Tarleton's Wife (12 page)

“Nonsense,” said Miss Upton briskly. “I shall go down and brew a tisane. For, whatever it was, you’re the color of your sheets and frightened out of your wits. Runyon, you may accompany me.” This last, her only admission that Julia’s nightmare might have unsettled even Sophy Upton’s unflappable disposition.

Meg wiped the sweat from Julia’s brow and fussed with the bed covers, biting back her avid curiosity. When she had settled Julia to her satisfaction and pulled a chair up to the bed, preparing to wait until Miss Upton returned, she could contain herself no longer. “Was it the major, missus?” she inquired in a whisper, as if attempting to avoid disturbing whatever shade had paid her mistress a visit.

“I-I’m not sure. Nicholas was part of it, I think…but—
oh, dear God
!
—it was the baby
! The one I told you of. Trying to nurse from his dead mother…” Julia covered her face with her hands. “Oh, dear Lord above, it was horrible. Quite, quite horrible.”

Meg so far forgot her position as to put her arms around her mistress in woman-to-woman comfort. “Ah, miss, I do be thinking it ’as to do with what ’appened this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?”

“
You
know…”

That afternoon…that blustery March afternoon Meg O’Callaghan had gone to Julia’s bedchamber to put away a stack of freshly laundered undergarments. She had found her mistress sitting motionless on the side of the bed, staring into nothingness. She did not even seem to be aware that Meg had entered the room.

“Missus Julia?” Meg inquired tentatively.

“Finish what you have to do and leave,” said Julia flatly.

But Meg, who had not progressed all that far in the uphill battle to become a proper ladies’ maid, stood her ground. When she had completed her task, she tiptoed toward the bed and once again addressed her mistress. “Missus Julia, I can’t go away with you lookin’ so poorly. ’Twouldn’t be right. Do you want I should call Miz Upton for yer?”

“No.” The tone was sharply certain. “Go away, Meg.”

“That I’ll not,” the maid retorted stubbornly. “Least not until I knows you’ll be a’ right by y’rself.”

“Very well,” Julia snapped. “If you must know, it is merely my time of the month. Now go away!”

“O-oh, missus!” Meg breathed. “I am that sorry.” Since she herself had suspected the obvious when Julia had not had her monthly since returning from Spain, Meg supposed the poor missus had hopes of a babe. It would have been a wonder if a great strapping man like the major had failed to sample his winnings.

“’Twas the bad times, missus,” Meg consoled. “Many’s the time I’ve seen it ’appen on the march. Though nearly all t’ girls was pleased as punch to know they weren’t increasin’.” she added in all fairness.

Since this was obviously not the best remark to make under the circumstances, Meg gulped and struggled on. “I c’n understand how y’ feel, missus, truly I can. I’ve lost three myself. Aye, truly. Together five years we wus, Sean and me. And lost three babes. One to fever, one stillborn and t’ last lost on the march to Salamanca. Only three months gone, I wus. Sean and me, seemed like we wusn’t meant to ’av no children.”

The tragedy of this simple admission was enough to startle Julia into saying the first thing that came into her mind. “How old are you, Meg?”

“Three and twenty, missus, or thereabouts.”

“You shame me, Meg. Only four years older than I and you’ve lost three children. What right have I to cry over something which never even existed?” Julia wiped at the tears which had begun to flow at last. “There was very little hope really. I knew I was merely fooling myself with wishful thinking. But it would have been so wonderful…”

And now, in the unrelenting darkness of the night, her grief had come back to haunt her. Silently, the two young women sat, side by side and waited for Sophronia Upton’s return.

Outwardly, Julia dismissed her qualms with stoic fortitude but for the next several days she feared the coming of night. Sophy Upton steeped an infusion of valerian root and stood over Julia as she downed the drink each evening, wrinkling her nose in disgust. When ten days passed with no recurrence of her dreadful phantoms, the nightmare images faded and were gratefully shoved into some deep, dark crevice of her mind.

* * * * *

“For the best results the pieces must be small,” Sophy instructed, laying out a dried valerian root on the long trestle table which ran down the center of the large ground floor room. She and Julia—each in their oldest gowns and voluminous white aprons—were in the stillroom of The Willows. A relic of ancient times when each household brewed its own medicinal decoctions, the stillroom was situated halfway down a hallway which ran from the kitchen to Mrs. Peters’ private sitting room and office.

When Sophy moved back into The Willows, her baggage had contained one trunk of personal items and a cartload of herbal supplies. One short wall of the stillroom was given over to the cook’s array of glass bottles of finely flaked dill, thyme, sage, fennel, rosemary, parsley and other herbal flavorings. Among these treasures was a group of larger jars which never failed to attract Julia’s eyes. They contained Miss Upton’s most frivolous specialty, flowers frosted with sugar. There were shimmering rose petals, begonias, cornflowers, daisies, forget-me-nots, hollyhocks, honeysuckle, jasmine, lilac, mallow and violet. An endless enticing array waiting to grace cook’s delectable desserts.

Sophy’s uncut dried herbs were stacked in large glass jars along two sides of the room on wooden shelves reaching from waist level to the ceiling. Below the shelves was an L-shaped wooden workbench, which held tools such as mortar and pestle, measuring spoons, knives, ceramic crocks, cooking pots, utensils, gauze for straining and empty glass bottles of all shapes and sizes. Along the fourth wall, sharing a chimney with the fireplace, was a modern wood-fired stove which Laetitia Summerton had bought for the use of her faithful companion and which had been sorely missed in the cottage to which Sophy had retired.

Julia never entered the stillroom without feeling the subtle magic of the place. The lingering odors of two hundred years of drying and brewing. Herbs which tempted the palate. Herbs to attract—to brighten the eyes, soften the skin, scent the hair. Or scent a room. Herbs to save life. And take it away. Even the names had a mystery all their own—comfrey, chamomile, hyssop, lemon balm, mint, feverfew, tansy, yarrow, juniper berries, rose petals, rose hips, lavender, lime flowers, verbena and violet. And in the corner, for maximum safety and least light, were the tiny vials of herbal oils, created with the aid of the summer sun and carefully protected as the valuable commodity they were.

“That’s right, my dear, you are doing very well,” Sophy approved as she watched Julia chop the valerian root. “Hopefully you won’t need it again but ’tis best to be prepared. While you are doing that, I shall brew up some dandelion tea for Peters. ’Tis a damp spring and his rheumatics have come on again.”

As if conjured by the mention of his name, Peters stepped into the room bearing a silver salver on which rested a visiting card. Julia waved him away. “We are not at home, Peters. Can you imagine us receiving like this? Even Mr. Harding would be shocked.”

When the elderly butler remained hovering in the doorway, eyes big with news, Julia sighed and held out her hand. “Very well, Peters, give me the card.”

A gasp escaped her as she read the name, her eyes flying in question to butler’s face. “‘’Tis all three of them, ma’am. Mr. Ramsey Tarleton, his wife and young Oliver, the major’s brother. Come down from York.”

Sophy Upton moaned. “They will expect to stay. Oh, drat! Why did they not write?”

“They do not have luggage, ma’am,” Peters offered.

Stunned, Julia could only murmur, “Where…

“In the drawing room,” Peters replied. “I told them you and Miss Upton were engaged and would need time before receiving them. I’ve already set cook to preparing a tray.”

“You are a godsend, Peters,” said Julia with considerable feeling, throwing off her apron and making a dash for the back stairs, Sophy following at a more sedate pace behind her.

A scant half hour, later Julia, with Miss Upton at her side, had the awkward experience of finding her mother-in-law pouring tea in Julia’s drawing room. Although she had written to the Tarleton family in York shortly after her arrival at The Willows, she had received no reply and certainly entertained no expectation of a visit. If, in the last few minutes while she dressed, she had allowed herself to believe the Tarletons had come to hear news of their son or for the purpose of mutual consolation, that notion was immediately dispelled by the sight of three hostile faces.

Pamela Tarleton had put off her bonnet, revealing that her once shining blonde curls had faded to a shadow of their former glory. The hand pouring tea wavered as Julia entered the room. Her lackluster blue eyes fixed on her daughter-in-law with the frozen immobility of a frightened rabbit. Mr. Ramsey Tarleton, however, bounded to his feet, ready to charge into battle. His hands clawed stiffly at his sides as if they longed to throttle her. Mr. Oliver Tarleton rose with insolent grace, his resemblance to his older brother stopping with the superficial. He was tall, his hair sandy blond, his eyes gray. But his not unhandsome face lacked the strength of character which so became his brother. His shirt points proclaimed him a dandy but his pantaloons stretched over a belly beginning to show the effects of too much indulgence. His waistcoat was striped in virulent shades of yellow and green, the shoulders of his jacket padded to offset the bulge of his waist. With patronizing leisure he lifted a quizzing glass and examined Julia from head to foot, leaving no doubt he found her deficient in all aspects of femininity. Unlike her similar experience with Miss Upton, Julia did not find it amusing.

Her curtsey never reached its full depth, frozen by the waves of antagonism emanating from her guests. Julia straightened to her full eight inches over five feet and held her ground like the well-trained soldier she was.

“So you are here at last,” Ramsey Tarleton boomed. “Your appearance, missy, confirms my doubts. You are not to Nicholas’ taste. Not his sort of woman at all. Is she, Oliver?”

The major’s brother favored Julia with a sly grin. “Not in the least, Father. Accredited beauties only, that was Nick.”

“Woodworthy tells me he has examined your papers,” Ramsey Tarleton continued, “but I have come to do it for myself. Havey-cavey business, this. Can’t believe Nicholas would be such a damn fool.”

Miss Upton swelled with indignation as she charged to Julia’s defense. “Mr. Tarleton!” she snapped, “your mode of introduction is quite beyond the pale. Perhaps these manners will do in York but they are not acceptable here. You may recall that we have met in the past. I am Miss Sophronia Upton, companion to your wife’s aunt and now to this young woman, Julia
Tarleton
, your son’s wife. You are guests in her home and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

“Whether or not it is her home remains to be seen,” Mr. Tarleton snapped, unaffected by Miss Upton’s rebuke. “I’ll see those papers, missy.”

Though Nicholas had seldom mentioned his family, Julia had not expected a reception of this nature. Tears, acceptance into the family fold, possibly even love and warmth. Never this implacable hostility. As she had done so many times in the past, Julia gathered her courage about her.

“Peters,” she said to the shocked butler, “have Meg bring my packet of legal papers here at once.” She turned back to her father-in-law. “Although I do not acknowledge you have any legal right to examine the papers, Mr. Tarleton, I offer them as a courtesy to Nicholas’ parents. I am truly sorry you doubt me, for I had hoped our relationship would be amicable.”

With great dignity Julia and Sophy Upton crossed the room to seat themselves in chairs facing the Tarleton family. Into the awkward silence Pamela Tarleton ventured, “I am gratified to see you are wearing mourning, Mi…Mrs…” At her inability to find a proper means of address for Julia, Mrs. Tarleton’s voice died away in confusion.

Meg O’Callaghan came into the room. Walking with head held high, she sank to the floor before her mistress in the most formal curtsey of her life. Silently, she held out the battered leather pouch.

As Ramsey Tarleton finished reading each document, it was snatched up by his son, who frowned over it as if he were certain of detecting telltale signs of forgery. The ladies made no further efforts at conversation. Mrs. Tarleton sat with one gloved hand pressed to her mouth, while Julia and Sophy waited, outwardly calm, betraying no sign of the extreme agitation each was experiencing.

As Mr. Woodworthy had done, Ramsey Tarleton questioned the multitude of signatures on the marriage certificate, his eyes dropping as he acknowledged that his son’s scrawl could be verified by a rather startling number of living witnesses. And, as Woodworthy had already informed him, even if the marriage were not verifiable, the girl had every right to occupy The Willows as Nicholas’ ward. It was to be hoped, Ebadiah Woodworthy had pronounced with great unctuousness, that the major would be back among them before she reached her majority. In any event, they had no recourse but to wait.

Ramsey Tarleton eyed Julia with distaste. “It seems we must acknowledge you,” he said grudgingly. “Though why my son let himself be trapped into such a quixotic gesture I cannot fathom.”

“
Noblesse oblige
,” murmured Oliver Tarleton nastily. “And my dear brother was the noblest of them all.”