Married to a Perfect Stranger by Jane Ashford Page B

someone…? The thought made her feel sick. But she couldn’t believe he’d be so clumsy and…blatant about it. And… Mary frowned. His look and manner had pointed to something more mysterious, and more sinister, than an affair.
    Mary’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She’d stood before him in nothing but her nightdress, offering…everything. He must have seen that in her face. How could he not? She’d longed to throw her arms around him, lose herself in the kind of kiss that had begun to tantalize her imagination in the dark hours. He’d been so alluring, half-dressed in the candlelight, his bare throat rising from the open shirt. When she closed her eyes—and even when she didn’t—she could see him there, barelegged, primal. But he’d turned away.
    Mary left her uneaten breakfast and went to sit in the front parlor. A bit of sewing unheeded in her lap, she watched rain run down the windows. The season was turning. Leaves had fallen in the square, and the garden looked much less enticing with bare branches tossing in the autumn wind. The flowers had withered; puddles dotted the gravel paths. It seemed a mirror of her marriage—waning. At one moment they had seemed about to come together, and the next they swung far apart. What should she do? Would she ever truly come to know this stranger who was also her husband of almost three years? What if she didn’t?
    When she’d agreed to marry, she saw now, she hadn’t expected a great deal. An amiable companion, a settled home, her parents’ approval for her obedience. She could hardly comprehend that Mary now. Why had she asked so little of life? Why hadn’t she known, felt, that there could be so much more? The Mary she’d become since then yearned for…things she could scarcely define. A fervent, vibrant, passionate existence. If she couldn’t have that, her heart would break. All would be empty and bleak and…
    â€œStop this at once,” Mary said aloud. She swallowed the threat of tears. John was her husband. He would be here every day for…forever. She would figure something out. Even the old Mary hadn’t been a moper. She would not sit here feeling sorry for herself. There were plenty of tasks waiting to be done. She put aside the sewing, stood, and shook out her skirts.
    In the kitchen, she found Kate and Mrs. Tanner sitting at the large wooden table near the warmth of the stove. The cook was peeling apples from a bowl. Arthur was set up in the corner blacking a pair of John’s shoes. None of them rose when Mary appeared. The women’s expressions, each line of their bodies, declared that she was no duchess. Well, she wasn’t. But she was the mistress of this house and not the least bit intimidated. It was time to have a frank talk with her staff.
    â€œYou said you wanted a pie,” Mrs. Tanner remarked, making a small gesture with her paring knife. “But I told you I bain’t much of a hand with pastry.”
    â€œI am,” Mary responded. “I’ll make it.” She enjoyed baking. Beyond the tactile pleasure of it and the delectable results, it had been one skill her mother praised in her.
    â€œI’m mortal fond of pie,” put in Arthur, licking his lips.
    â€œYou’re mortal fond of food ,” replied Kate. “It’s a wonder you’re not fat as a flawn.”
    â€œHe needs feeding up,” said Mrs. Tanner. “I swear they must have starved the lad in Somerset.”
    Mary sat at the table, ignoring the women’s surprised looks as well as Arthur’s soulful acceptance of the cook’s sympathy. “You and Kate are related,” she said to her.
    â€œShe’s my mam,” said Kate.
    â€œFor my sins,” murmured Mrs. Tanner.
    Mary nodded. Since drawing the two women, she’d found the words for this necessary conversation. “This is a small household and will remain so. No