Page 73 of Harpy of the Ton
“What did you want to say to me?” she asked.
May God forgive me.
He kissed her knuckles again.
“Thank you,” he said. “I wanted to say thank you.”
She smiled again and blinked, slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue. He placed his hand on her forehead, caressing the skin with his fingertips.
“Sleep now, love.”
She closed her eyes and her chest rose and fell in a sigh. Moments later, her body settled into the quiet rhythm of sleep.
So—he could add cowardice to his list. A blackguard and a coward.
But he could, at least, show himself to be a better man than the Duke of Dunton.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bella poured waterinto the teapot, then set it aside to brew while she slid into her seat at the kitchen table.
Her limbs ached, and her palms itched.
Today had been wash day. Her palms always itched after wash day, despite the salve Sophie gave her. It was her least favorite day of the week—if any day could be calledfavorite, given that from Monday to Saturday they were much the same. She rose before dawn and set the fire in the range—fighting back the wave of terror that gripped her as the flames danced around the coals. Then she dressed the children, before the endless cycle of cooking and cleaning began, snatching a few minutes’ rest where she could indulge in a little embroidery—something she’d discovered she had a talent for—before they returned in the evening demanding to be fed, followed by more cleaning, until finally she dropped onto the sofa, welcoming the oblivion of sleep.
Except Sunday.
On Sundays, she was permitted a little respite. She rose later than usual because her husband brought her a pot of tea in the parlor—which, as he never hesitated to remind her, made him more considerate than other husbands. He then disappeared outside to tend to the kitchen garden, after which he returned inside to don his best suit before waiting in the parlor while Bella helped the children put on their best clothes. Then they set offfor church to be preached to on the merits of wholesome living, the benefit of hard toil, and the rewards to be gained in heaven for the morally virtuous.
Reverend Gleeson loved to lecture on the benefits of moral virtuosity, during which he’d tilt his head and stare out at the congregation over his glasses. His gaze would wander about the church, settling occasionally on a congregant, as if his words on morality had been uttered for their benefit.
Each time his gaze settled on Bella, her cheeks flamed, as if betraying her guilt. But for what, she couldn’t fathom. Memories of her past remained resolutely out of reach—save the occasional flare of terror that gripped her each time she tended to the fire. An accident she’d sustained as a child, her husband said. As to the rest of her life—her marriage, her children—at times, a memory pushed into her mind, only to recede again.
All she knew was that she’d had a tendency to wander about, a reputation that the village gossips relished. Mrs. Chantry, that poisonously pious woman at the school, had called her ahussy.
Which would have made her laugh had it not been the opposite of the truth. Wasn’t a hussy supposed to have intimate relations with all manner of men?
She didn’t even have relations with her husband—not that she recalled whatrelationswere, or whether she enjoyed them. Other than kissing her—and what a kiss that was; she could still recall the wicked warmth pulsing in her center—he barely touched her.
In short, he didn’twanther. Which made the envious glances from the women in the village all the more unjustified.
Envy, according to Reverend Gleeson, was a sin that women had a greater propensity for. Women, with their restricted lives and limited intellect, were tempted to look beyond their world, into the lives of others. In his view—which, according to him,was also the Almighty’s view—a woman could only achieve redemption if she accepted her lot.
How she wanted to stand up and declare his pontifications to be nonsense! They were words spoken by men to subjugate women. But the other women in the congregation—except perhaps Sophie, Bella’s only friend—nodded their bonneted heads, thereby perpetuating their fate, and the fate of their daughters.
Which was why Roberta’s unruliness was something to be celebrated, despite what that hag Mrs. Chantry said about the girl.
Bella glanced across the kitchen table at the daughter she still had no recollection of, save the past month. Roberta pulled a face, and, with a sigh, Bella lifted the lid from the pot, releasing the aroma of lamb stew.
Her husband leaned forward and frowned.
“There’s not much there, Bella, love. We don’t want to be seen as poor hosts.”
She gritted her teeth. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have invited Mr. Ryman for supper if you didn’t want to be seen as a poor host.”
“It reflects on you, love, seein’ as you’re the woman. Couldn’t you have added more potatoes?”
“I’ve had much to do today, Lawrence,” she said. “You’re lucky I’ve had time to cook anything, given the state of those trousers of yours—they’ll have to be soaked for days.”
