Page 63 of The Lady's Companion
I suppose I share that honor with sheep, she thought with a smile, and a late night’s work. She stood up and stretched. But he will not be looking for sheep when he wakes up, she considered, flexing her fingers over her head. I think I will find some warm water. I wonder if Lady Bushnell will mind terribly if I am late to piano practice this morning?
Chapter Eighteen
Lady Bushnell did not seem to mind that Susan missed piano practice entirely that morning when she rushed in, breathless, to apologize, and dashed out again. Likewise, Mrs. Skerlong wisely made no comment at Susan’s tiptoed trips to the Rumford for warm water. She merely looked up from her knitting and managed a long, slow wink that set Susan giggling like a schoolroom miss. On Susan’s last trip to the kitchen before noon, the housekeeper went so far as to suggest to her that tomorrow would be a fine day to wash sheets, if she wished to bring hers down. When Susan blushed and nodded, she offered some whispered advice on how to deal with sheets in future that seemed practical. Susan went back upstairs thoughtfully, serene in the confederacy of women.
With some reluctance, the bailiff left for the sheepfold after luncheon. She decided it would be easier to send him on his way sooner if she could quickly break him of the habit of pulling her up close in such a tight embrace and keeping her there until she started to feel peevish, and put her hands places Professor Fowler would have gasped over. It’s your fault this time, she thought as she contemplated another trip downstairs and resolved to get a larger water can for their room. David surprised her by going for water himself, and coming back, his face red.
“Mrs. Skerlong has a way of looking at me,” he complained. He smiled to himself as he squeezed out the cloth and tossed it to her. “Wash yourself this time. That may be part of my problem.”
And so it was later in the afternoon before she sidled into Lady Bushnell’s room and seated herself to continue her enlargement of the letters. She wrote in silence, deeply aware of Lady Bushnell’s eyes on her as the widow rested in her chair close by.When she finally looked up, their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.
“Mrs. Wiggins, I take it that no one had to remove any hinges this morning?” the widow said as she dabbed at her eyes.
“Not even one, Lady Bushnell,” Susan said. She reached out impulsively and touched the woman’s face. “You were quite right about David.”
“I thought so.” Lady Bushnell returned her gaze to the window, then motioned Susan over. “My far vision is better, Susan, but I wonder, is that your bailiff on the near slope?”
Susan stood behind the widow’s chair. “Yes,” she said. Lady Bushnell, I could spot him two counties over, I know I could, she thought. She felt peevish again, and restless, even though he was some distance away. “Oh, and look, I think he is going to direct the plowing.”
The widow watched, her lips twitching with amusement. “A busy man is our bailiff. He plows all morningandall afternoon!” They laughed together, Susan’s hand on Lady Bushnell’s shoulder.
“I think it is the Waterloo wheat, my lady,” she said, her voice soft. “I think he is going to plant it where you can see it from your window.” I did not think it was possible to love you any more, my dear bailiff, she thought, but I do now. “He’s going to share it with us.”
“He is also going to take us to Belgium this summer,” Lady Bushnell said briskly. “Help me up, Susan.”
She did, knowing she should say something about Lady Bushnell’s dreams, but was unable to comment beyond, “Oh, Lady Bushnell,” which only earned her a sour look.
Lady Bushnell directed her to the bureau, where she leaned against her and rummaged in the top drawer. “Susan, there is another, older packet of letters there. To the left under those handkerchiefs, I think. Ah, yes. Take them out. You cantranscribe them later. And beside them, that little box. Help me to bed now.”
Susan did as she was asked, shocked but silent at the pain on Lady Bushnell’s face from so little exertion, and the way her hands trembled as she guided her carefully to the bed. She helped her into bed, cringing almost at the tremendous effort Lady Bushnell made to stop her trembling, and then chagrined at the disgust on the widow’s face at her own weakness. She held up her shaking hands to Susan, staring at them as though they were not her own.
“Susan, I have wrestled with army horses and sawed on more reins than your bailiff ever will, and look how they tremble now! I despise old age.”
She closed her eyes in exhaustion, and Susan hurried back to the bureau for the doctor’s powders. Lady Bushnell offered no objection this time as Susan raised her head so she could drink the potion. She lay silent, visibly gathering her strength about her at Susan knelt by the bed and leaned her cheek on the woman’s hand.
She moved her hand finally, and patted Susan, her touch, in its own way, as gentle as the bailiff’s. “There, pet, did I worry you?”
Susan nodded, deeply moved at the endearment. She put her forehead against the coverlet for a moment, overwhelmed at the love she felt for Lady Bushnell, too. I wonder if it is possible to die from as much love as I have had this day, she thought. I sincerely hope not.
She opened her eyes on the velvet box by Lady Bushnell’s hand. Around the clasp, the nap of the green fabric was worn with much opening and closing. She rested her elbows on the bed and picked up the slender box, looking at Lady Bushnell with a question in her eyes.
“Open it, my dear. I think your bailiff has one of these, too.”
Susan did as she was bid, and looked upon a circle of silverelegant in its austerity, with the profile of the Regent. She pushed the token around with her finger, turning it over to see seated Victory, the single word Waterloo, and the date.
“It is a Waterloo medal, Susan, given to all participants, officers and men alike,” said the widow, her eyes still faded from heart pain, but less so than only a moment ago.
“Whose is this?” she asked, fingering the dark red ribbon the color of blood, edged in blue.
“This is Charles’s medal,” she said softly. “His widow was in Ireland, visiting her grandparents’ estate, when it was sent to Bushnell, and then forwarded to me here by mistake. I should have returned it, of course, but I did not.” She took the medal from its case and held it close to her eyes. “I like to look at it, but, Susan, I also wonder if Charles deserves it.”
Susan felt the familiar chill. She rose from her knees and sat beside Lady Bushnell. “Perhaps you could return it now to your daughter-in-law?”
“I could,” she agreed. “Mostly I want to go to Belgium, look the bailiff in the eye, and finally get the truth from him about that day at Waterloo. I do not believe he is telling me everything.”
“I’ve told her all I’m ever going to tell anyone about Charlie and Waterloo,” the bailiff commented that evening as he weighed out the Waterloo wheat in the succession house and she sat at his drafting table, watching him.
“Are you being fair?” she asked, soaking in the beauty of his face. “She is used to honest dealing, and didn’t you promise her you would never lie again?”
