from the door, Marianne tried to alter the expression on her face. When would she learn not to reveal herself so pitifully?
"Just coffee, Mrs. Greenbell," she smiled, lowering her eyes so the embarrassing moisture wouldn't show.
But the kind soul at the door apparently knew and understood well. "It takes time, milady. Don't be too harsh with yourself."
"But nine years, Mrs. Greenbell," she murmured. "Nine years, and still at night I think I hear him moving about in his chambers. I walk the headlands and hear his voice in the wind. I enter his sitting room and smell his fragrance, sense his presence." She drew her knees up in bed and rested her head upon them. "Nine years," she murmured, as though amazed. "When will those feelings pass?"
Slowly Mrs. Greenbell came back to the bed. "Perhaps never," she counseled. "Nor would you want the feelings to leave you forever. When a husband and wife have been as close as you and Lord Eden, there is really no such thing as separation. One might walk ahead of the other, but never a complete separation."
Marianne listened, staring sideways at the room, which blurred under the patina of her tears. "I used to pray to God that He take us together—"
"We have no right to make such a request," Mrs. Greenbell scolded lightly.
Marianne shook her head. "Then how to survive?" she queried softly.
In a rapid change of mood, Mrs. Greenbell stood up, all business. "By losing yourself in the needs of others, by keeping busy, by giving your children the love and attention they require."
Marianne closed her eyes. Oh God, but sometimes the dear woman was tiresome. Well, enough. She was right on one score. According to the morning letter from Sir Claudius, one child, apparently, was in need of her attention. As for the others, James now seemed to need nothing as long as he had his hounds and horses and the companionship of Caleb Cranford. And Jenny, poor Jennifer, how was Marianne to know what she needed?
Her private grief over, Marianne suddenly threw back the covers and left the bed.
In a state of some confusion, Mrs. Greenbell hovered between the bed and the door. "Do you want your coffee first, or shall I stay and help-"
"I need no help," Marianne announced, a bit sharper than she might have wished.
The old woman retreated, shaking her head. "One minute weak and weeping," she grumbled, "the next—"
Again at the door she stopped. "I beg your pardon, milady, but Lord Eden"—she stopped to clarify—"young James would like a word with you. At your convenience."
Linen in hand, Marianne dabbed at her face. "I thought he was out riding," she said, her voice muffled. "Isn't he always out riding?"
"He said he'd be back shortly before noon." A knowing smile crossed Mrs. Greenbell's face. "I think it's about his young lady and her coming visit."
Marianne lowered the linen from her face. Mixed feelings there. Harriet Powels. Lady Harriet, the shy blueblooded female whom apparently James had chosen to move the line forward. She was due the last of June for a fortnight's visit. Her parents, Lord and Lady Powels of Hadley Park, Shropshire, were coming with her, and in the final days of the visit, Marianne assumed, an engagement would be announced. Well, perhaps it would mean grandchildren. She looked forward to grandchildren, and since Edward did not seem to be making progress in that direction, nor Jennifer, perhaps it was up to James and his shy Harriet.
She turned back to the bowl. She thought all of the plans had been made. "Of course I'll see him," she murmured. "Let me know when he returns."
As she splashed the cold water again over her face, she heard the door behind her open, then close.
Alone. She froze for a moment over the bowl, water dripping. The room was so quiet. Bent over, her breathing caused the motion of small waves on the water. The man sat in her mind like a rock. What Mrs. Greenbell did not know and what Marianne would never tell her for fear of shocking that good
"Just coffee, Mrs. Greenbell," she smiled, lowering her eyes so the embarrassing moisture wouldn't show.
But the kind soul at the door apparently knew and understood well. "It takes time, milady. Don't be too harsh with yourself."
"But nine years, Mrs. Greenbell," she murmured. "Nine years, and still at night I think I hear him moving about in his chambers. I walk the headlands and hear his voice in the wind. I enter his sitting room and smell his fragrance, sense his presence." She drew her knees up in bed and rested her head upon them. "Nine years," she murmured, as though amazed. "When will those feelings pass?"
Slowly Mrs. Greenbell came back to the bed. "Perhaps never," she counseled. "Nor would you want the feelings to leave you forever. When a husband and wife have been as close as you and Lord Eden, there is really no such thing as separation. One might walk ahead of the other, but never a complete separation."
Marianne listened, staring sideways at the room, which blurred under the patina of her tears. "I used to pray to God that He take us together—"
"We have no right to make such a request," Mrs. Greenbell scolded lightly.
Marianne shook her head. "Then how to survive?" she queried softly.
In a rapid change of mood, Mrs. Greenbell stood up, all business. "By losing yourself in the needs of others, by keeping busy, by giving your children the love and attention they require."
Marianne closed her eyes. Oh God, but sometimes the dear woman was tiresome. Well, enough. She was right on one score. According to the morning letter from Sir Claudius, one child, apparently, was in need of her attention. As for the others, James now seemed to need nothing as long as he had his hounds and horses and the companionship of Caleb Cranford. And Jenny, poor Jennifer, how was Marianne to know what she needed?
Her private grief over, Marianne suddenly threw back the covers and left the bed.
In a state of some confusion, Mrs. Greenbell hovered between the bed and the door. "Do you want your coffee first, or shall I stay and help-"
"I need no help," Marianne announced, a bit sharper than she might have wished.
The old woman retreated, shaking her head. "One minute weak and weeping," she grumbled, "the next—"
Again at the door she stopped. "I beg your pardon, milady, but Lord Eden"—she stopped to clarify—"young James would like a word with you. At your convenience."
Linen in hand, Marianne dabbed at her face. "I thought he was out riding," she said, her voice muffled. "Isn't he always out riding?"
"He said he'd be back shortly before noon." A knowing smile crossed Mrs. Greenbell's face. "I think it's about his young lady and her coming visit."
Marianne lowered the linen from her face. Mixed feelings there. Harriet Powels. Lady Harriet, the shy blueblooded female whom apparently James had chosen to move the line forward. She was due the last of June for a fortnight's visit. Her parents, Lord and Lady Powels of Hadley Park, Shropshire, were coming with her, and in the final days of the visit, Marianne assumed, an engagement would be announced. Well, perhaps it would mean grandchildren. She looked forward to grandchildren, and since Edward did not seem to be making progress in that direction, nor Jennifer, perhaps it was up to James and his shy Harriet.
She turned back to the bowl. She thought all of the plans had been made. "Of course I'll see him," she murmured. "Let me know when he returns."
As she splashed the cold water again over her face, she heard the door behind her open, then close.
Alone. She froze for a moment over the bowl, water dripping. The room was so quiet. Bent over, her breathing caused the motion of small waves on the water. The man sat in her mind like a rock. What Mrs. Greenbell did not know and what Marianne would never tell her for fear of shocking that good
Similar Books
