“Did you find everything to your satisfaction when you visited the attic, my dear?”
She looked up to find him staring directly at her.
“She’s sleeping,” she said.
“I thought as much,” he replied. “Laudanum is very effective when needed.”
“Yes, husband,” Meggie said, sipping her soup. “And there was much need of it today.”
He frowned but did not respond. When he finished his soup, he set his spoon down, and the footman rushed forward to clear his place.
“May I ask whether the maidservant…”
“Milly,” Meggie interrupted. “Her name’s Milly. You should at least remember the name of the girl you thrashed.”
“It wasn’t my hand on the whip.”
“No, you left that for others to ease your conscience.”
He flinched and picked up his wineglass. “I don’t regret my decision,” he said. “She would have known that her behavior warranted such a punishment. Worse, in fact. Any master worth his salt would be within his rights to have her dismissed immediately.”
“Then why don’t you?” she cried.
“Because I’m not a monster,” he said quietly. “I’m not so devoid of feeling that I cannot see how much it hurts you to see another suffer as a result of your actions.”
“Nobody should suffer for the crimes of another,” Meggie said.
“But they often do.”
“Did you see the marks on her back?” Meggie asked. “She’s barely out of childhood, yet she was lashed as if she were a man!”
“That cannot be right,” he said. “I told Billings to ensure that…” he trailed off and drained his glass, motioning to the footman to refill it.
“How long will she have to lie on her stomach?” Meggie cried. “The skin on her might be ruined! The pain—the humiliation…” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. “You cannot possibly know how she suffers.”
“I do know, Margaret,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”
“How can you? You have no understanding of the feelings of others!”
He slammed his glass on the table. “Do not presume to know what I do, or do not, understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “I know that with each lash, it’s like your body’s on fire. You tell yourself you’ll survive by counting the strokes, that the pain will reach a point where it cannot get worse. But it does get worse. Then you pray that the skin won’t break—and when it does, it’s like your whole body is being sliced open with knives. After the tenth lash, you pray for oblivion, for the relief it will give you from the pain. But it does not come, so you bite your tongue and taste the blood, hoping that it lessens the pain on your back. Then you hear the laughter—the triumph of the hand on the whip—when you realize that you’ve been reduced to mere flesh for the entertainment of others.”
He closed his eyes, as if reliving a memory, then opened them again. Their color had deepened to that of a midnight sky.
“Only then,” he said, “do you realize there’s only one place where you can find sanctuary. In that moment, you pray for death.”
Before she could respond, the footman returned with the entrée. Her husband smoothed his expression into the emotionless mask he usually wore. He remained silent for the rest of the meal, speaking only to the servants as they milled about, clearing the plates.
As soon as the meal was over, she drew back her chair and stood.
“Will you excuse me?” she asked. “I’m tired and wish to go.”
“Of course,” he replied. “You do not need to ask permission.”
She opened her mouth to make a retort but stopped herself. Though his expression was impassive, she saw the pain in his eyes.
He nodded to the footman, who rushed toward the door and held it open. As she walked through, she heard his voice.
“Good night, my dear.”
Before retiring, Meggie climbed up to the attic room. Milly’s expression had softened, and she slept peacefully. As Meggie left, she almost bumped into Sarah.
“Oh, ma’am!” Sarah bobbed a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Have you come to tend to Milly?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sarah replied. “Master’s orders. He said I was to come straight here after seeing to your room.”
“My room?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was most particular.”
What transgressions had Meggie committed in her room which her husband had ordered Sarah to rectify?
Sarah bobbed another curtsey, and Meggie retired to her bedchamber.
A fire burned brightly in her room. Meggie had always lit it herself, using the logs sparingly, but someone had placed a full complement of logs on the fire, which hissed and crackled, illuminating the room with a comforting glow. The flowers, which had begun to droop, had been replaced with fresh ones, and the scent of spring blooms filled the air.
Meggie pulled off her gown and undergarments, then searched for her nightshift.
It was missing.
She sighed in frustration. It wasn’t the most elegant garment, but it was hers, and he had no right to take it from her.
She drew back the bedsheet.
A warming pan had been placed in the center of the bed and her nightgown neatly folded on top. She picked it up and held it against her face, absorbing the warmth. Then she put it on and slipped inside the bed. Heat penetrated her feet, and, for the first time, her toes weren’t numb with cold.
Her husband was capable of kindness, even if he were incapable of expressing it overtly.
As she was drifting off to sleep, she heard footsteps. Recognizing her husband’s confident gait, she sat up. The footsteps slowed, and a shadow appeared under the crack at the bottom of her door. She waited, holding her breath, and watched the door handle. It seemed to shift, the candlelight reflecting off the brass, but then the shadow moved, and the footsteps faded away.
She sank back into the pillows and rolled onto her side. At first, relief washed over her. After today, the thought of intimacy with the stern, forbidding man she’d married terrified her. But a voice in her mind whispered of the pleasures he’d given her—of how he’d made her body shatter with ecstasy.
She closed her eyes to shut out her disappointment. Had he tired of her already?
Or was he waiting for their guests to arrive so that he could resume his affair with Elizabeth?
Tears stung her eyes, but this time they were not tears of pain or anger. But of rejection. He might not hate her, but he saw her as nothing more than a charity case he’d been burdened with.
His gesture had not been one of kindness but of pity.
Chapter Nineteen
Where the devil was she now? It was almost eight o’clock, and there was no sign of her. Was she sleeping late to avoid him?
Dexter pushed aside the plate of eggs, untouched. Last night’s outburst had killed his appetite. What on earth had possessed him to speak of the thrashing Alderley had administered on his nine-year-old back? To reveal his pain—his weakness—to her?
He wanted to see her smile, but, by God, he didn’t want her pity.