Page 37 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“You owe me nothing,” he said, clearly aghast at the idea. “I only pray I have done right, and that God will forgive me my sins when my intentions have been for the good of you both.”

“I’m quite certain there is nothing to forgive.” Jemima smiled, meaning it.

Her own beliefs had been shaken over the past years. Now she refused to believe in a God that could condemn a man for not allowing her to rot in the workhouse, even if he was arranging for her downfall.

A fallen woman.

She turned the words over in her mind. Ah, well, better to jump than wait for the push. “May I know the name of the man I am to be companion to, now that the arrangements are all in order?”

Mr Briggs stared at her. “You have made your mind up to accept, then?”

“I have.”

The words rang out in the quiet of his office and Jemima almost felt she could see them, they were so heavy with finality, with fate.

“In that case, yes, you may,” said Mr Briggs, and Jemima waited, feeling as if the man’s name would finally cut through the odd distorted sense that this was not really happening at all. “The man in question is Solomon Weston, the Baron Rothborn.”

Chapter 16

Dear Lord Rothborn,

All the arrangements we spoke of have been made as you requested, and the transaction agreed upon. The details of the place and time of your meeting are also enclosed. I trust this meets with your approval.

I hope I do not overstep the mark in making one thing very clear. The lady in question is a lady. Circumstances have brought her to this pass through no fault of her own and I feel certain I may prevail upon you to remember this. I pray you will forgive an old man for speaking plain and believe me when I tell you I would never have considered voicing such an arrangement to her were there any other viable option for her future, or if I was not so firmly convinced of your character and intentions.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mr Gerald Briggs, of Briggs and Norton, Solicitors to Lord Rothborn.

7th December 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth woke late and frowned at discovering the empty place beside her. It was still warm, she realised, which cheered her somewhat. Gordy could not have long left her. That was progress, surely? She turned onto her back and sighed, smiling as she remembered falling asleep in her husband’s arms. Her determination to ensure that was her fate both tonight and every night that followed only grew as she remembered the irritation he’d shown when she’d insisted he stay with her. He’d not wanted to stay, but he had. Somehow, she could not help but believe that he would not have done so if he’d really wanted to leave. There was a part of him that wanted what she could offer him, she knew it, but he didn’t trust her. Why should he? He’d married her money and knew little of her character, though she thought perhaps he was getting the idea.

It occurred to her to wonder why he hadn’t mentioned what she’d done to his study. Of all the things she’d changed, that was the only one she’d done expressly to irritate him. He had, after all, told her she could change the interior just as she liked and not put any of the rooms off limits but even so, he couldn’t have been prepared for that, even having seen her father’s house. Yet he’d not even referred to it in passing. Whereas she’d tried very hard to make his bedroom everything he might want it to be and he’d hit the roof. Ruth chewed on her lip, wondering at that. Perhaps it was time to pay him a visit in his lair and see if he reacted then.

The bedroom door opened with a crash and Sheenagh barged in, carrying her breakfast tray.

“Good morning,” Ruth said, lifting her eyebrows.

“If ye say so, missus,” Sheenagh muttered, setting down the tray so that the china rattled in protest.

“Is there something the matter?”

Sheenagh stalked to the window and snatched at the curtains, yanking them open. “I’m sure ’tis not my place to say.”

“I’m quite certain it isn’t,” Ruth replied, pulling on her wrap and watching the young woman with amusement. “However, I think you had best get it off your chest before you break something. That’s my prerogative, if you please.”

She was aware that the staff were all agog since she had used her husband for target practise.

Sheenagh glared at her for a moment and then gave a snort. “So it’s true, ye threw the pitcher at his heid?”

“Well, not at his head, but yes, I did,” Ruth said, seeing no reason to deny it. “A silver-backed hairbrush too. I wasn’t actually trying to hit him but…”

“Aye,” Sheenagh said, crossing her arms and looking at Ruth with undisguised interest. “But when they’re that pig-headed it makes ye feel like breaking things. Better the pitcher than his heid, I guess and I dinnae doubt he deserved it.”

“Oh, he deserved it,” Ruth replied, about to move towards the tray and pour herself a cup of tea, but to her surprise, Sheenagh beat her to it. For once, she’d even made it how Ruth liked it.

“Did he listen to ye after?”

Ruth snorted and shook her head. “Sadly, no,” she replied wryly.