with them,’ Will overrode her smoothly. ‘And plans for the stables. Where would you suggest for the paddocks, Wilkins?’
‘To the west of the existing ones,’ Julia answered before the steward could. ‘I have been considering it. We can move the beef cattle down to Mayday Field and Croft Acre and—’
‘We do not have fields with those names.’
‘We do now. I bought Hodgson’s farm when old Jem Hodgson died last year,’ Julia said, as if purchasing a large farm was as simple a matter as buying a new bonnet. ‘His son has gone into the building business and needed the capital urgently so we settled on a keen price. I had the house done up and I lease it and ten acres to make a small park to a cit called Maurice Loveday. It brings a good income and we’ve gained another mile of water meadows into the bargain.’
He had had his eye on that farm for years and old Hodgson had refused to sell. Now his wife had calmly snapped it up, at a bargain price, and secured the income from the house—which had never occurred to him as an asset—while she was at it.
Will trod firmly on what felt uncomfortably like jealousy and smiled at Julia. ‘You must have had hardly a moment to yourself, taking so much responsibility. Now I am back you can relax and get back to all your normal pursuits.’
‘Oh, but these are my normal pursuits,’ she responded with an equally false smile. ‘This is what I enjoy doing.’ And try to take it away from me if you can, those grey eyes said, meeting his with flint-hard resolve.
One thing had kept him going in those years of exile. His love for King’s Acre was real and solid and his control of it was not negotiable.
What his wife needed was something else to keep her occupied. Womanly things. A man in her bed, babies in the nursery. Both of those, he realised with some surprise, would be an absolute pleasure to provide.
* * *
Will had not been pleased with her contribution to the meeting with the steward. Nor with the free expression of her thoughts when Mr Howard from Home Farm arrived after luncheon. It was obvious that the deference those gentlemen showed to her opinions was also an irritation. There was no need for her to attend when he met tomorrow with Mr Burrows the solicitor, Will had informed Julia with a smile that had not reached his eyes.
The words did not pass his lips, but it was plain to her that he considered her continuing interest meddling and interfering. Her proper place, in his opinion, was in the bedchamber and the drawing room and the only servants she should need to concern herself with were the domestic staff.
I have been the regent while the king was in exile, she thought with a grim attempt at humour that evening. The state has been well governed but now the queen must go back to woman’s work and leave the serious business to the men.
But kingdoms required heirs—that was what husbands wanted, whether they were King of England or Joe Bloggs at the village forge. She stared blankly into the mirror on her dressing table until her maid put down the evening gown she had been shaking out and said, ‘Excuse me, my lady, but are you all right?’
‘What? Oh, yes, perfectly, thank you, Nancy.’ Julia went back to dabbing Warren’s Milk of Roses on to her face. She was persevering with this infallible remedy for freckles and the effects of the sun on the complexion more in the hope than the expectation of a fashionably pale skin. The true remedy, of course, was to wear a broad-brimmed hat at all times, or, better still, as Aunt Delia so often told her with a sigh, to stay inside as a lady should.
If Will had his way, she would be as pale as a lily in no time. And drooping like one too, from sheer boredom. Her mind was still skittering away from contemplating the prospect of becoming pregnant again. It seemed very likely to happen quickly once her husband came to her bed: after all, she had lain just the once with Jonathan.
Her fingers fumbled as she tried to replace the top of the bottle and Nancy fell to her knees and started to search under the skirts of the dressing table for the dropped stopper. Julia had dammed it up so long—the shock when she had realised that the changes in her body were not the result of terror and distress, then the joy at the realisation that she was carrying a child and the appalled comprehension of what she must do if it proved to be a boy.
But, even with that hanging over her, the overwhelming emotion had been delight and love. If the child was a daughter, then she would not have to tell anyone, for a girl would be no threat to Henry’s rights. And even if it was a boy, she would work something out to give him a future and happiness.
It never occurred to her, with all her worries and plans, that she might lose the baby. Now she wondered about future pregnancies. What if there was something wrong with her? What if she was not capable of safely birthing a child? She had not even considered it before, because she had expected to stay a widow for the rest of her days, contentedly farming King’s Acre and then, when Henry inherited, buying her own land. But now she was no longer a widow.
‘That lotion is working a treat, my lady.’ Nancy sat back on her heels with the stopper in her hand and regarded Julia with satisfaction. ‘I swear you’re a shade paler for using it.’
‘I fear it is simply that I have a slight headache, Nancy.’ Julia attempted a smile. ‘I will be better for a glass of wine and my dinner, I am sure.’
* * *
By the time her stays had been tightened and the gown was on and her hair dressed there was some colour back in her cheeks and at least the freckles were not standing out like dots on white paper.
It was a warm evening, almost sultry. Julia draped her lightest shawl over her elbows, chose a large fan and went down to the drawing room. Her first proper evening as a married lady, she realised as the butler opened the door for her and she saw Will standing by the long window that was open to the ground to let in the evening air.
He was dressed with as much careful formality as she. Julia admired the effect of silk evening breeches, striped stockings, a swallowtail coat that must have been bought in London on his way home and a waistcoat of amber silk that brought out the colour of his eyes and matched the stone in the stickpin in his neckcloth. Regarded dispassionately, she thought, her husband was a fine figure of a man. Discovering how to be dispassionate about him was going to be the problem. A lost cause, in fact, she told herself.
‘Good evening, Lady Dereham.’ He gestured towards the decanters set out on a tray. ‘A glass of sherry wine?’
‘Good evening, my lord.’ She sat precisely in the centre of the sofa and spread her almond-green skirts on either side as though concerned about wrinkles. They covered virtually all the available seat and left no room for anyone to sit beside her. She did not think she could cope with any sly caresses just now. ‘Thank you. A glass of sherry would be delightful.’
Will poured a glass for both of them, placed hers on the table beside her and went back to the window and his contemplation of the view, which allowed her the perfect opportunity to admire his profile. Dispassionately, of course.
‘Did your meeting with Mr Burrows go well?’ Julia asked after a few minutes’ silence. She took a sip of her wine while her husband pondered his reply.
‘It was most satisfactory, thank you,’ he said politely and tasted his own drink.
If this continues, I may well scream, simply for the diversion of seeing the footmen all rush in, Julia decided. ‘I have always found him extremely helpful.’
‘He
