Authors: Michelle Woodward
Still, if it was all as unpleasant and as unbearable as Ruth Smythers, the novelist writing the book, made it seem, then how were children as lovely as Sara and Edward ever even conceived? Clara supposed that there came a time when you just had to grin and bear it. She knew that the marriage was just for posterity’s sake, but suppose the formidable Mr. Westeros decided to claim what was lawfully his? Remembering the way he had glared down on her from atop Betsy, she felt a shiver go through her, although if it was from fear or something else, she could not rightfully say. Well, as the lady of the house, she would just set him straight, her own incident with Betsy be darned, she decided, nodding her head emphatically after taming the last of her curls into a bun.
She was surprised to find dinner already on the table. Granted, it was a simple meal, some meat, cheese, and bread, with a copper pitcher of fresh milk—when had he found the time to milk the cow, she wondered—but nevertheless, Mr. Westeros had provided. After her long journey and earlier scare, she was famished. He was waiting for her at the round table in the kitchen, and as she sank down in the chair across from him, primly tucking her skirts under, she wondered how long it had been since he had someone else make him a meal. Was this, too, going to be a part of her duties?
They said grace, which was a tradition she was glad to see he observed as well. From a childhood of growing up in an orphanage, one of the few things that she had carried away was the ability to thank the heavens above for a bountiful amount of food before her as an adult. As they filled their stomachs with the simple fare, she began to observe his face more carefully.
It was even more austere than she had seen at first glance. Sand-colored hair swept low over his brow, and when he finally looked up at her, wiping milk off his lips with the back of his hand, she saw that his eyes were the deepest of blues. She supposed he was handsome, in a way, but when his eyes caught hers, they twinkled in a way that reminded her of the book she had upstairs and nervousness shot like a bullet down through her stomach. Having eaten her fill, she cleared her throat and pushed her chair away from the table.
“Are you finished, Miss Wittibrew?” he asked as she got up.
“Yes, Mr. Westeros, I believe I am. Thank you for the meal,” she offered, trying to bridge the gap between them.
There was a long pause as he considered her, and she felt utterly and completely on display. Quite suddenly, she could see herself as he saw her—tiny, a little girl ill-suited for any kind of rough life, sure to crack at the first sign of distress. It was true that she was not well-equipped for this type of lifestyle, but in her entire life, short as it was at that moment, Clara Wittibrew had never backed down from a challenge.
“I think it’s best if you call me Clara, Mr. Westeros. Since we are to be married, and all,” she told him, placing her hands on her hips. “And furthermore, I hope that you don’t think that the earlier incident with Betsy means that I will not be able to help you. I have my end of the bargain, and you have yours. I have extensive experience with children—” Here, she broke off as Kenneth Westeros got up and simply left the room. Her face flooded with heat and she could feel a note of anger rising through her chest. How dare he leave? How dare—
He returned bearing a piece of paper in his hands, and a small pot of ink with a quill.
“You know how to read and write, I presume, Clara,” he said, his voice an authoritative rumble, handing her the quill. “I obtained the marriage certificate about a week ago. Sign here.”
Unable to speak a word, she took the proffered writing utensil and did as she was told. When she was finished, he signed his own name. She sank back into her chair and he sat across from her again. For just a moment, the house around them was silent, and when he spoke again, Kenneth’s tone was as deep and impenetrable as his eyes.
“Now we are married, Clara. I have to warn you. Ranch life is tough, and yes, to me, you seem like someone who might be more in the way than helpful. But I trust that since you answered my ad, somewhere underneath all ‘yer fancy clothes, you’ve got a brave soul. Because you’re gonna need it.”
She almost did not trust herself to speak, and quite suddenly, her voice was coming out of her seemingly without her own will involved.
“Now that we’re married,” she spoke thickly, “Are we going to—I mean, do you expect—” and here she broke off, her own proper upbringing and sense of decency preventing her from speaking further.
He took another long look at her, and it seemed to be eons before he spoke again. There was something that was definitely amused about his expression, but when he spoke, his voice was entirely serious.
“As I told you before, the marriage is for the neighbors. I know I’m not from England—“ and here, he broke off into a smile that warmed his entire face—“But I do have some common decency, Clara. First of all, call me Kenneth. We’re married, after all. Second, I won’t have your reputation sullied by not giving you the proper position in my household. I expect nothing more from you than what I asked for in my ad—I need a lady to run my household, ‘specially now it’s spring and I’m needed more and more out in the field. I can promise you, Miss Clara, that I will never touch you without your permission—I’m no animal, after all—unless that be somethin’ you yourself desire.”
Clara’s heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it over the ticking of the clock, the only sound to permeate the room after Kenneth finished his speech. The rush of emotions that came over her in that moment was as confusing as it was heady—gratefulness for him not breaching her sense of propriety, anger at his underestimation, worry that she herself would not be able to live up to both sets of expectations, and above all, a sense of respect for this forthright man who was not afraid to speak her mind. She had met far too many people in her own life who spoke in couched terms and did not make themselves clear. She was English, gently brought up in a way, but she liked the no-nonsense attitude on Kenneth Westeros a great deal. Ignoring the funny prickle in her belly at his use of the word desire, Clara finally rose definitively from the table and walked to the kitchen door. Just before she exited the room, she turned to her husband of all of five minutes.
“Thank you, Kenneth. You can trust me not to let you down,” she said, and retired to her room.
* * *
Suddenly, the house seemed full.
Kenneth could not remember the last time when his home seemed so organized or full of life. Certainly, Sally had done her share, sweeping up and wiping down his boots when he got mud on them, but it was an entirely different feeling when he walked into the main room and found an Oriental rug on the floor. The changes had started out small—crystal beading on lampshades that suddenly cloaked whole rooms in whatever color the silk happened to be, good hearty wine to be had with roast chicken in the evenings. They seemed to migrate from Clara’s room out towards the whole house. He could not remember the last time when somebody had cared enough to make the living space just that—a place to live in.
Rather, actually, he could.
Barbara had never had a touch for the feminine, being a big, strapping woman herself, but she had added her own gentle touches to the home—soft pillows here and there, fresh field flowers in a simple vase on the kitchen table. As Kenneth considered the ring of embroidery featuring birds in flight on the seat cushion outside of Clara’s room, he wondered why his chest felt like it was tightening a little bit every time he noticed these things.
It was true, after several months, Miss Clara Wittibrew was beginning to grow on him. She was by no means, the ideal helpmate he had envisioned. While she was an early riser and had no trouble settling into the daily schedule of the house, she struggled to anticipate certain needs—when to order feed, how to tie off the bales of hay to keep them neat. Her tiny frame, unaccustomed to hard labor, struggled under pitchforks and heavy buckets. And mostly she struggled with the animals, despite her kind nature not knowing how to demonstrate a mastery over them that allowed her to bend them to her will, a skill necessary in order to live a farm life. The cows’ teats did not respond to her incessant pulling, the pigs often got out of the pen. Once, he even caught her sunning her face on an especially wide post of the horse’s fence, freckles spattering her upturned nose, drinking in sunshine.
It was especially pleasant to have someone to sit across from at the table. He spent the day with the animals, and for all their healthy coats, grunts, whickers, and other normal animal sounds, they could not make up for adult conversation. With Barbara, there had been the normal rugged routine, with some laughter and jokes, but Clara seemed to know a great deal about the world that he had never imagined. She spoke often about growing up at the orphanage, particularly when it was she who prepared a roast or other sumptuous meal for the two of them. Thing had been rather on the shabby end when she was growing up, he gathered, and slowly, inch by inch and week by week, he warmed to her, feeling the same way about her he had felt when he discovered a nest of foxlings near his chicken coop. He knew that without their mother, they would likely not survive in the harshness of the elements, but he could not help but want to protect them, anyway. He knew that Clara struggled, but was fond of the smile that greeted him at the end of his long, silent days. She still did not know, as Barbara did, to bring him cool water mixed with ginger out in the heat of the day or when a storm was coming, as was evidenced by the day he caught her draping sheets on a clothesline outside when he heard the rumble of thunder. But there was something about that small, curvaceous form and curls that would never stay tamed that endeared her to him.
Not that he would ever say that aloud. Although he had called for help, he had meant what he told her on her first night there. He had been teasing her about the desire part, wanting only to see her blush. As long as he could remember Barbara, he would never touch another woman.
* * *
Lord, the man was a mystery.
Her first post as governess had not been easy, but as surely as she had weathered those storms, she was sure she could handle tending to Kenneth Westeros’ house. It seemed, however, that no matter how hard she tried, nothing she did could please the man.
When he got home at the end of a long day, she would try and have dinner hot and prepared on the table. He would sit down silently as she prattled on about this and that, Edward and Sara and England, and in the end grumble that he could have made the dinner by himself. She tried to beautify the house, only to catch him standing staring at all the lovely rugs she had brought in as if they were an alien form of life that had taken up residence in his home.
Frankly, Clara was exhausted. Although she did find herself wondering why she cared so much if her husband appreciated what she did. Possibly it was the absence of their physical side of their marriage, which, grateful as she was for it, seemed to create a deep hole somewhere in her, the part of her that left her lingering near the animals, much as they seemed determined not to give milk or be fine for a brushing, just so she could feel their warmth beneath her small form. Possibly it was the fact that whenever she did manage to get a smile out of Kenneth, it made her feel a funny sort of stirring deep in her belly that was so strange she often found herself clamping a hand on her lower abdomen to staunch it. Or she would simply remind herself that it was men who were the lustful creatures, and not properly brought up ladies, and the odd shame she would feel would drown out everything else.
She had just finished wiping off the kitchen table and had a pot of hearty beef stew simmering when she realized sundown had come and gone and there was still no Kenneth, kicking his boots off at the door and sitting down to eat. A small bubble of panic rose in her throat; he might be many things, this mysterious husband of hers, but he was never late. Dinner was always promptly at eight.
Outside, the wind howled. Fat droplets of rain stained her apron as she stepped off the deck to head towards the barn. Perhaps he was there. Her hunch rang true as she walked into the spacious, dark area where the horses slept and saw Kenneth’s outline as he leaned his upper body on one of the stalls. There was a nervous energy about him, and he looked almost startled as she approached him, setting the lantern she had brought with her down on one of the wooden posts.
“You never came to dinner,” she said softly, touching him tentatively on the shoulder, as the mood seemed to call for it.
He turned towards her, and in the light, his face was gentler and at the same time more excited than she had ever seen it. His voice was quiet as he said, “Betsy’s going into labor.”
Clara was taken aback. She now understood the air of urgency he had about him, and she felt an excitement that matched his growing within her. Instinctively, she knew that the night ahead of them was long and difficult, and that her own ineptitude with the animals at that point was not going to stop her from participating in this event.
“I believe,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “That we need hot water and fresh cloths.”
* * *
The welcoming of a new animal onto a farm is often as momentous as the birth of a new baby. He remembered purchasing Betsy when she was just wild, and breaking her in, the first in a long successful line that was the foundation of the ranch. He could scarce believe that it was her time now.