Page 27 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)
I think Sweet Clover is the most restful place I have ever been,” Freddie said at dinner several nights later, spooning up the last of her trifle with a sigh of contentment.
“I have often felt as if it were not just off the beaten path, but somehow outside time,” Plimpton replied.
“Speaking of being outside of time, did you know the beekeeper who worked here during your great aunt’s time is still alive?”
He paused in the act of lifting his glass to his mouth, his forehead furrowing. “Samuel Timkin?”
“Yes, Mr. Timkin.”
Plimpton’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he lifted his glass the rest of the way and took a drink of wine before setting it down. “He must be close to one hundred.”
“Ninety-seven.”
“You have spoken to him?” the duke asked, shaking his head when the footman would have refilled his glass.
“I encountered him when I was out walking by the maze. He was sitting on the stone bench just outside it.”
“Did you enter the maze?”
“Not after Mr. Timkin told me that your brother was once lost in there for five hours.”
Plimpton looked amused. “Simon was only six at the time. I am sure you could do better. At least no more than three hours.”
She laughed. “You flatter me.”
“Why don’t we go there tomorrow?” He paused and added, “I will have the kitchen pack us a picnic lunch.”
Freddie knew her face was heating at the memory of their last picnic lunch. How silly of her! She was expecting a child and had laid with her husband every night since their marriage. Why was she still shy?
She looked up to find him regarding her in the direct, assessing way that always made her long to know what he was thinking. But they did not know each other well enough for her to ask him that question. Freddy wondered if they ever would.
She daubed her lips with the napkin and set it aside before saying, “I will leave you to your port.”
The duke stood and walked her to the door, opening it for her even though there were two servants present to carry out the task. “Will you be working in the library?” he asked, just as he did every evening.
“Yes.”
He inclined his head. “I will join you shortly.”
***
Plimpton took a drink of port and puffed on his cigar. Neither activity, usually so pleasurable, afforded him any enjoyment tonight. Nor had it done so the night before. Or the night before that.
He did not want to be sitting alone and drinking port and blowing a cloud. He wanted to be in the library with his wife. He would read the tenant reports he’d received that day and Winifred would work on the secret project she refused to show him.
His lips twitched as he thought said project. It had been their second night at Sweet Clover and he had wandered over to see what she had on her tambour. She had immediately hidden her work from him.
“You do not like anyone seeing it until you are finished?”
“I don’t mind that.” She had hesitated and then said in a rush, “This is a wedding present for you.”
A curious warmth bloomed in his belly at her unexpected disclosure. No one, so far as he knew, had ever made anything for him with their own hands. His family had given him gifts in the past, of course, but none made by their own hands. Both his mother and daughter disliked needlework. As for Cecily? The only thing she would have made him would have had arsenic in it.
Winifred must have mistaken his silence for something other than pleasurable wonder. “It is nothing so valuable as the lovely pearls you gave to me,” she said, her tone more than a little defensive.
“If you make it with your own hands then it will be more valuable, Winifred.”
She had blushed, but it was clear to him that she did not believe he was sincere. It was difficult to explain to people like Winifred—who had worked hard for her money, often going without—that when a person could afford to buy anything he wanted the only items of real value were those few things that could not be purchased. Or replaced.
Plimpton returned from his recollection to find that his right hand rested on his chest over the slight bulge caused by the oval locket. Although Digby had never said, Plimpton knew it caused his meticulous valet no small amount of heartache that his master insisted on disfiguring every coat he possessed by keeping the painting in his breast pocket.
Plimpton smiled. So, he did not lose every battle to Digby.
He lifted the cigar and stared at the glowing tip, his amusement fading.
Why are you sitting here alone? he asked himself. Is maintaining a hollow ritual more important than pleasing yourself?
He stubbed out his partially smoked cigar and shoved back his chair so abruptly that both footmen startled.
“Your Grace?” William said, looking confused.
“I need nothing further tonight,” he said, and then strode from the room, feeling their startled looks.
To hell with what they wondered. He was a newlywed. And he wanted to sit with his new wife.
***
A few mornings later, Freddie received four letters.
“How fortunate you are,” the duke said as he handed them to her, his tone a shade grudging.
Freddie looked pointedly from her slender pile of correspondence to the three-inch stack beside his breakfast plate.
“Ah,” he said, observing her glance. “But these are bills and reports and other business-related missives while yours are from people who do not want money in return.”
“Poor Plimpton. Do you never get any personal letters?”
“Wareham writes, but I am not sure you would call them letters so much as illegibly scrawled billets that are rarely longer than three or four sentences.”
Freddie could not help smiling. “So, you get those, too?”
“Yes, and not often. But a little goes a long way; it once took me a month to decipher one of his three-line letters.”
She laughed. “There are some I have never translated.”
He buttered a slice of bread and continued, unusually talkative for the breakfast table. “My mother writes regular, thorough accounts of household and village matters and Rebecca’s letters, while rare, are engaging. But Simon’s scribbling is even worse than Wareham’s. Honoria, I am pleased to say, has proven an excellent, entertaining correspondent, but her letters are infrequent now that Robert has learned to crawl.”
“They will be rarer still when he learns to run.”
The duke chuckled.
Freddie was riveted by his easy humor and the small lines that radiated out from his eyes. Eyes that did not resemble ice-covered steel these past days, but instead were frequently warm, relaxed, and—yes—even affectionate. Although rarely outside the bedchamber
As if feeling her gaze, Plimpton lifted his eyes from the offending stack of bills, his eyebrows pushing together. “What is it, Winifred?”
“Nothing,” she lied, not knowing how to express what she was feeling, and not wishing to make him feel self-conscious even if she did.
The duke gestured for the servants to leave and when the door shut, he said, “Does talking about Robert make you think of Miranda?” His question demonstrated a level of empathy she never would have expected. Behind his thick wall of reserve was an attentive, perceptive, and considerate man.
“I think of Miranda all the time.” Although lately her thoughts gave her more anxiety than joy. She still had not resolved the issue of what to do about the girl. Regular two-week visits were obviously impossible. What did that leave?
“You miss her.”
“Yes.”
“We briefly discussed the issue of her care once before. Have you given it more consideration?”
“I have.” How could she tell him that much of her indecision was created by the fact that her life was no longer her own without sounding ungrateful? “I have ruled out taking her from the Morrisons and bringing her to live with us. As generous as your offer is, such a decision would be more about pleasing me than Miranda.”
He nodded. “Twice monthly visits are not practical in the late summer and fall, when we will be at Whitcombe. But during the rest of the year my duties bring me to London for long stretches.” His lips compressed briefly as if something unpleasant crossed his mind. “My presence will be even more necessary given the current situation.”
“You mean because of the worker unrest in the North?”
“Yes.”
Freddie would have liked to know his position on the growing dissatisfaction, but his expression was not one that encouraged questions. Also, there was a part of her that was afraid she might learn things about his political position she would not like if she began asking questions. She knew he was a Tory, but not all the men in that party shared the same principles. Given the compassion he had displayed when it came to his tenants and servants, she wondered how he reconciled his personal and political beliefs.
He swallowed his mouthful of buttered bread, took a sip of coffee, and said, “Two weeks would be difficult, but visits every three weeks would be possible.”
She studied his face, looking for some sign of whether such recent trips from Whitcombe, his country seat—where she assumed they would spend most of their time away from London—would put an added strain on their marriage.
Again, he read her thoughts, “If it proves too hectic a schedule then we can revisit the subject.”
“You do not mind me leaving every three weeks?”
“You will not travel alone.”
“Oh.” The fact that he would have to go, too, had not occurred to her. “You would not need to suffer the inconvenience of accompanying me.”.
“You will not travel alone,” he repeated gently.
Freddie understood. She also understood that his quiet decree applied to more than just travel. As softspoken and benevolent as he appeared, there would be only one master in the Duke of Plimpton’s house. And it would not be her. While he might handle Freddie with velvet gloves, she should never forget the iron they sheathed.
She saw he was waiting for a response. “I understand, Your Grace.”
He nodded and turned back to his breakfast.
She experienced a pang of regret but knew it would do her no good to chafe at her loss of her independence. Not when she had signed it away in the small church on Hart Street more than two weeks ago.
And he was not behaving autocratically; he was attempting to find some solution that would both please her and still be feasible. She owed him at least as much cooperation in return.
“I think once a month would be more practical. I can balance the reduction in the number of visits by saying overnight at the village inn. That way I will see her for a few hours on two days.” She could not help smiling. “The owner of the Spotted Sow will be beside himself with ecstasy to count a duke among his patrons.”
“You are sure?” he asked, and she knew he wasn’t asking about staying at the inn, but the length of time between the visits.
“I am sure.”
“If we leave next Monday, we could begin your new schedule on a third Wednesday. At least the day of the week would remain the same for Miranda.”
“That is generous of you,” she said. More than generous; it was thoughtful of him to recall the day. “But it was your intention to remain here until the two new cottages were completed. Leaving on Monday will be too soon for that.”
“I can see them the next time we come to stay. Miranda is more important.” His words were as soft spoken as ever, and yet they hit her like a mallet, knocking the air from her lungs.
“What is it?” he asked, concern furrowing his brow. “You have gone pale. Has the, er, breeding affliction you suffered before returned?”
Despite the fact that her throat was suddenly so tight it was hard to breathe Freddie was amused by his carefully worded euphemism for daily vomiting . “No, no, I am not bilious.”
It was an entirely new affliction; one that affected her heart, rather than her stomach. Somehow, Freddie had contracted a severe case of love for her husband after less than three weeks of exposure to him. If it was already this acute, what would it be like in three months? Or three years?
“Have you contracted a cold? Digby said one of the footmen was laid low in his bed today. Should I summon the doctor?”
She met his calm, level, gaze, looking for signs of something deeper reflected in his eyes.
But all she saw was concern for her health. And that of the baby, of course.
Freddie forced a smile. “I am fine. It was just a momentary indisposition,” she lied. “You need not fear that it is contagious.”