The Light in the Darkness (6 page)

Catherine seemed unimpressed. “Don’t be foolish, Grey. No one has used that chamber in seven years. And the gowns are in all likelihood motheaten anyway. You’re being maudlin.”

“You will not use that chamber for a tavern wench,” Grey ground out between gritted teeth.

Catherine smiled innocently. “Quite correct, dear. I will use it for your wife.” She gestured imperiously to Jenny, and the girl scurried after her as she hobbled from the chamber. As they began to ascend the broad treads of the staircase, Jenny jumped nervously when she heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering against a wall.

“Don’t concern yourself about him.” Catherine’s manner was not exactly friendly, but it was less chilling than it had been before. Catherine was beginning to realize she had misjudged the girl. Originally she had thought Jenny a fortune hunter who had somehow trapped Grey into marriage while he was inebriated. But during her argument with Grey it had become evident that the child was only
here because Grey had deluded her in some way. No doubt he had thought it a capital joke. She shook her head at her brother’s unbelievably crass behavior and went on, “He’s angry a good eighty percent of the time. The other twenty percent he sulks. One simply has to ignore him and go on living.”

Jenny swallowed nervously. In her experience, angry men demonstrated their anger in only one way—by striking the first person who got in their way. She found that her mouth was too dry to comment.

“You
can
speak?” her sister-in-law inquired acidly.

Jenny nodded shyly, then, realizing that some verbal response was required, stammered, “Yes, of course, but—”

Catherine interrupted. “We shall have to do something about that wretched accent of yours. And your smell! When did you last bathe?”

Jenny paused on the landing by an ornately carved mahogany tall case clock that stood nearly nine feet tall. Her brow furrowed in thought, and Catherine waved her hand impatiently. “Never mind. That answers my question quite well enough, thank you. As to your manners, we shall have to tutor you. A word of advice—Don’t emulate Grey.”

The girl nodded solemnly, and Catherine let out an exasperated sigh. The child could not so much as recognize an attempt at humor. Was there a personality anywhere in that small, fragile body?

Probably not, Catherine reflected. After all, a tavern maid could have had little opportunity for intellectual conversation, or any conversation at all, for that matter. Brought up in such an environment, the girl could hardly be expected to demonstrate intelligence. Jenny reminded her of a timid mouse who, foolishly venturing from its secure hole, was now paralyzed by its fear of the unknown surroundings. Like a mouse, she seemed to expect a cat to leap upon her and devour her at any moment.

At the top of the stairs, Catherine pushed open a door. Its hinges creaked as though it had not been opened for
years. “This was Diana’s chamber,” she said, her voice hard once again. But Jenny sensed that the distaste in her voice was aimed at the unknown Diana, not at herself.

“Who—who was Diana?” she inquired shyly.

Catherine shot her a look of surprise. “Did he not tell you? Well, I suppose that is no surprise. He rarely speaks of her if he can avoid it.” She stepped into the chamber and glanced around at the dust-covered surfaces.

“Diana” she said, “was his first wife.”

“D
iana died seven years ago,” Catherine explained as several slaves brought heated water up and poured it into a massive oaken tub in front of the fireplace, where a fire now roared. “He—well, you may as well know. He worshipped her. As you might have guessed from the fact that he has never allowed anyone into this chamber. Even he never comes in here. He sealed off this room from the rest of the house after she died. If only he could shut the door on his memories as easily as he did the door to this chamber, he would be happier. But he cannot seem to forget her, no matter how many years pass.”

Jenny glanced around timidly. In the center of the chamber sat a small round table, the sort at which a lady might paint watercolors. She wondered if the unknown Diana had painted landscapes at that table. On one side of the room were two large windows with dark blue curtains and wood-slatted Venetian blinds. Between them stood an immense mahogany clothespress, fully six and a half feet tall, and next to each window was a carved chair upholstered in the same dark blue damask-patterned wool. On the wide planks of the floor lay a brightly hued blue-and-red woven rug, called a list. Across the room stood a tall canopy bed with short, curving legs terminating in ball-and-claw feet. Near the bed was a linen-draped twilight, or dressing table. Atop the table a looking glass leaned against the wall, flanked by two silver candlesticks of ornate classical
design. Nearby stood a stand that held a porcelain basin and jar for washing, and a walnut desk completed the furnishings in the chamber.

The chamber was far grander than the loft she had slept in at the tavern, and the wide mahogany bed with its wool covering and plump feather pillows looked infinitely more comfortable than the pallet and straw-filled mattress she was accustomed to, yet the dust and cobwebs that covered everything depressed her. Clearly nothing had been disturbed for many years, almost as though the ghost of Grey’s first wife still haunted this room. Jenny felt that she might prefer the stables, after all.

In her quiet voice, she asked, “ ’Ow did she die?”

“She was murdered,” Catherine said flatly, and Jenny felt a tremor run through her as she remembered Carey’s warnings. Her apprehension quieted somewhat as Catherine continued. “We never found out who the murderer was. It was a small loss, so far as I was concerned, but Grey was inconsolable. I think he wished he had died with her. It was then that he started to drink so heavily. Over the years, instead of letting her fade from his mind, he has built up her memory so that he recalls a goddess instead of a mortal woman.”

“Ye did not like ’er” Jenny observed. It was a statement, not a question, and Catherine raised her eyebrows, both at the girl’s unexpected perceptiveness and the fact that the child was actually daring to speak without stammering.

“No, I did not,” she admitted. Jenny pulled her eyes away from the impressive furniture and looked at her, her dirty face implying the question she did not dare to ask, and Catherine shrugged.

“I suppose I was jealous,” she volunteered. “Grey and I were very close then—we never argued then as we do now—and I suppose I resented how completely absorbed he was in another person. I was still very young, and he had become like a parent to me after our father and mother died. Furthermore—” She paused for a long moment. “I did not think she was good for him. She was haughty.
Caustic. I must admit, however, she returned my hostility in full. Perhaps I am somewhat haughty myself.”

Jenny glanced at her somewhat nervously, wondering if Catherine would resent her as well. Probably not, she decided. Grey was hardly obsessed with her, as he had apparently been with his first wife. For that matter, it scarcely seemed that he cared whether she lived or died. Surely Catherine could not resent her presence at Greyhaven.

Catherine dismissed this history with a shrug. “Ah, well. That was long ago. If only Grey did not behave as though it were yesterday.…” She gestured to the girl. “Into the tub with you.”

Jenny shot her a look of absolute horror, but Catherine was not someone accustomed to being disobeyed. “In your case, child, modesty is foolish. I can scarcely believe that several men, at the very least, have not sampled your charms. Take off those horrid clothes and get into that tub.
Now
.”

Slowly, with every outward evidence of reluctance, Jenny obeyed. She had never before been naked in the presence of another. She had always slept in a shift and, upon arising, had simply pulled one of her few gowns on over the shift. And now she was being forced to disrobe both in the presence of this steely-eyed aristocrat and a young black woman who held a cloth in one hand and an imposing amount of lye soap in the other.

“I am remaining,” Catherine said in her elegantly cultured voice, “to ensure that you are entirely clean, when what you so plainly perceive as an ordeal is completed. Step into the tub, please.”

Though politely phrased, it was clearly an order rather than a request. Jenny obeyed meekly. The water was extremely hot, a most unusual sensation. Jenny had rarely bathed in her life, and then usually in cold water. She gingerly sat down in the tub.

At that moment the door slammed open, and to her horror Edward Greyson stormed into the chamber. Sinking chin-deep into the water, she stared at him helplessly
with huge dark eyes. He returned her look coldly, then turned to address his sister.

“So.” His voice was slurred, and Jenny realized that he had had a great deal to drink. But Catherine seemed completely unmoved by the anger on his aquiline features. “You have actually installed this—this
creature
in her room.”

“It’s a shame to let this lovely chamber go to waste,” Catherine said mildly. “There’s quite a good view of the James.”

“I don’t give a goddamned—” Grey began angrily, but Catherine cut him off.

“Really, Grey, you’re a dreadful influence. The child must not be exposed to such language. At any rate, let me point out that
you
are the one who brought her here. I am merely trying to make the best of the impossible situation you have created. Accordingly, we are currently bathing her and making her presentable, as befits the wife of a Greyson. Good-bye, Grey,” and to his surprise Grey found himself gently propelled into the hall and the door closed nearly on his nose. Fuming, but aware that he had been outmaneuvered for the time being, he raged back down the stairs.

Still flaming with embarrassment, Jenny found her hair being lathered with the lavender-scented soap, rinsed, and lathered again. Then the slave handed her the soap, indicating that she was to wash herself most thoroughly. Jenny thought to protest, but one glance at Catherine’s implacable face silenced her.

Catherine Greyson was a handsome woman, she decided. She might have been beautiful but for the aquiline nose so like Grey’s, which was far more suited to masculine features. Her eyes were a flinty gray, darker than her brother’s; her mouth was wide and full but seemed humorless. Her chestnut hair was gathered in an unattractive but practical style at the nape of her neck, and she wore a high-necked, spinsterish gray woolen gown. All in all she
was a woman Jenny found to be most intimidating. She scrubbed herself thoroughly under the scrutiny of those piercing eyes.

At long last clean, cleaner than she had ever been in her life, and being dried by the slave with a finely woven linen towel, Jenny dared to ask another question. “Why d’ye call ’im Grey instead of Edward?”

“Oh.” Catherine shrugged. “He’s been called that since he was a child. Partly because of his gray eyes, of course, but partly because he has always been so somber. So intense. It always seemed appropriate, somehow.” She hesitated, then added a word of warning. “Diana was the only person to ever call him by his given name. I wouldn’t advise you to do so.”

Jenny nodded. The thought of calling her strange, remote husband by his first name had not even occurred to her. Nor would she feel comfortable referring to him by his nickname. If she were to call him anything at all, she decided, it would probably be Mr. Greyson.

The maid sat her down, though Jenny was still unclothed but for a silk wrapper, and began to untangle her dripping hair. Catherine studied her thoughtfully as she winced beneath the onslaught of the silver comb. “And now let me ask you something,” she said. “Why did you marry Grey?”

Jenny’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “I thought ’e was a ’ero,” she murmured.

Catherine laughed shortly. “Grey’s not a hero. He’s a bastard.”

Jenny had no reply to make to that statement. It seemed entirely too obvious to comment on. In the past hour it had become painfully evident that Grey had married her solely to spite his sister. Now she understood all too plainly why he had acted as though he could barely stand the sight of her. He had intended to make her sleep in the stables and work in the cookhouse, as though she were a slave. He found her pitiful and contemptible.

The memory of his angry voice slashed into her pathetic remnants of self-respect.
Simpleminded, unattractive, and filthy.
These painful words revolved endlessly in her mind.

While Jenny’s long hair was being combed out, Catherine paced the floor of the chamber slowly, thinking out loud. “Grey does not have the respect he should have for you. Not surprisingly, as you were scarcely the sort of woman a man of our class would respect. Now that he has been foolish enough to wed you, however, you are a lady. We shall have to work hard to make you worthy of that designation.

“And then, perhaps, you can earn Grey’s respect.” At the brief flash of hope that illuminated Jenny’s face, she snapped, “His respect, but not his love. Don’t be foolishly romantic. It’s normal enough for a girl your age to long for love, but love is not necessary in a marriage. Respect is. Eventually, if things continue as they are, you will grow to loathe the very sight of your husband, and while Grey probably deserves your hatred, I cannot in good conscience condemn a girl your age to such a life.”

Jenny gave her a dubious look from beneath her tangled wet hair. She knew full well that she would never have the confidence and poise that the other woman exuded. She was nothing more than a tavern wench. She was nothing at all. But she wanted something more than his respect. She wanted love.

“If I could earn ’is respect, couldn’t I earn ’is love someday?”

Catherine felt a flash of sorrow and pity for the girl, condemned forever to a loveless existence. She had probably never known love in her life, or even kindness, and from the expression on her face she wanted it desperately. But she ruthlessly suppressed her pity, and said sharply, “Grey has no love left for anyone. He’s grown colder and more bitter with each passing year. Don’t fool yourself into believing you can change him, for women cannot change men, no matter how much we might like to. Heaven knows I’ve tried … and you have seen the results of my efforts.” She
sighed, and added, “But since God—or Grey—has given you this opportunity to change yourself for the better, you should not pass it up. We can start with your name. Jenny is inappropriate for a lady. Is your full name Jennifer?”