Page 32 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)

T hey had called a truce that night. In each other’s arms, the conflict of that day in November had dissolved. Jillian had promised herself she would never again punish Lewis for the frustration she felt. She knew he was doing everything within his power to make her happy.

The problem was that he seemed to have very little power at all.

The couple had celebrated Christmas and Twelfth Night with the family at the main house.

The decorations had been tasteful, the food excellent, as usual.

Jillian had been delighted to discover that Lewis had arranged for a real tree to be placed in the foyer.

He had even consulted with her as to what decorations she’d wanted to add to it.

All had proceeded pleasantly and civilly.

And then, with the celebrations behind them, he had brought her news that had taken the wind out of her bellows.

The first Sunday family dinner of 1816 had occurred the afternoon after Twelfth Night.

It was a simpler affair than that which Jillian had grown accustomed to, mainly involving soup and bread and cold meat leftovers.

Everyone was a little subdued after the festivities of the night before.

It wasn’t long before the ladies retired to the drawing room to engage in what Jilly called “the tedium of the ton .” Lady Bradford read.

Penelope played piano. Jillian tried to stay awake.

Lewis and his father, meanwhile, had their weekly meeting in the study. It seemed to Jillian to go on longer than usual. The minutes ticked by in the drawing room. Even Penelope began to tire and exchanged her seat at the piano for a more comfortable one with a book.

Conversation had already been depleted at the dinner table, and little remained for idle discourse in the drawing room. Jillian found herself roaming the room and browsing the paintings and knickknacks that constituted its decoration.

They did not appeal to her. The paintings were large oils of people in various solo and family poses—no doubt the Bradford ancestors.

None of them looked particularly happy. Their wealth, however, was unmistakable.

The ladies wore furs and jewels and the gentlemen assumed proud postures with hunting dogs or a sword or on horseback.

And every single one carried an expression of privileged boredom.

The vases and statuettes offered little more by way of artistry.

For one thing, all the vases were empty.

Their gold-painted rims and floral designs did not, in Jillian’s opinion, make up for the absence of real flowers.

The statuettes were, once again, depictions of people, or the heads of people.

Why someone’s head should be worth displaying was a mystery to Jillian.

The more time she spent with the Bradfords, the less she understood them.

They exuded tremendous pride in their heritage and a furious zeal to maintain it all for the future.

But their day-to-day lives lacked any of the same vigor.

From what she could gather, an inordinate amount of time was spent changing clothes, eating elaborate meals, and learning skills that had no real use.

At least Ellena and her husband kept such lavishness to a minimum.

Why did it not drive the ladies of the house to madness? Were they really fulfilled by promenading, dining, painting and the like?

There did seem to be some hope for Penelope, who had insisted on taking charge of the kitchen garden, where vegetables, herbs, roses and lavender were grown to be used in meals and scented water.

She had regularly invited Jilly to join her, which made a pleasant break from the loneliness of the cottage.

Mostly, however, Pen was out riding for ages at a time—with a groom or stablehand in tow, just in case of an accident.

It made Jillian think back to her walks with Lewis at Munro House, where Ingsley had been assigned to keep an eye on them. It seemed such a long time ago. Something of the innocence of those days had since been lost.

Still, she had what she wanted, didn’t she? Lewis was hers. Forever. Hers to hold. Hers to love and to cherish. For better or for worse.

Not for a minute had Jillian guessed that “for better” would be the problem. The more privilege she was given, the more she felt denied. The life she’d thought she had agreed to could no longer exist. Not now that Lewis was the heir.

It was not his fault. It was no one’s fault.

But she wanted someone to blame. Someone whom she could berate for her unexpected misery.

She wanted to be angry with his parents for needing him to take on new responsibilities.

And yet she knew it could not be helped.

She wanted to reject society for creating this strange hierarchy of people based on not very much sense at all.

But society, it was obvious, cared nothing for her opinion.

She needed to blame someone . And so, when Lewis finally reappeared in her company, his face flushed, his manner flustered, she was not in a forgiving mood.

At Lewis’s urging, they said their goodbyes immediately and made their way to the waiting carriage.

Although the distance to the cottage was only half a mile, it was windy and freezing out and Lewis had thought it risky—they could easily catch cold or slip on the smooth, almost-invisible patches of ice.

It was but a few minutes’ drive, yet Jillian was perched and ready to exit the cubicle into their home, knowing the unfortunate groom had to sit atop the carriage in the very weather she and Lewis had sought to avoid.

Lewis, however, stayed his hand upon the door.

“Hold a moment,” he said. “There is something I must tell you and I do not wish to have this discussion where the staff can listen.”

His words boded ill. If he wanted privacy, it could not be good news.

“What is it?” she asked, though she wished desperately he would not tell her.

“As you know, Philip sat in the House of Commons.”

“Did I? I suppose I did, but I have not given it much thought.”

“And I spoke of relinquishing my services as a barrister to take up a position in Parliament.”

“You may have mentioned it, but I do not recall a great discussion on the topic.”

“My father has reminded me that Parliament will reopen soon. If I am to take my brother’s seat, I will need to run in a by-election within the week and, if successful, be sworn in at the opening of Parliament.”

Jillian had never shown much interest in matters of finance or politics. Everything Lewis was saying sounded vaguely familiar in a background sort of way but meant little to her in a personal capacity.

“I see,” she answered, for lack of anything else to say.

“Do you?” Lewis leaned toward her, his brow deeply creased. He started to chew his bottom lip.

“I don’t know,” replied Jilly, not sure of herself at all now. “What am I supposed to see?”

“Parliament is in London.”

Jillian hesitated. “Would you be gone long?”

“The season this year is expected to run from February to July.”

“You mean dances and debutantes and making friends?” asked Jilly, perking up.

“Well, yes, that happens concurrently with Parliament. For which I would need to be in London.”

The penny finally dropped.

“You need to be in London for half the year ?! What is to become of me ?”

“I want you with me, of course. Daily sessions only begin in the late afternoon. We will have all day together. We could walk through the impressive parks, of which there are several. Here we only have Munro Park. In London, you will be spoiled for choice.”

“If the sessions only begin in the afternoon, when do they finish?” Jillian wanted to know.

Lewis fidgeted. No doubt he had been dreading questions like these. “Er, they can continue into the early hours of the morning.”

“I see.” Now she really did see all too clearly. “Then you will not be sharing my bed.” The weight of her words sank between them.

“Parliament does not meet on weekends,” Lewis deflected hastily. “We can attend balls and sleep in until noon if we wish. There will be so many people for you to meet, not just the Munro crowd. You are bound to discover new acquaintances you like.”

“Only to be parted from them when the season ends,” muttered Jilly.

“We would see them every year for months at a time when Parliament is in session, and you could write each other to sustain the friendship when you are apart.”

“Six months a year in London…” Jilly considered this. So far, Munro had not offered her as much as she had hoped. Could London do any better? A sudden thought brightened her mood.

“We would be out from under your parents at last,” she said, excitement building. “It would be as we first imagined—just the two of us making our own decisions…”

“Er…”

It was not even a whole word, but it was enough to stop Jilly dead in mid-sentence.

“What? What haven’t you told me?”

“Well, er, the thing is… London is very expensive. And, you see, my parents already own a townhouse in one of the more fashionable areas.”

Jilly tried not to think of oil paintings of ancestors and bronze busts of people whom she did not recognize. At least she would be able to fill the vases with flowers. “I suppose I could live with their particular taste in furnishings.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Lewis. “Er…”

“What? What ? Why do you draw it out so? What else must I know that I obviously will not like?”

“The thing is,” said Lewis wretchedly, “my father serves in the House of Lords. When his six months of mourning are over in April, he and Mother will join us in the townhouse.”

Jilly felt her body stiffen. This was so much worse. Under the same roof! Every action, every utterance to be judged. Months of it, every hour of every day.

“We will occupy separate floors,” added Lewis. “Our interactions will be limited.” His eyes pleaded with her to find such arrangements tolerable. “We can go out as often as you want. If you wish, we can stick to our Sunday family dinner and nothing more.”

“And you think your parents will respect our wishes to be left alone? The temptation to ascend or descend a flight of stairs to poke about in our lives will be hard to resist. And what of the many evenings when you are away? Will I be able to attend a dinner without you if I do make friends? Or will I be at the mercy of either your parents or solitude?”

“Pen will be coming too. If you like, we can ask her to come with us now in January and introduce you to some of the more likeable folk she knows.”

“You said February before,” Jillian reminded him sharply.

“Well, yes. Parliament opens on the first of February. But we must allow several days to travel and settle into our new accommodations.”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Jillian abruptly.

“I see you have planned everything neatly with your father. In a matter of weeks, we are to upend our already strained existence here and be transplanted to the largest city in the world, where I know no one but you and possibly your sister. I am to be abandoned at night and cautioned in my behavior by your parents for months on end. I will have nowhere to escape to—no woods, no lake, no greenhouse, not even Ellena to comfort me. And you would have me find merit in this. I do not see it.”

With that, Jillian threw open the carriage door, almost hitting the poor footman on the nose.

Remembering that he had stood in the brutal cold while they had their infuriating conversation only made her more agitated.

Her instinct was to invite both him and the groom inside for a cup of hot chocolate and a warm seat in the kitchen.

But she would not make that mistake again.

No, indeed, she was learning that she must hide her true self deep down, where it could not shame her husband—the one who had once loved her for her fearlessness.

Where was that love now?

It was there, she conceded, but shackled by expectations. Shackles that she must now help him carry. The more pretense at power he was given, the more it bound and restricted him, squeezing ever tighter until no real autonomy existed at all.

Her heart ached for her beloved. It bled for the both of them.

But the constriction about the throat of her freedom also made her angry.

And resentful. She would cast it off forcefully if she could.

But it would mean throwing off her bond with Lewis.

Though she clawed at the circumstances that oppressed her, she would not desert him.

For better or worse.

If only this would finally be the worst of it.