Chapter 9

CHAPTER9

“Iwanted to come and see how you were faring, but I suppose you being out in the gardens answers that,” Mrs. Hislop announced, sweeping into Joanna’s bedchamber without so much as a knock.

Joanna did not mind that as much as another duchess might, for she had always had something of an “enter as you please” policy upon her bedchamber at home. One that her sister, Nancy, had taken advantage of ever since they were little.

Goodness, how I will miss you… Joanna’s heart lurched, her eyes stinging with the threat of fresh tears, though she was certain she must have cried herself dry by now.

“You saw me in the gardens?” Joanna asked the obvious question, eyeing the tea tray that Mrs. Hislop had brought. Joanna’s stomach rumbled in appreciation.

Mrs. Hislop set the tray down and poured a cup of tea for her new mistress. “There’s not much in the way of cover out there, and no one wanders out there much, considering the state of it, so you were… noticeable.”

She smiled and brought the cup to Joanna, where the new duchess sat at her writing desk, staring down at an empty sheet of paper that she hoped would transform into a letter for Nancy. A letter filled with lies about contentment and happiness, to ease Nancy’s sorrow, which was likely why it was proving so difficult to write.

“Have a bite of that, and you’ll feel better,” Mrs. Hislop encouraged, setting down a small plate that bore a hearty slice of cake, to accompany the steaming tea. “It has healing properties.”

Joanna frowned. “It does? In what regard?”

“Sugar and butter,” Mrs. Hislop replied, chuckling. “Nothing more healing for the soul than that. And don’t worry if you spoil your dinner a little bit by devouring that—the cook won’t be offended.”

Hearing laughter in a miserable, desolate house like Bruxton Hall had a soothing effect on Joanna, inviting her to take a bite of the cake. It tasted as delicious as it looked, filling her mouth with a sweetness that she washed down with the milky tea. If she closed her eyes, she could have been at home in the kitchens, with her sister and mother, partaking of a sly piece of cake to brighten the afternoon.

“Don’t you let this house rob you of that smile, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hislop said softly, making Joanna realize that she had been smiling.

“I shall try not to, and please, call me by my name: Joanna. I am not comfortable with “Your Grace,” nor do I suspect I ever will be,” Joanna urged, though the housekeeper did not appear to be the kind of woman who would allow such informality.

Mrs. Hislop bowed her head. “As you prefer, Lady Joanna.”

“Thank you,” Joanna gasped, gulping down mouthfuls of the hot tea to try and keep her tears at bay. She had come willingly, after all; she had no right to be tearful, nor did she want Mrs. Hislop to think she would spend her days weeping and lamenting her situation.

“I thought you might like some assistance in dressing for dinner, as no maid has been assigned to you yet,” Mrs. Hislop continued, taking control where Joanna could not yet.

Joanna blinked. “Do I need to change my attire, if I am to dine in my chambers?”

“You intend to dine in your chambers?” Mrs. Hislop paused as if she had not expected that.

“I… had assumed I would be enjoying my own company this evening, and every evening from now on.”

Mrs. Hislop’s worried expression softened into a relieved smile. “His Grace has invited you to dine with him this evening, so there shall be no trays and plenty of reason to dress in something that’ll cheer your spirits. I can’t promise there’ll be sparkling conversation, but… might I speak frankly, M’Lady?”

Joanna nodded.

“The duke’s bark is worse than his bite, if you understand my meaning?” Mrs. Hislop looked back at the bedchamber door as if she expected the duke to be listening in.

Joanna hesitated. “I believe so, though my concern is that he lacks both bark and bite. He is more like one of those old farm dogs that is past caring and would not so much as wag his tail if a rabbit shot through the yard, or a bloodhound that has lost the inclination to sniff for anything.”

And my other concern is that he might kill me as I sleep, now that he has received my family’s money… She did not, of course, add that part, though after seeing the condition of Bruxton Hall, she better understood why he had hurried to marry. A crumbling residence required money to fix, and there was no quicker fix than a bride from a wealthy family.

“Heavens!” Mrs. Hislop clamped a hand to her mouth, spluttering a laugh through her splayed fingers. “You are a wit, M’Lady. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got His Grace’s head in a spin, trying to keep up with your jests. He doesn’t jest much, you see, but it’s not his fault. He’s not as gruff and unpleasant as he appears to be, and has a good heart, deep down.”

“It must have been well buried,” Joanna remarked, for she could sooner imagine herself being freed of her marriage than seeing Edwin soften or reveal a good heart.

Mrs. Hislop chuckled, but it was a sharper, sadder kind of laugh. “It’s not my place to tell his history for him, so I hope that one day, he tells you himself. All I would ask in the meantime is that you don’t judge him too harshly.” She paused. “Now, shall we choose a gown?”

Joanna watched the older lady breeze across the bedchamber to the armoire, sifting through the muslins and silks and lace that would probably gather dust, in due time. And as Joanna observed, she thought she saw Mrs. Hislop’s shoulders shake in something like a sob, piquing Joanna’s curiosity.

The housekeeper cherishes him, she realized, dumbfounded. Did that mean there really was something in his character that was worthy of being cherished? Was there a side to him that he only showed those who were closest to him, or those who had been near to him for a long time? Joanna would not believe it unless she saw it for herself. As for not being too harsh upon Edwin—first, he would have to cease being cold with her, for she had traveled too far away from everything she knew, to be the one to make the continued effort.

Nor did she want to encourage him to change his mind about their physical relationship, in case she had misunderstood his insistence that they would share no such intimacy. Perhaps, he had meant not until they reached his residence.

“Something sedate,” Joanna hurried to say to the housekeeper. “My most demure gown.”

* * *

Joanna had been seated at the dining room table for half an hour, sipping from a glass of sour red wine that the sole footman seemed agitated to keep filling, with no sign of her husband or any word of apology for his lateness. She was starting to think he was not coming at all, and that Mrs. Hislop had invented the invitation, hoping it would force Edwin to attend.

“More, Your Grace?” the footman smiled awkwardly, holding the carafe.

Joanna waved a hand. “No, thank you, or you shall have to roll me out of here before my husband has made an appearance.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The startled footman returned to his position by the mahogany wainscoting, his white gloves looking as threadbare as the rest of the dining room.

There were cracks in the walls, splintered scrapes in the mahogany, the floorboards had hurriedly been covered with a patchwork of dusty, worn rugs, and the table tilted every time she leaned upon it or retreated from it. The latter had been covered with a white lace tablecloth, dotted with vases and ornamental trays and plates at random intervals, presumably to hide ancient stains from sight. Above, a damp patch spread like a contagion across the ceiling.

Just then, the dining room door opened, and Edwin made his proud entrance. He did not say a word to Joanna as he sat in the chair opposite, and the footman rushed forward to pour his master a glass of wine.

“You may serve,” was all Edwin muttered, tucking a napkin into the collar of his shirt.

Joanna stared at him in disbelief. “My cousin does that.”

“Pardon?” Edwin finally deigned to look at her.

“Tucking the napkin into your collar. My cousin does that. He is five.”

Edwin glanced down at the napkin, frowning, “Where else would it be?”

“On your lap,” Joanna replied. “I assume you are able to put food in your mouth without difficulty?”

“The purpose is to avoid staining your clothes. Laid across your lap, the napkin does nothing but catch crumbs,” Edwin insisted, toying with the edge of the napkin as if he were a boy still. “This is the proficient way. It has nothing to do with how you bring food to your mouth.”

She noticed his gaze hesitate upon her lips as he spoke, while her mind fixated upon the thick, throaty manner in which he had said, “laid across your lap,” as if the mere mention of a lap was an intimate thing. Or, perhaps, she was still worrying about what the night might hold for her. In her limited knowledge of society gentlemen, she doubted any would truly desire a marriage without physical relations.

“I had not thought of it like that,” Joanna said, deciding not to antagonize him over such a trifling thing. As proof, she took her own napkin and tucked it into the gauzy, high-necked collar she had chosen for dinner.

Edwin’s gaze once again flitted to strange places, concentrating for just a moment upon the bosom she sought to hide. He looked away sharply, his throat bobbing in a manner that made Joanna’s stomach flutter. There was something deeply enticing about a man’s throat and neck, though she could not explain why.

“How are you faring with your business endeavors?” Joanna asked, as the lone footman began to serve dinner in a somewhat harried fashion.

Edwin looked up sharply from his plate of pheasant in a dark, shiny sauce. “What business is it of yours?”

“None, I suppose,” she replied wearily. “It is called ‘polite conversation’ and I am trying to draw you into it with bland discussions about our respective days. Or, we could sit here and listen to one another chewing, if you would prefer?”

Edwin crinkled his nose. “My endeavors were… fine.”

“Were you actually tending to some business, or was it merely an excuse to avoid me?” Joanna prodded a little.

“I was tending to business,” he confirmed, hesitating. “Business that will ensure that you have a comfortable life.”

She thought about retorting that she did have a comfortable life, back with her family at Tillington House, but that seemed too easy, and he would undoubtedly expect such a remark.

“Has my family’s money helped in that regard, or have you not yet received what is owed?” Joanna cut into her pheasant and took a pointed bite.

He glowered, “That is none of your concern.”

“Is it not my money, in essence? How can it be none of my concern? Why, if I were to make a speculation with a sum of investment, I would have every right to know how it is being used and how successful my investment has been,” she continued, sawing through her pheasant as if she was cutting through the outer layers of the cold, unyielding gentleman opposite her.

Mrs. Hislop must be mistaken about hidden depths…

“Indeed,” Joanna added, “I would also like to have some involvement in where that money is spent when it comes to this manor. I understand that I have only been shown the parts of it that are fit for purpose, but from the gardens—which also need improvement—I noticed two entire wings that I have not yet seen.”

Edwin set down his knife and fork, his appetite apparently lost. “You have not seen them because they are not fit for purpose. No one goes there.”

“Not even the staff?”

He gave a single nod.

Joanna sighed, drained of the desire to carry on talking to the human equivalent of a brick wall at the dead end of an alleyway. “The pheasant is nice, is it not?”

“Passable,” Edwin replied.

“Shall I inform the cook of that?”

A flicker of alarm passed across Edwin’s handsome face. “No, that will not—”

“Be necessary,” Joanna finished the sentence with a tired smile. “I know. I wonder if I ought to tax you every time you say that, or some iteration of it. By the end of the year, I would wager that I would have gained back all of the “investment” that my father has given to you, in exchange for me.”

Edwin tilted his head to one side, picking up his knife and fork once more. “A tax?”

“A shilling for each repetition,” Joanna suggested, discovering her enthusiasm for the dry conversation once more. “I do not know what my father arranged with you in regard to pin money, but a tax on your words can be a subsidiary sum for me. I shall buy plants with it, to revive the gardens.”

Edwin gulped his glass of wine. “Your pin money is already substantial. It will be given to you at the beginning of each month.”

“But this is more amusing,” she countered. “Let us say that, in addition to my pin money, you will give me the tax you owe for a lack of creativity in your language. Perhaps, it will inspire you to learn the art of conversation.”

She entirely expected Edwin to refuse and call her silly, so it came as something of a surprise when he shrugged and said, “Very well.”

“Very well?” She gaped at him.

“I do not plan to change how I speak. We need plants for the garden. If you wish to take the task upon yourself, I shall not stop you.” He returned to his pheasant. “I hope you are so amused when you realize the enormity of the task.”

Joanna might have thought he was teasing if he had but smirked or chuckled, but it seemed the fellow was incapable of showing any emotion upon his face other than annoyance or nothing at all.

But I have succeeded in getting him to say more, she considered, choosing to perceive the dinner as a small victory. She did not want to encourage him, nor did she wish to live the rest of her days in awkward silence.

“I shall have you know that I have grand plans for those gardens,” she insisted proudly. “I do not profess to be much of a gardener, but I am swift in learning, and if I have to forego a couple of bonnets and hats and gowns for the new season, in favor of flowers and shrubs, then so be it. I happen to think I will look more dashing surrounded by beautiful blooms than perspiring and tripping in a gown, anyway.”

Edwin froze, staring down into his wine glass as if he had seen something shocking in the dark red surface of the liquid within. His throat bobbed, his free hand gripping the handle of his fork with greater vehemence. Indeed, Joanna wondered if her excitement about gardening had displeased him in some way, and she was about to be stabbed by those silver prongs, but as his gaze flitted up to meet hers for just a moment, she saw something else in his intense, blue eyes—such a dark shade of blue that, briefly, they appeared black.

Either his appetite had finally been restored, or he was hungry for something else.

“Excuse me,” he said, rising. And, without explanation, he left the dining room, still clutching his wine glass.

Meanwhile, Joanna sat back in her chair, panting hard at what she had just witnessed: the danger in Edwin’s glittering eyes. Before that moment, if she was being honest with herself, she had assumed that most of the rumors about him had been embellished, for she had seen no evidence of actual violence in him.

Now, having seen those eyes, glinting ravenously; the intensity of his gaze straining the cords in his neck and gripping his hand around the glass stem until she had feared he might shatter it, she was starting to think she had entered into a marriage with a very dangerous man indeed.