Chapter Twenty-Four

B ella poured water into the teapot, then set it aside to brew while she slid into her seat at the kitchen table.

Her limbs ached, and her palms itched.

Today had been wash day. Her palms always itched after wash day, despite the salve Sophie gave her. It was her least favorite day of the week—if any day could be called favorite , given that from Monday to Saturday they were much the same. She rose before dawn and set the fire in the range—fighting back the wave of terror that gripped her as the flames danced around the coals. Then she dressed the children, before the endless cycle of cooking and cleaning began, snatching a few minutes’ rest where she could indulge in a little embroidery—something she’d discovered she had a talent for—before they returned in the evening demanding to be fed, followed by more cleaning, until finally she dropped onto the sofa, welcoming the oblivion of sleep.

Except Sunday.

On Sundays, she was permitted a little respite. She rose later than usual because her husband brought her a pot of tea in the parlor—which, as he never hesitated to remind her, made him more considerate than other husbands. He then disappeared outside to tend to the kitchen garden, after which he returned inside to don his best suit before waiting in the parlor while Bella helped the children put on their best clothes. Then they set off for church to be preached to on the merits of wholesome living, the benefit of hard toil, and the rewards to be gained in heaven for the morally virtuous.

Reverend Gleeson loved to lecture on the benefits of moral virtuosity, during which he’d tilt his head and stare out at the congregation over his glasses. His gaze would wander about the church, settling occasionally on a congregant, as if his words on morality had been uttered for their benefit.

Each time his gaze settled on Bella, her cheeks flamed, as if betraying her guilt. But for what, she couldn’t fathom. Memories of her past remained resolutely out of reach—save the occasional flare of terror that gripped her each time she tended to the fire. An accident she’d sustained as a child, her husband said. As to the rest of her life—her marriage, her children—at times, a memory pushed into her mind, only to recede again.

All she knew was that she’d had a tendency to wander about, a reputation that the village gossips relished. Mrs. Chantry, that poisonously pious woman at the school, had called her a hussy .

Which would have made her laugh had it not been the opposite of the truth. Wasn’t a hussy supposed to have intimate relations with all manner of men?

She didn’t even have relations with her husband—not that she recalled what relations were, or whether she enjoyed them. Other than kissing her—and what a kiss that was; she could still recall the wicked warmth pulsing in her center—he barely touched her.

In short, he didn’t want her. Which made the envious glances from the women in the village all the more unjustified.

Envy, according to Reverend Gleeson, was a sin that women had a greater propensity for. Women, with their restricted lives and limited intellect, were tempted to look beyond their world, into the lives of others. In his view—which, according to him, was also the Almighty’s view—a woman could only achieve redemption if she accepted her lot.

How she wanted to stand up and declare his pontifications to be nonsense! They were words spoken by men to subjugate women. But the other women in the congregation—except perhaps Sophie, Bella’s only friend—nodded their bonneted heads, thereby perpetuating their fate, and the fate of their daughters.

Which was why Roberta’s unruliness was something to be celebrated, despite what that hag Mrs. Chantry said about the girl.

Bella glanced across the kitchen table at the daughter she still had no recollection of, save the past month. Roberta pulled a face, and, with a sigh, Bella lifted the lid from the pot, releasing the aroma of lamb stew.

Her husband leaned forward and frowned.

“There’s not much there, Bella, love. We don’t want to be seen as poor hosts.”

She gritted her teeth. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have invited Mr. Ryman for supper if you didn’t want to be seen as a poor host.”

“It reflects on you, love, seein’ as you’re the woman. Couldn’t you have added more potatoes?”

“I’ve had much to do today, Lawrence,” she said. “You’re lucky I’ve had time to cook anything, given the state of those trousers of yours—they’ll have to be soaked for days.”

Jonathan burst into laughter, spitting out his drink, before letting out a volley of coughs.

Lawrence glanced at Mr. Ryman and shook his head. “See what I have to endure, Ned?”

Mr. Ryman narrowed his eyes. He might be Lawrence’s friend, but he always filled Bella with discomfort. She could never quite identify it, but he seemed to look at her as if she had no business living at Ivy Cottage.

Did he object to her having his niece’s gowns? Perhaps he felt she was incapable of taking care of them as Sophie had. She’d tried her best to mend the tear in the gown she was wearing today—but she was unable to match the color of the cotton. But it was the best she had, except her Sunday dress, which she’d set to soak that morning to remove a stain on the skirts.

“Leave her be, Lawrence,” Mr. Ryman said. “There’s plenty enough to go round—unless young Jonathan eats it all.” He turned to the boy. “I swear you’ve grown a full ten inches since I last saw you.”

The boy jumped up and down. “You’re funny, Mr. Ned!”

“He’s grown half an inch,” Bella said. “I measured him. We’re marking his height on the doorframe to the children’s bedroom, aren’t we, Jonathan?”

Mr. Ryman’s eyes widened. “ You measured him—then marked the walls?”

What was it that he didn’t like about her?

“Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.

“Bella,” Lawrence growled. “Ned’s your guest. And he’s hungry.”

Curse him! Always giving orders. She ladled stew into a bowl and pushed it toward Mr. Ryman.

“Thank you, Mrs. Baxter.”

Dislike her he might, but at least he had manners.

She served the rest of the stew, filling her husband’s and children’s bowls before ladling the remains into hers.

“You’ve left hardly any there for yourself, Mrs. Baxter.”

“Leave her be, Ned,” Lawrence said. “She’s probably not hungry after sittin’ at home all day.”

“I can answer for myself, husband,” she retorted.

He gave Mr. Ryman a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look before resuming eating.

“It’s a pity your niece was unable to visit, Mr. Ryman,” Bella said. “Sophie’s my only friend here. She was so kind to me when I arrived.”

“She’s a good girl, is Sophie,” Mr. Ryman replied. “But she’s too busy courting to spend time with her old uncle.”

“Courting?” Bella asked. “Is it that young man from the big house—the gardener’s boy?”

“Aye, Sam, his name is. Sam Cole.”

“He’s a good worker,” Lawrence said, between mouthfuls of stew. “Knows a thing or two about plants. He’d be a great help if I secured that job for Mr. Trelawney.”

“He’s very taken with Sophie,” Mr. Ryman said. “I favor the match.”

“Does Sophie want the match, Mr. Ryman?” Bella asked.

“I think so.”

“Shouldn’t you ask her, before deciding her fate?”

“Bella,” Lawrence growled, but their guest raised his hand.

“It’s a fair question, Mrs. Baxter. She seems sweet on him, though she has no mother to advise her, poor lass—only her old uncle.”

“She’s a fool if she doesn’t accept him,” Lawrence said. “And he’d be a fool if he didn’t offer for her. She keeps house for you beautifully, Ned. You’re a lucky man.”

“As are you, Lawrence,” Mr. Ryman said. “Sophie tells me your wife is skilled at sewing.”

“A wife needs to do more than sew on a button, Ned,” Lawrence said, laughing. “My Bella here could learn a thing or two from your Sophie.”

Mr. Ryman scowled.

“Oh, could I?” Bella said, folding her arms. Why did the men always belittle a woman’s efforts?

“Bella, stop your nonsense and pour the tea. It must be right brewed by now.”

Oh Lord —she’d forgotten the tea!

She pushed back her chair, wincing as it scraped against the floorboards.

“Careful!” Lawrence said. “That’s the floorboards needin’ another wax.” He turned to Roberta. “Mind you don’t pick up any bad habits from your mother.”

“Ha-ha!” William cried. “I wouldn’t be a girl if you gave me a hundred sovereigns!”

Roberta stuck out her tongue.

“Roberta,” Lawrence said, “I hardly think—”

“You’re quite right, Billy,” Bella said. “A hundred sovereigns isn’t nearly enough to compensate for being a woman in this house.”

Lawrence opened his mouth to reply, and she glared at him.

Go on—I dare you. One more word and you’ll regret it.

His eyes widened, then he closed his mouth again.

Turning her back, she lifted the lid of the teapot and stirred the contents. Titters of laughter and whispers filled the kitchen, but she was too tired to bother herself with whatever nonsense the children were indulging in. When she returned to the table, her husband and the children were eating their stew with an air of nonchalance. Only Mr. Ryman looked uncomfortable.

Something was afoot.

“There’s no need to pour the tea,” Lawrence said. “Finish your stew first.”

Surprisingly considerate of him—he usually demanded his tea at every opportunity.

She picked up her fork, her skin tightening at the feeling that several pairs of eyes were on her. Then she took a mouthful of stew.

The acrid taste flooded her senses, and she spat it out with a cry.

Someone had dumped a packet of salt into it.

The children burst into laughter, and Lawrence threw his head back, roaring with mirth. She curled her hands into fists, suppressing the urge to take a griddle pan to his head.

Was she nothing but an object of ridicule? Mr. Ryman was the only one who seemed unamused.

She wiped her mouth and pushed her bowl aside. Then her husband reached across the table and caught her hand.

“Bella, love—it’s just a bit of harmless fun.”

“All part of a woman’s lot,” she said bitterly. “I trust your Sophie will have better luck than I, Mr. Ryman.”

Their guest colored and said nothing.

“There’s no need to bring Ned into it, love,” Lawrence said.

“You started it!” she cried.

“Bella…”

She snatched her hand free and forced a smile.

“No matter, husband,” she said. “I know my place.”

He nodded, then smiled at Mr. Ryman. “See, Ned? A good woman knows her place. And a hot-tempered woman only needs to cool off, then she’s right again.”

“I thank you for your correction, husband,” Bella said, picking up the teapot. He tensed as she poured tea into each cup. When she set the pot down again, he relaxed and leaned back.

“That stew were proper tasty, Bella, love.”

She smiled back, picking up the milk jug. Then she leaned over and tipped its contents over her husband’s trousers.

“Shit!” He leaped back, his chair clattering on the floor.

“Oh, husband,” she said, shaking her head. “Such unseemly language. How can you set such a poor example to our children?”

“Shit!” Jonathan cried.

“Jonathan!” Lawrence tugged at his trousers while milk soaked into the material, dripping onto the floor to form a puddle at his feet. “Bloody hell—they’re ruined.”

“Bloody hell!” Jonathan echoed.

“Stop that!” Lawrence said. “Bella—what the devil did you think you were doing?”

She met his gaze. “Why, husband—I thought you needed a little cooling off. Your temper tonight is hotter than mine.”

“You’ve ruined my trousers!”

“Then I must rinse them.”

Bella approached the sink, already filled with water to wash the dishes. Then she dipped a saucepan into the water and returned.

“Don’t you dare,” Lawrence growled.

“Go on, Mama!” Jonathan cheered.

“Very well.” She jerked forward, and the water flew through the air in an arc before it landed on her husband. His mouth opened and shut, as if he struggled to speak. Then he shook his head, sending droplets of water flying.

The children burst into laughter, and Mr. Ryman, despite being splashed with water, let out a chuckle. “You have to give your wife credit for giving as good as she gets.”

“Wait until I get my hands on you, woman!” Lawrence cried.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Bella held up the saucepan. “And I’m armed!”

He convulsed, and, for a moment, she thought he was going to burst with rage. Then his mouth twisted into a smile, and he leaped toward her. She turned and fled from the kitchen.

“Get her!”

A clatter of footsteps followed her. She pushed open the front door, then darted to the right, skirting around the side of the house to the garden, where she could hide in the children’s den —the last place he’d expect to find her, given the unsavory items they collected.

Before she could reach the den, an excited voice cried out, “ There she is! I said she’d be in the garden!”

Three small figures headed toward her. The first collided with her, wrapping its arms around her waist, followed by another, and another. She lost her balance and crashed to the ground, falling face down in the mud, taking the children with her.

With a cry, the children leaped to their feet.

“Mama! Are you all right?”

“Don’t be silly—she’s fallen down.”

“Are you hurt? Don’t be angry—we didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Roberta’s plea tore at Bella’s heart, and she shivered at the fear in her daughter’s voice.

She rolled onto her back to find her children standing over her. Roberta and William’s faces were streaked with mud. But Jonathan was caked—his was indiscernible beneath a thick layer of mud, save for a red mouth and a bright pair of eyes.

Like a mole—a mole topped with hair the color of carrots.

She bit her lip to stem the tide of mirth, while her body shook.

“Mama?” Jonathan’s eyes widened, and Bella descended into a volley of laughter.

“Oh, Jonathan—you look so…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “You look like a mole!”

Jonathan screwed up his eyes, his mouth creasing as he let out a wail, and Bella sat up and pulled him into her arms.

“Oh, my precious boy!” she said, shaking with laughter. “How dull life would be if I didn’t have you.” She glanced up at the twins. “All of you.”

“What’s all this?” a deep voice asked. “Children, go back inside. Mr. Ryman’s all on his own.”

Bella’s laughter died as her husband came into view. She gave Jonathan a squeeze of affection, then kissed the top of his head.

“Run along,” she said. “Leave your clothes in the kitchen and I’ll give them a rinse tonight.”

“Yes, Mama,” the boys replied.

Roberta hesitated.

“What is it, Bobby?” Bella asked.

“Don’t be angry with her, Papa,” the girl said. “I like her when she laughs.”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “I could never be angry with”—he hesitated—“your mother.”

Roberta skipped inside, yelling at her brothers to remove their muddy clothes.

Bella looked up at her husband. He offered his hand, and she stared at it.

“Shall we call a truce?”

“How can I trust you?” she asked.

“You can’t.”

She sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything more from you.”

She took his hand. He pulled her up, then lost his balance, and they crashed to the ground. He let out a laugh, and she found herself caught up in his mirth, and they lay on the ground, shaking with laughter while he continued to hold her.

She tipped her head up to face him, and her heart fluttered at the expression in his clear gray eyes—she had never seen such joy in him before. Their laughter died, and, for a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other.

Then he lowered his mouth onto hers.

His kiss was gentle—lips caressing hers, coaxing her to yield and soften in his arms.

And soften she did, relishing his strength and the feel of his body enveloping hers. He stroked her lips with his tongue, and she parted them, inviting him in, relishing his taste while he teased and caressed her mouth. Then he withdrew and placed a trail of tiny kisses along the seam of her mouth, before nuzzling the tip of her nose with his.

Sweet heaven , how could such a large man—such a beast —show such gentleness, elicit such pleasurable sensations?

Was this what it was like to make love?

He would have no need to ask—after all, in the eyes of the law and the church, she was his for the taking. Perhaps he waited for an invitation.

But how could she invite him when she knew not what to say?

But her body knew. She had only to listen to the needs of her flesh—the needs that had plagued her at night from the moment he’d touched her breasts, where the little peaks at the center had hardened, bringing forth such a pleasurable sensation…

She arched her back, and he let out a low growl.

“Lawrence…”

“Bella,” he said. “My Bella…”

Then he stiffened and drew back, slowly climbing to his feet, and helped her up.

“We should tidy ourselves up,” he said. “Who knows what the children are doing to Ned in there? Come on.”

Then he thrust his hands into his pockets and returned to the cottage.

Blinking back tears, she followed.

Why had he rejected her? Was it because Mrs. Chantry was right, and that she was a hussy? Yet he must have wanted her before, or else they wouldn’t have the children.

She fingered her necklace—the delicate chain with its pearl pendant. Something she’d had since a child, Lawrence said, though she couldn’t recall it—or anything from her past.

What had she done in the past that he found her so repugnant? Was it to do with the nightmares that plagued her—visions of flames engulfing her while a woman’s plaintive screams filled her ears…

Why couldn’t she remember?