Page 33 of A Gentleman's Wife

Chapter Sixteen

Marianne collapsed into a kitchen chair with a sigh. “What a day!”

Eliza and Mrs. Bamber let out confirming sounds of exhaustion.

Monsieur Dupont chuckled from his station at the stove. “Bravo, madame. Your persistence in spreading kindness among the village will not go unnoticed.”

Her intent hadn’t been to be noticed or recognized at all. What had started out as a simple desire to help with the final apple picking in the orchard resulted in too many for the kitchen, so Marianne had the idea to create baskets and to distribute them throughout the village. Even with her one hand, it was something she could do and was grateful for a way to participate and help. What she hadn’t expected was the kindness and goodness of the people they’d visited who invited her in for a visit. Others perhaps hadn’t had time, but profusely thanked her for the invite to the ball and were looking forward to the event.

Though the exertion had left her ragged, her heart was full and her mind was distracted, which was all she could have wanted. Even days later, the uneasiness from Thomas’s confession still lingered. She tried not to think on it, busying herself with preparations for the ball, but the dread built in her stomach whether she wanted it or not. She would meet her husband’s first love, along with the responsibility of hosting the ball, all while worrying about her hand or her illness being discovered. Though she did not enjoy constantly hiding herself and living in fear, she would not allow anything to discredit Thomas’s name, not when he’d done so much for her already. And it was so much to take on, but she had to prove that she was equal to the task. That she was enough to be a gentleman’s wife.

“Shall I draw you a hot bath, madam?” Eliza asked, standing and ready to move.

“No. Please rest yourself. I think I shall simply enjoy a book in the library until dinner.”

Eliza nodded, seating herself again. “As you wish.”

Standing, Marianne thanked them all for their assistance and left the kitchen, walking through the quiet corridors of Primrose House. She didn’t know where her husband was, but she hurried past his study, just in case. It had been a lovely day for delivering baskets, but the temperatures had turned and she was certain that more rain would come, leaving Thomas to worry over the tenants’ crops and the potential flooding problem from the rain. Surely he would be out trying to solve their problems, because he was a good landlord and a good man.

How this countess of his had failed to see that and turned him down was unfathomable.

Marianne opened the doors to the library and took in the scent of books, letting it pour over her and settle her nerves. Books had become her old friends through the years, one of the few things she’d been allowed access to in her father’s house, but at times, they were not enough. She wanted more than what she found on printed pages. Her mind had plenty to occupy, but it was her body that needed activity, and so often, it was the one thing that limited her.

This room had already become familiar to her, knowing just how things were organized and where to look for specific stories to read. Lately, she’d found herself gravitating away from sonnets and comedies and more toward the tragedies and gothics. The lightheartedness of romances seemed too optimistic for her delicate heart at the moment, and she couldn’t allow herself room to hope for anything beyond her current situation. Especially when the woman who’d had Thomas’s affections for so long was going to be in her own home within a matter of days.

Grabbing a leatherbound copy of Hamlet, Marianne huffed and took her seat in the bay window. It looked over the country path they had taken on their horseback ride, which made her close her eyes at the thought. He was so good and kind, but the nagging voice in the back of her mind continuously reminded her that there was a good chance, despite his promising words, that Thomas was probably still in love with someone else.

Leaning her head back against the wall, the physical fatigue won over, and her ability to put off the discouraging thoughts disappeared.

The countess was likely a beautiful woman. Entirely perfect and physically whole, with two working hands and a mind that didn’t unexpectedly collapse into darkness. Thomas might say he was grateful to be away from the snake of a woman who had hurt him, but surely upon seeing her again, he would regret his own wife and remember what it was like to have a woman without physical flaw.

Alone in the library, Marianne let the tears flow silently down her cheeks. This was a familiar pain, the knowledge of being unwanted. She wanted to believe his parting words:You are my wife, not her, and I’m grateful every day for it.

But life experience had taught her though people may promise one thing, when confronted with having their own needs met, they would pursue their own best interests instead. She didn’t want to think so of Thomas, but he was human. And a tender man like him, having suffered a broken heart, would no doubt be susceptible to the same fate.

As the sadness unfurled in her body, the expected tightness curled her right arm. Using her left hand, she clutched the cramping arm to her chest and took a deep breath before exhaling. It was all she could do until it passed.

“Marianne?”

Thomas’s voice in the doorway made her freeze. Trying discreetly to wipe at her cheeks, she realized there was no hiding her current state. In her blurred vision, she watched him walk swiftly across the library and set his hands on her arms.

“Are you in pain?” he asked with urgent softness.

“Yes.” Marianne’s somber tone denoted as much, though she did not specify what kind of pain. For truthfully, she’d rather suffer arm cramps and epileptic fits for the rest of her life than feel the current ache in her heart.

“Should I call the doctor? Can I do anything to help?” The dark brown of his eyes was pleading, desperate.

“No, I don’t need Mr. Sanders. Though perhaps the salve on my nightstand…”

He was gone to the door in an instant, pointing to a servant in the corridor. “You there, run and find Miss Eliza and have her bring the salve from her mistress’s bedchamber.”

Then just as quickly he returned, sitting opposite of Marianne in the bay window. He moved carefully so as not to touch her, but reached out his hand and paused, as if wanting to.

“What is it? The ball?”

Marianne quirked her lips. It was not the ball, just one element of it: the countess. Marianne had actually discovered a great sense of accomplishment in preparing to host such an event, and as he’d told her should be the case, she found herself looking forward to it. But knowing one particular woman would be present had proved all the contrary now, because of what she symbolized: Thomas’s heart. Marianne wanted that more than anything.

“No,” she finally whispered. “I simply overworked myself today. I should be able to rest and recover in plenty of time before the ball.”

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