Varden's Lady Page 9

  He almost smiled. “You may."

  Sniffling again, she faced him, but didn't come so much as one step out of the corner. She hugged her nightgown to her, smoothing the fabric down over all the appropriate places and eyed him warily. And waited. Finally, she said, “Aren't you going to leave?"

  "Not until after we've had our little walk in the garden. It was important enough for you to earn a sound spanking over, have you changed your mind?"

  She gave him the most incredulous look. “I wouldn't go anywhere with you if you were the last man—the last creature—on the face of this planet!"

  He did smile at that, though admittedly it was a small smile. “Would you like to go for our walk dressed, or as you are? You have one minute to decide, because in one minute your hand will be on my arm and we will be walking out that door as husband and loving—” he bit out the word as if it were a rotten morsel against his tongue, “—dutiful wife."

  Claire blinked at him several times, biting her lip in consternation before finally clearing her throat. “Okay. I'll get dressed."

  "Good.” He waited.

  She blushed. “Do you have to watch me?"

  As though he had not seen everything she had to offer multiple times in this last half hour. “We have been married seven years. I have seen your body many times."

  There it went: her chin tilting up in that stubborn angle of hers. “Yes, well, not since I've been in it.” She motioned with one hand. “Please turn around."

  Varden snorted. “And give you the opportunity to stick your knife in my back?"

  "Absolutely. I've got one hidden in my hair right now.” Though her voice held the proper degree of sarcasm, the look on her face told him the idea definitely held merit.

  After a moment's pause, Varden stood up and reluctantly turned his back to her. And found himself looking straight into the mirror. A wolfish smirk turned up the corners of his mouth. It was a look that Claire missed entirely since she'd turned her attention to her nightgown. Unaware of his wandering gaze, she was struggling to unfasten the dozens of tiny hooks that lined the back. She sniffled and swiped at her eyes again, then bent slightly to catch the sunlight from the window and better see the hooks.

  "How does this silly thing open?” She muttered, turning the gown over in her hands. “Grete does it every day. I know these come undone."

  Varden was about to tell her the task required a hooked needle when she gave up entirely. She turned the gown upside-down and crawled into it from the bottom, squeezing her head past the collar with all the hooks still linked. She winced as the fabric settled down over her hips, and indulged in a gentle caress to her very tender bottom.

  She froze when she saw his reflection watching her unabashedly in the mirror. Her face flushed almost as red as the cheeks beneath her hand.

  "You peeked,” she accused. “You're not only a beater of defenseless women, you're a peeping tom!"

  She was embarrassed, angry, and was nursing a well-spanked bottom. He'd let her get away with that one. Smugly, he said, “I'll get your wrap."

  "I'm not cold."

  "Getting out of bed is bad enough. I don't want you falling victim to pneumonia before I gain my full measure of vengeance.” And besides, he could afford to be magnanimous; he still had his dignity. He wasn't even going to tell her the nightgown was inside out. He was enjoying himself too much.

  He retrieved a green cloak and a pair of soft shoes from her armoire. As he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, his hands lingered next to her skin.

  She pulled away. “Don't do that."

  "Do what?” he snapped. Even knowing that she would rebuke his attempt at kindness, it still rankled and stretched his patience that much thinner. “Don't take care of you?"

  "Be nice to me,” she snapped back. “Don't you dare be nice to me and make me think we're going to be friends. Not after beating me and putting soap in my mouth! And making me stand in the corner like I'm five years—"

  "Do you really want me to beat you?” Varden demanded, interrupt her tirade before it could really get started. “Do you? I've never had much of a stomach for men who treated their wives with such ill regard. But with you I think I might learn to like it."

  Claire swallowed hard. By the look on her face, it was clear she thought him capable of such violence, and that irritated him even more.

  "Sit down,” he ordered angrily.

  She sat in the very chair he had spanked her on, groaning piteously the instant her tender flesh made contact with the hard wooden seat. She closed her eyes against a fresh wave of tears.

  Varden drew a deep breath and held it. He counted to twenty, forcing himself to soften as he knelt before her. “In all the years that we have been married, with all the provocation that you have given me, have I ever once taken my fists to you, Claire?"

  "Mallory,” she whispered, so softly that at first he almost didn't hear her.

  "What did you say?"

  In a slightly louder voice, she repeated, “My name is Mallory."

  He grit his teeth. Grabbing her ankle in his combat-roughened hands, Varden began to force the slippers onto her feet.

  "Ow.” Claire cringed, almost pulling her foot from his hand. When he persisted, she settled for grabbing her knee with both hands. “Ow, Varden! You've got it on the wrong foot!"

  "You never had these slippers tailored to your feet, Claire. If you'll recall, you said it would ruin them."

  Taking the slippers from his hands, she turned them upside down to look at the bottoms. “No wonder it hurts. And they're too small, too!"

  As she rubbed her toes with ill-concealed relief, Varden sat back on his heels. Since when did she complain of physical discomfort when modern fashion was at stake? She had worn these slippers a dozen times and never once said a word. “You swore those shoes were the absolute vogue, worn by every fashionable lady in all of England and even France. You stood in the middle of Madame Bell's dress shop, pitching a tantrum like a spoiled child, and shouting that if you could not have these slippers then you would go barefoot."

  "It wasn't me, I guarantee it.” Glancing up, she caught him scowling at her. “But they're too small! Maybe her feet have grown since you bought them for her."

  "It has been less than two years. Your feet have long since ceased to grow."

  "I guess I brought my own with me then, because the shoes don't fit!” She dropped them on the floor and rubbed her toes.

  "I buy you the slippers and you go barefoot anyway?” he asked in a low, dangerous tone.

  "My nightgown drags the floor,” she protested. “Who's going to notice if I wear shoes or not? For that matter, who's going to care? Everyone thinks I'm loony-toons anyway."

  "Fine.” Varden snatched up the slippers and stood. He towered over her, both his countenance and his mood as dark as midnight. “Go without."

  Shifting gingerly in her chair, a worried look on her face, Claire relented. “If it's going to start World War Three, I'll wear the stupid shoes."

  "World War Three?” He glared at her.

  "Oh, that's right. You haven't had a world war yet. Hey, are the Crusades over?"

  "Of all the idiotic—” Muttering under his breath, Varden flung the slippers back into the bottom of the wardrobe. He didn't mind the extra walk across the room. It got him away from her and the senseless chatter that made him want to beat his head against something solid, preferably the nearest stone wall. Bracing his hands on his hips, he faced her again. “What do you want, Claire? What exactly is this lunacy supposed to get you?"

  "A second chance.” Unable to bear sitting another moment, she stood up. A sulky frown tugged at the corners of her mouth as she pressed a hand to her hips. “Don't ask me why. At this point I'm having a hard time remembering my exact reasons for wanting to come back."

  "Mallory.” Varden growled. “A dead woman from the future—not to mention an undeveloped continent—come back to life in my wife's body?"

  "You make it sound
so improbable when you say it like that."

  "No, not at all. It happens all the time here, actually."

  She sighed. “There's that sarcasm I've grown to love."

  "What killed you?” Varden asked suddenly.

  "A car."

  "Which is what?"

  "A very fast carriage that doesn't need horses to move."

  "Let me guess—it flies, too."

  "No, that's a plane."

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and laughed. It was not a happy sound.

  Shaking her head, Claire said, “I probably wouldn't have believed me, either."

  She tugged at the skirt of her nightgown. Not only was it inside out, but it was also backwards.

  Varden half-expected her to admit defeat right then. For a moment, it was there on her face—the realization that he didn't believe a word she had said and probably never would. For a moment, a fleeting triumph surfaced above his anger. But then she squared her shoulders and that momentary defeat was abruptly replaced with solemn-eyed, chin-jutting determination.

  "Have it your way then.” Hands on hips, she squared off against him. “Believe whatever you want. But I have a new body and a new life. The next time I die, I'm going to be ready for it. No regrets and no missed opportunities. I don't think that makes me crazy, but if that's what it takes for you to accept me, then fine. I'm a nut!"

  She turned and marched to the nearest wall. Reaching for a painting of two dancing lovers, she tipped it sharply to one side.

  "Ha!” she barked at him. “How's that for crazy?"

  Varden watched her walk through the room tipping portraits, lifting chairs on tables and up-ending vases regardless of whether or not they were empty. It was a blazing show of defiance, one that had him caught between the urge to laugh at her foolishness and an even stronger urge to turn her across his knee again. When she finally reached the hall, she cast him a furious backwards glare and swept right out the door.

  Varden looked at the slanted dancers. Stepping back, he tipped his head at an angle to match. It almost looked better this way. He was half-tempted to leave it, but propriety got the best of him. Returning the lovers to their proper position, he decided that he should, for the good of all Cadhla, chase down his errant wife before she got herself into any real trouble. Thankfully, Claire had not gotten far. Less than twenty feet from her bedroom door, turning first one way and then the other, she looked utterly confused, as if she didn't know the castle that had been her home since she was a girl of seventeen.

  To Varden, the disruption of her chambers and all talk of twentieth-century dead women aside, as far as true insanity went, this seemed only too real.

  She looked both left and right, then wandered across the hall to poke her head into another room. “Okay, I give up. How do we get to the garden from here?"

  Varden thumbed in the opposite direction. “That way."

  "You should post some signs here. Big You-Are-Here maps with a huge red ‘x’ to show where we are.” As if she were nothing less than the Queen, Claire straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and marched off down the hall. “How am I supposed to know the way out? As if I've ever been here before."

  Varden silently fell into step behind her. He would trip her up in this charade if it killed him. He would have to be more careful, though. She almost had him believing her confusion was real.

  * * * *

  Supper that night was a depressing event. There was nothing quite like a family that despised one another, all sitting down together. The dining hall was as dark as a tomb despite the multitude of candles that lined the table and walls, and the darkness made the silence all the more oppressive.

  A line of servants filed in from the kitchen, each bearing a silver serving tray laden with mutton, rabbit, slices of beef, cheese and bread, spiced pudding and a thick pottage. They approached the table. Sixty feet in length and made of oak, it dominated the dining hall and yet, strangely, was far too small for each of the four diners, who could not get far enough away from one other.

  The serving procession began with Varden, who sat at the head of the table with the giant-sized portrait of his father high on the wall behind him. Abigail was next, thirty feet down the right side of the table, where she had moved her chair to a place beside Godfrey's. Another ten feet further down on the left side, Doctor Wilcox sat surrounded by his textbooks, which he studied attentively throughout the meal to spare him from having to contribute to any conversation that might accidentally spring into being before etiquette allowed him to excuse himself.

  Claire's end of the table was vacant, as it had been every night for the last seven months. Throughout the travesty of a family meal, Varden found his eyes wandering back to it time and again. Which wasn't odd, he supposed, since all he had to do was stare straight down the table. Certainly, it was preferable to looking down either side.

  After having spent the better part of the afternoon with his wife, Varden was ready to admit defeat. Either she was a better actress than he had given her credit for, or she really had lost her mind. Right now, he was leaning heavily towards the latter. After the first hour, between all her talk of plastics and Velcro, the Women's Movement, and escalators, he was convinced that something about her just felt ... wrong.

  As if on cue, Abigail asked, “How soon can we expect the harlot back amongst us?"

  Varden paused in the middle of cutting into a slice of beef. “I assume by that you mean my wife?"

  "Are we housing more than one whore these days?"

  He bent back over his plate. To protest against Abigail was the epitome of uselessness. He decided to save his breath for an argument that he had at least a small chance of winning. “She will remain sequestered until I decide otherwise."

  Abigail seemed pleasantly surprised. “You must truly believe her mad, then."

  "After four hours in her company, I was ready to question my own sanity. However, for now at least, I am considering the possibility that she may not be pretending."

  "No need to bother with that.” Abigail unfolded her napkin in her lap before picking up her spoon. “Even if she is only pretending, I am sure Bedlam could be persuaded to take her. For a small donation, of course."

  Varden lifted his cup of wine and drank all that was left in the glass. His first for the evening. He could already tell it wasn't going to be enough. “I have made my decision. There will be no institute."

  "We certainly cannot keep her here,” Abigail scoffed, spreading her hands. “You aren't blind, Varden. Even you can see she is destroying this family. After all we have been through, how can you not send her away?"

  "To where?” Varden countered. “And don't say Bedlam again. She is not an unfortunate. I will not have her locked naked in a cell with her head shaven to endure being gawked upon by learned doctors and morbid-minded onlookers."

  Abigail hardly bothered to stifle her sigh of exasperation. “A pity."

  "So where do you expect me to send her?"

  "Well, you do have a small holding in Wales. Life among those drudges would be perfect for her, I should think."

  "Wales is far enough away for you?” he asked dryly.

  "No.” Abigail stirred her soup with her spoon. “But it is the most miserable place I can think of. A big, drafty castle with slovenly servants, no luxuries, and residing so far away from the nearest town as to be a country of its own. If you don't approve of Wales, then give me a little time. I am sure I could come up with some place worse."

  "The colonies, perhaps,” Godfrey suggested, between bites.

  Abigail brightened with a rare smile. “Splendid idea!"

  Varden glared. “You have become spiteful in your dotage."

  "After so many years dealing with your father—and now you—spite is all I have left.” She looked pointedly at the portrait hanging behind Varden. “Left up to me, I would take that thing down and burn it in the courtyard."

  "My father was a good and honorable man,”
Varden said.

  "Who had the nerve to suffer heart failure in that brothel, so don't paint him out to be a paragon of virtue!” Abigail snapped. She suddenly dropped her spoon in the soup. “This slop is barely fit for pigs; the only thing you can taste is the grease! Godfrey, dear, remind me to be rid of Claire's fat French chef the minute this Jezebel issue is decided. Perhaps we can make due with a woman from the village until I can send to London for a decent replacement."

  Varden slammed his cup down on the table. It took all his will to keep from shouting. “This is not now—nor has it ever been—your decision to make! I will decide what is to be done with Claire. I will decide whether or not that ‘fat French chef’ will continue to cook in my kitchens. And if you cannot refer to her by her name or title, then you need not refer to her at all! Is that clear?"

  The Dowager drew herself up stiffly. She turned her head away. “I wish to change the subject."

  "By all means,” Godfrey agreed, patting her withered hand. “I know. Shall we discuss how many drunken lords have claimed the right to lead this family? Who was the last one, Mother?"

  "Your father,” Abigail said coldly.

  "Ah, that's right. Too much liqueur, too many mistresses, and not enough money to support all of his many bad habits."

  "I have a better idea,” Varden interrupted, his voice carrying loudly through the hall. “Let us discuss how soon you will be leaving. How about tomorrow morning?"

  "Varden!” Abigail slapped the table with her open hand. “How rude! Just like your father was. You have always been just like your father!"

  She opened her mouth to say more, but the door to the outer hall burst open and the hysterical wet-nurse ran in, screaming, “The Crazy Duchess ‘as the baby! She's ‘urting ‘im, she is! Somebody do something a-fore she kills ‘im!"

  The servants—trained to move like ghosts, heedless to what was said around them—stopped in the midst of clearing away the soup and stared. Varden was the first to move, nearly knocking the wet-nurse down in his haste to get past her and out the dining room door.

  "With any luck, she shall succeed,” Abigail said to no one in particular. “It would solve a good many problems."