Chapter 20
“Oh,” Madeline said. “Is Tristan not down for breakfast yet?”
Only Dorothea sat at the long dining room table, reading a newspaper. An unusual habit for a woman, as ladies were meant to confine themselves to reading scandal sheets and gossip columns, and popular novels if they must. She glanced up from her paper and smiled at Madeline.
“Good morning, my dear. I didn’t expect to see you down so early, not after the chaos of last night.
Doctor Hought is coming back before luncheon to check on little Adam, by the way.
I don’t believe that Tristan will be joining us this morning.
The butler told me that he breakfasted in his study and had gone out somewhere or other. ”
Madeline felt her spirits deflate. She had not slept well the previous night. It had been close to dawn when she finally retired to bed, her head swimming and thoughts of Tristan thrumming in her head.
The sun was up by the time she fell asleep; she remembered that much.
Just touching the horizon, but it had been enough to send the first few golden rays of light glittering through the curtains.
She could only have had a few hours before she found herself awake again, this time in a fully bright room, with breakfast minutes away from being served.
She sat down heavily in her usual place and picked up a napkin. She was hungry, which was not surprising. Madeline could not remember the last time she had eaten, but it must have been before they had visited the dressmaker’s. In fact, she felt so hollow inside she wanted to groan.
It was easy enough to put thoughts of Tristan aside while she breakfasted diligently.
Every now and then, flashes popped into her mind of his hands sliding over her waist, her ribcage, her breasts.
She could feel his fingers still, warm and gentle and thrilling.
None of his touches had been enough in a way she could not quite explain.
She suspected that he knew as much, which was infuriating.
But I did the right thing, she reminded herself. I know that I did. For Adam’s sake, as well as my own.
What a pitiful thing it would be to be a woman who is madly in love with her husband, a fellow who could not care less about her.
That was the painful truth of it all, wasn’t it?
She might fall in love with Tristan, but he would not fall in love with her.
After all, he had grown bored with lovelier women than herself.
Miss Juliana Bolt was his latest victim, although Madeline was privately relieved not to see the woman very frequently at the moment.
I’m sure he would grow fond of me. But I am not sure that fondness is enough. After all, Papa is fond of me. Dorothea is fond of me, as is Charlotte.
This is something other than fondness.
Yes, she had done the right thing in putting a stop to things with Tristan last night. She could not have said with any certainty where it might all have ended, but she was fairly certain that it would not have ended with a chaste peck on the cheek and a withdrawal to their separate beds.
Of course, she was now wondering where Tristan had gone so early in the morning.
What if her refusal of him had sent him skittering back to an old mistress, or perhaps in search of a new one?
If he had gone back to Juliana Bolt, the woman’s triumph would have been difficult to stomach.
She would, after all, have won, and a duke was a fine prize.
She swallowed thickly, taking a large mouthful of bacon.
“You are hungry,” Dorothea remarked with approval. “I do like to see a young woman with an appetite. I don’t much like this modern fashion of ladies barely eating. Between their tight-laced corsets and the fashion for willowy beauties, ladies scarcely dared eat at all.”
“Not I,” Charlotte mumbled, helping herself to some scrambled eggs.
“My husband was fond of thin women. At least he wanted his wife to be thin,” Dorothea corrected. “I believe that his mistresses were often full-figured women.”
Madeline choked. “Mistresses?”
Dorothea smiled wryly at her. “You must have known of my late husband’s reputation. They say that half of the bastards in England are his, and a third of the Scottish ones.”
She swallowed. “And didn’t you mind?”
Dorothea regarded her for a long moment. “What do you think, Madeline?”
There was silence after that. Madeline felt almost ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was a foolish thing to ask. It’s just that you seem so confident and unconcerned.”
“I am neither of those things. At least, I was not those things. It upset me very much, but I quickly learned not to broach the subject or act as if I cared. It would do me no good, and he would never give up a plaything until he was ready.”
Madeline shuddered. “What a vile man.”
“Yes,” Dorothea agreed equably. “He was a vile man. But he is long dead. Anthony and Tristan, my two precious boys, are nothing like him, thank God.” She paused, meeting Madeline’s eyes.
“Despite Tristan’s rather shocking reputation, he is not like his father.
He would rather die than be like him. Tristan will not shame you in society, I can say that with confidence. ”
“Not publicly, at least,” Madeline muttered, a little more sourly than she intended.
She could not, of course, publicly explain to Tristan’s mother that she was not going to be a proper wife to him, and that it was all arranged that Tristan would amuse himself wherever and with whomever he liked, so long as he did not embarrass his wife.
She suspected that she had already said too much, and blushed under Dorothea’s steady gaze.
“You need a change of scenery, I think,” Dorothea said suddenly, brushing her palms together briskly.
And a change of subject, Madeline thought. She was entirely sure that Tristan had gone off to seek solace in the arms of a lady-friend, and she was equally sure that it was directly as a result of her denying him.
She was a little worried about how despondent and angry this made her feel.
Dorothea reached for the pile of invitations sitting on a silver platter and sifted through them.
“You need some amusement tonight,” she murmured.
“Darling Adam is quite recovered, and Joan will be able to care for him. Now, let me see what we have. A soiree at Lady Judith Woole’s?
No, I think not. Her intimate gatherings always include half of London, and I don’t think you’re in the mood for a crush.
Not Sir William’s dinner party. The man chooses the oddest guests, and the conversation always lags.
No, no, no… Ah! James has invited us to the opera!
James is Tristan’s cousin, you know. James requires better friends, I think. How do you feel about the opera?”
Madeline gave a faint smile. “It sounds wonderful, Dorothea.”
Whatever takes my mind off the fact that my husband is probably in the arms of a beautiful opera singer at this very moment.
“The abbess is extremely keen that the girls get just as sharp an education as the boys, you see,” Sister Abigail explained, leading Tristan through the narrow hallways of St. Naomi’s Orphanage.
The large, sprawling stone building was always cold, but it was also one of the few orphanages where the children were appropriately clothed against the weather and where they had sufficiently warm blankets on their beds.
“I thought that most of these girls would grow up to marry or become domestics,” Tristan remarked. “I’m sure the abbess said as much to me.”
“In all likelihood, yes,” Sister Abigail acknowledged.
“But without a decent education, they will certainly never achieve anything more. The abbess always says that a maid ought to learn Latin, mathematics, and literature just as much as a schoolboy at Eton. She said that we all have the same capacity to learn, and now is a crucial time. Children learn so much faster than we adults, Your Grace.”
“I cannot argue with that. I am giving thought to my nephew’s education, and I find the whole business overwhelming.”
The nun nodded. “That is understandable. We have so little time to teach them. Your last donation was used to buy textbooks and other school supplies. Some of our other patrons objected to the girls being taught Latin and mathematics. In fact,” she paused, chuckling, “some of the girls themselves objected. But the abbess is determined. She is all for education for women.”
Tristan grinned. “And that is why I am your patron, not a patron of any other orphanages. I must bring my wife, the duchess, here. She will approve of your work here, I know.”
“It would be an honor to meet her, Your Grace.”
Sister Abigail opened a heavy wooden door that led into a large, square courtyard.
About fifty children of varying ages raced around, screaming and laughing.
They played hopscotch, tig, blind-man’s buff, and other wild schoolyard games that Tristan did not recognize.
A small boy rolled a hoop past them, intent on his task, and Sister Abigail smiled fondly down at him, ruffling his hair as he went by.
The children of this orphanage were a little different from others, in that they were well-fed and not quite as hollow-eyed as others.
The abbess of St. Naomi’s held a somewhat controversial belief that those in poverty were not, in fact, enduring a punishment from God, but were, in fact, enduring plain old bad luck.
She did not particularly see the need to punish these children for their orphan status by forcing them to work and endure various privations. Instead, she focused on feeding, clothing, and educating them if no good families could be found.
The abbess of St. Naomi’s was considered a rather strange woman and was not particularly popular for her beliefs.
She did not much care, especially not with a patron like Tristan.
A group of children spotted Tristan and Sister Abigail and came running toward them, squealing. They were aged between six and nine, and clustered around them, smiling up eagerly.
“Have you any sugared plums this time, mister?” a little fair-haired girl exclaimed. She was one of the ringleaders and was soon to be adopted by a shy, kindly farming couple who had never had children of their own.
“I do not,” Tristan laughed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, “but I do have marzipan. Will that do?”
It would do. The children were keen to receive the marzipans, scurrying away once the supply of sweets had been exhausted. Tristan kept one for himself and one for Sister Abigail, who took it with a smile.
“Do you intend to bring Her Grace, the Duchess, here soon?” Sister Abigail inquired, with a lump of marzipan in her cheek. “Does she know about your philanthropic work?”
“No,” Tristan admitted. “But I am sure she would want to accompany me. Perhaps not as often as I do, but I know she would care about the fate of the children here.”
“She sounds like a kind woman,” Sister Abigail said, nodding. “Please accept my congratulations on your marriage, Your Grace. Marriage is, after all, a gift from God.”
Tristan smiled and said nothing. He was fairly sure that he had not had a wink of sleep last night.
He could think of nothing but Madeline and the flush on her face, the blush creeping down her neck.
He could feel the warmth of her skin through the material of the robe.
He had not opened his eyes and peeped while she changed, as his point had been to show her that she could trust him.
But oh, how he’d longed to.
Enough, he told himself furiously. You are in an orphanage, standing beside a nun. Control yourself, can you not?
A few deep breaths cooled his ardor. He glanced around at the noise and chaos of the playground and imagined what Madeline would do if she were here.
She had a knack for children, after all.
He imagined that she would run off and join their games, not at all a stately, dull sort of duchess.
She would laugh with them and play with them.
She would not need to bribe the children’s affection with sweets.
No, she would love them, and they would adore her right back.
They would adore her as I adore her, he thought, and then flinched a little at the suddenness of the thought. Swallowing hard, he turned to face Sister Abigail.
“Did you say that new textbooks have been bought? May I look at them?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Follow me.”
Mathematics and Latin. That would take his mind off Madeline.
If mathematics can’t cool my desire, he thought miserably, following Sister Abigail back into the building, then there is really no hope for me.