Page 15 of Suddenly a Bride
“Nell, milady.”
She started to curtsy again, but Gwyneth shook her head. “There is no need for such formalities here, Nell. I am pleased to meet you.”
“I’m to take ye to Mrs. Haskell, milady. Would ye come with me?”
That was the housekeeper’s name, Gwyneth remembered. She followed Nell down another corridor to a large open chamber filled with spinning wheels and looms. A single girl was carding wool by hand, with an older woman standing over her.
“Mrs. Haskell?” Nell called, “The new lady is finally awake.”
Gwyneth wanted to close her eyes and groan. What must they all be thinking? Probably that she’d had an exhilarating and exhausting wedding night, she thought with an inward sigh.
Mrs. Haskell was easily her mother’s age, with a crown of gray braids and deep lines about her mouth. Maybe that indicated she laughed a lot, but right now her smile was perfunctory and her eyes assessing.
“Lady Blackwell,” she said coolly, “I wasn’t sure when you’d be down. Allow me to assemble the servants to meet you.”
“No, please, that will not be necessary. I don’t wish to interrupt their work. If you don’t mind giving me a tour of the castle, you can introduce me to everyone as we come upon them.”
That seemed to be the answer Mrs. Haskell wanted to hear, for her smile became more genuine. “Thank you, my lady. It would be a pleasure.”
Gwyneth spent the next several hours in the dawning realization that the castle was much larger than it had seemed but little was actually being used. There were roughly a dozen servants working inside, and most seemed nervous, as if they’d rather be anywhere else. But all were friendly enough once she smiled at them. She knew from personal experience that her cousin had not treated servants well. And then there was the rumor about Elizabeth’s death. How had such nonsense spread this far from London? It seemed suspicious to her.
Never once on her tour did she see Sir Edmund. She kept expecting to run into him when she turned a corner or held up a candle in a dark room, as if he were hiding from her. It was a foolish thought. Mrs. Haskell casually informed her that the master went about his estate duties every morning and usually returned for dinner, which he took alone.
“Alone?” Gwyneth asked, as they stood in the kitchen and watched the cook and scullery maids work.
“Though I shouldn’t be saying so,” Mrs. Haskell said in a low voice, “Sir Edmund is a private man, my lady, not given much to socializing.”
“But I have been told there’s a village nearby, and surely Castle Wintering’s tenants visit.”
The woman shook her head. “It is not done, my lady,” she said with finality in her voice.
Gwyneth couldn’t imagine not entertaining neighbors, especially when one had the means to do so. For a moment, she imagined her social cousin told she could not give parties. Surely that must have caused a huge problem in their marriage. She wished she understood her new husband, but that was not going to happen if they continued barely exchanging sentences—and not sharing a bed.
But dinner came and went, and she ate alone in the winter parlor, her husband’s private dining chamber. It was the first full day of her marriage, and she was trying not to feel alternately angry and confused at how Sir Edmund ignored her.
But she could only do her best as a wife, so after she finished eating, she found Mrs. Haskell in the pantry, where Gwyneth dodged strings of onions and garlic hung from the ceiling.
“Aye, my lady?” the housekeeper said as she looked up from counting barrels.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering who I should see about a tour of the rest of the estate.”
Frowning, Mrs. Haskell made a mark on the paper she was carrying, then glanced again at Gwyneth. “The old steward, Martin Fitzjames, would be the man I’d suggest, but I understand that Sir Geoffrey Drake will soon be taking over those duties.”
“Where would I find Mr. Fitzjames?”
“In the steward’s office. Ask Nell to guide you.”
But in the steward’s office, which was in a corridor off the great hall, she found an angry Mr. Fitzjames confronting Geoffrey. Mr. Fitzjames was a small, wiry man, with gray hair that circled his bald head like a horseshoe. Both men turned and stared at her when she knocked on the open door.
Gwyneth walked boldly into the room, though she felt anything but bold. “Hello, Geoffrey.” She turned to the other man. “And you must be Mr. Fitzjames.”
He subdued his anger enough to take her hand and bow briefly over it. “Lady Blackwell.”
“I’m looking for someone to guide me about the estate for the afternoon.”
Mr. Fitzjames jammed a cap on his head. “Since I am no longer the steward, it would be inappropriate, my lady. ’Twas nice meeting you.” After a heated glare at the other man, he skirted her and went out the door.
Gwyneth turned back to Geoffrey. “I hope my interruption did not make things worse.”
