Page 52 of Maid for the Marquess

“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.