“I know that. Are you telling me you rarely …” He waved his hand as a means of conveying the word he struggled to say.
“Yes. Rarely is the appropriate term.”
He searched her face, his gaze falling to her neck, slightly lower. “Was Lord Fernall blind or simply stupid?”
The indirect compliment caused a warm glow to flow through her. It felt as though someone had wrapped her cold and aching limbs in a blanket of soft, fluffy down. Though she tried to suppress it, the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.
“We were unsuited. I suppose he hoped that taking a younger bride would solve the little problem he had.” Samuel Fernall’s preferences in the bedchamber beggared belief. “Well, I speak of the problem he had when trying to perform under normal circumstances.”
Tristan’s quizzical stare turned menacing. “Please tell me he did not hurt you.”
Various images forced their way into her mind: the times Samuel begged her to pleasure herself whilst he watched from the shadows. His puffy, red face swollen in anger as the insults burst cruelly from his lips. Like an annoying fly, she could not quite bat the visions away. Had her heart been whole, had her confidence not been left in tatters, Samuel would have hurt her terribly.
“I was immune to his cutting remarks. I was immune to the humiliation any wife would have felt upon discovering her husband kept a house purely for his sordid little parties.”
Tristan glanced around the room. The frown marring his brow convinced her that he was perhaps more perceptive than she thought.
“Am I correct to assume you speak of this house?”
She swallowed another spoonful of broth and nodded. “I suspect he meant to torment me for his many failings. It is strange how men blame their own inadequacies on their wives. In forcing me to live here, he is still able to punish me even from beyond the grave.”
A tense silence filled the room.
After what felt like an eternity, Tristan stood abruptly. “Come. I believe the rain has stopped,” he said glancing out of the window. “Let
us take a walk as we are both in need of some air.”
“That is an excellent idea. There is something about this house I find quite suffocating.” She forced a smile. She needed a little light relief after the pressure of such heavy scrutiny. “I will give you a tour of the gardens. It will do us good to stretch our legs. And now we have warmed our bones I doubt we will be in danger of catching a chill.”
His curious gaze scanned her plain grey dress. “I will wait while you fetch your jacket.”
“I shall be fine in this,” she said tugging at her sleeve. “The material is far too thick for this time of year.”
She noticed his raised brow and knew another question was about to fall from his lips.
“I cannot help but notice you seem to prefer dressing in black or grey. The mourning period for your husband passed long ago. Does your subdued attire stem out of respect for Andrew?”
The question came as no surprise. He knew she once favoured bright colours: yellow ribbon on her bonnet, bright pink rosebuds embroidered on her shawl. She often made him wait while she picked vibrant flowers to fill the vase in her bedchamber.
“I do miss Andrew, but no. Over the years I suppose I grew accustomed to the drab colour.” She did not want him to know that, since their separation, she could not bear anything that reminded her of their time together. “And it is so easy to coordinate on a budget,” she added with a hint of amusement as he followed her into the drawing room and out through the doors leading to a small terrace.
He smiled at her last comment. “When we have found a plausible explanation for the strange happenings in the house, perhaps you should accompany me on a shopping expedition. We shall find material for a dress, something bold, something striking in a hue of rich golden yellow.”
It took every ounce of strength she had to hold the tears at bay. A year after Tristan had left, and in an act of defiance, she’d had a gown made in daffodil yellow. Although try as she might, she could not wear it. “I would like that,” she said, though her throat felt tight and it proved difficult to swallow.
They spent a few hours strolling in the garden. The sun made an appearance, the brilliant rays working to soothe away any tension. As they meandered through the avenues of sculptured topiary, he told her of the changes he wanted to make to the gardens at Kempston Hall.
“During my time at the monastery, I often spent time in the garth. With walls on every side, it forces you to stare up at the sky. The longer I sat there, the more my soul felt lighter, free.”
“So you would not plant shrubs?”
“No. I would do nothing to distract the eye.”
She led him to the walled garden, agreed that the roses did indeed draw one’s attention away from the vast blue canopy above. He persuaded her to pick the flowers from the beds, to be arranged in a crystal vase and placed in her room. They laughed over silly things, walked in companionable silence.
It was as though they had never been apart.
After dinner, they sat in the drawing room. He spoke of his wild escapades in France. Imagining him in his French lover’s arms had kept her awake at night many times over the years. Indeed, the thought plagued her even now.