Page 45 of Wager for a Wife

Chapter 9

William spent the morning visitingthe tenant farms, accompanied by Matthew, whom he subsequently saw in a different light—with the eyes of a nobleman who had responsibilities and not as a boy looking for a father figure.

Matthew must have been but a young man when he began working at Farleigh Manor, for he appeared to be only of middle years now, not at all like Grimshaw, who looked as old as Methuselah and always had. Matthew was strong and capable, and William had always known him to be trustworthy. Today, he discovered that Matthew had been essentially acting as steward, as there had been no one else to take on the task once the prior steward had absconded. Unbeknownst to William, Matthew had received a fairly decent education as a youth—he could read and write and add columns of numbers with impressive competence, and he also had a keen eye and creative mind when it came to the estate and what was needed to make it prosperous once again. He also knew all the tenants well—those who had remained—and had a good working relationship with them.

William had no difficulty offering the job to him. “Sadly, Matthew, I cannot dismiss you from your responsibilities as groundskeeper just yet,” he said when they completed their tour. “I am asking you to do both for the time being, and for the same pay you currently receive, which I presume has been next to nothing for the past while. But I believe that between the two of us—with help from Samuel and the others—we can, over time, return Farleigh Manor to a state of respectability, at the very least.”

Matthew shook William’s hand and agreed with enthusiasm to the pathetic offer he’d been given. It was a great relief. Then William said goodbye to everyone and left Farleigh Manor for London, knowing there was someone in charge of the estate while he was gone, someone he trusted to see to its best interests and those of the people there.

It had been a busy and instructive morning, and William had arisen early to make sure he had time to assess everything. He should be tired, especially as he had a long ride back to London, but the glimpses of hope he’d had at Farleigh Manor had given him a sense of optimism and a renewed sense of energy.

Were it not for the mortgages on the property, Farleigh Manor could be thriving, albeit modestly, within four or five years.

Were it not for the mortgages, he could—and would—release Louisa from the vowel. He was not mercenary by nature. He had no driving need to be vastly wealthy, well connected, or highly esteemed by his peers beyond being recognized as a decent and honorable man—the opposite of what his father had been. He’d been happy enough in Edinburgh, where he had been able to sit at the feet of some of the greatest minds in both Scotland and England and hear and even discuss their ideas on engineering, economy, medicine, law, and the like. But life could not be as it had been. There was no going back.

William liked to think that even as a penniless, unknown viscount, he could have endured the Season and the London marriage mart and found a bride, perhaps even in short order. It would have been possible, even probable. Under normal circumstances, he would never have considered forcing a young lady into marriage against her will.

But any other young lady would not have been Louisa.

He had told her he would escort her to Vauxhall this evening, and he intended to keep his word. He was finding himself drawn to her more and more, to her openness of speech and expression. It beguiled him, and yet he was also uneasy about it. Sharing so much of one’s self was a prelude to disappointment and betrayal and hurt, in his experience. And yet it seemed he couldn’t resist the pull of it, or her either. He reminded himself again that he had not forced Louisa into this betrothal. He had given her a choice.

If only he could believe what he was telling himself.

He arrived back in London with the barest amount of time to wash and dress before taking a hackney to Ashworth House. The Marquess of Ashworth had offered his carriage since he and the marchioness were to accompany them as chaperones. William took a deep breath as he approached the front door and then stopped on the threshold to straighten his clothing and smooth his demeanor before rapping the knocker on the door. The butler greeted him formally and showed him to the sitting room, where the others were already awaiting his arrival.

“Ah, you’re here,” the marquess said, rising to his feet and shaking William’s hand. “When Louisa told us of your quick trip to Buckinghamshire, I wasn’t sure you’d arrive back in time.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” William replied. He turned to the ladies. “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Ashworth, Louisa.”

Both ladies returned his greeting, but he immediately sensed that something was off in Louisa’s demeanor, that she seemed subdued despite smiling when she’d greeted him. What could have caused it? He’d been gone only a day, and they had parted on excellent terms, if her response to his kiss had been any indication. Her request that he be more forthcoming with her had been agreeably made, and he had promised he would be—as much as he dared, he’d silently added to himself. Had she regretted the kiss, then? He hoped not; he wanted to kiss her again.

Within a few minutes, they were all in the carriage and on their way to Vauxhall. Conversation was polite and dealt mostly with the weather, which had been unusually fine and was this evening as well. Lord Ashworth asked him about Buckinghamshire in general terms. They eventually arrived at their destination, yet it seemed to William that the carriage ride must have surely taken longer than his ride into London this afternoon, so impatient was he to spend time alone with Louisa.

She had said nothing during the entire journey.

“Have you been to Vauxhall Gardens before?” he asked her while he assisted her from the carriage.

“No, and I am excited to be here. I’ve heard such fascinating stories,” she said distractedly. She seemed anything but excited, from William’s point of view—at least not in the way he typically expected her to be.

It was full dark by the time they arrived, and the hundreds of lamps that hung in the trees and elsewhere—and that Vauxhall was famous for—spilled their light, creating a fantasy world of illumination and shadow. William took in the surroundings. The faintest of orchestral melodies occasionally broke through the murmur of the guests. The trees and flowers gave up their earthy scents and mingled with the perfumes of London’s elite.

“Oh my,” Louisa exclaimed as she looked about her. “It is even better than I could have imagined.”

Perhaps the atmosphere of the gardens would restore her to her usual self, William thought hopefully. Perhaps he’d only been imagining things. One did not have to be effusive every minute of the day and night, after all, and certainly Louisa was no exception.

They walked onward, down the tree-lined avenue toward the orchestra building. The marquess and marchioness had gone on ahead of them, greeting friends and peers, and were soon lost in the crowds of people who had come to take in the amusements the garden had to offer. They had arranged to meet in an hour’s time at the supper box the marquess had reserved.

William recognized very few people, only those he’d met since returning after his father’s death. Louisa walked beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, and introduced him to her acquaintances as they passed. He doubted he would remember any of their names, but then, he doubted Louisa would be able to call any of them to mind if he asked her, so detached she seemed from the conversations taking place around her.

She was most certainly not herself. There was no use pretending. He needed to discover what had upset her.

They continued on down the grand avenue and into the heart of Vauxhall Gardens.

* * *

Louisa relied upon years of training to smile and converse and introduce William to her acquaintances as they strolled toward the orchestra building. She could barely put names to faces or even recall what anyone—including herself—had said.

She’d hardly slept a wink last night after Lord Kerridge had spoken to her at the theater. She had gone through the conversation so many times during the night that she knew it by heart and could recall every expression on Lord Kerridge’s face. She was exhausted—and not merely from lack of sleep. Her entire being felt at war with itself, a myriad questions demanding answers until her head throbbed.

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