhat once they were on the road, where they achieved a companionable, if somewhat cautious, camaraderie. As her father’s ducal seat was located in Devon, Lady Helen had rarely had occasion to visit the North, and she took as much pleasure in observing the changing scenery as her husband did in pointing it out to her. In this manner they reached Stafford, where they broke their journey for a second night. This time, however, Mr. Brundy was prepared. As the proprietor’s buxom wife showed Lady Helen to the private parlor, Mr. Brundy arranged for their lodgings with her husband.

“Two
rooms, you say?” said the skeptical innkeeper, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as Mr. Brundy slid an extra coin across the counter. “I run a respectable establishment here. I thought you said you was man and wife.”

“And so we are, these three weeks and more.” Seeing mine host was not convinced, he darted a quick glance toward the private parlor, assuring himself that Lady Helen was well out of earshot. “ ‘Tis me wife,” he confided in an undervoice. “She snores.”

The innkeeper looked past his boarder to the beautiful woman standing before the fire. She had removed her bonnet, and her honey-colored hair glowed in the firelight. He shrugged. “I’d have thought it worth the inconvenience, myself, but it’s your money.”

Mr. Brundy thanked his host, then joined his wife in the private parlor. “ ‘Tis all settled, ‘elen,” he informed her. “Tonight you’ll ‘ave a room of your own.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brundy,” Lady Helen said, giving him a shy smile.

“Think nothing of it, me dear,” he said modestly.

After a far more restful night’s sleep than either had enjoyed the previous evening, they resumed their journey the next morning, and reached their destination as the sun sank in the west. As the post chaise rolled to a stop, Mr. Brundy disembarked before a squarish brick house of no particular architectural distinction.

“ ‘Tis not a fine ‘ouse by London standards,” he offered apologetically as he handed his wife down, “but I thought it grand enough when I in’erited it.”

“Then this house belonged to the first Mr. Brundy?” Lady Helen asked. “The one who left you the mill?”

“That it did. I’ve thought of selling it, but it suits me purposes. Not too close to the mill, but not too far away, and better than putting up at an inn any day. Still, if you’ve a fancy for something larger, I’ll ‘ave me man of business make inquiries.”

“Pray do not sell your house on my account, Mr. Brundy, for I am hardly qualified to judge,” protested Lady Helen. “After all, this is the first time I’ve seen it.”

“But not the last, I ‘ope,” added her husband.

This won him a tentative smile from his bride and, much encouraged, he took her arm and led her up the path to the front door. Once inside, he introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Gatewood, the couple who looked after the house in his absence and served as butler/gardener and housekeeper/cook, respectively, while he was in residence. They both made much over their employer’s lovely and well-born bride, then tactfully took themselves off, Gatewood to bring in the couple’s bags and his wife to prepare their evening meal.

This was served an hour later, by which time both Brundys had had ample opportunity to rest after their lengthy journey. They sat down to eat in the dining room, and although neither the room nor the table were nearly so grand as those in the Grosvenor Square house, Lady Helen could not feel this to be a disadvantage. It was, she discovered, rather cozy to be able to converse without shouting down the length of the dining table, and her husband’s face, now that it was no longer hidden by the massive epergne in the center of the table, was surprisingly pleasant to look upon.

This last observation came as quite a shock, and Lady Helen was obliged to focus all her attention on her plate until such time as she could consider the implications of her discovery more closely.

“The meat is very good,” she remarked midway through the meal, more in an effort to give her thoughts a safer direction than to compliment Mrs. Gatewood’s culinary skills.

“Aye, I’ve always been partial to Mrs. Gatewood’s way with roast beef,” agreed Mr. Brundy. “Ever since I first tasted it at Mr. Brundy’s table.”

“I shall ask her for the receipt, if you like,” offered Lady Helen.

“I would,” said her husband. “And while you’re about it, you might ask the Dook’s cook about that salmon we ‘ad the night I came to dinner.”

“You liked it?” Lady Helen asked in some surprise. “You never said so.”

“I was afraid you might ‘ave the footman snatch me plate away if I let on,” confessed Mr. Brundy with a twinkle in his eye.

Lady Helen shot him a darkling glance, but refused to take the bait. “And so you like roast beef and salmon with shrimp sauce. Do you know, Mr. Brundy, we have been wed for over three weeks, and I am only just beginning to realize how little I know about you?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lady Helen said with a shrug. “Everything. What, for instance, is your favorite color?”

Mr. Brundy pondered this question as intently as if the fate of the Empire hung on his answer. “I’ll ‘ave to say green,” he pronounced at last. “At one time I would’ve said blue, but that was before I saw you in that green thing you wore to Almack’s.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Brundy,” said Lady Helen, annoyed to feel her face grow warm.

“And now,” he said, ignoring this interruption, “ ‘Tis you ‘oo must answer.”

“Very well. What do you wish to know?”

“ ‘ow old are you, ‘elen?”

“Why, Mr. Brundy, what an unhandsome thing to ask!” scolded Lady Helen. “I shall expect you to be very shocked to learn that I am turned one-and-twenty last March.”

“That I am, but not for the reason you think. What were those London toffs thinking, letting you go so long without being wed?”

“Ah, so now you know the truth: you saved me from spinsterhood, Mr. Brundy. According to Papa, my shrewish disposition drove away all my suitors.”

“Aye, I’ve a thick skin,” said Mr. Brundy with a grin.

“You shall need it, for now it is my turn to ask, and I shall require you to answer your own question.”

“I am eight-and-twenty,” he replied.

“So you told us, on the night you came to dinner,” she reminded him. “But that is not what I meant. Surely there must have been many women in Manchester who would have been happy to marry you. Why did you have to come to London for a wife?”

“Because that’s where you were,” he said simply.

Since he could not have known of her existence prior to his arrival in London, Lady Helen would have challenged the logic of this response, had she not been struck mute by the sudden realization that her husband was flirting with her. Over the course of her four London seasons, she had been the recipient of all manner of fulsome compliments, most of which she turned aside with varying degrees of impatience, if not outright scorn.  

Mr. Brundy’s remarks, however, were far more disconcerting, and not easily dismissed. Almost she wished the epergne were there for her to hide behind. In its absence, she pushed back her chair and rose from the table.

“If you are going to talk flummery to me, Mr. Brundy, I shall leave you to your port.”

To her surprise, he rose with her. “I’ve never been fond of drinking alone, ‘elen. If you’ve finished your dinner, will you join me in a game of piquet before we retire?”

“Cards, Mr. Brundy? I am surprised to learn you play. I was under the impression that you didn’t gamble.”

“On the contrary. Lord David, Sir Aubrey, and I’ve been known to lose vast empires to one another, all in the space of an evening.”

“Oh, make-believe!” she scoffed. “It is not at all the same thing.”

“If you lack the imagination for it, me dear, there are other things we might wager.”

Lady Helen arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Kisses, for one.”

Lady Helen’s face flamed. “Mr. Brundy! Are you suggesting that I kiss you?” she demanded, unsure whether to be offended or amused.

He regarded her with a singularly sweet smile. “Only if you lose.”

“You forget, sir, that the Radneys are gamesters at heart,” retorted Lady Helen with a kindling eye. “I accept your wager.”

While she went in search of writing materials for tallying points, Mr. Brundy set up a card table before the drawing room fire. The unnecessary cards were removed from the pack and the remainder shuffled and dealt, and then the battle was joined in earnest.

Lady Helen was a tolerable card player, having learned many years previously that her father and brother made no allowance for feminine foibles, and she gained an early lead. However, a poor second hand and a worse third soon eroded her advantage, and by the time the fourth hand was dealt, she was growing increasingly nervous.  

Too late, she remembered that, while the Radneys were indeed notoriously fond of gaming, they had never been known for their luck.