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something that can be done?”
The other woman shook her head slowly. “That is what it means to be married. There is no escape. Even if I could send word to my brother…what could he do? I’m
married
to Sir Walter. I’m his responsibility, his charge. Legally. And there’s nothing anyone else can do about it.”
“Can that not be changed? He’s not…not faithful, is he?”
They’d never talked of anything so intimate. Lady Patsworth stared straight ahead and then shook her head.
“So you have cause for divorce.”
“Divorce.” The other woman said the word viciously. “Who is granted divorces? A handful every decade, and then only to the most wealthy, the most powerful. I have nobody who would even introduce a bill on my behalf in Parliament.” She spoke in low, vehement tones. She punctuated the last by spearing a piece of kipper with her fork. But she didn’t eat it; she just stabbed it again and again.
“Lady Patsworth.”
“Don’t try to help,” the other woman snapped. “He’ll only send you away if you do.”
Lady Patsworth’s shoulders were rigid, her eyes focused on something far away. She took a deep breath, and then another, and then another. Mary knew all too well what it was like to be trapped, to dread every coming day. She’d been on the verge of breaking when John appeared. If he hadn’t come…
“There must be something I can do,” she finally said. “Something to make your life bearable.”
Lady Patsworth let out another ragged breath. “Yes,” she said finally. “You can help me to design my own gowns.”
Chapter Seven
“D ID I EVER TELL YOU about the time my mare stopped sleeping?”
Mary had not expected John to start with such a question when she met him that next night. She wasn’t sure what she expected from him any longer. They’d walked. They talked of old times. Sometimes, they touched—glove to glove, glove to sleeve. It was welcoming, to be able to forget for a few minutes every day what waited for her back at Doyle’s Grange.
“I thought of it,” he said, “because this is the fifth night when we’ve foregone sleep, and I was wondering if the effect on humans would be much like it was on horses.”
“I don’t understand,” Mary said. “Aren’t horses always sleeping? Every time I walk by one, it seems to be dozing off on its feet.”
“That’s just napping,” he said, with a wave of his free hand. “Horses sleep curled up on the ground, too. Like dogs. They don’t need much sleep, but they do need some. I first noticed something was wrong because she had a scrape on her front fetlock. The next morning, another.”
“Poor thing.”
“And then there was her personality. She was always a placid, sweet thing. But she began to shy from shadows. I thought the stable manager was abusing her, actually. So that night, I silently climbed into the hayloft to observe.”
“And?”
He guided her around a tree, keeping her in the shade of its branches. “I stayed up half the night watching for my hapless employee, nursing my wrath. And what I saw was this: around two in the morning, she started to collapse.”
“With nobody there?”
“With nobody there,” he confirmed. “She fell where she was standing, striking her fetlock against the stable floor. Then she scrambled to her feet. Precisely as if she had nodded off while on watch duty.”
“Oh, goodness. But why did she not just sleep?”
“That took a little longer to determine. You see, I had just built a windmill to pump water from the south field. The noise it made was different, and it was frightening her. She was waiting for whatever was making those odd creaking sounds to catch up to her and devour her.”
Mary gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t be funny.”
“I moved her to a pasture where she couldn’t hear the carnivorous windmill, and she was good as new after that. So I understand the dangers of not sleeping. You risk your knees—
and
your
The other woman shook her head slowly. “That is what it means to be married. There is no escape. Even if I could send word to my brother…what could he do? I’m
married
to Sir Walter. I’m his responsibility, his charge. Legally. And there’s nothing anyone else can do about it.”
“Can that not be changed? He’s not…not faithful, is he?”
They’d never talked of anything so intimate. Lady Patsworth stared straight ahead and then shook her head.
“So you have cause for divorce.”
“Divorce.” The other woman said the word viciously. “Who is granted divorces? A handful every decade, and then only to the most wealthy, the most powerful. I have nobody who would even introduce a bill on my behalf in Parliament.” She spoke in low, vehement tones. She punctuated the last by spearing a piece of kipper with her fork. But she didn’t eat it; she just stabbed it again and again.
“Lady Patsworth.”
“Don’t try to help,” the other woman snapped. “He’ll only send you away if you do.”
Lady Patsworth’s shoulders were rigid, her eyes focused on something far away. She took a deep breath, and then another, and then another. Mary knew all too well what it was like to be trapped, to dread every coming day. She’d been on the verge of breaking when John appeared. If he hadn’t come…
“There must be something I can do,” she finally said. “Something to make your life bearable.”
Lady Patsworth let out another ragged breath. “Yes,” she said finally. “You can help me to design my own gowns.”
Chapter Seven
“D ID I EVER TELL YOU about the time my mare stopped sleeping?”
Mary had not expected John to start with such a question when she met him that next night. She wasn’t sure what she expected from him any longer. They’d walked. They talked of old times. Sometimes, they touched—glove to glove, glove to sleeve. It was welcoming, to be able to forget for a few minutes every day what waited for her back at Doyle’s Grange.
“I thought of it,” he said, “because this is the fifth night when we’ve foregone sleep, and I was wondering if the effect on humans would be much like it was on horses.”
“I don’t understand,” Mary said. “Aren’t horses always sleeping? Every time I walk by one, it seems to be dozing off on its feet.”
“That’s just napping,” he said, with a wave of his free hand. “Horses sleep curled up on the ground, too. Like dogs. They don’t need much sleep, but they do need some. I first noticed something was wrong because she had a scrape on her front fetlock. The next morning, another.”
“Poor thing.”
“And then there was her personality. She was always a placid, sweet thing. But she began to shy from shadows. I thought the stable manager was abusing her, actually. So that night, I silently climbed into the hayloft to observe.”
“And?”
He guided her around a tree, keeping her in the shade of its branches. “I stayed up half the night watching for my hapless employee, nursing my wrath. And what I saw was this: around two in the morning, she started to collapse.”
“With nobody there?”
“With nobody there,” he confirmed. “She fell where she was standing, striking her fetlock against the stable floor. Then she scrambled to her feet. Precisely as if she had nodded off while on watch duty.”
“Oh, goodness. But why did she not just sleep?”
“That took a little longer to determine. You see, I had just built a windmill to pump water from the south field. The noise it made was different, and it was frightening her. She was waiting for whatever was making those odd creaking sounds to catch up to her and devour her.”
Mary gave a little laugh. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t be funny.”
“I moved her to a pasture where she couldn’t hear the carnivorous windmill, and she was good as new after that. So I understand the dangers of not sleeping. You risk your knees—
and
your
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