Page 28 of The Lady's Companion
“And then he took the king’s shilling and went to war?”
“It would appeal to a Welshman,” Mrs. Skerlong said. “When you’re done polishing, there’s plenty of nice warm water on the Rumford for rinsing.”
When the last piece of silverware was polished, washed, and returned to its felt-lined case, Susan sat down with Mrs. Skerlong for a bowl of mutton stew and brown bread good enough to exclaim over.
“On Thursday nights, I just leave the pot on the hob and everyone helps himself,” she said as they pushed away from the table. “Cora always seems to find the longest way home, usually dragging a tenor behind her.”
Susan went to the sink to help with dishes. “I should want a shortcut, on these cold winter nights!”
“Well, then, you’re not in love, are you now?” The housekeepersaid as she handed Susan a bowl to dry.
No, I am not, Susan thought, and felt a momentary pang for Cora and her singer. I think I would like to be, however. It was a pleasant notion, and one that nourished her through another slice of bread and cup of tea. She listened to the clock tick and the cat purr, and felt content. Last week I was stewing and fretting at Aunt Louisa’s, Susan reflected as she picked up her book and Mr. Wiggins’s package. Now I am happy enough to polish silver and eat in a kitchen. I am thinking that good breeding may be just veneer among the Hamptons. Aunt Louisa would be flabbergasted. Susan nodded to the housekeeper, who was preparing Lady Bushnell’s dinner tray, and went upstairs.
There was another dress on her bed, this one a dusty rose, soft from much wear. She sniffed the fabric, breathing in the faint fragrance of cloves. “Packed away in cloves and tissue,” she murmured, holding the dress up to her and admiring it in the mirror. “Lady Elizabeth, your taste was impeccable.”
Susan sat on the bed, running her hand lightly over the material, thinking of ladies and officers, battle and bivouac. Such a strange life for a lady, to follow the drum. I wonder if could ever love someone enough to give up comfort and ease, to ride a horse, sleep in tents, and abandon my privacy, she asked herself. I think I do not know much about love. She thought of Elizabeth following her father through all of Spain and Portugal, and realized with pain that she would not follow Sir Rodney Hampton across the street. “Why ever should I?” she said suddenly, her words a rebuke in the quiet room. She covered her mouth and looked around; she hadn’t meant to be so loud.
Lady Bushnell had also left scissors, needle, and thread on the bed, so Susan removed her dress, put on one of her own simple frocks, and cut the buttons off the dress she had been wearing. “Lady Elizabeth, you had a neater figure than mine,” she said, as she realigned the buttons to allow herself more room.
Evening came quickly, and she lit a lamp to complete the work, humming to herself and looking out at the snow. It was melting now, exposing dark patches of earth. She willed spring to come even as she sighed and watched clouds weighed down with snow boil up again from the northwest. She snipped the thread tail of the button and leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the road from Quilling. The room was warm and her eyes closed.
“Susan? Susan?”
She opened her eyes slowly, reluctant to surrender her peace, to see someone of familiar height and bulk standing in the open doorway. It was full dark outside, and the coals in the hearth had settled into a compact glow. She sat up and turned the lamp higher. “Someone wants me? Lady Bushnell?’’ she asked him.
“No. Just me,” the bailiff said, apology at disturbing her evident in his voice. “I knocked, but you were sunk pretty deep.” His eyes went to the rose wool dress on the bed. “I remember that dress.”
Susan indicated the other chair in the room. Leaving the door open, he crossed to the hearth, squatted down to add some more coal, then sat in the chair.
“Was she pretty?” Susan asked, looking at the dress, too.
He rested casually in the chair, his boots propped on the fireplace fender, making himself entirely at home, to her amusement. “Oh, something like,” he said, his voice warm now with reminiscence. “Her hair wasn’t as dark as yours, and her eyes were green like her mother’s. She was a bit of a flirt, with a quick temper.” He folded his hands across his stomach, more completely relaxed than Susan had seen him yet. He looked at her. “You’d probably have found her an ignorant puss—Lady Bushnell could never interest her in books or theorems—but she knew tactics and strategy as well as the rest of us, and much better than the little lordlings with purchased commissions.”
I believe I could listen to a Welshman all day, Susan thought,making herself more comfortable. I love the way his voice lifts like a question at the end of his sentences. “Would I have liked her?” she asked, wanting him to speak.
He considered the question a moment. “I doubt it,” he said honestly. “She was an imperious baggage, quite proud of her horsemanship and her command over the men of the regiment.” He sighed and looked at the fire again.
“Were you in love with her?”
He chuckled, but did not look at her. “We all were,” he said softly. “It wasn’t so much that she was pretty—offhand, I think you’re more attractive than she was—but she wasthere.” He spread his hands palms up in his lap, his eyes still on the fire. “You can’t have any conception how nice it was to just pass by Lady Elizabeth on the quick march and smell her. By God, we stunk the length and breadth of Spain, but she always smelled so sweet.” He reached behind him and fingered the dress on the bed. “Of cloves.”
Do you think me attractive? she thought. Too bad one of my own kind never did. “How sad that she died,” Susan murmured.
“Yes. Did you know, she was just newly engaged to one of the officers of the regiment?” the bailiff commented, taking his booted feet off the fender and sitting up straighter.
“How tragic!”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, not really. Her fiance died at Waterloo.” He looked at her then. “She would have been a widow like her mother and sister-in-law. My God, there is a whole generation of young widows. Can I tell you how much I hate war?”
His words hung in the air, and she could think of nothing to say. After a moment, she picked up the blue dress again and sewed on another button while the bailiff returned his gaze to the flames. She watched his profile, dark and intent, his shoulders tense, and half rose from her chair, her hand extendedto touch him.
Reason prevailed; she put down her hand. But the bailiff had turned slightly when she rose, so she could not sit down like an idiot, with no explanation of her sudden movement. She remembered the package on the bureau and crossed in front of him, her skirts brushing his legs. She handed it to him. “Forgive my manners. Did you come for this package? I don’t know why I didn’t just leave it on the kitchen table.”
He looked at her in surprise, as if wondering why he had come at all. “Why, yes, I did,” he said smoothly, then laughed. “What a bumbler I am!” He opened the package and pulled out two letters. “One to you and one to me.”
‘To me?” she asked, accepting the folded sheet with her name clearly written on it.
He nodded and then laughed again, less self-consciously, as he pulled a glove from the package. “And a present from our friend Joel Steinman.”
