The Wagered Wife (8 page)

“And you are thinking
you
will provide necessary leadership?” Aunt Gertrude's tone held more curiosity than challenge.

“Well—with your errant nephew off to the Peninsula, there seems no one else to do it.”

“That would be a huge undertaking, my dear.”

“I know. But I rather think I would enjoy the challenge.”

“I fear it would be much more. You have two major obstacles to overcome—perhaps insurmountable obstacles.”

“What?”

“Your sex and your youth. Not to mention inexperience there, too. The men you would have to work with—both here and elsewhere—would never welcome a woman in their midst—and certainly not one who looks like a mere girl.”

“That is why I must continue to rely on Mr. Felkins. He shall convey my orders and conduct any negotiations. We will thus endeavor to protect delicate male sensibilities.”

Lady Gertrude laughed. “Ah, Caitlyn, my love. You remind me of myself thirty years ago.”

“I consider that a compliment of the highest order indeed, my lady.”

“Back to the issue at hand. What is to be done about your Mrs. Bassett?”

“She will have to go,” Caitlyn said without hesitation. “I could deal with incompetence, but not dishonesty.”

“That would be my view, too. Would you like me to inform her?”

“No. I thank you for offering. I know all the staff respect you greatly, but I think this is something I must do.”

“I agree.” The older woman's tone was admiring.

The subsequent interview with Mrs. Bassett was as unpleasant as Caitlyn had feared. Confronted with evidence of her pilfering and altering the accounts, the surly housekeeper had little to offer in her own defense. She left Atherton muttering, “You'll be sorry about this.”

Caitlyn knew she was in for another round of backbiting gossip, for Mrs. Bassett remained in the area, having gone to stay with her daughter in the village. It was common knowledge that the daughter—and, more particularly, the daughter's husband—did not welcome the woman with open arms.

The housekeeper's dismissal worked wonders with the remaining staff. Even the irascible cook became more tractable. So long as there were only Caitlyn and Lady Gertrude to provide for, the household would run smoothly without additional servants.

Her interview with Mr. Felkins in which she laid out some of her ideas for the estate went much more smoothly than the one with the housekeeper. Mr. Felkins proved to be every bit as amiable and helpful as Caitlyn had hoped. In his forties, Felkins was short and rotund. He reminded Caitlyn of pictures of a penguin. He had thinning dark hair and a double chin, but his brown eyes showed warmth and humor. Once he understood a given idea, he was able to come up with practical suggestions to implement it.

“Our biggest problem is lack of funds to make major changes,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am,” Felkins replied. “We are shorthanded because of the war. So many men gone for soldiers. Also, Boney's embargo of English goods has been disastrous for the wool trade.”

“Do
all
our tenant farmers devote themselves exclusively to raising sheep?”

“Mostly. Some gardens, but generally for their own use. Some of the women sell some extra vegetables and eggs in the village.”

“Would these families be amenable to making some changes?”

“Guess that would depend on what was in it for them.” Felkins sounded hesitant.

“I want a meeting with all the tenant farmers—
and
their wives. Can you arrange it for, say, three days from now? We shall use the ballroom on the first floor. It is shabby, but freshly cleaned.”

“Yes, ma‘am. What shall I tell 'em it's about?”

“The future of Atherton.”

Three days later, she welcomed an assortment of farmers and their wives, who had apparently decked themselves out in such finery as was available to them. The ballroom was set up with a buffet table of refreshments. Caitlyn had learned from her father's dealings with parishioners that people were more receptive to new ideas if they were plied with food and drink. Still, these were conservative farm people, suspicious of change. Moreover, most of them were ten, twenty, or even thirty years older than she. Caitlyn knew them all by name, for she had made a point of learning as much as she could about them in the last few weeks. She recognized curiosity in many, and apprehension on the faces of some.

“This isn't about an increase in the rents, is it, missus?” one grizzled old fellow asked, his voice showing a conflict between assertiveness and deference. He was obviously one whom others looked to as a leader.

“No, Mr. Hawkins, it is not.” She heard a collective sigh, especially from the women. She took a seat at a table that had been set in the front of the room. Mr. Felkins also sat at the table, and Aunt Gertrude occupied a chair unobtrusively in the back row. Caitlyn was grateful for her moral support. “It is about making Atherton more profitable. And since you folks
are
Atherton, Mr. Felkins and I thought to get your views.”

There were some general murmurs of approval at this.

“Let's hear what the gel has in mind,” an older woman called out.

“Thank you, Mrs. Porter.” Caitlyn waited for attention and went on, “Mr. Felkins and I are agreed that we seem far too dependent on one thing—sheep. Perhaps if we were to diversify—that is, include other activities as well—we could weather setbacks more easily.”

She paused to let this sink in.

“Makes sense to me,” someone said.

“Other activities? Such as
what?
” someone else asked.

“That is the matter we are here to explore,” she said. That was another thing she had learned as a child at parish meetings: let people come up with ideas of their own—or at least
think
they were their own. “We are sitting on some of the richest land in all of England. Surely we can come up with some ideas in addition to our sheep—and perhaps not be so dependent on foreign markets.”

And indeed they did come up with ideas. A variety of crops were suggested, and aspects of dairy farming came under discussion. Enthusiasm spread as they began to entertain the idea that, by working together and sharing, they could not only make Atherton entirely self-sufficient, but turn a profit as well. Finally, Caitlyn offered her own idea, carefully couching it as a question to these older—and, of course, wiser—men.

“Horses?” It was more of a snort than a question from Hawkins. “You want to raise horses?”

“It . . . it was just a thought.” She pretended hesitance. “I mean . . . we are so close to Newmarket . . . and there are other stud farms here in East Anglia . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off.

“Might could be a good idea,” someone said.

“Why not?” another asked.

“Because gettin' started takes a bloody damned lot of the ready,” another man replied, then turned bright red and added, “Beggin' your pardon, ladies.”

Caitlyn ignored his unseemly language. “I suppose you are right, Mr. Watson. Still—it gives us something to think about. However,” she said to the room at large, “Mr. Watson does bring up a serious issue, and that is capital—the ‘ready,' if you will—to get started. Mr. Felkins will tell you about that.”

Actually, it had been Caitlyn's plan, but she wanted the men in the room to think that most of the idea came from another man, one of their own. Time enough to tell them differently when it succeeded—or failed. But she could not think of failure. The very idea was terrifying, and if she thought about it, she might do nothing. “Nothing” was equally terrifying.

From that day forward, Atherton—and, later, baby Ashley—became the center of her life. Now, with Trevor's return, everything had gone topsy-turvy. Had she made a serious error in focusing her whole being in such a manner?

Trevor was angry. Well—annoyed, anyway. He had called twice at the London house his wife rented, but she had been “out” both times. At least that was what that infernal butler told him. Moreover, Aunt Gertrude was unavailable both times as well.

He descended the steps the second time in a thoughtful mood. Were
both
of them trying to avoid him? He could perhaps understand Caitlyn's desire to do so. But Aunt Gertrude? Such behavior did not seem at all in character for her. Should he wait around, hoping one or both of them would return shortly?

While the house did not boast an address in the most elite neighborhood, it was located in a very respectable residential area. Houses here all faced a small park with a high iron fence around it. The park was obviously for the exclusive use of the surrounding houses, for it was accessible only through a locked gate. Trevor could see benches scattered here and there, a sand pile, and what appeared to be a small shallow pool in which some little boys were eagerly sailing toy boats.

He smiled to himself, recalling fond memories of doing the same thing with Terrence. And Melanie usually on the sidelines, cheering them on in impromptu races. At this thought, his attention was caught by a little girl with golden blond curls enviously watching the little boys and their boats. Someone apparently called her name, for the little girl turned, answered, and with seeming reluctance left the pond. As she turned, she faced him fully, and Trevor thought again of the young Melanie of yesteryear.

Melanie.

His mother had told him Melanie would return to England soon. How he looked forward to seeing her!

He wandered slowly around the outside of the park twice, but in that time only one carriage entered the area and those who were afoot were mostly nursery maids out taking the air with their charges. When he had encountered the same middle-aged maid twice and she cast him a suspicious glance, he decided to leave.

That night he and Theo sat sipping port in the lounge of the gentlemen's club where they had just had dinner. Trevor had finally told Theo of seeing his wife and of his attempts to call on her.

“Do you think she deliberately avoids you, then?” Theo asked.

“Possibly.”

“I suppose you could disguise yourself as a highwayman and waylay her carriage some evening.” Theo grinned.

“Do be serious.”

“Well . . . hmm. Maybe she goes to the assemblies at Almack's.”

“I . . . uh . . . I doubt it. The patronesses are said to be high sticklers. My mother informs me that Caitlyn is received, but not among the highest
ton
.”

“Oh.” Theo seemed embarrassed at having mentioned it, then added, “You know, we both have invitations to the Bathmoreson ball. I hear the marchioness fancies herself outdoing the prince himself—she has invited everyone with even the slightest claim to society's recognition.”

“I should much prefer seeing my estranged wife privately.”

“But if she will not see you . . . ?”

“You are right. It is an idea. She could hardly make a scene in such a public arena.”

Just then their attention was diverted by a rather loud discussion nearby. The chairs in the lounge—big, overstuffed, comfortable pieces of furniture—were arranged in conversational groups. In one group there were three young men whose talk was louder than it should be. They seemed to revel in the attention they were drawing, unaware that it was censorious.

“Lord! Were
we
ever so young and stupid?” Theo asked softly.

Trevor nodded. “Yesterday.”

“Must have been the day before yesterday. Yesterday was the Peninsula.”

“Right.” They were both quiet for a moment, remembering.

“What are they talking about anyway?” Theo asked.

“Horses.”

“Reminds me. I still want you to look over a purchase I am considering.”

Before Trevor could respond, two other young men in high spirits joined those in the neighboring chairs.

“Atkins!” one of the newcomers called. “Did you buy that pair Severson was selling?”

“I surely did.” Atkins's voice had a note of smug triumph.

“Good show.” the newcomer replied.

“Wish I could have bid on those,” the other newcomer said.

“You do?” someone else asked.

“Yes. Severson got 'em from the Jeffries farms.”

Hearing his own surname, Trevor suddenly took real interest in the neighboring conversation.

“No, he didn't,” another said. “Those animals came from the Ratcliff stables.”

“Oh.” The voice sounded deflated, and their talk turned to some pugilistic contest. Suddenly there were as many experts on the art of boxing as there had been on horses a few moments before.

“Jeffries farms?” Trevor asked. “You ever hear of them?”

“No,” Theo said, “I have not. Your brother? A cousin maybe?”

“Could be, I suppose. Marcus has quite an eye for horseflesh. Might be Cousin Algernon. The whole Jeffries clan is enamored of our equine friends.” Trevor shrugged and dismissed the idea from his mind.

 

 

Caitlyn dressed for the Bathmoreson ball with special care. The gown, teal-colored silk with silver trim, made her eyes seem darker. Her up-to-date hair style set off the clean lines of her face and neck. Her only jewelry, besides her wedding band worn under her glove, was a simple diamond necklace and diamond drops at her ears.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Aunt Gertrude said as the two of them donned cloaks to set off for the ball.

“This neckline is not too
décolleté,
then?”

“No. One sees much more daring lines on even women my age, I am sure.”

Caitlyn fidgeted nervously. “It is just that I am sure the countess will be there tonight and I do not want her to have anything in me to criticize.” There was no need to explain to Aunt Gertrude precisely which countess Caitlyn had in mind.

“Lydia would find
something
to criticize if you appeared in a costume identical to the queen's. But no one else will do aught but admire you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Gertrude.” Caitlyn kissed the older woman's cheek. “What would I ever have done without you?” It was a sincere tribute.

Aunt Gertrude's eyes looked suspiciously watery at this. “We are quite a team, you and I. Now, come. Let us prepare to meet the
ton
in their own arena.”

Caitlyn and Aunt Gertrude had been coming to town for the season for three years now. Caitlyn knew Aunt Gertrude had missed her sojourns in town before that. True, Aunt Gertrude loved their life in the country, where she was very active in helping to run the now expanded household. A few months after joining Caitlyn in East Anglia, Aunt Gertrude had given up her own house in London and brought her housekeeper and two maids to Atherton. Her other servants had chosen to find new positions in the city.

However, Aunt Gertrude had never given up her love of town—nor her interest in various “projects.” Caitlyn thought coming to the city for a few weeks of the year was little enough she could do for this wonderful woman who had done so much for her. Therefore, she willingly indulged Aunt Gertrude in this. They lived modestly—and happily—on the fringes of society. Tonight marked their first real venture into the heart of the
ton.
Thank goodness, it was a huge affair—where one might become lost in the crowd.

“Caitlyn.” Aunt Gertrude broke into her musings as the carriage made its slow way to the entrance of the Bathmoreson mansion. “Caitlyn, I had not wanted to bring this up, but I feel I should.”

“What? What is it?” Caitlyn reacted to the concern in her companion's voice.

“Well, you know Trevor has called two—or is it three?—times. And we have been out.”

“Yes. And of course I shall not again endeavor to avoid him. It was foolish to do so, and I do regret it.”

“Your chance to live up to that intention may come sooner than later.”

“Tonight? Here? Oh, surely not.” She could not control a note of apprehension.

“
Probably
not. Trevor was never fond of such affairs before. But I thought you should be prepared for the possibility.”

“Thank you. It really had not entered my mind.”

And now that it had, how did she feel about it? Well—she mentally squared her shoulders—why should she fear a meeting? After all, is was not
she
who had run off to the Peninsula, shirking all responsibilities at home. Then their carriage was at the entrance and a footman was available to hand them down.

Caitlyn felt a frisson of trepidation as she went through the receiving line, but the marquis and his wife were both cordial and hospitable. Soon she and Aunt Gertrude passed into the ballroom, which contained an overwhelming number of elegantly dressed men and women. She saw the countess of Wyndham go into one of the card rooms. Although Aunt Gertrude had pointed the countess out to Caitlyn on more than one occasion, she had never formally met her mother-in-law. Nor did she expect the woman to acknowledge her tonight.

Viscount Latham had apparently been waiting for her arrival. “Ah, Caitlyn, dear Caitlyn.” He ostentatiously kissed the air above her gloved hand and bowed to Her Ladyship. “Lady Gertrude.”

The two women murmured polite greetings to him.

“You must allow me to stand up with you, Caitlyn.” Latham extended his hand for her dance card. “I must have this country dance,” he said, scribbling his name, “and this waltz which is the supper dance. All right, my dear?”

“No,” she said sharply, all but grabbing the card away from him. “It is not all right. Bertie, you know very well two dances would draw undue attention. You may have the country dance.”

“I have no fear of undue attention where you are concerned, dear Caitlyn.” He looked slightly fatuous, she thought.

“Well,
I
have,” she snapped.

“As you will, my dear,” he huffed, and then excused himself.

“Insufferable puppy,” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Oh, he means well.” Caitlyn sighed.

Her dance card was by no means filled, but neither was she the most ignored of wallflowers. She danced with a young man who belonged to the literary society and with a middle-aged and well-married friend of Aunt Gertrude's, before Bertie came to claim his dance.

“Hmmph,” he sniffed. “You may as well have allowed me that second dance.”

“Oh, Bertie, do behave.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

It was one of those country dances that allowed a couple to alternately dance vigorously and then pause while others swung down the line. During one of their pauses, Bertie looked over Caitlyn's shoulder and said, “Don't look now, but some newcomers just entered. I do believe one of them is Jeffries.”

Sheer panic drained the blood from her face. She caught her breath and gripped Bertie's hand far more tightly than she intended.

“Caitlyn? Are you all right?” Bertie asked.

“Yes. Yes . . . I am fine.” But she knew she was not fine, even as she allowed him to swing her into the remaining steps of the dance.

When Bertie returned her to Aunt Gertrude's company, there was Trevor, talking with his aunt just as though this were not a momentous occasion in their lives. How dare he be so calm, so relaxed?

“I shall stand by you, my dear,” Bertie said softly, sounding melodramatic again and keeping his hand on her elbow possessively.

Aware that their little tableau was attracting the attention of bystanders, Caitlyn deliberately forced a smile and greeted her long-absent husband with a great show of cordiality.

“Hello, Trevor.” To her surprise, her voice did not tremble.

“Caitlyn.” His eyes locked with hers, but she found his expression unreadable. Then he gave a little bow. “Uh . . . Latham, is it not? You will not think it amiss, I am sure, if I take my wife off your hands for the next dance?”

It was an order rather than a request, and Caitlyn was sure Bertie recognized it as such. There was a fraction of a moment when it seemed Bertie might protest. Trevor's expression was pleasant enough, but his eyes and voice held a hint of controlled power and determination. Caitlyn glanced at Aunt Gertrude and knew the other woman shared her fear of a scene. Caitlyn moved closer to her husband and took the arm he offered.

Latham nodded and said to Caitlyn, “I shall call upon you on the morrow.” He left them, his head at a haughty angle.

The instant she touched him, Caitlyn felt a distinctly physical reaction to Trevor. None of the men she had known in the last few years had affected her so. Bertie, with whom she had thought herself in love at sixteen, had never elicited such a response. She recalled feeling a warm sense of welcome for the younger Trevor, but not this violent bolt of emotion.

And, oh, good heavens! The music was a waltz. She would be in his arms in a moment. Then she was in his arms, and intensely aware of every point at which their bodies connected—his hand at her waist, hers at his shoulder, and their other hands loosely clasped. She could feel her heart beating and her pulse pounding.

She caught a whiff of a faintly spicy smell about him—

clean and crisp, totally unlike the overwhelming and cloying cologne of her previous partner. She wanted to lean in closer. Was it spice or sandalwood? Then she came to her senses. Good heavens. What could it possibly matter?

She could not bring herself to look at him directly. Despite her reaction to him, Caitlyn was angry. Angry at him for high-handedly maneuvering her into this dance. Angry at herself for allowing it—for being helpless to refuse it in this public forum. She hated feeling trapped.