And she did have brandy.
She took out the pretty flask, suddenly remembering what it meant. Cate had purchased this in London with her in mind. That wasn’t love, but it was something. She drank some, but only a little, for there wasn’t much left and she thought she’d need it again soon.
Dutch courage, Cate had said of gin. Perhaps brandy was French courage. Whatever it was, it was time to take ownership of these rooms.
She went into the boudoir, finding a pretty room with good light. A delicate Chinese carpet covered the center of the floor, and the pale blue walls were hung with paintings of flowers. A settee and two upholstered chairs faced the fireplace, and a small table had been placed by the window for private meals. An empty bookcase and a writing desk sat against the wall.
Prudence felt a ghostly presence. This had been Artemis’s private room, where she’d been at ease. Another place from which death had evicted her. How difficult this all was.
The desk was beautiful. She trailed a finger over the top, which was decorated with marquetry flowers. When she raised the lid, she found a leather writing surface edged in gold. The inside of the lid had been painted with shepherds and shepherdesses in an amorous country scene.
Why hadn’t Artemis taken this and anything else she valued to whatever rooms she now used? Would it help to offer them to her? Would it offend if she had it all taken away and replaced with other pieces?
Perhaps Artemis had left these furnishings here because she loved Keynings as much as Cate and didn’t want to leave. Perhaps, like Prudence’s father, she clung to the hope that reality would change and everything would return to the way it ought to be.
What of Cate’s mother? Did she pray that her beloved older son, the good son, would rise from the grave like Lazarus?
Prudence sighed and opened the shallow drawers. They were empty. She’d need writing papers, pens, ink, sealing wax. . . .
A seal, as Cate had?
Too much to know. Too many ways to make errors. Errors Artemis would be hoping for.
She looked longingly toward the door to Cate’s bedchamber, but turned and went into the dressing room.
As Artemis had said, it was small. A handsome clothespress was too large for the space. She opened it to find it empty, as expected, but perfumes lingered. She could pick out lavender and rose that whispered of gardens, and laughter, and happy days.
Only weeks ago.
Prudence began to close the doors on those shattered dreams, but instead she opened them wide, and opened the window as well.
What was, was.
A new order was in place.
She heard children laughing.
She leaned out and saw two young girls in the sunny flower garden, accompanied by a maidservant. Their black gowns were stark against green grass and colorful flowers, but they were brightly at play, running around holding canes bearing ribbons that fluttered in the breeze.
Artemis’s children. If one had been a boy, how different everything would be.
She heard a noise and went into the boudoir to find a different maid placing a tea tray on the table. This one was in her thirties, at least, and much better dressed.
“Where’s Karen?” Prudence asked.
“She’s returned to her regular duties, milady. Did you require anything else?”
“Who are you?”
“Rachel, milady. Artemis, Lady Malzard’s maid, milady.” The maid was perfectly polite. Too perfectly. In some way, she was looking down her rather fat nose.
“Thank you, Rachel, but I wouldn’t wish to give you more work. Karen will do well enough until I hire my own lady’s maid.”
“That would not be suitable, milady.”
Prudence fixed her with a look. “I will decide what is suitable. Take that away and have Karen bring it.”
The woman’s chest expanded, almost as if she might object, but then, stiff spined, she put everything back on the tray and left.
Prudence waited, wound tight in preparation for another battle, but soon Karen returned, struggling with the tray, perhaps because she seemed wide-eyed with fear.
Oh, dear.
“Have I made things difficult for you?” Prudence asked.
“No, milady! I mean,” she said, putting the tray on the table, “some of ’em don’t like it.”
She stepped back, but Prudence said, “Put everything out on the table.”
“Oh, sorry, milady. I don’t—”
“I don’t expect you to know everything, Karen, only to learn.”
“Yes, milady.” But the maid’s hands shook as she spread teapot, water jug, cup and saucer, sugar, cream pot, and cakes on the table. Then she stepped back, tray clutched nervously to her.
Prudence sat, aware of an impulse to befriend the girl. She wasn’t much like Hetty—for one thing she was probably less than sixteen—but there were enough similarities for Prudence to care about her. She must keep a suitable distance, however, for both their sakes.
The tea had already been made in the pot, which made her think of something else. Who had control of the precious tea? At Blytheby, her mother had guarded her tea caddy most carefully. Susan did the same in Darlington.
“The tea is excellent,” Prudence said, sipping. “Who prepared it?”
“Mistress Ingleton, milady.”
Prudence relaxed. She wouldn’t have to fight Artemis over that.
“But Lady Malzard . . .” Karen said, “I mean the other Lady Malzard, and the Dowager Lady Malzard, milady, they have their own tea boxes.”
“My husband’s sister-in-law is correctly called Artemis, Lady Malzard,” Prudence told her, wondering if she truly had just been given useful and appropriate information. That was why Karen reminded her of Hetty. Just because she was young and inexperienced didn’t mean she was stupid.
“I too shall have my own,” she said, taking a small cake. It was light, lemony, and delicious. She only just stopped herself from offering one to Karen.
But then, perhaps a lady’s maid would normally enjoy such treats. She’d find out. But from whom? She wouldn’t trust a word Artemis said, and probably Cate didn’t know. Perry might.
For the moment, Karen might have more useful information.
“When you say some won’t like it, Karen, I assume you mean the more senior housemaids, who feel they should have been chosen.”
“Yes, milady, but really, it’s all of ’em.” She raised her chin. “I’m above all of ’em now, you see.”
“You are? How?”
“In rank, milady! The servants all have their place, milady, but the personal servants, like Mr. Ransom and Miss Gorley, they go by their master or mistress’s title. So Mr. Ransom, we call ’im milord, or Lord Malzard. And Miss Gorley, we call ’er milady, or Lady Malzard. I suppose we’ll ’ave to refer to ’er as Artemis, Lady Malzard, now. Anyway, you see, milady, now they’ll ’ave to call me milady too!”
The girl’s eyes shone, but she still clutched the tray.
Prudence drained her cup and refilled it, the lemon cake threatening to return. Sudden elevation to high status was not an undiluted blessing. She knew that, and so did Cate.
“Would you rather not be in that position, Karen?”
The girl bit her lip. “I don’t know, milady. It’s exciting, and I could giggle at the sour faces on them all. But it doesn’t seem right.”
Prudence put down the cup, rattling it because of shaking hands. Cate had spoken about how the servants had strict ideas about what was right, and here she’d turned everything upside down. The blame rested on Artemis, but the consequences on herself, and she had no idea how to free herself or this child without creating new problems.
She wanted to send Karen away while she thought, but would the other servants be cruel to her? They’d have ways.
She’d find work for her.
“As you might have heard, the earl and I suffered a carriage accident and were forced to leave my luggage behind, but it should arrive soon. We purchased a few essentials en route.”
Where had they gone? One of the footmen would have removed the package from the chaise.
“There’s a nightgown and some other items in a package somewhere. Please find it and bring it to the dressing room. Before you put anything away, damp-dust the clothespress and the chest of drawers.”
If Artemis Malzard took offense at that, she could choke on it.
“Yes, milady!” Karen said, and hurried away.
Prudence dropped her head into her hands, trying to force back tears, trying to see a way out. But then she pushed away from Artemis’s table and fled Artemis’s pretty boudoir.
The bedchamber was no better. It must all be Artemis Malzard’s creation. Could she even bear to sleep in that bed?
She broke, and ran to fling open the door to the next room. “Cate!”
He turned, clad only in a gray robe, a crow-dark valet frowning behind him. He came quickly to her. “What is it? What’s upset you?”
She gripped his hands, but glanced at the disapproving servant.
Without turning, Cate said, “You may go, Ransom.”
Prudence watched the man, waiting until the door clicked shut. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m making a disaster each way I turn!” She tried to be dignified, but she collapsed against him.
He hugged her to him, saying things that she couldn’t hear because a storm of weeping had burst all her barriers. She tried to stop. She tried because it would be upsetting him. She tried because it hurt, because she feared she might never stop, might cry herself to death.
And then the storm of tears passed, leaving her limp, exhausted, wrung out, and simply lying there.
Lying?
On his bed. In his arms.
His wonderfully strong, comforting arms.
“It has been quite a difficult day, hasn’t it?” he said.
She laughed, but stopped before that took her over as the weeping had. They said some mad people laughed incessantly. She could imagine that.
“I really have created a disaster,” she mumbled into the wool covering his chest.
“I’ve done that a time or two myself.”
She looked up at him. “What did you do afterward?”
“Got drunk, I believe. I have brandy. . . .”
“I’d better not. I’ll become a sozzle-head soon.”
He ran a finger gently across her cheek, wiping at tears. “What you need, what I need, is sleep. Shall we sleep awhile, my wife?”
No. She couldn’t face the marriage bed. Not now.
He must have read her expression. “Sleep,” he repeated. “Simply sleep.”
“Karen . . .”
“Karen?”
“Karenhappuch. Daughter of Job.”
“I’m sure that makes perfect sense, but for now”—he sat them up—“I’ll help you out of your gown and stays and we’ll simply sleep.”
“Your valet will come back.”
“Not unless summoned.”
“Karen . . .”
“If she’s your maid, she’ll behave the same way. There are some privileges to our rank, you know, and being allowed to go to bed at just past eight of a summer’s evening is one of them.”
“I have a nightgown.”
“Your shift will do.”
He unfastened her bodice, but she took it off, and the skirt, and then turned so he could undo her stay laces. Part of her mind trembled at the intimacy, but the rest was a fog of exhaustion.
Heaven knew what people would think.
But they were married. This was allowed.
This was her wedding night!
Once she could, she took off her stays, and then her stockings, her back modestly turned to him. She’d used her shift as nightgown for months in White Rose Yard to avoid the expense of replacing a worn-out one, but now she was aware that it reached only to her calves, and that the neckline rode low. Even when she tightened the strings, it only just covered her uncontained breasts.
Her hair was still pinned up, so she loosened it, glancing behind. Cate wasn’t there. Then he returned from his dressing room, now in a nightshirt under his robe. Completely covered, neck to toe. He lowered the brocade curtains at the two windows, shutting out the low sunlight until the room was almost dark. He was favoring his leg.
“How’s your wound?”
“Healing. Ransom obtained some of Mistress Ingleton’s miraculous healing salve and applied some to my side as well. It certainly worked when we were boys, but both parts will appreciate a peaceful opportunity to heal.” He drew back the bedcovers and turned to her. “Come and be peaceful with me, my dear.”
A peaceful opportunity to heal. Perhaps that was what she needed—a chance for all her wounds, large and small, but especially those of the past days, to heal.
There were steps on both sides of the bed, so she climbed up and onto the cool, sweet-smelling sheets and then quickly pulled the covers up over herself, watching him shed his robe and join her.
Would he really do nothing?
Parts of her remembered touches and kisses and stirred with desire, but the rest of her said no and hoped she wouldn’t have to put the rejection into words.
He walked around drawing the bed curtains, shutting out the remaining light, and suddenly this was a place where she could sleep, could simply sleep. After weeks of worry, fitful nights, and a long, challenging day, here was peacefulness, security, and rest.
She felt him get into bed on his side and perhaps even sensed his heat.
“I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before,” she said. “It’s comforting.”
“I’ve never shared a bed like this before,” he said. “You’re right. It’s comforting.”
Prudence wanted to move closer, perhaps even into his arms, but he’d said they’d only sleep and that was most of what she wanted. She had something to confess, however, before she could rest.
“I have created a disaster, Cate. Probably a new pandemonium . . .”
He found her hand and held it. “Is it likely to become worse in the next ten hours or so?”
“I don’t think so, but . . .”