Page 55 of Weave me a Rope
Spen put his arm around her and pulled her close to drop a kiss on her forehead. “Lady Spenhurst is kind,” he observed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ayleswood Court, Herefordshire, early February 1803
Ayleswood Court inHerefordshire was a pretty Jacobean house extended in the previous century with two wings forming a U shape. The wings stretched back from the original house, so the building was wrapped around a formal garden laid out in terraces, a central fountain, paths, , and beds that slept in the cold, huddled under a blanket of straw.
Cordelia spent days exploring the house, usually in Spen’s company. The garden, too, when the weather allowed. It was wonderful to stay in one place and to know it was now her home. At least until the time, hopefully far in the future, when she had to take on the intimidating pile that was Deercroft.
She enjoyed the nights, too. She and Spen had shared a bedroom every night since they were wed, but they had been either traveling or buried in a whirlwind as they tried to meet all the tenants at each stop and every neighbor of note, as well as comparing the estate’s records with what they could see before them.
Not that they had been celibate—far from it. But they had gone tired to bed and risen early to a day full of engagements or travel. Either way, the days were full and passed in the company of other people.
Now, at last, they could go up to the same bed night after night. Early, if they wished. At different times during the day, too, which was both a surprise and a joy to Cordelia. Sometimes, Spen even locked the door to the study or the drawing room, and if the servants guessed why, nobody commented.
Spen was very inventive in making sure her broadening girth was not a hindrance to her enjoyment. He also described other ideas for their mutual pleasure that would have to wait until after the baby arrived, and she looked forward to trying them all.
Two weeks after they arrived at Aylesbury Court, they received a letter from Mr. Morris confirming the last person asked to be Lady Daphne’s trustee had accepted the role, the trust documents had been signed, and their ward’s home and income were now indisputably hers.
“At last,” Spen said.
“Daphne will be delighted,” Cordelia agreed. “She has enjoyed Ramsgate, Miss Faversham writes, but she often asks when she can go home.”
“Iam delighted,” Spen growled. “I can finally announce to the world you are my wife.”
He began that very afternoon drafting a letter to his aunt, while Cordelia worked on some embroidery designs that had occurred to her as she studied the wintry landscape.
The following morning, they were at breakfast when Marsh came in. “My lord, my lady, a messenger has come from Mr. Milton. He says it is urgent.”
“Something is wrong!” Cordelia exclaimed.
“Bring him in, Marsh,” Spen said.
Marsh nodded and left the room. They had arrived to find the butler had inherited an inn, and he and the housekeeper had married and decamped to run their new business. Marsh asked to be appointed acting butler. He was a little unorthodox, but keen to learn, and nobody could be more loyal. Furthermore,the other servants all seemed happy to answer to him. Cordelia thought they would probably confirm him in the appointment when his month’s trial was over.
He returned with the messenger. A groom by the size of him, and one who had spent many years running errands in all weathers, by his leathery complexion. “Mr. Milton’s messenger, my lord and my lady,” Marsh said.
“You have a message for me?” Cordelia asked.
The messenger stepped forward, holding out a package. “For you and the earl, my lady. I was told to put it into your hands, my lord.”
Spen’s competent hands crumbled the seal and untied the binding even as he said, “Thank you. Marsh, take this man down to the kitchen for a hearty breakfast and to warm by the fire, and then find him a bed.” To the messenger, he said, “I don’t know if this needs an answer, but if it does, I’ll send a groom. Sleep, man.”
Before Marsh and the messenger had reached the door, Spen was spreading the contents of the package out on the table before them. Newspapers and gossip sheets. On some of them, Cordelia could see items circled in red crayon.
Spen pushed them to one side. “Letter first?” There was a letter in Uncle Josh’s writing, covering several pages, tied by a string through a hole in one corner to a report in a far neater hand.
Cordelia nodded. He undid the string to separate the letter from the report and laid it out on the table. Her uncle’s epistolary style didn’t sound much like him, the “proper” way to write a letter having, to hear him tell the tale, been beaten into him by the tutor his ambitious mother had employed as soon as she could afford such a luxury.
It was more likely he chose to sound as educated as he truly was in formal correspondence but as a contrast to the wayhe spoke. Keeping rivals and allies off balance was part of his business strategy.
Whether or not her uncle’s story was true, the influence of that schoolroom tyrant had not extended as far as the way her uncle formed his letters, which reflected his expansive personality, being large, round, and sprawling.
“My affectionate greetings to my dear Cordelia and Spenhurst,” she read.
This correspondent regrets the need to pass on unpleasant news. The story has spread that the pair of you have been traveling the country together. Some pup of a lord recognized Cordelia at an inn somewhere in Leicestershire.
Since Yarverton and Deerhaven have both talked about Spenhurst’s marriage to Lady Daphne, people are assuming you are in an illicit relationship. Opinions are divided about whether Lady Daphne is part of your baggage train or has been parked somewhere in the country.
