Voluptuous, page 6
He found it refreshing a young woman would be unembarrassed about her bodily functions. But, still, he should have anticipated, been more solicitous of her needs. He must pay better attention to her.
While also not paying attention to her.
He was betwixt the devil and the deep sea.
All of his letters at last read and answered in a somewhat coherent fashion, he did what he always did when he was in his study and had some spare minutes. He went to his table and unrolled his map of the area surrounding Woldenmere, weighing down the corners with his ink pots.
He had left his study door open, but absorbed in looking at his creation, he did not hear Henrietta’s approach and was startled by her “Good evening.”
He straightened from his bent-over posture. “Good evening.”
Her lady’s maid and most of her things would not arrive until the following week, so she must have enlisted a chambermaid to help her change out of her muslin and into a blue woolen dinner dress. Plain for a duke’s daughter, but suitable for a Mrs. Hartwell. Her face was a little flushed and her locks were pinned neatly, but the smallest curls imaginable had formed along the hairline at her forehead and neck. Had she bathed and the steam from the water created those tiny, soft coils? The thought of her voluptuous, bare body in a tub, her skin pink and fragrant, made him tremble.
She came over to where he stood. “What is this?”
He steadied himself by gripping the edge of the table. “A map.”
“Oh, I didn’t know maps could be so pretty.” Her attention was drawn to a place name and she pointed. “Crossthwaite.”
“Yes.”
Then she saw the pots of different colored inks and the range of quills spread out on the table, and she turned to him, her eyes wide.
Those beautiful eyes. He might drown in them.
“Did you draw this?”
“Yes.”
“How long did it take you?”
“It’s not yet complete. It takes time to acquire the information. But it gives me an excuse to wander about the district, measuring and sketching.”
She turned back to the map. “It’s wonderful.”
She was sincere. He doubted she could be anything else. A warmth spread over him. Neither Violet nor Emily had ever been interested in his avocation. And he had not known how hungry he was for Henrietta’s good opinion.
He offered her his arm, and they went into dinner. He was glad to see she ate well and with pleasure, just as she had at home, just as all the Staffords did.
After the meal, Oliver stood. “In the evenings, I read in the drawing room. You are welcome to join me if you wish. Or you could find your own amusement.”
A startled look on her face. She glanced around the dining room and then back to him. “May I take a book from the library?”
He bowed his head. “This is your house.”
She found a slender volume quickly, not even looking at the title, and took it to the drawing room and chose a chair by the fire. Oliver sat as well and picked up his newspaper and began to read.
He stole glances at her as he turned pages. She sat, looking at the fire despite the open book on her lap. Still. Serene. A goddess in repose.
He had never seen her father stay still for more than a few minutes. But Henrietta could. So, she had some of her mother’s contemplative nature.
After an hour, she bade him good night and went off to bed.
He waited as long as he could. Finally, he went up to his own bedchamber. Hating himself, he put his ear to the connecting door. He heard nothing. She must be asleep.
Goodnight, poor girl.
He was eating his usual breakfast when she came into the dining room in a riding habit, glowing and slightly out of breath.
“Good morning,” she chirped as he stood.
He was once more jarred in his expectations. Neither of his wives had ever risen this early. He had heard nothing when he had awoken and pressed his ear again to the connecting door. He had assumed she was still abed.
“I’ve had the most wonderful morning,” she said as she took her seat. “Thank you, Pearson. Zephyr and I had a really proper gallop. The air, the scenery, all of it is truly glorious.”
She had been out and about and ridden already.
Pearson brought her tea and toast. Her eyes darted around the room, at the sideboard, at the toast on Oliver’s own plate, before she took her toast in hand, spread a good coat of jam atop it, and began to eat.
Only after he had left the breakfast table to go to the stables himself, did he reflect that toast and jam and tea was not an adequate breakfast for a healthy young woman who must have ridden for miles this morning.
He turned around and made his way to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Nixon, tomorrow and all the days going forward, I would like a full breakfast to be prepared. Hot food and plenty of it.” Like what was served at Bexton Manor. “You must consult Mrs. Hartwell on menus going forward. And be sure to give her a substantial luncheon today.”
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell.”
The rest of his day was spent checking on his land, his sheep, his shepherds, his tenants, just as he did after any time away.
When he came back to Crossthwaite, he stabled his horse and walked through the kitchen garden to go back into the house. Unlike Bexton Manor, there were no opulent flower beds here. He was too practical, Violet had had no interest, and Emily had been too weak to even contemplate such an undertaking.
And Emily had said she adored flowers. He should have seen to some plantings if only for the pleasure it might have given her to know something was growing while she lay in her bed, giving all her strength to the son growing inside her. Another failure on his part, but one he would not make again.
He came upon his new wife and his son, both squatting next to a row of cabbages, their attention on the ground in front of them. Silent.
Neither looked up until his shadow fell over them. Then Henrietta raised her head, but his son kept looking at the ground.
“Good afternoon, Oliver,” she said. He liked how she lilted his name, how she greeted him with a grin. “We are busy watching a caterpillar make his way.”
He hitched the knees of his trousers up a bit and crouched down to join them. The green-purple worm they were observing was an ugly creature he would have dismissed out of hand as a pest.
“I was just saying this is a puss moth.” She pointed. “See? It has a saddle. When I was your age, Nathaniel, I thought this kind of caterpillar might be a good mount for a faery.”
Nathaniel looked up at her, his eyes wide.
“What do you think?” she asked the boy. “Do you like this one better than the knot grass caterpillar? With the fuzz and red dots?”
A quick nod of his son’s head and then he turned his dark eyes on Oliver.
Oliver cleared his throat. “I like this one better, too.” He couldn’t recall ever looking at a caterpillar in his life.
Nathaniel’s eyes went back down to the caterpillar. For long minutes, all three of them watched the little animal inch along, and Oliver felt something strange and unexpected.
Peace.
Later, he was pleased to see the dinner table boasted more dishes than it had the night before, and Henrietta again ate well.
But she asked about Nathaniel. When he had first walked, first spoken. What he liked to do. Where and when and how he took his meals. And what did the doctor say about his health?
Oliver was embarrassed how little he knew about his son. Distress crept over him. He didn’t need this girl-wife to point out what an inadequate father he was. He knew it already.
He was vastly relieved when the meal was over. He stood, and she looked up.
“Oh, won’t you have pudding?”
Her expression was distraught, her voice pleading, her strong emotion incongruous with the subject matter of her request.
He sat. If it was important to her, it was important to him.
“I will stay while you eat your pudding.”
“You won’t have any?”
“A small portion,” he told Pearson.
He didn’t even look at what was put in front of him. Out of a desire to please his new wife, he took a bite of something he didn’t want. But as the rich creaminess spread across his tongue, he looked at the plate.
This was a custard of the same ilk he was always served at Bexton Manor.
Exactly the same.
Henrietta must have gotten the receipt from the Bexton Manor cook and given it to Mrs. Nixon.
“This is very good,” he said, clicking his spoon against the plate. He turned to Pearson. “I’ll have another bit, I think. A big bit.”
He couldn’t help but notice Henrietta watching him eat every spoonful.
“Tell me, Henrietta.” He paused. It was the first time he had ever addressed her without the attached Lady, and he saw her take note of it. A small swallow, a bit more pink in her cheeks. “Tell me, do you like flowers?”
Nine
October. 1817.
In only a month, Crossthwaite had changed.
Oliver no longer ate alone, unless he chose to. But he never chose to, even coming back to the house at midday to join Henrietta for luncheon, a meal he had never made a habit of eating before.
There was more noise about the house now. Henrietta gaily talking to the servants, running up and down the stairs, humming to herself as she tended to some task, coaxing Nathaniel into a game or a song or a walk.
And, every few days, there was custard.
Henrietta gave up the pretense of reading in the evenings. Instead, she plied her needle. He saw her squinting, trying to angle her hoop towards the fire. He got up and moved a small table to one of her elbows and lit and placed an additional lamp.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, looking up at him with shining eyes and a wide smile, far too grateful for something that had only taken him a few moments. He must do more for her.
“You have given up reading,” he observed as he took his seat again.
“I’ve never been much of a reader, but I wanted to sit with you, so I made do with a book. But Lucy brought my embroidery with the rest of my things, so I have it now.”
She wanted to sit with him. She wanted to sit with him. He ignored the knot that had just tied itself around his heart and squeezed. Instead, he said stiffly, “You must always tell me if there is something you want or need.”
“Oh. Yes. But I have it now.” She flourished her hoop at him. “I hope you don’t think it silly.”
“Silly?”
She blushed. “Gentlemen sometimes think feminine pursuits foolish.”
“I’ll remind you that I’m a farmer who draws maps.”
“Oh, but maps are meant to be useful, aren’t they?”
“Mine aren’t.”
“What are they for?”
There was only one answer for that. “Me.”
They gazed at each other. Finally, she bent her head again to her stitching, and he went back behind his newspaper.
Minutes later, he heard her murmur, “I’m glad you have something for yourself.”
An afternoon came when he stayed home because it had begun to rain during luncheon. He retired to his study, meaning to work on his map, but the house was too quiet, and he didn’t like it. He had become used to a bit of hubbub.
No. It wasn’t the quiet that was bothering him. He craved her. Not in the carnal way he usually did. He just wanted to see her. Hear her. Smell her. Something.
He went in search of his wife and found her in the nursery. The curtains had been drawn and the room was dark, but he could make her out, kneeling by the side of Nathaniel’s low bed.
“Close your eyes,” she crooned. “If you close your eyes, I’ll tell you a story.”
“Caterpillar?” his son asked.
“Yes, one about a caterpillar.”
Her hand moved and did something. Was she stroking Nathaniel’s forehead?
“You have a curl here when it rains. Like your father.”
“Caterpillar,” Nathaniel demanded.
A soft laugh from her. “You haven’t closed your eyes yet.”
His son must then have closed his eyes.
“Once there was a green caterpillar who lived in the garden. His name was Crawley.”
“Crawley.” Was that a note of amusement in his son’s voice?
“Keep your eyes closed,” she said and there was a pause before her melodious, soothing voice went on. “He liked to crawl. He liked to creep. He was very good at doing both things. But his favorite thing was to find a thick stem of a nice, sturdy plant. And then he would climb. He would climb and climb and climb and climb . . .”
As she went on, talking about the climbing caterpillar and the broad, green leaves he would take shelter under when it rained, Oliver thought his own eyes might close. Finally, she stopped speaking. He waited, thinking she would get up now, leave the room and join him in the hallway, let Nathaniel sleep.
But she didn’t. She stayed by the side of the bed, her hand moving slowly, stroking Nathaniel’s forehead.
What would it be like to go to sleep to Henrietta’s voice and her hand stroking his forehead? Oh, how he envied his son.
She turned her head towards the door and whispered, “I promised Nathaniel I’d stay while he slept.”
So, she knew Oliver was there.
He retreated quietly down the hallway and the stairs and went to his own bedchamber to seek out a looking glass. Did he really have a curl on his forehead when it rained? Yes, indeed, the mirror revealed a dangling lock. He pushed the hair back, but a moment later, it fell down again. Perhaps some pomade could fix it in place or he should have his hair cut shorter.
But did Henrietta like the curl? As a rule, she seemed far more concerned with cleanliness than tidiness, and in the course of a day, a few of her own curls would often fly loose from her pins. And he liked to see her that way, her hair a bit mussed. As unguarded with her appearance as she was with everything else.
Perhaps, then, she also liked his curl.
He wouldn’t have his hair cut or buy any pomade. Just yet.
Ten
December. 1817.
Oliver was long past due for a trip to London.
His journeys had been needlessly frequent before, motivated by the desire to have an excuse to spend time at Bexton Manor on the way there and back.
But now . . . well, he was not sure of his welcome with the Staffords. He and Crispin had resumed their usual correspondence, but things might be different in person. And even if the duke and duchess exhibited perfect cordiality towards their new son-in-law, Oliver knew himself. His remorse would create a distance where there had been none, introduce an awkwardness where all had been ease before.
And for the first time in years, he had no desire to leave Crossthwaite. It was a pity to have to tear himself away just now when there was such bustling hope and lightheartedness all around him, when he had a piece of Bexton Manor in his own house. But his inherited business concerns had pressing matters requiring his presence in London.
On the morning he planned to set out, he gazed over the rim of his teacup at Henrietta. She was picking at her food, stealing glances at him but then looking away when he met her eyes. She was dressed for riding but apparently had not yet taken her giant gelding out this morning.
Could this delay in her usual exercise mean she had not wanted to risk missing his departure? Oh, no. Was she going to inflict some maudlin leave-taking on her husband-in-name?
He couldn’t allow that.
He wouldn’t survive it.
Oliver stood abruptly. She started to stand, too, but he stayed her with a gesture of his hand.
“There’s no need to neglect your breakfast. I will say my farewells here. I will be back before the new year.”
She nodded and kept her seat. Good, he would be spared. And he had been a fool to think she would display emotion at his leaving. It wasn’t as if she had married him by choice or she had any true attachment to him.
But as he went to exit the room, she cried “Oliver!” and threw herself out of her chair and hugged him, just as she had in her father’s study. This time, she wrapped her arms around his neck instead of his sides, leaving his arms free to embrace her in return. Unbidden, his arms came up and went around her as she pressed into him.
Their first embrace since that fateful one. The kiss—that unconscionable, ruinous kiss—came into his mind. A tender moment suddenly turned into something dark and guilty, stained by his own depravity. He stepped away from her, taking her arms from his neck, averting his eyes.
“Did you put the list of things you want from London in my satchel?” he asked, trying to inject something proper and pragmatic into this exchange.
“Yes,” she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice.
He nodded and left the room without looking at or speaking to her again. He couldn’t.
In front of the house, he supervised the loading of his trunk and discussed the first part of the journey with his coachman. As he was about to get into the carriage, he heard, “Wait, wait, wait! Oliver!”
Henrietta flew out the door, holding his son in her arms.
“Nathaniel did not get a chance to say goodbye to you,” she gasped, her warm breath making white puffs in the chilly air.
Oliver had never bid farewell to his own son before. He had always been too apprehensive. Irrationally fearful. He had not wanted the sickly boy to receive a goodbye from his father when there was a very real chance it might be a final adieu and Nathaniel would succumb to an illness while Oliver was away.
But Nathaniel did not look sickly right now. He hadn’t looked sickly in weeks. His cheeks were pink and slightly rounded and his arms were fiercely clinging to his stepmother’s neck.
“Do you want to hug your father goodbye?” Henrietta asked him.
Nathaniel just held on tighter to her and turned his head away from Oliver.
“It’s all right,” Oliver said. But he could tell Henrietta was distressed. “We could shake hands like men do,” he offered.
