“It would seem,” Baron Wrotham stared down at the semi prone invalid before him, “that under these delicate and unexpected circumstances, my daughter should speak first with her mother. My family priest is waiting for her downstairs, but that can wait if necessary. After she has spoken with her mother and then with myself, I shall, if you wish it, sir, send her to your chamber. So with your permission, I will now take her to my baroness.”
The earl’s son smiled broadly and slumped a little further within the chair. “No, I believe not, my lord,” he said with genial deliberation. “You do not have my permission. I claim my wife’s patience, and will detain her for only a short time before releasing her into the company of her mother.”
As her father still made no noticeable effort to remove himself, Emeline clasped her hands very tightly around her soot stained bedrobe, stared at her bare toes, shook her tousled head, and said very softly, “Papa, I really have to speak with Nicholas.”
It was after the baron, silent with unspoken fury, had marched from the chamber that Emeline turned to her husband. But he raised one finger. “Wine first,” he said, as the page trotted in with a tray holding the brimming jug and several cups. “Some form of lubrication is always helpful in such situations.” The page poured the wine, and was immediately dismissed. Emeline passed one cup and clutched the other. With both hands bandaged into paws, Nicholas clasped the cup with difficulty and drank deeply, watching her over the brim as he drained it. “After three days of sour milk slops,” he said, “I escaped my bed for this more than anything else. But you’ve supplied a far greater diversion than I expected, madam.”
“As far as I can see,” said Emeline, slowly sipping her Burgundy, “you don’t care about me one way or the other. You just wanted to annoy your father and mine.”
He grinned. “Isn’t that your own motive? I’m flattered to see you prefer my company to your father’s, but I’m not so simple as to imagine you know yourself with child just three and a half days after a brief wedding night of complete abstention. I learned to tell a goose from a capon a good many years ago, my lady. And I might otherwise ask whose child you think you’re carrying, but my dear brother died some six months gone, and you’re far too trim for a woman more than six months pregnant. Therefore, as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to escape your father with whatever lies appeal to you, and find yourself a corner somewhere to sleep within this God forsaken ruin, make yourself at home and do whatever you wish. Meanwhile I shall patiently await the miraculous appearance of my heir.”
Emeline hiccupped. “But surely, even just sharing a bed – I could be –”
“You could not,” said Nicholas.
“And three days ought to be enough –”
“It isn’t,” her husband informed her. “Have you never discussed such matters with your mother?”
“Gracious no,” whispered his wife. “Papa is very strict, you know, and if it isn’t in the Bible, then it doesn’t get discussed.”
Nicholas was still smiling. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it is in the Bible in some form or other. And even Peter explained nothing to you?”
Emeline glared at him. “Peter? Of course not. He would never have spoken of such intimate matters, and nor would I ever have permitted such a conversation. And you’re rude and stupid and spiteful to infer such things and you seem to have a problem with envy, which I can understand, since Peter was so obviously more – but it’s not dignified – or proper.”
“Envy?” Nicholas attempted to wedge himself upwards with his elbows to the chair arms, but winced and collapsed back again. “Envious of Peter?” he demanded, his voice fading in spite of indignation. “Why, in all that’s holy, should I ever have been jealous of Peter?”
“Every possible reason I can think of,” said Emeline through her teeth. “And I’m just very glad if I’m not having your child. And what have geese and capons got to do with anything anyway, or are you just bad tempered because you’re hungry?”
Nicholas stared at his wife. “No madam, I was referring to neither poultry nor dinner, and it’s probably better under the circumstances if I don’t explain what I was referring to.” He winced again, and quickly nursed the hand he had been clenching. “But bad tempered I probably am,” he continued, his voice now growing louder. “With some possible excuse, if you care to remember. Having been ordered to marry my brother’s mistress, I’m then forced to pass a chilly wedding night until significantly warmed by my home exploding in flames. Upon which I rescue my sot of a father, who no doubt started the fire in the first place, am roasted alive and consequently confined to bed where a parcel of inferior and idiotic medicks argue over how little to feed me and how much to bleed me while stuffing every crevice of my body with foul smelling fats. I am obliged to sleep in some damned abandoned guest chamber without even a semblance of comfort, and am then threatened with an agonising death should I so much as attempt to leave that bed for the privy. Both my ignoble parent and my pugnacious father-in-law promptly treat me as a witless infant just because I cannot stand, and I am finally informed that my bride has managed to conceive a child without –” and Nicholas took a very deep breath and stopped abruptly.
Emeline was no longer listening. There was only one sentence which had penetrated her consciousness, and she stepped forwards, glared down at the man she had married, and flung the last dregs of her wine in his face. “How dare you!” she demanded, turned and grabbed the wine jug.
Nicholas laughed, which was not at all what she had expected, and did not placate her in the least. “No, no,” he yelled, raising his arm as best he could. “A dreadful waste.” A thin crimson trickle had merged with the goose grease down his face and he managed to wipe it away with the bandaged back of his hand. “Have pity. Our supplies are dangerously low,” he said, “since so many butts were burned and I doubt there’s much decent Burgundy left. This is at least drinkable. Find something else to throw at me.”
She replaced the wine jug on the table, turned her back and marched to the little window seat where she sat heavily and finally said, “I wasn’t. You have to know that.”
“Peter’s mistress?” He grinned. “Well, my dear brother was an inveterate liar, but I presume some of the things he claimed must have been true.”
“He would never – ever – have said that. It is you who are lying.” It helped that he clearly could not rise, stride over, nor strike her. She said, “Peter was good, and noble, and honest, and I do not at all believe him capable of inventing vulgar tales.”
“I could tell you,” Nicholas remained cheerful, “just how he described you – and vulgar would come nowhere near it, my dear. What of course he could never have suspected, was that one day I’d have an excellent opportunity of checking the truth of his descriptions for myself.”
She leaned her cheek against the chill of the frosted window pane, for her face was burning. She whispered, “You’re vile and I wish I’d never married you. And with Peter not a year in his grave – and you say such wretched things about him. And let me tell you, he told me all about you too – and I’m quite sure it was all true but none of it was vulgar because Peter was far too upright to speak vulgarities. And,” she sniffed with a very small additional hiccup, “I loved him.”