Three
That evening they stopped at an inn where Trevor arranged for a bedroom, a small dressing room, and a private parlor for himself and his bride.
During dinner Caitlyn seemed extremely nervous. Her tenseness increased, though he tried to keep up a patter of conversation. She seemed to be trying gamely to match his efforts. He had asked for a bottle of champagne as well as a bottle of brandy to accompany their meal, and now urged a second glass of champagne on her as a toast to their future. She had downed the first glass like a desert nomad at an oasis. With a giggle, she raised her glass to his.
Trevor’s more intimate experiences with women had been with members of the demimonde, women far more experienced than he. Actually, there had been rather few of those encounters. He had never bedded a woman with whom he would be required to spend the following day. And he certainly had never taken a virgin to his bed before. He had some idea of the situation, but, in truth, he knew himself to be sadly limited in both knowledge and experience.
Moreover, his previous encounters had been with women he found distinctly more enticing than this shy little frump who was his wife. Still, she was not repulsive in any way, and he found his body responding to the mere idea of having sex. He moved over to the settee to sit next to her and slid his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened.
“Relax,” he said softly as he kissed her on the neck just beneath her ear.
She turned toward him slightly. “I . . . I . . . uh . . . you will have to teach me what to do,” she said shyly.
No man could resist such a request, Trevor thought, his chest fairly expanding in male pride. He touched his lips to hers, and she returned the pressure. He showered little kisses on her closed eyes, her nose, the base of her throat He returned his mouth to hers and flicked his tongue against her lips. Which remained firmly sealed.
“Open for me, Caitlyn,” he whispered, his hand caressing her breast.
She drew back. “My mouth? You want me to open my mouth? Whatever for?” It was sheer curiosity in her tone.
“I want to taste you. All of you,” he said in what he fancied to be a seductive whisper.
“Really? Well—all right.” Her tone was doubtful, but she settled back into his arms. The kiss was deep, exploring. At first she was passive, apparently absorbing the idea of such a kiss. Then, very tentatively, she began to explore on her own.
Trevor was amazed at his response to this. He pulled back and took a deep breath. “Oh, Lord,” he moaned softly.
“Did I not do it correctly?” she asked, worried.
“No . . . I mean, yes. You were fine,” he reassured her. He took a large gulp from his glass and handed hers to her.
“The bubbles tickle my nose.” She giggled again. “I never had champagne before. I like it.”
He grinned and gave her a light kiss, which she willingly—eagerly?—returned. “You go on and prepare for bed,” he whispered. “I shall join you when you are ready.”
As she retreated into the bedroom, he reached for the brandy bottle. Downing a quick glass, he savored the warmth of the alcohol—along with a sense of well-being—men removed his coat and his cravat. He cursed himself for having dismissed Robbins before he removed his boots, but finally managed to get them off.
He waited for her to call, but there was no sound from the other room. He sipped at another glass of brandy and waited some more, increasingly impatient. Finally, he went to the bedroom door and gently pushed it open. She sat on the edge of the bed staring blindly at the floor. She was dressed in a cotton nightrail more suitable to a schoolgirl than a bride. Strangely enough, he found her garb appealing.
“Caitlyn? Are you all right?”
“Y-yes.” She turned large questioning eyes toward him.
He sat beside her and put his arm around her. “It will be all right. I promise.”
“I-I’m sorry to be so henwitted. It is just that I . . .” She buried her face in her hands.
He gently pulled them away. “I know. Neither of us has been married before.” He stood, pulling her up with him. He kissed her, hugging her to him, aroused by the pressure of firm young breasts against his chest. He caressed her back and deepened the kiss. She put her arms around his neck and responded warmly.
Part of him knew he should be taking this much more slowly, but another part of him—a throbbingly eager part—wanted her now—right now. Still holding her with one arm, he reached over to toss back the covers on the bed and nudged her into it.
He quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothing and crawled in beside her, sliding his arm under her to pull her close. He groped for the edge of her nightrail and pushed it up, caressing her thigh as he did so.
“T-Trevor? What are you doing?”
“Ssh. It’s all right,” he whispered as he felt for the most intimate part of her body.
“I do not think so,” she said aloud, her doubt quite clear. She pushed at his hand and tried to pull the hem of her gown back down.
“You are my wife. And I want you,” he said. Oh, Lord, how he wanted this. He knew he could not wait much longer. “Relax, sweetheart. Let me in.”
“I do not understand. What is it you want me to do?”
He told her, and she did as he said, but she did so mechanically. The shy warmth she had shown earlier was gone, but he was beyond thinking of anything but his own desperate need.
“Ow!” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”
He put a hand over her mouth. “Be quiet. Do you want the whole inn in here?”
“No,” she whispered, “but that hurts.”
“It always does the first time,” he said, sounding at least to his own ears as though he knew what he was talking about. “It will get better.”
He tried to kiss away her fear. She lay quietly for a few moments.
“It is not getting better,” she announced. She pushed at him. “I want you to get off me.”
“I . . . I can’t,” he gasped as his body seemed to be acting independently of any conscious direction. She pummeled his back with her fists.
Finally, when he rolled off her body, she tossed the blanket aside and leaped from the bed.
“Oh, my heavens! There’s blood!” she cried. “You have injured me something dreadful.”
“Keep your voice down,” he said fiercely. “That is perfectly normal. Good God. Did that aunt of yours tell you nothing of the marriage bed? Can you truly be so ignorant?”
She sniffed, looking down at him. “Can you truly be so selfish and unfeeling?” She ran into the dressing room, and he heard water splashing.
He rose and put his trousers and shirt back on. He went to the other room to retrieve his boots. He had to get out of here. Take a walk. Or something.
He suspected he had not handled this well.
Caitlyn heard her husband moving around in the bedroom. She also heard the bedroom door and then the outer door open and close. Good riddance, she thought petulantly. Then she had a moment of panic. What if he drove off and just left her to fend for herself among strangers?
When she had determined that she was not going to bleed to death—that, in fact, there had been very little blood—Caitlyn calmed down enough to consider the situation rationally. So that was the big secret of the marriage bed. No wonder women hated it so.
Still, she had rather enjoyed the kissing and cuddling. She blushed to think how she had responded to Trevor’s kiss and pressed her own body so close to his. She had even felt the beginning of something wonderful when he touched her—there. But then suddenly he was in her and there was the pain—and, good grief, would this be a nightly occurrence for the rest of her life?
Perhaps not. She knew many married people had separate bedchambers. Surely they had some totally peaceful nights. In any event, what choice did she have? She knew very well that a wife was her husband’s property to do with as he wished. Discovering what gentlemen wished had been a revelation.
Perhaps there were compensations. She would have a home of her own. Eventually there would be children—not soon, though, she hoped. By the time she had cleaned herself and removed the soiled sheet from the bed, she had talked herself into a modicum of complacency about the whole matter. Surely he would come back. Would he not?
She had just settled herself back into bed when she heard the outer door open and close. There was some slight movement in the other room, the clink of glass, then—nothing. She waited. Still, nothing. She rose quietly and opened the door a crack. Trevor sat staring into the dying fire, a glass of brandy in his hand.
Well, if he wished to drink himself into a stupor, that was just fine with her. She flounced back to the bed.
Trevor spent what was left of the night on the uncomfortable settee. He woke in the morning with a stiff neck, a rotten taste in his mouth, and in a foul mood. The very thought of food made him feel queasy, so he sipped coffee and watched, faintly resentful, as his bride devoured a hearty breakfast.
“Are you sure you will not have something?” she asked yet again.
“No. No, thank you.” He took another sip of coffee and lowered the cup carefully. “Uh . . . Caitlyn?”
“Yes?”
“I want to apologize for last night. I . . . I am sorry it did not go well.”
“Well, I supposed it did not,” she said matter-of-factly, “but as I have no experience by which to judge . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blushed.
Trevor was not about to admit that his own experience was nearly as limited as hers. Instead he said lamely, “It will go better next time.”
“Oh?” She sounded rather doubtful. Then she shrugged and looked away. “All right.”
And that night it did go better.
They had traveled all day and arrived rather late to find the household understaffed and not fully prepared for them. However, the master’s bedchamber had been aired and a fire laid. A light supper was brought up, and Trevor deliberately exercised greater self-discipline on the wine this night.
He made a concerted effort to engage his wife in entertaining conversation, much of it involving childhood adventures he and Terrence had engaged in. For the first time since Terrence’s death, he was able to recall amusing incidents without choking up.
“It must be wonderful to grow up with brothers and sisters,” Caitlyn said longingly.
“Usually,” he agreed. “With Terrence and Melanie anyway. You have no brother or sister?”
“None that survived. There were four babies after me, but I remember only the last two. One of those—a baby boy—lived for only a week. The other was stillborn, and Mama died the next day. It was very sad. I was nine.”
“But you still had your father,” Trevor noted.
“Not really. Oh, he tried. Truly he did. But I think he simply could not go on without Mama. I am convinced that he died of a broken heart, not influenza.”
She told him of her father’s losing his parish and being sent as a curate in a poorer district. Trevor, who had never in his life had to deal firsthand with deprivation, was astonished at her simple acceptance of the reduced circumstances she had endured. When her father died, she had gone to live as the proverbial “poor relation” in her uncle’s household.
He expressed sympathy for her.
“Oh, you must not feel sorry for me,” she assured him. “I have not been trained to run a fine household, but I promise I can learn. I shall try to be a good wife to you.”
Was this what had occupied her mind most of the day? She had been remarkably quiet during the journey.
“I am sure it will work out fine,” he said with far more confidence than he felt.
She was apparently determined to start her “good wife” project that very evening. She made no demur at sharing his bed—and in the next few days she willingly let him “have his way with her.” However, despite the release he found in her body, he came away from their encounters with a vague feeling of disappointment.
Perhaps if he loved her, it would be different. But he knew he would never love her. He felt sorry for her and rather liked her, but, after all, she was not his type.
The day after their arrival at Atherton, Trevor planned to spend the morning examining the property with the steward, Mr. Felkins. After he left the breakfast table, Caitlyn asked the footman who had served them to send the housekeeper to her. It took some time, but eventually the woman, whom Caitlyn had met only briefly the night before, arrived.
The housekeeper was a very plump female of indeterminate years with iron gray hair and dark eyes. She wore a dark dress and had a ring of keys hanging conspicuously at her belt.
“You wanted me, Mrs. Jeffries?”
It was the first time Caitlyn had been addressed by her married name. She found herself inordinately pleased.
“Yes. It is Mrs. Bassett, is it not?” The woman nodded, eyed the new mistress, and then looked at nothing above Caitlyn’s head and waited. “I should like you to show me through the house. My husband tells me he, too, is unfamiliar with it.”
“Right now?” Mrs. Bassett’s tone was slightly challenging. “I was just finishing me breakfast.”
“Oh. Well, then . . . in—say—fifteen minutes?” Caitlyn tried to sound firm.
“Very well.” The woman turned to leave, the keys jangling as she waddled back to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, Caitlyn glanced again at the mantel clock. The door opened and Mrs. Bassett came in, wiping her mouth with her bare hand.
“Oh, there you are,” Caitlyn said brightly. “I should like to begin with the kitchen, if you please.”
The housekeeper shrugged. “Makes me no never-mind, but Perkins might not take too kindly to it.”
“Why?”
“She don’t like being interrupted when she’s baking, and Monday is her baking day.”
“I see.” Caitlyn considered this for a moment. “Well. She will have to tolerate it today, will she not?”
“If you say so.”
Even to Caitlyn’s unpracticed eye, the kitchen seemed to be run in a rather slipshod manner. True, the supper served the night before had been acceptable and this morning’s breakfast had been edible, if a bit spare in terms of variety. But she observed that pots piled in a tub to be washed seemed encrusted with long-dried food. Ashes from the hearth spilled over to the surrounding floor. Elsewhere there were dried splashes of Lord-knew-what on the slate slabs that made up the kitchen floor.
The cook, Perkins, started to growl at their entrance, but on being introduced to the new mistress, merely scowled instead. Caitlyn surmised the woman had worn the same apron for a week.
“Where does that door lead?” Caitlyn asked, pointing to one of the four besides the one through which she had just entered.
“That one goes to Cook’s quarters,” Bassett said. “They are private quarters, of course.” Again there seemed a slight challenge in her tone.
“Of course,” Caitlyn agreed with a glance at the still scowling Perkins.
“That one is the pantry. Silver is stored there. And that one”—Bassett pointed at each—“goes down to the cellar. The other opens to the back garden and out to the stables.”
“I shall see the pantry and the cellar,” Caitlyn said firmly.
The housekeeper made a production of unlocking each of the doors. Caitlyn knew when she saw it that the disordered mess of the pantry should not be surprising after the slovenly care of the kitchen, but it was. The cellar was filthy and smelled of stale wine and rodent droppings.
“Good heavens. When was this cellar cleaned last?”
“All cellars gather dust, miss—uh, ma’am.” The housekeeper sounded both condescending and defensive.
Caitlyn said nothing, but vowed that this cellar would have a thorough cleaning in the very near future. Before she gave such an order, though, she wanted to see more of her new home.
By the time she had been through the rest of the house—and it took the whole morning, with the housekeeper ostentatiously rattling keys as she unlocked and relocked each door—Caitlyn was overwhelmed by what it would take to set it to rights. Even the master suite, which last night had seemed passable, was in dire need of a thorough cleaning.
A thick coating of dust rested on furniture in rarely used rooms, and one could see exactly which corridors were used most by the trails through dust in halls and on stairs.
Mrs. Bassett became more quietly defensive in her attitude as the inspection progressed. “As you can see, ma’am, we have not enough help for this big house.”
“Hmm,” was Caitlyn’s noncommittal response.
“There has not been a proper mistress here since Lady Bennington passed on—more than three years gone now. She was ill a long, long time before that, you see.”
Caitlyn was of the opinion that there had not been a proper housekeeper in all that time, either, but she kept this thought to herself. No sense in alienating members of the staff just yet.
“Where are the household ledgers?” she asked when the tour was finished.
“I . . . uh . . . they are in my quarters.” Bassett sounded a bit hesitant, but her voice was more firm as she added, “I take care of the books.”
Caitlyn was suddenly aware of her extreme youth. And she knew the fact that she appeared even younger than she was often misled others into underestimating her. She suspected that was the case with the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Bassett.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You will bring those ledgers to me in the library after lunch. You will also see that I have a set of those keys with each of them properly labeled.”
“Well, now. That might take some time, Mrs. Jeffries.”
Caitlyn merely raised an eyebrow at the slighting intonation the other woman put on her name. “After our luncheon,” she said firmly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That evening Caitlyn shared her concerns about the state of the household with Trevor.
“Somehow your report does not surprise me,” he told her, “for, indeed, the whole place is in need of attention.”
“This is such a lovely area.” Caitlyn’s voice was almost plaintive.
“Aye. It is. East Anglia is said to have some of the most productive land in all of England. But this place has been let go to ruin. It will take a better man than I to put it to rights. And a lot more money than I have.”
“You think it hopeless, then?”
“That I do. Everywhere one looks there is something in need of repair or attention. I am sure Marcus was mistaken in saying Atherton could ever become a profitable endeavor as it now stands.”
“So what are we to do?”
“Muddle through, I suppose. Or find some funding to begin to set things aright.”
She thought he sounded totally overwhelmed.