Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
BENNET HALL, SURREY - JUNE 12, 1816
CHARLOTTE
I peered out the window hoping for a glimpse of my husband. His valet had offered a scant explanation, and not one of his servants seemed to find his behavior the least bit out of the usual way of things.
The carriage was unbearably fine, bathed in velvet and silk, and so well sprung that my stomach actually settled. We drove on for another hour. I would not have survived so long on horseback, not with my uneasy constitution.
A gentle breeze wafted through the window, the scent of wildflowers dancing in. When I looked out again, the tall, broad form of Lord Champaign was still missing. Instead, I was met with a sprawling pond surrounded by well-manicured greenery. Small clusters of lily pads clung together on the water’s surface. Two swans paddled lazily across the mirrored expanse.
The road ahead curved around the pond and there, on the other bank, was a house. Taupe brick with arched windows inset from the facade, the two-story home was settled delicately in the natural divot carved by the water. Only the back of the house was visible from my vantage with no entry to observe.
Rounding the bend, I saw a second two-story building, set off from the first. Built to suit the main house, this smaller, round structure had a domed ceiling—an observatory.
We pulled away from the lake, rounding the front of the house, larger than it appeared from first glance. It had an entire second wing jutting out to the west that had been hidden from view by natural growth.
At last, we turned down a long path toward the front of the house. The drive was gently sloped down to meet the double doors. Servants poured out from the entrance, forming a line to greet us. Finally, I found Lord Champaign, hurling himself off his horse and tossing the reins to a boy with a quiet word.
The carriage came to a halt, and Lord Champaign opened the door and handed me out. If any of the servants found our transportation arrangements odd, they gave no indication.
“Welcome to Bennet Hall, Lady Champaign.”
Lady Champaign. I had quite forgotten my name had changed this morning. Lady James no longer. I found I quite preferred the new one to the old one, much less plain. I could only hope the marriage would be an equal improvement, even if the start had been less than auspicious.
Bennet Hall, though not the largest estate I had ever seen, was larger than any of my father’s properties, and my late husband had no country house to speak of. For the first time, the task of managing a household left me with a hint of trepidation.
I turned to my husband to praise his home—men liked that sort of thing—when his scar captured in the sunlight. He had taken pains to hide it, donning a hat with a wider brim than was fashionable and a starched collar. But in the sharp, harsh light of day, there was no concealing the ragged, reddened flesh of his cheek.
Whatever injury had caused it was surely a grievous thing. Even now, clearly healed, it appeared shiny and tight. Could it pain him still?
He swallowed thickly, dipping his head lower. Guilt twisted in my gut, restoring it to its previously unsettled state. I hadn’t meant to stare. He was just so… secretive about it and ensured he kept me on his left side, always. When he could not, he clung to the shadows and let his hair cover his face where a hat or collar could not.
Floundering for a way to ease the tension, I remembered my earlier intention. “It is beautiful.” Men did love it when women complimented their homes. Wesley had preened and peacocked about the first time I expressed a wish to see his London house. I might as well have asked to see his roger for all the pride he had over it. The property was not overly impressive. Nor was his roger.
Lord Champaign nodded his thanks and turned back to the house.
I followed suit and saw the valet introducing Imogen to a woman, presumably the housekeeper. Crawford waited, clearly eager to introduce the staff to their new mistress and vice versa. And there were quite a few staff members.
That was a lot of people to conceal my condition from. It would be impossible, I supposed. At best, I had five months if my addition was correct. I couldn’t help but hope to delay the inevitable. Anything to allow the staff to get to know me as someone other than the strumpet who had foxed their employer into marriage.
My husband slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow and guided me toward my new household. Tucked this close, I caught a whiff of peppermint and my stomach’s dance slowed.
Crawford could hardly contain himself and bounced on his toes before recognizing the imprudence of such action and ceasing, only to begin again seconds later. When we reached him, he began introductions without bidding. I spent the next quarter hour greeting no less than twenty people. I was quite certain I would be able to recall precisely none of their names.
The butler was eager to start a tour of the house and grounds as well. For a man who had disapproved of me, he was all keenness now. The thought of trailing him through room after unused room was wearying. I was exhausted, sore, and hungry and surely the guest rooms would all still be there in the morning.
“Perhaps tomorrow, Crawford,” Lord Champaign interrupted. “It has been a busy day for us. I, for one, would adore if we could arrange an earlier supper.”
“Monsieur Portier is already busy in the kitchens, my lord,” the valet said from inside the open hall where he was directing the movement of my trunks.
My husband pulled me closer and directed me inside over the sputtering protests of his butler. “I hope that was to your liking,” he whispered. “I always found I had little patience for exhaustive tours when I arrived somewhere new after a long journey.”
“Yes, it was much appreciated.”
“I will show you the important rooms. Just so you don’t find yourself lost.” I nodded and he gestured me on, stepping around a maid with a trunk in our path and into the entry. The vestibule featured a dark wooden staircase that split on the landing, one set of steps leading to each wing. The entryway was painted a rich, buttery yellow with cream accents, clearly matching the tastes of whomever decorated the London house.
He nodded past the staircase and down a hall. “Dining room and breakfast room are down this hall, both impossible to miss.” He led me up the stairs and turned east at the landing, guiding me along.
“I’ve been residing in the east wing. The west is a mirror, at least on the second floor. I had them ready the chambers next to mine, but if you would prefer something else, just let Crawford know and they can arrange things to your liking.”
“I suspect Crawford would find any other arrangement improper.”
“Crawford finds everything improper. Do not pay him any mind. I do not.”
I rewarded his deep, teasing tone with a low laugh.
He drew me down the richly carpeted hall to the end. “My rooms,” he said, indicating the last door at the end with a nod. “And these are for you. If they suit.” He released me at the door beside his with a respectful bow before slipping into his own rooms.
After turning the handle, I stepped into the rooms that would be mine. Imogen was already hard at work, unpacking my trunks and directing two maids.
“Oh, my lady. I thought Crawford would harangue you into a tour.”
“Lord Champaign put him off.” One of the maids tittered, then feigned a cough when she caught my eye. Right, best not disparage the butler in front of them. Particularly not after less than four hours as their mistress.
The sitting room was open and airy with the same cream to be found elsewhere, this time paired with a pleasant sage shade.
The windows in the sitting room and, as I peered through the door, the bedroom as well were massive and arched. That meant I was at the back of the house. I stepped farther into the room, trailing my fingers across the pale green floral settee before approaching the glass.
Directly below me was the lovely pond I had seen on my arrival. The view was truly breathtaking. Surely the prospect was better here than any other room in the house.
“Would you like to rest?” Imogen interrupted my appreciative musings. “I imagine you’re tired from your journey.”
“That would be lovely. I understand that we’re dining early tonight, would you wake me an hour before?”
“Of course,” she said, drawing the other maids out. She returned to my side and fussed with my riding habit.
At last, I was down to my chemise, the bed calling out to me. Imogen drew the curtains and slipped out the door while I crawled into its welcoming arms, succumbing to its soft warmth in moments.
LEE
Crawford’s unending lecture was a worthy price for the relieved smile on my wife’s face when I delayed his tour. As usual, he was content to recite his complaints while I attended to correspondence in my study. I offered him the precise amount of my attention that his comments required—one sixth.
Nodding as appropriate, I glanced over the stack of letters waiting for me. I hadn’t intended to be gone this long. Nor to return with a wife. My steward was more than worthy of the title though and seemed to have everything in hand.
“—and another thing. It was entirely inappropriate for her to retire to her chambers with her trunks yet to be unpacked—” I favored the man with a contrite, wide-eyed expression.
A knock on the door startled Crawford out of his complaints, and Brigsby entered with tea. As always, Brigsby’s natural ease overtook Crawford’s performative manners, and he slid the tea tray on the desk, then rested a hip against the furnishing. He looked at me expectantly while I took a hearty sip.
“So, my lord…”
The look was utterly baffling. My gaze flitted to Crawford who was uncharacteristically silent and staring at me with a similar interest.
“Yes?”
Brigsby waggled a single brow up and down. It took far longer than I cared to admit for realization to crash over me.
My forehead fell to the rich mahogany of my desk without permission, landing with a solid thunk . “Go away,” I mumbled into the wood.
“Tonight is the night,” he said with a ridiculous singsong innuendo in his tone.
I groaned. Tonight was not the night. There was no night. It was one of the many benefits of wedding a woman already with child. I need not suffer the humiliation of a lady’s horrified expression in a desperate attempt to procreate.
Precisely one attempt—that was all I could bear. One visit to a brothel, where I was met with a literal scream of terror, was more than enough for a lifetime.
Brigsby did not know the bruise he was pressing on. No one knew. Well, he knew that the scars on my face were nothing compared to those on my chest. He knew the weeks of pain and fever. But he didn’t know that Lady Champaign and I would not consummate our wedding. Tonight or any other.
It was one of the many reasons wedding Lady Champaign had been, in fact, a terrible but impossibly tempting consideration. The possibility of an heir without the necessity of horrifying my wife with the sight of me.
“Monsieur has prepared supper using all of the finest… aphrodisiacs he could locate. He has oysters, pheasant, currants, and pine nuts.”
Oh, good Lord. My head popped off the desk. Half of that was sure to have my wife casting up her accounts. Certainly the oysters would not sit well. They rarely did for me. But the staff could not...
“Oysters do not agree with me, would you be so kind as to have chef remove them from the menu?” Would pheasant be all right?
Brigsby eyed me suspiciously. I was not one to complain over a menu. Complaining would require one to care about the contents of a plate, and I rarely gave it that much consideration.
“Also, if you would, have some peppermint tea prepared for Lady Charlotte when she wakes. And see if chef can make some ginger crisps to have on hand.” His eyes narrowed further at my uncharacteristic request before reading whatever he was searching for on my face. He nodded and sidestepped Crawford to relay my concerns.
“Brigs?” I called after him.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Would you have Lady Champaign’s lady’s maid sent in?”
His affirmative was tentative. The man had been with me my entire adult life. It was rare I surprised him, and I’d managed it at least twice in as many minutes.
Crawford’s lecture resumed with alacrity, now with the additional complaints of my suddenly choosy stomach.
My wife’s maid knocked on the open door, then lowered into a quick curtsy.
“That will be all Crawford.” I rarely dismissed him, and I would pay for the choice at some later time. Still, he bowed properly with a clenched jaw and slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
“My lord?” the maid asked.
“I’m sorry, I do not know that we’ve been introduced.”
“Imogen Talbot, my lord. But I prefer just Imogen.”
“Imogen… I understand that ladies in a delicate constitution sometimes experience discomforts. I should like to mitigate that wherever possible for my wife.” Her eyes widened before she nodded. Whether it was to my statement or the realization that I was aware of my wife’s condition was impossible to say. “It has become clear to me that my wife is willing to sacrifice her own comforts to appease me. Or in a way that she believes will please me.”
I let the statement land there and waited for some kind of confirmation or denial from the woman before me. Her jaw hung open slightly, but no sound escaped for a few seconds before it was clear that no response would be forthcoming.
“It would be a great help to me if you could let myself or Brigsby—Mrs. Fitzroy, as well—know if there is anything we could provide or do to give her comfort.”
More silent staring. Was this woman addled?
“Are there any dishes I should have chef avoid?”
The direct question seemed to bring her back to herself somewhat. “At this point, everything has made her feel poorly at one time or another. There seems to be no telling what will cause it.”
Nodding, I added, “You will let me know if there is something?”
“Yes, my lord,” she agreed with a bob, then stepped to leave.
“Thank you. Oh, Imogen?”
She turned back to face me. “Not Crawford, if you please?”
The woman nodded silently and scurried from the room.
Silence enveloped me with her exit, leaving nothing but the whisper of the flickering candle and the scratch of my quill as I resumed answering correspondence.