Page 13 of The Trouble with a Dare

“No.”

Grace’s eyebrows flew up at that uncompromising statement. “No?”

He shook his head, terse and unhappy. “I may not have the manners of a gentleman, but I know enough that ladies do not labour. You’ll run my house and raise our children and occupy yourself with whatever amusements you see fit. You may visit with friends and decorate the house as you please, so you are not ashamed to bring them home either. The farm is my affair. I’ll not have my wife getting her hands dirty.”

Despite her gratitude to him for having saved her from ignominy, Grace bristled. Theirs was not a love match, and she was not foolish enough to harbour any remaining hopes of romance. Such idiocy was behind her now, but she had determined to be a partner to her husband, someone he could rely upon. As he was a farmer, it had been her intention to learn all that she could, so she might speak with him about his troubles and his ambitions with something approaching understanding. She had even dared to imagine he might wish to teach her himself, so it was with the greatest difficulty that she heard the farm was his affair and none of hers. She swallowed down her ire and held her tongue. They had been married more minutes than hours, and now was not the time to begin an argument. There would be time enough for those.

“I see,” was all she could manage in reply, the words tight and unhappy.

Sterling nodded and drove them on towards the farm.

Though he had invited her to visit, the events of the previous weeks had been such that Grace had never set foot inside of Thistley House Farm. She had seen it from a distance, and admired it too, for it was a fine old building, half-timbered with red brick and lime render. Built on a U shape, it had clearly been added to throughout the years. Tall brick chimneys struck up towards a blue sky studded with fluffy clouds that appeared a little like a child’s drawing of smoke puffing from each of the great flues. Set in the flat bottom of a small valley as if cradled in a giant hand, the land rose gently up around the farm on all sides. From their vantage point on the road above, they could see the entire estate of house and garden, farm buildings and yard, and the fields punctuated by neat hedges and fences, spiralling around the centre like a web about a spider.

“See that little cottage?” Sterling said, gesturing towards a tidy lime washed building with a low thatched roof. It was set apart from the farm, perhaps a five-minute walk from the front door. “That’s my mother’s now. I put her out of the house, or else you’d never have a moment’s peace. The only pity is she’s not farther away.”

Grace gaped at him. “Good heavens. No wonder she hates me.”

Sterling shook his head. “She would have hated you anyway.”

“Was that supposed to be comforting?” she asked tartly.

He shrugged. “As comforting as the truth ever is.”

Confounded, Grace subsided into silence.

The staff came out to greet them when they arrived at the front door and Grace was touched and not a little relieved by their reception. Sterling introduced her to his housekeeper, a short, sturdy woman of middling years called Mrs Gladwish, then three young housemaids, Janey, Ethel, and Bessie, all of whom greeted her prettily and with every outward show of warmth as they exclaimed and threw rice with enthusiasm.

The elder Mrs Oak, Grace realised anxiously, was notable for her absence.

“I expect you’re both famished, despite the wedding breakfast not being long since, for I don’t suppose you ate more than a drib. I know I didn’t when I married, though that was when Methuselah was a boy,” Mrs Gladwish chattered merrily as she guided the newlyweds inside the house, through a wide entrance hall and into the front parlour.

Grace looked about with interest, pleased to discover a lovely room with a low timbered ceiling and a huge inglenook fireplace. They had not made the best of its fine proportions, however, as it was rather spartan and plainly furnished. There were a few hard chairs and a loveseat by the fireplace, which was empty now as the weather was still mild, but would be welcome on winter evenings. A plain wool rug part covered the stone flags on the floor, and everything was clean and polished to a high shine.

Mrs Gladwish had set a low table by the loveseat and laid out fresh sliced bread and a plate of thick cut ham. Another plate piled high with scones—still warm from the oven, judging by the delicious aroma filling the room—sat beside a dish of golden butter, and another of thick clotted cream, with a pot of jam. A teapot sat under a jaunty knit cosy and cups and saucers were arranged ready for use.

“This looks delicious, Mrs Gladwish, thank you. Just what the doctor ordered,” Grace said, happy to see the older woman pinken with pleasure at her words. Hopefully, she had an ally there at least.

“Well, I’ll leave you to bide awhile. I expect you’ll be wanting to look over the house and so you just holler should you need me.” Mrs Gladwish bustled out and closed the door on them and suddenly Grace was alone with her husband. That was silly, she told herself sternly, for she’d been alone with Sterling this past hour and more and yet she’d not felt the fact quite as forcefully as she did now.

“You’d best sit down before you break your neck,” she said, trying to sound at ease and noticing how the low ceiling forced her husband to stoop. “This cannot be a comfortable room for you.”

Sterling sat. “I like it, though. Sitting down, least ways,” he added.

“It is charming,” Grace agreed. “I can imagine being very cosy and snug here on a winter’s night.”

To her astonishment, a tinge of colour rose high on Sterling’s cheeks at her words, and she looked hurriedly away to save his feeling awkward. Whatever had he been thinking about? Busying herself with the teapot, she poured out the tea, careful to pay attention to how he liked it.

“Should you like some bread and ham? It’s our own.”

Grace shook her head. “No, thank you, though I am sure it’s very good, but I shall try a scone. They smell divine.”

Sterling neatly broke one in two and set it on a plate for her before buttering two pieces of bread and filling it with several slices of thick ham. He devoured the whole in a few bites and set to making himself another one. Grace watched covertly as she buttered her scone. It must have been as Mrs Gladwish had suggested and he had also been too unsettled to eat. Was he anxious too? Was he fretting about the coming night as much as she was?

They ate in silence, tidy as a pair of bookends, careful not to touch despite the close quarters on the loveseat. At last, they had eaten their fill and there was no more tea in the pot. An odd, prickling atmosphere filled the room.

“Shall I show you about the house?”

Grace nodded emphatically. Anything to keep them occupied.