Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Ma’am, y’ mustn’t take it personally. Jasper’s had an awful time of it an’ needs his space is all.” Murdoch’s attempt to soothe only irked Elizabeth more.
“But I am his wife.” She remained ardent. “Who better to care for him, tend his needs, than myself?”
Murdoch plunked the breakfast tray across Elizabeth’s lap, expelled a loud sigh, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Ma’am, yer husband don’t wish fer yer company right now, an’ you’d be wise t’ heed him.
What he don’t need is more upset, so you can rant all you likes t’ me an’ staff, but you’ll obey his wishes in this. ”
“I do not appreciate your tone, Murdoch.”
“An’ don’t I know it.” The housekeeper’s lips thinned. “But me duty’s t’ Jasp; I’ll not be swayed. You do yer job as mistress o’ this house, an’ I’ll do mine. An’ when Jasper’s ready—when he’s ready, mind—he’ll be yer husband again.”
Elizabeth huffed, for what more could she say? Her husband did not wish to see her, though she longed to see him. She must be patient. She must do her duty. She must obey his wishes. Even now, in this, she was forced to follow his bloody rules.
A week had passed since they’d brought Milton home, and by all accounts he was healing well.
But she did not know this for herself, because he still refused to see her.
He let only his most trusted servants into his room, along with his mother and Li, which made Elizabeth privately seethe.
Miss Li had begged an audience with Lady Milton, as had Mary Audrey, but she’d refused both in a fit of pique.
It hurt too much to know her husband trusted everyone but her, his wife.
She knew she should be patient—he’d suffered horrors she could not begin to comprehend. But she could not quell her overwhelming need to connect to him again. Nor did she understand why he rejected her so completely.
It just hurt, all of it, damnably much.
Elizabeth did her best to behave as a good wife should and must, but she was desperate for delivery from this impasse.
She’d called twice on Annabelle already, but though Bella claimed all was fine, her sister did not seem happy in her marriage to Mr. Harris.
Not that Elizabeth had strength to dwell on Annabelle; she could barely bring herself to read, let alone write—the two pursuits she had always depended on for comfort in bleak times.
She’d received a response from Milton’s tutor, Mr. Kilpert, in the midst of her distress, though she’d nearly forgotten that she’d written to the man.
He’d replied in such a perfectly polite manner, happy to instruct the Baron in dance, that she’d been taken aback by how normal his words read—in contrast to her husband’s continued, confounding behavior.
She’d written back at once, explaining the Baron was presently unwell but would inform Mr. Kilpert himself when he wished to begin instruction.
And then her mind had turned again to Milton.
Would he deign to speak to her today, or invite her to his room, to his bed again?
Perhaps he would shun her now indefinitely.
She could not know, for she knew nothing of her husband anymore. Nothing!
She had only Gerald’s words for comfort: He’s healin’ fine, ma’am. He’ll see yer when he’s ready. Yes, he saw Miss Li again today. Don’t worry yerself, Lady Milton.
But of course she worried. At length.
Did Gerald think her so unfeeling? Did everyone think her immune to her husband’s pain?
He’d not face her. He couldn’t.
Milton remained in a dark spiral of hurt, allowing only those who’d known him longest—known Finch themselves—entry to his chamber.
He was desperate to avoid his wife, whose very presence brought on panic.
The fact that she had witnessed him in such degraded state, chained naked like a beast—that she and her goddamned sister had been the ones to rescue him for fuck’s sake!
—filled him with such self-loathing, he could not bear to look at her, converse with her, let alone make love to her.
He was a shell of his former self. Unworthy of her respect.
Milton had warned Gerald that if Elizabeth were let into his room again he would dismiss the entire household.
And he meant it. Both Li and his mother had pleaded otherwise, but theirs were the arguments of women; he could not forgive himself for needing saving.
He’d not even been able to save his wife’s sister, for God’s sake, bloody Arty had.
His thoughts spun in circles, his dreams, both waking and sleeping, wracked by tortures recent and those buried deep in his past. His body might well be healing, but his mind remained a wretched morass.
Again and again he returned to that moment in Finch’s dungeon when Lizzie’s voice had washed over him like a gentle spring rain—the smell of her, the heat of her soft, womanly self brushing his ravaged, flayed flesh…
It had been a punishment worse than death.
When you hear men talking … all they ever do is speak ill of women.
... And I don't quite know … who exactly it was who gave them a greater license to sin than is allowed to us; and if the fault is common to both sexes (as they can hardly deny), why should the blame not be as well?
What makes them think they can boast of the same thing that in women brings only shame?
“Lady Milton, have you shared this passage with your husband?”
“I have not, Mr. Kilpert,” she answered. “I doubt very much Fonte’s work would interest the Baron.”
“Oh I should think the very opposite, ma’am.
” Kilpert smiled. “Fonte is precisely the sort of writer Jasper likes to sink his teeth into. Your husband relishes thorny ideas. We do not always agree, of course, in our interpretations, but he is always open to debate. In fact, he consistently approaches our discussions with sound reason, rather than mount ineffectual, emotional arguments.”
Mr. Kilpert could not possibly be describing Elizabeth’s husband. Milton’s tutor had unexpectedly stopped by to enquire after the Baron’s health, and as Elizabeth had been reading the Duchess’s book to distract herself from her woes, she’d taken the opportunity to ask his opinion on a passage.
Not only had the gentleman’s answer not disappointed, he seemed to welcome, and even respect, her thoughts.
“Perhaps the Baron is open to masculine debate, sir, but I assure you any reasoning I, his wife, engage in is met with derision. I should never be so bold as to hand my husband this book.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Lady Milton.” Kilpert frowned. “I admit, I took you for more courageous.”
Heat rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks as she flipped to a different passage to hide her embarrassment. She cleared her throat:
And when it's said that women must be subject to men, the phrase should be understood in the same sense as when we say we are subject to natural disasters, diseases, and all the other accidents of this life: it's not a case of being subjected in the sense of obeying, but rather of suffering an imposition, not a case of serving them fearfully, but rather of tolerating them in a spirit of Christian charity, since they have been given to us by God as a spiritual trial.
“Ah yes.” Kilpert nodded enthusiastically. “I recall that passage well, Lady Milton, for its indictment not just of man but of God.”
Elizabeth’s heart beat faster. “I believe Fonte describes woman’s plight with absolute precision, sir.”
Kilpert leaned forward. “So you agree men are a spiritual trial? You do not think Fonte’s words contain, perhaps, a hint of humor?”
“Mr. Kilpert, men are without doubt woman’s greatest trial.”
“Greater even than the perils of childbirth?”
“Are they not the same peril?” she countered. “Without man, woman does not suffer birth—neither its pain nor risk. Man subjugates woman physically by impregnating her, just as he subjugates her morally and intellectually by imposing his will upon her.”
“And yet without both sexes humanity ceases to exist, their joining required to perpetuate our species. Without man, woman, too, ceases to exist.”
“But Fonte does not argue biology, Mr. Kilpert. She argues society, morality, history. It is in these realms men systematically subjugate women.” Elizabeth warmed to their debate.
“How different might society look were our roles reversed and women held power over their own bodies. Our species should continue even then, should it not?”
“May I?”
Elizabeth handed him her book. He flipped ahead and read:
Do you really believe ... that everything historians tell us about men—or about women—is actually true? You ought to consider the fact that these histories have been written by men, who never tell the truth except by accident.
Elizabeth smiled as their eyes met. Mr. Kilpert was exceptional. A man unafraid to speak truth. She wished her husband had this scholar’s moral fortitude.
***
Just outside the drawing room, Milton overheard all. He was, to put it mildly, livid.
He took off down the hall, emotions churning in his breast. Who the hell did Lizzie think she was, taking over his weekly sessions with Paul?
He did not recall approving this—he recalled telling her she could hire herself a different tutor, anyone but Kilpert.
Yet here she was, discussing radical ideas with his man.
Though what else should he expect? He’d lost command of her the moment she’d rescued him from Finch. And once obedience was lost, it was impossible to regain, let alone retain, control of one’s wife.
Elizabeth was clearly enamored of his tutor, who was everything Milton was not: well-bred, erudite, and disgustingly polite.
Paul Kilpert was not the sort of fellow who needed to purchase himself a high-born wife.
He didn’t need rules to protect his wife from himself, didn’t need his wife to submit to him in bed for fear he’d lose control of himself.
No, he was the ideal bloody gentleman for a lady like Elizabeth.
And Milton loathed him for it.
He hated Elizabeth too, for not wanting, not choosing him. He’d held hope before Finch, had sensed her warm to him, hell, begin to like him even. But he’d mistaken tolerance for affection. For love.
The rotten word popped unbidden to mind, a stab to his chest. Love did not enter into marriage, was not synonymous with a wife.
A man loved his friends, his family. Milton would love his children someday.
He prayed Elizabeth was with child already so he needn’t make more visits to her bed. For if she wasn’t…
He felt viscerally punched by the thought, forced to press his back against the wall to keep the world from spinning.
What if she was already pregnant? What if by entering The Canary’s Lair she’d put not only herself but his heir at risk? Christ, what if both she and the babe had died? Panic so intense filled his breast he—
“Jasper?” Murdoch appeared at his side like a blessed vision. “You alright, boy? Y’ look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’ll have a cuppa brought t’ yer room.” She frowned with concern. “I’ve not seen you up an’ roamin’ th’ halls, Jasp. ’Tis good t’ have yer about again.”
“Murdoch, please.” He brushed her off as he gulped a lungful of air. “I’ve no wish for bloody tea.”
“Shall I tell the mistress, then, that you’re—?”
“No, you are not to tell your mistress you have seen me at all. Nor have I any desire to see her.”
Murdoch’s concern turned. “You’re makin’ a mistake, Jasp.” She leveled her gaze at him. “You keep hidin’ from yer wife like this and she’ll start t’ think y’ care not a whit for her no more.”
“And what if I don’t?” he snarled, his insides roiling.
“What if I married her for her title only, an’ she fer me coin?
What then do it matter if I hides or flees from ’er, eh?
It don’t! So leave me th’ hell alone, Martha.
” His speech had disintegrated along with all shred of self-control.
“An’ mind you follow orders an’ stop meddlin’ in me affairs. ”
Milton leaned heavily against the wall to keep from falling as Martha Murdoch stomped off with a parting huff. Disgust filled his soul. For himself, for Elizabeth, and for blasted Paul Kilpert.