Chapter 15
MADELEINE
“Is the proposed menu for the week to your liking, Lady Wheaton?” Mrs. Dougall asked as we were seated in the cheerfully sunlit room I had chosen as my sitting room.
We met once a week so that I could review the meals Cook would prepare. I was still new to managing a household, and I was grateful to the housekeeper for her kindly guidance as I learned all the responsibilities I now had as mistress of the house.
“You know better than I what his lordship prefers,” I demurred. “Do you think these will please him?”
To be sure, being the Marchioness of Wheaton was vastly different from being a lowly chambermaid at Cliffwood.
My days had become a happy blend of tending to the needs of the house and spending time with Alexander whenever I could.
And my nights—well, I didn’t dare think about my nights just now, seated before Mrs. Dougall. I’d likely turn red as an apple.
They were my favorite part of every day.
“I do believe these will all be suited to Lord Wheaton’s tastes,” Mrs. Dougall told me, smiling. “He is especially fond of Savoy cake.”
“I shall have to remember that.” My husband possessed something of a sweet tooth. “He never wishes to make requests when I ask him. He tells me that he will be happy with whatever I choose.”
Mrs. Dougall’s smile turned fond. “I do think there are perhaps a few dishes he might turn up his nose at. He never has cared for pickled figs or fricassee of rabbit, for instance.”
I committed these dislikes to memory as well, knowing I still had much to learn about my husband as well as my household duties. But I looked forward to both. I had settled into my life here at Wheaton with a graceful ease, and I was heartily grateful for it.
“That is excellent to know, Mrs. Dougall. As I’ve never particularly cared for either of those, I shan’t miss them.” I paused to peruse the list I had made in anticipation of our meeting. “How is the airing out of the music room progressing?”
“The music room will be ready for you and his lordship this evening,” Mrs. Dougall informed me. “I know his lordship was looking forward to you playing for him on the pianoforte. It was tuned earlier this morning by Mr. Winthrop in the village.”
“That is wonderful news,” I said, though a hint of worry laced my delight at the news.
The music room at Wheaton Hall had long been closed up, the furniture and pianoforte hiding under coverings.
When Alexander had suggested that I make use of it once more, I had been overjoyed at the prospect of having a music room to myself and the leisure to be able to play again.
But it had been years since I had last had lessons, and I worried my husband was doomed to disappointment.
“If I may be so bold, my lady,” Mrs. Dougall added, a glint entering her eyes.
“I must say how pleased I am to have a mistress in this house. I had begun to despair that Lord Wheaton would never take a bride. To see him so contented with you now warms my heart. He is such a fine gentleman, none better.”
“Yes, he is,” I agreed without hesitation, even if I did feel my cheeks going warm.
It made me happy to think that Alexander was contented in our marriage.
I thought he was, but neither of us had yet spoken words of love.
It was my greatest hope that, in time, he may return my feelings.
Hearing someone who knew him as well as Mrs. Dougall did suggest I made him happy boosted my spirits, making me forget my dismay at potentially harming his ears with my poor pianoforte skills later.
“Forgive me, my lady. I don’t know why I’ve turned into a watering pot.” Mrs. Dougall dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“There is no need to apologize,” I assured her. “It pleases me to know that you care for my husband as you do.”
The housekeeper sniffed, regaining her formidable composure once again. “Well, then. Before I turn maudlin, is there anything else you require of me today, my lady?”
“I was also hoping to hire a few more maids and footmen from the village if you think it prudent,” I said. “Now that we are residing here at Wheaton, with, God willing, the promise of a family beckoning, I believe some more domestics would be helpful.”
Mrs. Dougall nodded. “The nursery will have to be aired out next, I should think. A few more hands to help would be just the thing.”
The nursery.
I didn’t allow myself to linger overly long on that room. I had long dreamed of becoming a mother, of having a family. And now, that dream was at last within my reach.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dougall,” I said, “I will entrust the matter to your capable hands.”
As she was more familiar with the needs of Wheaton, I would defer to her.
The housekeeper beamed at me, clearly overjoyed to be holding the reins. “I would be more than happy to do so, Lady Wheaton.”
We finished our discussion, and I decided to inspect the music room just down the hall.
No servants were lingering within as I crossed the threshold, amazed at the difference that had come to pass over the last few days.
Like my salon, the music room had a bank of windows that allowed a cheerful amount of natural light to filter into the chamber.
The pianoforte was handsome, fashioned of satinwood and tulipwood with inlaid floral decorations spanning the sides and front.
A comfortable-looking bench had been placed before it, with a harp, flute, and violin.
I never learned to play the violin, but I had tried my hand at the flute and harp.
My mother had taught me. Perhaps I might play a simple tune for Alexander this evening after dinner.
I moved to the pianoforte first, running my fingers lightly over the keys.
The sound was clear and loud, perfectly in tune.
Mr. Winthrop had performed his job well.
I missed making music. Listening to music.
I missed what music had meant to me, what seemed a lifetime ago.
My mother had been a talented singer and a skilled musician, and I had grown up watching her play before learning from her when I was old enough.
Hearing the random notes I had played took me back to a different time, when I had been protected and comfortable.
When I had never worked or feared. When I had never gathered reeds and awaited my punishment.
A stunning rush of grief sliced through me.
“I miss you, Mother,” I whispered aloud.
A song returned to me, one of her favorites, called “Shepherds, I Have Lost My Love.” To my amazement, I realized I remembered it, each note coming to me as I hovered over the pianoforte, my eyes filmed with the wistful mist of my tears.
When I reached the final, haunting note, the sound of applause startled me.
I whirled about, heart leaping into my throat, to discover that I had an audience.
Alexander watched me from the door to the music room, gazing at me with such blatant affection that I had to swallow hard to maintain my composure.
“Husband.” I offered him a curtsy, feeling foolish for not realizing he had been watching and listening. “I hadn’t realized you were at home, or else I wouldn’t have been picking at keys.”
He sketched an elegant bow and then strode into the room, bringing the vitality of the outdoors with him.
He was dressed for riding, and I knew he had been out tending to the estate again with Mr. Warwick.
What a dashing figure he cut, his long hair held in a queue at his nape, his breeches outlining muscular thighs, his boots gleaming.
As he approached me, I caught his familiar scent of leather and fresh country air.
His dark eyes were warm upon me as he reached for my hand and brought it to his lips for a reverent kiss. “Then I am glad you didn’t realize I had returned, or else I might have missed the opportunity to hear my beautiful wife play.”
He chased my sadness with such ease. How happy he made me.
I smiled at him as he delivered lingering kisses to my knuckles. “I believe you are being far too gallant. I haven’t played in many years.”
“Time has not diminished your talent.”
“My fingers are not as agile as they were in my youth.” I thought of the reddened skin, the scars I bore from years of drudgery as a maid and suffering punishments from my father.
Here at Wheaton, I had grown accustomed to occasionally foregoing my gloves over the last few weeks. But reminders such as this brought back my shame over the state of my hands.
“Your fingers are perfect. As you are.” As if to prove his point, Alexander delivered a new round of kisses to my knuckles.
“My hands will never be the soft, beautiful hands of a lady.”
That had been taken from me. But I didn’t mourn the loss so much for myself as for my husband. I wanted to be the wife he deserved.
“I adore your hands.” In demonstration, he turned mine over, exposing my palm where the damage was worst, and kissed me reverently there.
“They are beautiful and soft, and they most definitely belong to a lady. To the finest lady I am privileged to know.” He kissed me again, his eyes burning into mine.
“I especially love them when they touch me.”
Longing hit me. “Then perhaps they should touch you now.”
A slow, wicked grin curved his lips. “Why, Lady Wheaton, you do surprise me with your offer. What am I, your humble servant, to do but accept?”
“Surely you must be hungry from your travels this morning,” I suggested thickly.
“I am starving, Maddie mine,” he murmured, drawing me into his arms and holding me against his big, broad chest.
I felt safe. Comforted. I also felt desired. I wrapped my arms around his neck, the lingering sadness gone. I may have lost the old life I once had, but this was my new life, and it was brimming with hope.
“Then you must have your repast,” I told him, tilting my head back and offering him my lips.