Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The term ‘cottage' was a euphemism. Shed was more like it.

It looked picturesque enough from the outside, with its grey stone and thatched roof. Rose brambles crept up the walls and there was a rickety bench under the small window—the only window in the entire hut.

Robert forced the jammed door open with his shoulder. "Welcome home, madam wife." He held the door open for her with a mock bow.

Louisa stepped inside and remained speechless. She'd been prepared for the worst, but not in her wildest imagination had she expected to see anything like this.

It was a squalid, dark room with low beams, the walls sooty and black, the floor littered with hay and animal excrement, a pile of half-cut wood stacked in the fireplace. Scattered around were bits of furniture and fragments of half-broken crockery. Robert picked up a chair that had fallen over and attempted to set it upright, only for it to topple over due to one leg missing. There was a rough wooden table, more broken chairs, and along one wall, something that might have been a bed. The frame consisted only of a simple wooden platform with a lumpy mattress on top.

"Charming." Robert strolled over to the bed, sat down to test the mattress, and when the bed's frame didn't collapse, he threw himself on top of it in one fell swoop. It gave off a gigantic puff of dust. He looked up at her with a rakish grin. "Luxurious and comfortable, and just big enough for the both of us. Join me, wife." He patted the mattress beside him in an invitation for her to lie down.

Louisa shook her head. "It's infested with vermin."

"Most likely," he agreed. "Still, it's a thousand times more comfortable than many a bedstead I've had in the—" he broke off, pulled his hat over his eyes, propped one boot on top of the other, and sighed contentedly as if he were reposing in a luxurious canopy bed in the royal bedchamber.

Louisa watched him with a frown. "In the what?" What had he been about to say?

Robert didn't reply.

She surveyed the room, a feeling of exhaustion and despair sweeping over her. This was intolerable. She couldn't possibly stay here. It was too dirty, too dilapidated, too poor. Too, too—everything.

"You don't, in all earnestness, intend for us to live here? This isn't a proper abode for people. It's more of an animal pen, a pigsty. It must have been used to house chickens, pigs, and goats at one time or another." Louisa wrinkled her nose in disgust at the foul stench that permeated the room.

"There's nothing wrong with this place," her husband replied, his eyes still closed. "It's more than many people in our class can expect." He emphasised the word ‘ our '. "You can't imagine in what squalor and misery some people live. This is nothing in comparison to what they endure." There was a faint patronising reproach in his tone, as if she were an overindulged princess who knew nothing of the world and the reality of the lives of the people of the lower classes, which, of course, happened to be entirely true.

But that realisation didn't improve her mood. It rankled. When she'd thought of a cottage where they could live, she'd imagined a small, dainty cottage, romantically situated at the edge of a forest. It would be a simple, modest abode, yes, but clean. She had completely forgotten that such a place didn't come with footmen, maids, and butlers to clean, cook, and maintain the household.

She rubbed her forehead. It dawned on her that this wouldn't happen on its own, and that she would have to lend a hand herself to get things done. Fetching the water, throwing out the slops, washing, cooking, and cleaning.

As if he knew what she was thinking, her husband said, "Well, wife, commence the cleaning operation." He yawned. "Driving the cart for four days was hard work, and I deserve some rest now. "

She looked at him, aghast. "You want me to clean?"

He pushed back the hat and opened one eye. "Who else? This place certainly won't get clean on its own. We don't have any servants to do it, and we can't afford any, either."

She'd never, in her entire life, even touched a broom. "But I don't know how to—" she began, then bit on her lip when she saw his eyebrow rise.

This was exactly what he wanted, wasn't it? Him and her father.

To take her down a peg.

To teach her a lesson.

To prove to her that she was nothing more than a sugar princess who would break at the first challenge.

Robert, seemingly oblivious to her inner struggle, closed his eyes once more. His breathing steadied and after a while he began to snore.

Louisa watched him in amazement, unable to comprehend how he could find rest on such a filthy mattress, likely crawling with lice.

It struck her as a deliberate provocation, a silent challenge, as if he had thrown down the gauntlet and dared her to pick it up.

She stared at his sleeping form with narrowed eyes, her hands clenched into fists.

What on earth should she do now? Capitulate?

She took in the overwhelming chaos of the room, and she closed her eyes in despair.

Back at her father's house in London, he'd called her a useless china doll. She'd been proud of herself for surviving the arduous journey on the costermonger's cart. She'd proved her resilience by sleeping on the cold, hard ground for three nights without a word of complaint. She'd begun to think she could handle anything life threw at her—but this? Was she ready to admit defeat on her first day in her new abode?

Homesickness washed over her. She wanted nothing more than to return to her safe, warm house in London. But if she stayed here, she could not only prove her mettle, but she could also learn more about Will.

The mere thought of him infused her with an unexpected surge of strength and determination.

"You can do it, Lulu," Will would have said with that wry, cheeky smile of his. "I know you can."

Clenching her jaw, she carried the dilapidated chairs outside. She picked up the broom that lay atop a pile of rubble and began to sweep the floor.

She could do this.

After an hour's rest, Robert propped himself up on one elbow and watched her sweep the floor with grim determination. He cleared his throat. "It might be easier if you made one big pile of dirt, instead of just sweeping it back and forth from one end of the room to the other, spreading it all over." When she gave him death's stare, he raised both hands in defence. "Otherwise, it appears you're doing a rum job for someone who's never even touched a broom, so I suppose I'll hold my tongue." But after all her efforts, she merely succeeded in casting the entire room in a thick cloud of dust, coughing helplessly. He took the broom from her hand without a word and swept the room himself. Within minutes, the floor was cleared of the dirt.

Then he hoisted the mattress onto his shoulder and carried it outside.

Louisa thought he'd taken it into the yard to be cleaned, but when she went outside, she found him gone.

Fine. She was better off doing this on her own, anyway, without having someone looking over her shoulder and criticising her every move.

What now? Her eyes travelled from the rickety bedstead to the crooked shelves on the wall, then ended at the fireplace.

An iron hook hung inside it, along with a black iron cauldron that was filled with logs. Having cleared that away, she took the cauldron out and stared at it in dismay. It was heavily encrusted with rust and dirt, so much so that she preferred to not know what exactly it was.

She took it out, poured water from the well into it and dabbed at it with a rag. An hour later it still looked just as it had before, except that the water was now black, and strange things were swimming in it.

Robert returned with the mattress, whistling. "I went to the neighbouring farmer and had it restuffed with horsehair. It's free of vermin now." He'd also obtained some fresh linen sheets and a basket of food. He took the basket into the house, then sat down in front of the bench with the mattress, pulled out a needle and thread, and began to sew.

She watched in astonishment. "What are you doing?"

"I have to secure the edge of the mattress, to prevent the contents from spilling out." His fingers moved quickly, each stitch precise and orderly.

Louisa was at a loss for words. "You can sew?"

"It's one of my many accomplishments. But yes. I can sew rather well. If I had to choose another trade, tailoring might well have been my calling." He grinned.

When he had finished sewing, he carried the mattress inside and placed it on the bed frame. Then he set about repairing the broken chairs, hammering the loose legs back into place.

Meanwhile, Louisa persisted with the cauldron, her efforts undiminished.

Robert put down the chair he was working on and shook his head. "That won't work. You need sand and a proper fire."

She looked at him in confusion. "Whatever for? And where would we get sand?"

"From the bank of the river, over there." He pointed to the nearby stream. He took the cauldron, emptied its contents and, after scraping the remains out with a stick, scouring it thoroughly. Then he filled it with sand again.

He expertly built another fire and hung the cauldron directly above the flames. "Leave it there for a few hours. Perhaps even overnight. Tomorrow, it'll be spotless. In the meantime, fetch the basket, sit down, and eat."

Louisa did as he suggested, savouring the stew, fresh bread, and cheese while keeping her eyes on him.

"Now that we've finished the journey, we can't afford to buy food every day," Robert said in between two bites of cheese. "You must start cooking for yourself. Starting from tomorrow, you'll cook me pottage and porridge. "

"But I don't know how to cook pottage and porridge."

"You cannot clean, you cannot cook." He threw up his arms. "Is there anything at all you can do?"

"I can embroider. I can make pretty watercolours. I can read Latin, speak Italian, French and a smattering of German, play the pianoforte and the harp and sing."

"None of which is in the least useful to us. Can you at least make baskets?"

She shook her head.

"Use the loom? A spindle? I suppose you have no idea how to work in the fields either, or how to make butter and cheese." He sighed. "Truly, I've condemned myself to a hard fate by marrying you."

"I can learn to do all that," she told him, but he merely looked at her sceptically. "And you? Now that the cart is empty and all the fruit and vegetables have been sold, how will you earn your keep? Will you idle away the entire day by sleeping?" Suddenly a profound feeling of unease assailed her. Summer would turn to autumn, soon, and then winter would come. How would they survive, indeed?

But he seemed unconcerned about that. "Never fear, I always find a way to earn my keep," he said, but wouldn't elaborate further.

He pulled off his boots and socks and stretched out his bare feet, wiggling his toes. He tossed one sock into her lap and handed her thread and needle.

"Since the only useful ability you seem to have is that of wielding a needle, you can start your wifely duties by darning my socks."

Louisa was about to lash out at him and tell him to darn his own stinking socks, particularly since he'd bragged earlier that he was good at sewing. Then she changed her mind, recognising this as yet another one of his challenges.

"Very well." She stifled a shudder as she picked up the foul-smelling sock with two fingers and inspected the hole in it.

It was undoubtedly the largest sock she'd ever seen. The man's feet were massive. And that hole was a disgrace.

Several hours later, she handed him the sock, neatly folded into a small rectangular packet.

He unfolded the sock and stared. "What the deuce is that?"

"A ladybird. Isn't it pretty?"

"A ladybird! On my sock?"

"It is a particularly hideous sock. Not to mention the stench." She pinched her nose. "I thought I would improve its coarse appearance, so I added a ladybird. And if you turn it over, you'll find a pretty butterfly," she said. "Along with some flowers and leaves." She'd embroidered an entire garland of tulips and daisies winding themselves around the ankle. "It would have been prettier if I'd had colours other than white."

The look on his face was priceless.

Louisa bit on the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from bursting into laughter.

"Would you like me to darn your other sock as well, so they're matching?" she offered in dulcet tones.

"No, thank you," he said hastily, moving his socks out of her reach .

"What about that hole in your shirt?" She pointed at his linen shirt, which sported a hole at the elbow. "It is my wifely duty to fix that, I believe."

"Thank you, but I'll fix this one myself. Otherwise, you'll turn it into a dandy's embroidered waistcoat or some such nonsense," he muttered under his breath.

Louisa repressed a grin. "Any other wifely duty you'd like me to perform?" she said without thinking.

"Wifely duty? Let's see." A wicked smile spread over his face. "I could think of something," he drawled. He leaned back on his arms, and his gaze slowly trailed down her neck, over her decollete, paused by her chest, and swept further down. The air between them was suddenly thick and dense, charged with something she didn't quite understand.

He extended a hand and gently stroked a stray curl out of her face that had escaped from her bun. His fingers touched the skin of her jaw, leaving behind a blazing trail of heat.

Her skin prickled all over, and she held her breath as it flushed through her entire body down to the tips of her toes. She became aware of how close he was, tall and masculine, radiating heat like a furnace.

She tore her gaze away. "I mean for the h-household," she stammered, wishing she had her ballroom fan so she could fan herself.

He dropped his hand. "Of course. For the household." His voice was husky. Rising, he cleared his throat and said, "You can tend to the cauldron over the fire. Tonight, the responsibility of standing watch falls on you."

Louisa nodded, simultaneously relieved and disappointed as she watched him move away. What on earth had that been about?

She picked up a stick and poked it into the fire, stirring up some embers. It was rather cold now that he had left, even though she was sitting right beside the fire.