Page 24 of To Winter at Wildsyde

His laughter faded as he realised, he’d not the right to do either, not now.

Chapter 11

Dear Aunt Ethel,

To answer your question, I feel I am fighting a losing battle, but I am a Stone after all, and what we do best is endure.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Ruth Anderson to Mrs Ethel Stephens.

27th November 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

It was not in Ruth’s nature to wallow. An hour after Gordy had walked out she was washed and dressed, and had cleared up any evidence of the breakages. A soft knock at the door made her draw in a breath, her heart skipping behind her ribs, and then she scolded herself. It was not Gordy. She took a moment to smooth down her skirts, checked her reflection to assure herself it did not look too much as if she had been weeping, and called whoever it was to enter.

To her surprise, Sheenagh came in, bearing a tray with tea, and bread and butter.

“Ye have nae eaten a bite since breakfast,” the young woman said, a defensive note to her voice. “I dinnae want ye accusing me of starving ye.”

Despite everything, Ruth smiled a little. “Thank you, Sheenagh, that was thoughtful of you.”

Sheenagh harrumphed and bustled about the room, straightening things that didn’t need straightening.

“We’ll start emptying the bedrooms in the south tower tomorrow, I think,” Ruth said, trying to keep her mind occupied with work. She liked sorting through the furniture, keeping the best bits and deciding what needed to be put in storage. She even enjoyed getting her hands dirty, dusting and polishing. It made her feel she was achieving something, no matter how minor. “I thought perhaps I’d go for something more feminine as it’s such a sunny room. Pastel tones. What do you think?”

There was a hesitation before Sheenagh replied. “Aye. I’ve always been fond of yellow myself.”

“Yes, I agree, that would be a good choice. We’ll have a look at the fabric samples and see what I have that will suit. Oh,” Ruth said, pausing in the pouring of her tea as she remembered. “I have something for you. On the dresser there.”

Sheenagh turned and looked at the fancy hatbox with a frown. “For me?”

Ruth nodded. “I bought it for myself, but it makes me look a perfect fright. I simply don’t have the looks for it. It ought to be worn by a pretty girl with a sweet face.” She gave a wry grin. “And that certainly doesn’t describe me.”

Sheenagh’s auburn brows drew together and she approached the box as though it contained a wild beast. Ruth watched with interest as the girl removed the lid and gasped, drawing the straw bonnet from the rustling tissue paper that protected it. It was trimmed with green ribbons and faux red cherries and Ruth suppressed a sigh of longing that seemed to echo in the soft exclamation that Sheenagh made.

“Oh, my,” she said, staring at the bonnet in wonder. “I never saw anything so fine.”

“I’m so glad you like it.” Ruth smiled and turned back to the tea tray.

“Why?” The question was hard and cold, and just a little angry. “Do ye think to bribe me?”

The teapot rattled as Ruth set it down, her hand not entirely steady.

“No, Sheenagh,” she said, unable to keep the defeat from her voice. “There’s no point in doing that, is there? I can’t make you do anything for me that you don’t want to. I could threaten to dismiss you, but no doubt my husband will find you other employment and I really don’t have the heart for a battle. Not now. You’ve all made it perfectly clear I’m not welcome. I just don’t like waste, that’s all, and that hat is wasted gathering dust in my wardrobe. I thought you might like to have it. If you do, take it. If not, give to someone else. Burn it, for all I care.”

There was a long silence and Ruth forced herself to carry on preparing her tea, adding milk and sugar.

She heard the rustle of paper and a moment later the lift of the latch as Sheenagh went to the door, then a pause. “My room’s much nicer now, since… since ye had them fix the window and the chimney. I had a fire last night, and it didnae smoke once. The new blanket on the bed made it right cosy.” Ruth blinked back tears, too overcome to speak. “I’ll tell Mr Garrick to send the footmen to empty the south tower so you can make a start, Missus.”

The latch lifted and fell again, and Ruth turned to find the room empty. The hat box was gone.

She let out a long breath and wondered if she might have won them all around in the end. Not that Sheenagh could be counted a victory by a long chalk, but it was the first glimmer of hope that she might have won the war if she’d stayed. She was not to be allowed that victory, though. As soon as he knew she was breeding, Gordy would ship her back to England. Her fingers tightened on the delicate handle of the cup and she cradled it between her hands instead, afraid to break it. The heat seeped into her palms but did not warm her. She felt cold, cold from the inside out.

It occurred to her she could keep Gordy away, refuse to let him into her bed, but that would achieve nothing. If she refused to give him a child, he’d just send her away at once. She could keep the knowledge of a child from him, though, for a while at least. Ruth chewed at her lip, considering. Only Sheenagh would notice if she didn’t get her monthlies. If she could bring her onside in enough time, she might keep her secret for a while. If not, Ruth could always pay her to keep quiet. Going on the size of him, one had to assume Gordy was virile enough to get her with child in short order, but even the most potent of men might take months, even years to produce an heir.

Of course, she might already be pregnant. Ruth huffed out a breath. Well, even so, she might have anything from three months before he could be certain she was carrying his child. A determined woman could achieve a lot in that amount of time, surely?

But he doesn’t want you.

Ruth swallowed down the knot of emotion sitting in her throat. Perhaps, but he desired her, that much was clear. Besides which, he seemed to have some stupid notions about exactly what it was she wanted from him. What was it he’d said?