“The Ladies’ Guild has requested the Rose Garden for their annual tea. I’ve approved the date, but I’ve also suggested that we limit the attendance to fifty. Last year was just too crowded, and some of the older roses were damaged.”
She ticked off the other items in her mind, topics that might interest her mother, activities she’d performed today.
“I gave Thomas the duty of inspecting all the footmen’s livery,” she said. “I sincerely hope that we don’thave to incur expense there. But it’s better to be prepared than to be surprised.” An adage her mother had instilled in her from childhood.
“The north wing has some damage to the roof. It’s not major,” she said, trying to recall the steward’s exact words, “but I need to ensure that repairs are made before the next big storm.”
The Duchess of Herridge did not respond.
“What shall I do without you?” Sarah asked in the silence of the room. “Who will give me advice? Or share her stories with me? Who will make me laugh?”
There was no answer, just the barest sound of the duchess’s breathing. Even her breath seemed shallower than the day before.
Sarah bent her head, wishing she could think of a prayer, the perfect prayer, the very one to attract the attention of the Almighty. If she phrased the words in just the correct manner, would God be merciful? Would He stop whatever He was doing and pay attention?
A wall blocked her tears. A tall and thick wall that hid the rising tide of her grief from view. One day, perhaps soon, the level of her tears would reach the top of the wall, and her tears would splash over and be revealed to the world. For now, she was composed. Her servants no doubt saw her dry-eyed and calm, and perhaps they wondered at the coldness of her temperament. This grief, however, this loss, was not for anyone else to wonder at or whisper about. This pain was for the quiet of her chamber, muffled by the sound of her pillow.
She spread her fingers, stroking her mother’s skin, wishing she could warm it somehow.
How strange that she was fixed on this moment,unable to summon a single joyous memory or happy moment. She could not move her hand from her mother’s, and she could not budge her mind.
“I’ve finished Monday’s and Tuesday’s tasks,” she said, gently stroking her mother’s wrist. “I’m only one day behind,” she added. “But we shall make up for it tomorrow.”
She lowered her voice until it was just a whisper. “I haven’t mentioned my marriage, have I?” She paused for a moment, as if giving her mother time to answer.
“He’s quite attractive, Mother. You can almost see him as a knight in armor, holding his helm under one arm. He is very commanding in his way, but he doesn’t seem that way at first. I’ve noticed that he seems to study a situation with some intensity before deciding what to do. Then, once he’s decided, he acts with a great deal of forcefulness. He isn’t arrogant. He isn’t rude. He’s just there, like a boulder, or an oak. You know he will not be moved.”
Sarah traced a pattern on the sheet with one finger. There were so many questions she wished she could ask her mother, but it was not Morna’s illness that precluded her from doing so as much as her own embarrassment. There were so many things she didn’t know. Not about how humans copulated—Chavensworth was a large estate with prosperous farms. She had seen her share of animals in rut, even though she was supposed to have ignored any such behavior and pretended it didn’t exist.
No, the questions she wanted to ask were of a somewhat different nature. Could a woman be curious about the physical aspects of marriage even if she didn’t know the man very well? Could she be interested in copulation,or was even such an interest considered an act of harlotry?
And if a woman happened to find herself lying naked near a sinfully attractive man, should she allow herself to be seduced? Especially if that sinfully attractive man was her husband?
There was no one to ask, and she was left floundering in her own ignorance. She sighed heavily.
“He is very handsome,” she said, lowering her voice again. “But one does not seem to remember that about him. He leaves an impression,” she added. “A very definite impression.”
One of having been close to lightning.
What would her mother think of Douglas Eston? Would she be charmed by him? Her mother had a way of looking for the best in each person, a trait that Sarah knew she hadn’t inherited. She’d begun that way, of course, wanting to believe that every person with whom she came in contact was kind and industrious. She wanted to believe that people had more than their own interests at heart, that they actually genuinely cared for others.
As long as her mother was awake and counseling her, it had been easier to believe in such things. Perhaps there was too much of her father’s cynicism about her.
What would she think of Douglas Eston if she were possessed of her mother’s optimistic attitude?
Unfortunately, she wouldn’t think any differently of him at all, simply because she didn’t know the man. She could only go by his actions, and having been in his company exactly one whole day, there wasn’t much to judge. He had insisted that she sleep in the same room, which wasn’t onerous after all, because he hadn’ttouched her. He didn’t insist upon her sharing a marital bed. Nor did he ravage her in any way, except verbally, perhaps.
He didn’t demand that she report to him, that she alter her life in any way. Of course, she hadn’t given him the opportunity to do so. Nor would she. Her life at Chavensworth would go on in the same pattern as it had before. No inopportune husband would have the ability to alter her existence.
Was that too stubborn a thought?
He had been very kind to sit with her mother this morning and talk with her. What had he said? Sarah was her daughter, and she would have been interested in anything that concerned her.
What an odd time to begin to weep. Not that anyone could tell. The tears simply rolled from her eyes without volition. She angrily brushed them away with the back of one hand before bowing her head once more.
Very well, he hadn’t been difficult at all. But then, he’d simply disappeared. What was she to make of that?
She sat with her mother for another hour, without, thankfully, dwelling on Douglas Eston to any great degree. Finally, she stood and bent over the bed, placing a kiss on her mother’s forehead and pressing her cheek against her mother’s.
