The Viscount Needs a Wife (3 page)

Kitty had lived in London all her married life, often surrounded by Marcus's army friends. He'd not been able to get out much, so his military friends and acquaintances had come to him when in Town on furlough or official business, sometimes in numbers that threatened to burst the walls. Some were good company, but she'd learned that soldiering often left scars, visible and invisible. Major Quincy had been silent, with such a dark look in his eyes. Captain Farrow had mostly been quiet, but occasionally he'd fall into a kind of fit in which he thought he was fighting the French; it had taken two or three others to restrain him. Lieutenant Wynne had a strong voice and had often led jolly songs, but she'd sensed something wrong. According to Marcus, his wounds had affected his manhood. Marcus had thanked heaven that his had not, but they'd affected so much else.

She wasn't attracted to the idea of any second marriage, and certainly not to another ex-soldier. She'd done her share in that regard.

He asked if I would put the proposal to you. I made no promise, but later Andrew and I discussed
the matter. He is uncomfortable with the situation for many reasons, but he sees how advantageous it could be to you, and he confirmed my assessment that Lord Dauntry would be a tolerable husband, as long as you kept to his conditions.

And if not? Rages and bruises, then weeping contrition and threats to kill himself?

If she'd been a meeker woman, perhaps Marcus's life would have been more tolerable, but his unpredictable anger had developed an echo in herself. To begin with, she'd agreed and soothed, and even apologized for imagined faults, but her patience had worn down until she'd answered sharp words with sharper, and rage with rage. She'd rebutted accusations with ones of her own. That had worked better, but she'd hated his dismal repentance for days afterward.

Men wanted meek wives, and she didn't think she could ever be one again. Ruth's plan was a fairy tale. But the next line leapt out at her.

Remember, Andrew and I would be close by to offer loving support.

To be close to Ruth and have her loving support . . .

What was more, if she became Lady Dauntry—astonishing thought!—she'd be able to visit the parsonage whenever she wished. She could invite Ruth and her family to her own grand home. What was the name? Beauchamp Abbey. Was it pronounced in the French way—
BOW-shamp
—or did it match the village name, Beecham? That was irrelevant, but relevant thoughts, weakening thoughts, were trickling in.

Here, at last, was escape from Cateril Manor.

Might it be bearable?

The married life of Lady Dauntry would be vastly different from hers with Marcus, no matter how odd her husband was. She wouldn't be trapped in four rooms, and it seemed unlikely Lord Dauntry would demand her presence most of the time or insist on her sharing his restless bed.

She and he could have separate bedrooms, separate suites of rooms. Separate wings, perhaps! Given what Ruth had said, he might rarely be at the Abbey at all. In a normal marriage, she might object to his amusements elsewhere, but not in this one.

“Am I seriously considering this?”

Sillikin's cocked head seemed to send the question back at her.

“I am.”

To escape Cateril Manor. To live close to Ruth. To have a home of her own again, with a frequently absent husband . . .

She read on, now fearful of something to make it impossible.

If you are willing to consider the matter, it must be soon. Dauntry is a man of brisk action. If you don't give him hope, he will proceed to other ways of obtaining the wife he wants. I can't imagine it will be difficult. He's a handsome man, though in a cool way.

Ruth had run out of space and turned the page to write diagonally.

If you agree to consider the match, he will arrange your journey here at his expense, and your journey
home if you decide he will not suit. You need only reply to me for all to be put in hand, but remember, it must be soon.

I don't know this man well, Kitty, and I fear my ardent desire to have you nearby influences me, but Andrew believes you should at least consider this
,
and his judgment is sound.

That was it.

Ardent desire.

Yes.

Kitty rose and paced her room, Sillikin in her arms.

Escape!

But through marriage.

She hadn't rushed into her first marriage, but she'd been swept along on a torrent of ecstatic romance, with no one attempting to slow her down. Her parents had been dazzled by her being wooed by a member of the nobility. If they'd suffered any doubts, Marcus's wounds and true adoration had silenced them. Marcus had wooed her so desperately, with gifts, flowers, and passionate entreaties, that she would have had to have been made of stone to refuse him.

Here was a very different situation. The offer was cool, the promises minimal, and there were no tempting gifts. The man was a stranger, but she must decide in a moment, and this time she had no one no advise her.

“I must go to Ruth.”

With that, everything became clear. She must go to Ruth, for advice and for the joy of it. Once in Beecham Dab, once she met Lord Dauntry, she'd know whether to make this marriage or not. Mere travel there wouldn't commit her.

“How to escape?” she muttered. One thing was sure:
Lady Cateril would never tolerate Marcus's widow marrying again.

She thought she had enough money to cover the cost of a coach ticket to Gloucestershire, but how to escape the house? She was devising complicated ways, some inspired by novels, when she came to her senses. No one here knew about the offer of marriage. She could simply ask to visit her old friend.

She hugged Sillikin. “I don't know why I haven't done that before. I've allowed us to be glued here by Lady Cateril's grief, but even she can't object to a short visit to an old friend, can she?”

L
ady Cateril frowned but didn't argue against the journey. Lord Cateril, John, and Sarah all declared it an excellent idea, and Lord Cateril insisted on arranging her travel at his expense. Thus Kitty set out three days later in the Cateril coach, drawn by four post-horses. She was attended by a middle-aged housemaid for propriety, and the Cateril estate steward to see to all the arrangements on the way.

Such grand travel wasn't strange to her, but in the past she'd always been with Marcus. It did seem odd to have such arrangements only for herself, but she was grateful for them. The coach was well sprung, the squabs thick, and the carriage was warmed by hot bricks, with new ones brought at every change of horses. When they paused for refreshments or to dine, the innkeepers bowed low and the inn servants rushed to please in order to deserve generous vails when they left. Kitty couldn't help thinking that as Viscountess Dauntry, her life would continue in this way. As a governess or companion, it would not.

The maid, Tessa, never spoke unless spoken to, and occupied herself with knitting. Mr. Jones occasionally exchanged pleasantries but seemed content with his book. Kitty sometimes read, but for the most part she watched the world go by, enjoying liberation. She'd seen so little of England.

She'd been born and raised in Coventry, then attended school in Leamington, a short distance away. When she and Marcus married, he'd wanted to live in London, so, despite his mother's objections, they'd set up their household there. Kitty's entire married life had been spent in London, apart from the annual pilgrimage to Cateril Manor for Christmas. They wouldn't have made that journey except at Lady Cateril's insistence, because Marcus's wounds had made sitting in a coach for a long distance agony. He'd passed the journey in an opium haze and then suffered the results of taking so much.

Her last long journey had been in the cortege that had taken his body back to Cateril for burial, and she didn't remember much of that. She had grieved. Sometimes Lady Cateril seemed to doubt it, but she had. She always would. But she knew better than most how difficult life had been for Marcus. She couldn't regret his choice.

She shook off unhappy memories, but she wished she'd made this journey in summer. Now, in late November, the leaves had fallen from most of the trees and the sky hung gray and low. As they passed through towns and villages, she saw that the people were as somber as the weather. She'd read in the papers that people at all levels of society were keeping to sober dress as a sign of their sadness over the princess's death, but was surprised to find it still true weeks later. How long would it persist?

All the same, the changing scenery was interesting simply for being new to her. Over the day, the shackles of the past eighteen months fell away and she rediscovered a sense of lightness. She'd always been naturally lighthearted—yes, even romping. Her merry nature had probably been what drew Marcus to her. Perhaps he'd reached through her for the adventurous young man he had been. During her marriage she'd played the light
part more and more to counterbalance Marcus's deepening gloom.

As the daylight faded and they approached their stop for the night, Kitty realized she wouldn't, couldn't, return to Cateril Manor, where Lady Cateril tried to impose gloom on everyone.
Let there be light!

Life as a governess or companion could be as bad, however. Therefore, unless Lord Dauntry was a truly intolerable person, she
must
make this marriage.

But would he still propose it when he met her?

Ruth had admitted that she'd exaggerated Kitty's qualities. Perhaps she'd also falsified her appearance. Lord Dauntry, like Henry VIII with Anne of Cleves, could take one look at her and decide they would not suit. She'd heard that the Prince of Wales had had the same reaction to Caroline of Brunswick, but he'd not had the power to do anything about it.

Once they were settled in the Red Horse, Kitty surveyed herself in the mirror in her bedroom. Her nose and chin were definitely too assertive for a lady, and gray stole color from her complexion. In a reverse effect, gray made her reddish hair look brash, and her curls, as usual, were trying to riot.

“I'd look better in colors,” she said to Sillikin. Perhaps the wag of a tail was encouragement.

She'd had to leave Cateril Manor in half mourning or raise suspicion, but what if Lord Dauntry was at the parsonage on her arrival and this was his first impression?

“I have brighter clothing in my trunk.”

Sillikin went to the leather-bound trunk and put her paws up so she could look in, but then sneezed and turned away.

“The brighter stuff is underneath, you silly thing.”

Kitty had never had a personal maid, so she'd been able to pack her trunk herself. She'd put three brightly
colored gowns at the bottom, along with accessories, then placed two darker ones on top. She hadn't been able to squeeze in her blue fur-lined Russian mantle. It was wonderfully warm and suited her, and she could have worn it over the gray. She could wear the green gown beneath the gray pelisse and let the pelisse hang open on arrival. . . .

Her nerve failed her. Tessa and Mr. Jones would report the transformation to Lady Cateril. Reason said there was nothing her mother-in-law could do, but instinct argued for avoiding the remotest possibility.

“Oh, how I dislike squirming to please! If only I could be comfortably myself, independent of all. Short of winning a lottery, that can never be.” She'd bought shares of lottery tickets in London. Hope had been better than nothing.

Hope.

She flung her gray pelisse over the depressing mirror and went into the private parlor for dinner.

*   *   *

The next morning, she hovered again over the idea of dressing in brighter clothing, but it would be reckless and she was determined to be full of reck. She smiled at the memory of how she and Marcus had sometimes played word games. He would describe her neat mending as ept, as opposed to inept. She'd encourage him to be gruntled rather than disgruntled.

Oh, Marcus, if you can see me from heaven, make this work. Please. And make him bearable.

She entered the carriage in gray for the final five hours, hoping she was the very image of sober, sensible reliability. That, after all, was what Viscount Dauntry sought. As if to encourage optimism, the sun broke through, catching the bronze and yellow of lingering leaves and touching bare bark with gold.

They dined just over the border into Gloucestershire, and an hour later turned off the main road, following a fingerpost that read
BEECHAM DAB
, 3
MILES
. That shortening of “Dabittot” to “Dab” must be because of lack of space on the sign, but perhaps that was why the village was generally called that. It sounded so playful that she smiled as she waited for her first sight, pressed close to the window.

They passed one cottage on the right, then another, and then there were continuous buildings on either side, including the flaming mouth of a smithy and a substantial farmhouse. A barred gate protected the farmyard, where poultry pecked around and a man was leading two large horses toward an outbuilding. He paused to assess the passing carriage and four, and soon children began to run alongside in excitement. Adults came to their doors or paused in their work to see what was happening. Kitty was tempted to wave, but wasn't sure if that was appropriate for someone who might soon be the lady of this place. She sensed no hostility to strangers. That was a good sign.

Ruth had described Beecham Dab in her letters, but the village was larger than Kitty expected. It took some minutes to reach the green. She could see the square-towered church to her left, the Abbot's Arms to her right, and some larger houses among the cottages. They would belong to gentry.

She knew there was a squire, a doctor who served a number of local villages, and a pair of spinster sisters who were daughters of the previous parson. Puslow? She should have gone over Ruth's letters and made notes.

The carriage halted as the postilions asked the way. Kitty could have told them the parsonage lay behind the church at the end of the tree-lined lane to their left, but she let them find out for themselves.

In the center of the green stood a stone plinth. That
must be the memorial to three brothers killed in the Civil War. It had been erected by another grieving mother, the Lady Dauntry of the time, who'd lost all three sons to the cruelest kind of war. Two of the Braydon brothers had fought for the Royalists, but one had sided with Parliament. The recent wars had lasted longer than the Civil War, but had been abroad and less harrowing in that way.

The carriage turned down the lane, and soon the brick house came into view, looking exactly as it had in a sketch Ruth had sent. The chaise turned in front, and she saw Ruth coming out with her little boy by her side—a plumper Ruth but still as pretty, blond hair curling out from beneath her cap, waving and beaming a welcome. As soon as the steps were down, Kitty ran out and into her friend's arms.

“Oh, it's so good to see you!” she exclaimed.

“And I you.”

But Kitty noticed an odd tone. “Is something the matter?”

“No, of course not.” But then Ruth added, “You just seem a little wan.”

“Perhaps that's because you have bouquets of roses in your cheeks.”

“Country air.” Perhaps Ruth remembered that Kitty had been living in the countryside, for she added, “Gray never suited you. What style you arrive in! Beecham Dab will be all agog.”

“We certainly stirred excitement.”

Ruth turned to her son. “Arthur, dear, be careful with the dog.”

The four-year-old was giggling with delight but also waving his arms about, which Sillikin was taking as invitation to jump.

Kitty scooped up her dog. “She's very gentle, but I'll introduce her properly once we're inside. Good day to you, Arthur.”

The boy bobbed a shy bow, but his eyes were bright. He was delightful.

“Come in, come in,” Ruth said. “You'll be ready for some tea.”

“I must thank my attendants first.”

Kitty walked back to where a parsonage serving man was taking her trunk out of the boot, with Mr. Jones observing. Tessa was still in the coach. Kitty thanked them both and waved them on their return journey. The coach would come back for her when she wrote to ask, but she hoped that was never. Seeing Ruth again, even for just a moment, had only increased her desire that this plan work.

She joined Ruth in the entrance hall. It was much more modest than the one at Cateril, but Kitty instantly preferred it. It was wainscoted in dark wood, but the upper walls and ceiling were painted a pleasant eggshell blue and hung with watercolors that were probably Ruth's work. Potpourri and polish scented the air.

“You have a lovely home,” Kitty said.

“We're blessed,” Ruth agreed.

“I detect your clever hand as well as God's,” Kitty teased, taking off her gloves. “Now, tell me more about Lord Dauntry.”

“In a while,” Ruth said, glancing down. “Little pitchers. . . .”

Little pitchers have big ears.
Kitty knew from her niece and nephew that children could repeat things heard, sometimes at unfortunate moments.

She crouched down to introduce Sillikin to the boy. “I'll keep her with me for now, but I'm sure she'll like to play once she's become used to a new place.”

“This isn't new,” he protested.

“It is to her. Stroke her ears. She likes that.” As the boy did, she added, “I understand you have cats?”

He nodded.

“We'll hope they'll be friends.”

She rose, keeping the dog in her arms just to be safe. Ruth called for a maid to take care of Arthur, and they went upstairs.

“Here we are,” Ruth said, opening the door into a bedroom.

The room wasn't as large as the one Kitty had in Cateril Manor and was much plainer, but as with the hall, she liked it better. Ruth had stenciled a rose design in places on the pale pink wall to simulate wallpaper. The bed had no posts or hangings, but a pink and white coverlet matched the curtains at the window, and a lively fire burned in the hearth.

“Perfect,” she said, putting Sillikin down to explore. “Thank you.”

“I hope you'll enjoy it. But not for long,” Ruth added with meaning.

Kitty untied her bonnet and put it aside. “The prospect hardly seems believable.”

“It is, Kitty. Completely. As long as you'll be practical.”

“Practical?”

“You can act so impulsively. Kindly, but . . . Never mind. I'm sure you'll find Lord Dauntry unobjectionable.”

Kitty considered her as she unfastened her pelisse. “That sounds grudging.”

“I don't mean it that way. I don't know,” Ruth said helplessly. “I can't know if you'll suit. It's a long time since we were schoolgirls together.”

“I suppose so, but it doesn't feel like that now.”

“It doesn't, does it? Oh, let me hug you again!”

Kitty happily complied, but then asked the important question. “When will I meet him?”

“We're to send a message when you arrive, and he'll call the next day.”

Tomorrow. Thank heavens.
She had time to work out how best to present herself.

She took off her pelisse, and Ruth pulled a face at the gray gown beneath. “I know we're all dressing soberly, but complete gray?”

Kitty didn't want to tell Ruth she'd been in half mourning forever. “It's practical for traveling.”

“You, being practical?” Ruth teased. “But it's true. Let's see what else you have. Unlock your trunk.”

“Bossy boots.” Kitty said it with a smile, however, and found the key.

Ruth flung back the lid. “Violet,” she said, putting that aside. “And fawn with black trim. Ah-ha!” She pulled out the blue and cream stripe. “This will suit you.”