Sitting right next to her neighbor and holding her hand, was a slightly younger version of Lady Chisholm.Īs Laura had hesitated, Lady Chisholm waved her closer. But this afternoon, Lady C had dealt her a blow. Tea with Lady Chisholm usually demanded no more of her than to nod and interject the occasional short word. This afternoon, she had walked to Chisholm, happy not to be suffocating in black. Beyond tea at Chisholm, that was her world. She conducted herself with dignity when he died, and dressed in black. By year two of his apoplexy, she could have challenged anyone to improve upon her delivery of competent care. Stung by her own faulty character, she had thrown herself into nursing her husband. She hoped the staff saw her calm acceptance as well-bred courage, rather than gratitude.
When he suffered a stroke while out riding, his groom carried the baronet back to the house, practically dropping Sir James at her feet like a game bird. She did not become a mother, for all James’s attempts that consumed his energy and left her feeling no satisfaction beyond relief when he finished and left her room.
During those nights when James Taunton heaved, gasped and thrust over her, she cursed her own weak character.
Your duty is to give me an heir.ĭuring the first year of her removal to Taunton, a country seat near Bath, Laura had asked herself daily why she had not bolted from school at the mere idea of what her father had planned. My dear wife was never able to give me an heir, James had told her after their wedding. She had been eighteen then, a student at Miss Pym’s Female Academy in Bath, sent there by her father for an education, with no idea that he would demand so high a return on his investment. A widower thirty years her senior, James had paid attention when her father, William Stokes, Lord Ratliffe, had shared her miniature around his circle of acquaintances and promised her to the highest bidder. She hadn’t missed James for a minute, but no need for the neighbors to know. She would dress in gray this afternoon, signaling a departure from black, which she hoped fervently, if unrealistically, never to wear again. It was a year since death had released Sir James Taunton from the apoplexy that had turned him into a helpless infant, and made her his nurse for the previous three years. Laura had dressed with deliberate care for the tea. She merely wanted to drink tea and share a happy event. Lady Chisholm probably had no idea of Laura’s feelings. She blamed her change of heart on her nearest neighbor, who had invited her to tea.
She shoved them back in the desk before continuing her restless slumber. She had thrown them away one evening, but retrieved them before the maid did her early morning tidying. For several months Lady Laura Taunton had avoided the desk in her sitting room because of two letters, one inside the other, she had not the heart to destroy.
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