Page 33 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Not much,” Owen answered. “I mean, of course we have. But I don’t know very much about her and her interests, and...”
“You’ll manage,” his aunt replied briskly. “You can talk to her about something she’s interested in, I’m quite sure of it. Find something to talk about. You’ll soon be conversing about everything, I’m quite sure. She is far from silly.”
“I’m sure that’s so,” Owen answered sincerely.
His aunt held his gaze. “Well, then,” she said warmly. “I shall return to London. I wish you a good luncheon.”
Owen stood where he was, feeling dazed. His aunt had onlycalled in on him for a few minutes, but her brief sentences left his head whirling.
He turned and hurried into the house.
He didn’t go straight to his chambers to dress for lunch, but his footsteps took him to the other side of the house, the wing that Papa had shut after Mama died. He hardly ever went in there. He had a key, and perhaps ten years ago, when he was seventeen, he’d sneaked in there more than once, feeling as though it was one place where he could be close to his mother. He had sat in her parlor, surrounded by the beautiful silk wallpaper with its pattern of roses, and breathed in the scent of the air, fancying that perhaps some trace of her remained. Now, he walked in and shut the door behind him.
The apartments that had been built specially for the countess contained a parlor, a boudoir and a small reading-room that contained all her books as well as some paintings. They opened out onto her rose-garden. He went into the parlor and sat down on one of the chintz covered wingbacks with its pattern of pink flowers.
“Mama,” he said softly. He had talked to her often when he came here—sometimes he’d told her about Papa, especially if they’d argued, as he would have if she’d been alive. Now, he shut his eyes and spoke his heart to her. “Mama...I have made a strange decision. I am married to a beautiful woman, but I don’t know her at all. Can you please help me? I wish I knew what to do, how to talk to her. She only has one topic she’s interested in, and I don’t think I know enough about it. I wish I could ask you what I should do...I’m sure you’d know.”
He leaned back, his eyes still shut. He recalled her face. She had a long face with high cheeks like his own, and she had dark eyes, and thick dark hair that was arranged in ringlets in the portrait he’d seen. Her face was bright and happy, with a touch of pink in her cheeks and red lips, and he could imagine that,even though her dark eyes looked serious, she smiled often.
He visualized her for a moment, then opened his eyes again and stood up, feeling a little silly as he imagined what Barrow would think if he stumbled on him here. Maybe it was foolish to come here. He was seven-and-twenty, and he should have known better, should be able to face matters by himself.
He walked to the door, wishing that it wasn’t foolish, that he could get an answer from her.
As he walked past the reading room, he stuck his head in through the door. His mother’s book collection stood on shelves in the peach wallpapered space. Mama was clearly quite well read; all sorts of volumes were there; many he’d never read before. As he looked at it, a thought fell into his mind, as light as a goose-feather falling onto the grass.
Ask her about it. If you don’t know enough about poetry, ask her to teach you about it. That’s something to talk about.
He blinked. It felt almost as if the idea hadn’t come from his own mind. He certainly wouldn’t have thought of anything that seemed quite as bizarre to him.
He looked around the room, lost in thought. It was actually a good idea, the more he thought about it, but it really was out-of-the-ordinary. To admit that he was ignorant was the last thing that felt right to him. Surely, she would lose whatever small respect she might have gained for him...? He took a deep breath.
Maybe it’s the right idea.
A butterfly, light as air, drifted past the window of the garden as he looked over. It was a white one, the first he’d seen that year. He stared at it.
Maybe it wasn’t such a foolish idea after all, he decided, dazedly, and he walked slowly to the hallway. He shut the apartments behind him and walked swiftly to his chamber.
He had an idea to talk to the countess. And it seemed like it was the right idea after all.
Chapter 12
“...And by your love, you know my heart...No, that’s not right!”
Ophelia leaned back at her desk and sighed, scribbling through the line she had just written as she spoke it aloud. She was working on a sonnet, and she just couldn’t get the sentiments she wanted to express into the right form.
She shut her eyes, letting her head sink forward onto her hands. It was ten o’ clock in the morning and she hadn’t seen Owen at breakfast—he'd been busy in a meeting when she’d come in to the breakfast room at nine, and after a few slices of toast and tea she’d gone straight upstairs to write poetry. She hadn’t tried in days; not since moving to Ivystone House, and she was desperate to keep her hand in, afraid she would lose her talent if she didn’t work daily.
It’s not working,she thought sadly.Somehow, I just don’t seem to be able to write here.
She stood up and went to the door, restless. The days were so tense here, and they felt so long, as if she was a caged bird with nothing to do except stare at the same walls all day. She had to find something to occupy herself or she would go mad.
She went to her wardrobe and took out a shawl, her gaze falling on her white day-dress. It had a tear in the cuff; just a small one, but she felt a tingle of delight—there was something she could do. She could mend her clothes.
With relief, she lifted the dress out of the wardrobe and went to fetch her workbasket. Working on it would give her some satisfaction. It would feel good to see the completed item hanging in her wardrobe and know she’d mended it.
Her basket over her arm, she wandered down into thedrawing room. It was empty. The clock ticked and she could hear someone walking on the stairs in the hallway. It wasn’t Owen—she had become accustomed to his steps, and this tread was much heavier than his.
Probably one of the staff,she mused, and settled in a chintz wingback by the window. The sunshine that filtered into the room was softened by a light layer of cloud; perfect light for sewing. She selected some white cotton from the basket and settled down to do some mending.
