The Lady’s Companion

Chapter Seventeen

She spent a perfectly sleepless night, moving from the bed to the chair, to the window seat, and back to the chair again. She had never been in love before, but knew she loved the bailiff. She knew she would never be comfortable until she was married to him, but the initial effort of making love to a man gave her room for thought and some misgivings.

Mrs. Steinman had taken away her traveling dress to give it a good brushing and pressing, and she had indulged herself with a good soak in the tin tub, contemplating her bare knees and wishing that everyone in the world would go away except the bailiff. As the water turned cold, she decided that while she was not precisely frightened by the prospect of acquiring a husband, she wished there had been better sources of information than Professor Fowler’s profoundly silly book, and Aunt Louisa’s admonitions. There has to be considerable pleasure in the married state, or people wouldn’t have been indulging in the practice since Adam and Eve, she decided as she dried off, got in her nightgown, and waited for sleep to come.

That it did not came as no surprise. First she indulged in a hearty round of castigating her relatives and wishing them all to hell or Australia—whichever was worse—and followed that with a few more tears and a fervent desire to remember the Hamptons no more. She devoted the remainder of the night to the bailiff. She considered all his virtues, and found herself quite unable to recall any defects, beyond a certain single-mindedness regarding wheat, and a regrettable tendency to forget about washing when he got really busy.

She knew she could deal promptly with the latter, so it was not an issue. I will even volunteer to scrub his back, she thought, then quickly put the idea from her mind as she felt herself growing uncomfortably warm, for March. As for the wheat, she found it almost as fascinating as he did, so it could not be a defect.

I have lived much of my life around idle fritterers, which David is not, she told herself. If he likes to spend his spare time rearranging the characteristics of grain, at least I will always know where I can find him. Grain—at least in this form—does not drive men to distraction, or ruin them, or spend their money, or make their wives and children weep and mourn.

She smiled to herself and thought of Lady Bushnell. I will devote myself to my employer and become proficient at the piano if it kills me. I intend to be a very good Wiggins, even if it is a borrowed name from an English village. If it was good enough for the king and his shillings, it will do for me.

After midnight, she heard David and Joel come up the stairs, laughing and then shushing each other outside her door until she had to cover her mouth to keep from betraying her own amusement. David’s room was next to hers and the walls were thin enough for her to hear him whistling. The ropes creaked, so she knew when he got into bed. To her additional amusement and frustration, she heard him begin to snore. The sleep of the innocent or the thoroughly experienced? she asked herself, while I toss and writhe about and contemplate what mysteries tomorrow night will uncover.

She was dressed and downstairs for breakfast before the men. Mrs. Steinman worked in the kitchen with her scullery maid, and Susan joined her, happy to finish the recipe for plum cake while the other woman prepared eggs for baking.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Mrs. Steinman asked.

Susan shook her head and peered closer at the recipe, hoping to hide what she knew was a red face.

Mrs. Steinman sat at the table, her eyes focused on distant scenes, the eggs forgotten. “I remember my wedding day. I had never laid eyes on my husband before.”

“Never?” Susan asked, stopping the dough in mid-stroke.

“It was not our custom, little one,” she replied. “And when I first saw him, it was through a thick veil.” She turned her attention to the eggs again. “I didn’t get a really good look at him until after the ceremony.” She chuckled. “And then a much better look.”

Susan brought the bowl to the table and sat down. “You must have been terrified,” she said as she continued stirring.

“Why?” Mrs. Steinman asked, surprised. “You see, my dear, I trusted that my father would arrange well for me, and he did.”

How fortunate you are, Susan thought. My father’s ideas of arrangement generally involve telling stories only he can believe, and smiling big enough to cover the worst shortcomings. She looked down at the bowl, sighed, and redoubled her efforts.

“My dear, it is plum cake, not whipping cream,” Mrs. Steinman said, her voice gentle. “Perhaps your father will come to the wedding and make amends.”

I do not think there are words enough in this entire universe to apologize for last night’s display of family love, she thought, even as she smiled and nodded. “Perhaps he will. Here, Mrs. Steinman. Is the oven ready?”

She thought that breakfast would taste like ashes and bone-meal, but she surprised herself by consuming the largest share of baked eggs and looking around for more, to the bailiff’s amusement. Perhaps it is not so surprising, she thought as she went to the sideboard for warm plum cake. I didn’t have the heart for dinner last night.

The bailiff joined her there. “I don’t know, Susan,” he began, shaking his head. “I don’t remember your eating so much before for breakfast.” He winked at Steinman. “Joel, didn’t you assure me that two can live as cheaply as one, but only half as long?”

They ate quickly, with an eye on the clock. “I suppose we will not see you after the ceremony?” Joel asked as he pushed himself away from the table.

“No. We leave immediately for Quilling,” David replied. He glanced at Susan. “We leave it to you to tell that nice widow who wants a governess that the incomparable Susan decided instead to marry a Welsh thief, poacher, veteran, and...”

“... future proprietor of Waterloo Seed Farm,” she interrupted, dabbing at her lips with the napkin. “While I do not expect us to be rich someday, we will be adequately respectable. Come on, David. Let us get married.”

The wedding was quickly performed at St. Andrews Church. She clutched the bailiff’s hand, whispered her responses in a terrified voice, and only stopped shaking when he clamped his hand around her wrist to hold it still and slide on the wedding band.

She couldn’t remember a word the priest said; she might as well have been married in Hindustani. She stood and shook, and knelt and shook, and barely recognized her signature after she signed the registry. Mrs. Steinman cried, Joel grinned, and Colonel March looked as relieved as when General Blucher arrived in the eleventh hour on Waterloo’s field. Beyond a somewhat bemused drunk in a back pew and an old lady who talked to herself, there were no other wedding guests.

Well, I did not expect more, Susan thought as she raised her cheek for Colonel March to kiss, and followed it with the warmth of Mrs. Steinman’s embrace. “May you be as happy as I was,” the woman said, then whispered. “From my mouth to God’s ears.”

Then there was only time to say good-bye to everyone, laugh at Joel waving his empty sleeve again, and catch the mail coach at its nearest location. She sat close to her husband and admired the ring. “When did you find time to get this?” she asked as the mail coach started.

He took her hand and ran his fingers over the ring. “When I went to Chipping Norton for the cattle fair.”

She gaped at him. “David, I had turned you down only days before! You were so confident?”

“I was so confident,” he replied simply.

She slept most of the way to Oxford, her hand resting on his thigh, his arm about her shoulders. After Oxford, she stayed awake for the rest of the trip, too shy to speak, but content to tuck herself close to him and watch the mile posts come and go. The bailiff didn’t seem to mind her silence. He dozed, resting his head on her shoulder and relaxing completely. When he woke, he told her his plans for the Waterloo Seed Company, and then maintained a conversation with the farmer seated on his other side. Susan listened to traded experiences of scours, joint ill, and whether to sow barley in the full moon or the new moon, and wondered what her former friends would make of such talk. I have much to learn, she thought, and it goes so far beyond what I will discover tonight. My genteel upbringing has prepared me for nothing.

“You have a quizzical look on your face,” the bailiff commented after the farmer left the coach at a crossroads and they started again.

She smiled at him. “I am thinking how ill-prepared I am for life with you.” It was so honest that she blushed.

The bailiff glanced around to see if the other passengers were sleeping, and kissed her quickly. “You only have to remember two things, Suzie,” he murmured, his lips close to hers.

“Just two?” she whispered, wanting him to kiss her again.

“I like my meals on time and I’ll be putting my cold feet on your legs when I come in late at night after a lambing or a calving.” He kissed her again. “I think everything else will revolve pretty much around those two matters,” he concluded, his words teasing her. “What about you?”

She chose her words carefully. “I could tell you that I don’t ever want to be shouted at, or made to feel little, but you would never do that anyway,” she said as she traced the outline of his jaw with her finger. “I know you will not beat me, or use me unkindly, because it is not in your nature. No one told me; I just know.”

“Oh, Suzie,” he said, and it was more a sigh than words. “You do me honor.”

“All you have to remember is that I love you, David,” she whispered.

“Done, Mrs. Wiggins.”

They arrived in Quilling at the end of the long spring day, when the sun was gone, but the sky was not yet dark. While Susan waited in the public room, the bailiff paid the innkeep for stabling the horse and gig and went to claim them. Susan sat quietly, drinking tea and remembering her first visit there. You are right, sir, she thought as she watched the keep pour ale for a customer. This is a friendly village. I have found a husband in this place, and our children will likely go to school here.

David came back then and motioned to her. She rose to go when the innkeep called to the bailiff. “David, Ben Rich’s little Owen stopped in this morning. He told me to tell you to please stop at the sheepfold on your way to the manor.” He took a few swipes at the counter with his damp rag. “He appeared agitated, but acted like he didn’t want me to know, the little beggar.”

“Oh?” David said, concern evident in his eyes.

“Told him I could send some men, if he was having trouble, but the little ragged muffin puffed up like a lord and said he was perfectly capable. Lord save us, David, but what’s in the water in Wales to make all men from there think they are kings?”

They rode in silence to the sheepfold, David alert for trouble, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. “Ben? Owen?” he called when the gig rolled to a stop in front of the stone building.

The door burst open and Owen Thrice ran out. The bailiff leaped from the gig in time for the lad to grab him around the waist. “Mr. Rich is sick,” he sobbed. “I’ve been doing the best I could.”

David knelt by the boy and wiped his face. “I’m sure you have, Owen,” he said. “Let’s go inside and you can tell me everything.” He helped Susan from the gig, shrugging at her while the boy tugged him along by the hand.

The crofter’s cot looked much the same, except that Ben Rich was lying in bed, faintly snoring. Two lambs negotiated the room on the stiff legs of newborns, gradually picking up speed while a ewe paced back and forth.

“Owen Thrice, what on earth!” the bailiff exclaimed. “Watch your step, Suzie.”

Owen sat beside Ben Rich, who continued to slumber through the baaing. The air was redolent with sheep manure. Susan felt her eyes beginning to water from the fumes, and she longed to open the door, but that would only lead to the exodus of lambs and an increase in the young boy’s misery, which was already amply evident on his face.

“Mr. Rich is sick and I’ve been taking care of him,” Owen said.

“The sheep, lad? We have pens for them outside, last time I looked,” David said.

Owen Thrice burst into tears, adding his noise to the confusion about them. “ ‘Twas Ben’s idea, Mr. Wiggins. He thought to help me from his bed. I tried and tried to help one of the ewes, but she died anyway, and then one of that ewe’s twins died, and I tried to get the orphan lamb to suck her but the ewe wouldn’t let him, and now I don’t know what to do, because Ben sleeps and sleeps,” he said in one breathless sentence, the words tumbling out of him.

Without any comment, the bailiff handed Owen his handkerchief. When he had collected himself, the boy hunkered down in front of the hearth like the bailiff, looking up at him as though he knew David could solve all problems.

“Where’s the dead lamb, lad?”

Owen indicated with his head. “Beside the shearing shed. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Then go get it.”

Susan blinked in surprise, but didn’t say anything. She went to the bed and put her hand on Ben Rich’s forehead. He was cool now, but the stiffness of his nightshirt and the sour odor about the bed, obvious even in the ripe-smelling room, told Susan a tale of high fever and sweats. “He appears to be only sleeping, and he is not hot,” she told the bailiff, who nodded and sidestepped the lambs, who continued their rapid circumference of the room.

Owen struggled in with the lamb carcass, which he flopped down in front of the bailiff. Immediately, the ewe took an interest and came closer, nosing her dead lamb and making anxious purring sounds.

“Watch, lad, and you can do this next time,” David said as he picked up a knife from the table. Deftly he made several slits around the carcass and skinned it so fast that Susan blinked in surprise.

“Catch me the orphan,” he ordered Owen, who leaped up and wrestled the lamb to a standstill. Just as quickly as he had skinned the animal, David slid the skin onto the orphan and sat back. “Watch this, lad,” he said.

The ewe nosed the orphan wearing her twin’s carcass. In another moment, the rejected lamb was nursing successfully. The ewe’s other baby soon joined the adopted orphan. Susan laughed out loud to watch them nurse, their tails twirling ecstatically.

“Works every time,” David commented, then looked at Susan, apology in his eyes. “I’m going to stay here and see what else needs to be done. Take the gig, Suzie. Tom will unhitch it for you.” He wiped his hands, then put them around her waist. “You’ll have to tell Lady Bushnell the glad tidings.”

“But when ...”

“As soon as I can, love.” With a look to make sure that Owen was staring at the lambs, he kissed her with all the fervor of that first kiss in the barnyard. “Make me a warm spot in bed.”

Cora Skerlong’s stodgy suitor had taken her and Mrs. Skerlong to the village, so there was only Lady Bushnell to tell, and she took the news with equanimity and obvious pleasure, once she had satisfied herself that Susan had made no sacrifice. She patted the side of her bed and took Susan’s hands in hers.

“I imagine that all the Hamptons have risen as one to tell you what a goose you are.”

Susan nodded, feeling wary.

“Then you don’t need that from me, too, my dear,” Lady Bushnell said briskly. “I am most grateful that you have convinced my daughter-in-law that I am not suffering from any neglect that will reflect on her. She can be positively frightful, at times.”

“You should really thank Colonel March,” Susan said. “It was he who convinced Lady Bushnell and paid for the special license.”

“A man of sense,” she agreed, her eyes merry. “Charlie once told me that he thought Edwin March should have commanded the regiment.”

And so he should have, Susan thought, remembering with a chill the desperate letter from New Orleans. “In a married state, the colonel and Lady Bushnell deem us worthy to keep you from the cocoon of the family estate,” she assured the widow. She looked down at her hands then, suddenly shy. “David thinks it best that he move into the house with me.”

“So do I,” Lady Bushnell said. She patted Susan’s hand. “Only think how convenient this will make our trip to Waterloo this summer! I own I was wondering how we were going to do it.”

“Oh, Lady Bushnell, I don’t think...” Susan began.

Lady Bushnell put her finger to Susan’s lips. “Hush, child! This will appear altogether more sanguine to you in the morning, after a good night with the bailiff.”

“As to that, I believe the sheep have his attention tonight,” Susan said in an agony of embarrassment.

“I doubt it,” the widow replied briskly. “Get yourself ready for bed, then bring us some tea.” She smiled at Susan, shedding the years. “It appears to me that you could use some advice.”

What I need is courage, Susan thought as she poured hot water from the Rumford, took it to the laundry room, and washed herself thoroughly. She smiled. And someone to scrub my back. She reached for the cold water bucket to douse her warmth, gasping at the change in temperature, wondering at her own eagerness for the bailiff, felt even through her nervousness. The wretched Professor Fowler says that all maidens are reticent, and only surrender—oh, what nonsensical phrase did he use—ah, “that pristine prize most precious”—silly twaddle—with the greatest reluctance. She dried herself until she tingled, then put on nightgown and robe. “I think, Professor Fowler, that your wife is to be pitied,” she said out loud as she prepared the tea tray and went back upstairs, her bare feet quiet on the stairs.

Lady Bushnell was dozing, and Susan almost set down the tray and left the room. No, I need some advice, she decided as she clattered the cups in their saucers and was rewarded with one eye, then two, staring at her.

“Pour it and sit down,” said the dowager. “First I suppose you should get me those dratted medicaments from the bureau that the doctor insists on dosing me with. I assure him I have never felt better, and he becomes almost rude in reply.”

“You cannot fool him, Lady Bushnell.”

She handed Lady Bushnell the glass of water with powders dissolved in it. She drank it and made a face. “I pay him enough to overlook my occasional nastiness, if I will overlook his,” she retorted. “Sit down now, and tell me what you need to know.”

Susan was silent, not knowing where to begin.

“Do you need to know everything?” Lady Bushnell asked finally. “What is the matter with modern youth?”

“Oh, no!” Susan assured her. “What I mean is, I understand the ... the fundamentals. What I don’t understand... what I want to know ... Lady Bushnell, is it fun?”

Lady Bushnell smiled, and motioned for Susan to fluff her pillows. “Trust your Aunt Louisa to scare you to death! No wonder her own daughters are so pasty-looking.” She snorted and settled herself lower in the pillows. “I don’t suppose any of their husbands will ever see them even by candlelight with their clothes off!” She reflected on that a moment. “Not that anyone would want to, I think.”

“That’s all right then?” Susan asked. “I mean, I was wondering how...”

Lady Bushnell reached up and touched Susan’s cheek. “My dear, it is vastly fun and impossible to overrate. If you’re scared silly now, that will change.”

“Well, not precisely scared silly, my lady,” Susan argued.

“Then you are more sensible than I was!” The widow laughed out loud. “On our wedding night, I locked myself in the dressing room and refused to come out.”

“I don’t think I will go that far,” Susan said.

“I didn’t think so! And there was my husband, pounding on the door and saying, ‘Lydia, I am a major!’ over and over!” She laughed, then wiped her eyes. “Dear me, but that is a memory.”

“You came out finally?” Susan asked.

“No, actually,” Lady Bushnell continued, the merriment welling up in her again. “He took the door off the hinges and then just sat there on the floor and laughed until I thought he would perish from want of breath. I cried a little more, got the hiccups, and he held my nose and made me sip porter by the teaspoon until they stopped.”

“And then?” Susan prompted.

Lady Bushnell regarded her with bright eyes. “He consoled me most successfully.”

“I suppose you will not tell me any more now,” Susan teased. She gently took out one of the pillows behind Lady Bushnell’s head, and smoothed her hair back until it was tucked under her sleeping cap again. “You will tell me I must find out for myself.”

“Of course, my dear,” the widow said, as her eyes closed. “You will have your own stories to tuck away in your memory.” She opened her eyes. “Do you know, Susan, I think you and I should write down my life story.”

“Including the major, hiccups and hinges?” she asked.

“Perhaps not everything,” she said, her voice drowsy now as the powders took effect.

“Tell me one thing, Lady Bushnell, and then I will know enough,” Susan said after a moment’s hesitation. “The first time, does it...”

“Hurt, my dear?” Lady Bushnell opened her eyes and motioned for Susan to sit beside her on the bed again. “Let me answer you this way by telling you something about David Wiggins.”

She did as Lady Bushnell directed. “I suppose you will tell me now that Sergeant Wiggins was the regimental Don Juan.”

“Far from it! As far as I knew, he was completely loyal to Jesusa.” Lady Bushnell took Susan by the hand. “What I am telling you has nothing to do with his conjugal abilities. How would I know? But I do know this about him: I cannot recall a time, except just before or after battle, when he did not help Jesusa draw water, or gather wood. He was a sergeant! He could have delegated such homely tasks, or left them to her entirely, as other men, but he did not.”

Susan looked down at her wedding ring and turned it thoughtfully on her finger. “I think I understand what you are telling me.” She looked at Lady Bushnell, done with reticence. “He will use me kindly.”

“I am certain of it. I must say that it gives me some satisfaction to think that, all Hamptons aside, you just might be the luckiest woman in England.” She patted Susan’s hand, then released it. “Go get some sleep now! When the sergeant decides that the sheep will keep, you’ll be busy enough.”

It was food for thought, and consoling enough to suit her. She went thoughtfully to her room after hearing the Skerlongs return home, and going downstairs to tell them of her marriage. She finished her commentary in a room absolutely silent, asked the dumbstruck housekeeper to leave the back door unlocked for the bailiff, and hurried upstairs with a grin on her face.

Lady Bushnell was right; Susan found it much easier to sleep this time. After a night of no sleep, and the discomforts of the mail coach, she gave herself up to the mattress without a qualm. She woke up once in the early hours, and patted the space beside her, but there was still no bailiff. “Damn the sheep, anyway,” she murmured before closing her eyes again.

He came to bed when the sun was making preliminary motions to rise, and the room was just lightly pinked with early dawn.

Sunk down as deep in sleep as she was, he did not startle her. He sat in the chair by the cold hearth, regarding her as he eased his feet out of his boots with a sigh. She came to life gradually, her drowsy eyes moving from his stockinged feet to his stubbled face, to his lively eyes.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Mmmm,” she replied. Some fussbudget in the back of her brain was telling her to pull down her nightgown, because, after all, who was this strange man with morning stubble? The more alert section of her brain—the one that seemed to be speeding up her heartbeat and breathing—was reminding her that she was married now, and wasn’t that a fortunate thing, especially since she was pulling back the covers to welcome him into her warmth?

“Mrs. Wiggins, you are a sight to behold.”

Still webbed in the fuddle of sleep, she looked over her shoulder for Mrs. Wiggins, then reddened and came more awake. “Oh ... me,” she said, feeling stupid and randy at the same time.

He grinned and took off his clothes. Her eyes widened, but she gulped and made room for him in the bed. He sank down with a sigh, putting his arm out to gather her in. He smelled quite strongly of sheep, but the odor, she was discovering, was far from unpleasant. After the tiniest hesitation, she moved into the space he created, so close to his heart, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand on his bare chest.

He was content to stretch out and let go of the long night, quiet, peaceful—boneless, almost—beside her. His feet were cold on her bare legs, but not for long. Gradually her own warmth took off his chill and he moved his feet away.

If she had thought to be afraid of the bailiff, there wasn’t any reason. He took her hand, kissed her fingers, and moved it lower until her eyes grew wide again. “My stars,” she breathed. “I didn’t think you would be so...” she paused, her fingers gentle.

“Large?” he asked, grinning at her.

“No. Soft. But not precisely soft,” she amended, discovering trouble forming words as he allowed her to explore him. She gave up the attempt at speech and kissed him instead. She thought to protest his whiskers as he kissed her, then as he nuzzled her neck and breasts she couldn’t think why it had mattered, and then she couldn’t think at all, beyond the fact that she was on her back now, and she didn’t want to be anywhere else in the galaxy.

She followed his advice, softly whispered in a voice not really like his own, trusting him with all her heart. She relaxed as much as she could, wincing only slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, then devoting herself to his rhythm, which became hers, too. If here was anyone or anything else in the world except the two of them, she didn’t know of it. The joy she felt was beyond any contentment a hundred Lady Bushnells could have explained. Finally his whole body relaxed on hers, and no matter how heavy he felt, she knew she could sustain him forever.

He raised up finally to look at her out of focus, eye to eye, nose to nose, completely part of her. When he lay beside her again with another sigh, she felt a loss all out of proportion to her previous fears. She couldn’t explain why, but she had wanted him to continue his motions.

He stretched out his arm to pull her in close again, and she moved without hesitation this time, resting her legs on his. “I had all the fun this time,” he said into her ear, tugging on the lobe with his teeth, which caused her eyes to roll back in her head, an anatomical response she had never been aware of before. “We’ll remedy that with practice.” He kissed her cheek and caressed her breast, then stopped and whispered, “All this lanolin, Suzie, and your chest will be so oily you’ll slide right out of your shift.”

“I think I already did,” she whispered back, smiling when he laughed and continued his efforts. In a few moments, his hand stopped, and he slept, warm and heavy and totally to her liking. She dozed a few more minutes herself, then carefully eased herself out from under his hand.

She hunted around on hands and knees until she found her nightgown by the door, where the bailiff had tossed it. She put it on again and thought about adding coal to the fire, but it was more exertion than she wanted, just then. She sat in the chair instead, surrounded by the clothes he had dropped, wondering idly if he was inclined ordinarily to pick up his clothes or leave than strewn about. She drew her legs up close to her body, pleased to know there was no pain at all, only a little tightening of muscles unused to a husband.

She watched the bailiff, certain there was no handsomer slumbering man in all the British Isles. The prominent lines of his face, so firmly Welsh, seemed to loosen as he abandoned himself without a struggle to sleep. No matter how minuscule her experience in these matters, she knew she had some function in furnishing the depth of the rest he now enjoyed.

I suppose I share that honor with sheep, she thought with a smile, and a late night’s work. She stood up and stretched. But he will not be looking for sheep when he wakes up, she considered, flexing her fingers over her head. I think I will find some warm water. I wonder if Lady Bushnell will mind terribly if I am late to piano practice this morning?