The Inconvenient Elmswood Marriage. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      She was gone before he could suggest ringing the bell for a servant, and on reflection Daniel was glad of the brief respite. He felt as weak as a kitten. The act of dressing and making his way from his bedchamber to the morning room had been a comically exhausting struggle. Until he’d put his clothes on, he hadn’t realised just how much weight he’d lost. Shaving had almost defeated him. He’d had to stop and start so many times due to his shaking hand that the water had been cold by the time he’d finished. But he’d done it.

      It was a small triumph but a victory all the same.

      He stretched his legs out, wriggling his toes in his boots, for they had gone quite numb. He was cold. He could see that the sun was shining outside, and he knew it was June, the start of summer, but he’d become accustomed to much warmer climes. He would not ask for a fire to be lit, though. Kate would be bound to blame his chill on his various sicknesses. Gaol fever, the ague, and heaven only knew what else had laid him low. She would doubtless be right, but he was damned if he’d admit that to her.

      She was so capable! He’d thought her unflappable too, until this morning. He’d enjoyed teasing her. She had a reluctant smile, but when she did smile—yes, it was worth waiting for. He’d seen it very rarely, that smile, on their protracted voyage back to England. Truth be told, he couldn’t really make cohesive sense of that journey, for each time he’d thought his fever gone for good it had returned with a vengeance, making it difficult for him to distinguish between his torrid dreams and reality. It sat ill with him, the way he’d been forced to rely on Kate, but in his heart he knew he wouldn’t have made it without her. He would not go so far as to say she’d saved his life, but she had probably saved his health.

      He had pins and needles in his feet again—a recurring nuisance even though the wounds caused by the manacles had healed months ago.

      Heaving himself upright, Daniel wandered over to the little rosewood escritoire which was positioned to look out of one of the two tall windows. It was neat and tidy, with a fully replenished inkstand, a selection of newly sharpened pens, a fresh sheet of paper in the blotter, various letters and papers in the dockets, neatly filed, a stack of blank paper, a seal and wax, all sitting in readiness. There was a single yellow rose in a silver vase, clearly just picked, for the bud was only partially unfurled.

      Was there a rose garden at Elmswood? He couldn’t recall. It hadn’t been the sort of thing to interest him.

      There was a comfortable-looking chair positioned in the other window, so he sat down and gazed out at the view. There was the oak tree he’d climbed countless times as a boy, and the lake where he’d taught himself to swim. Over to the left, behind the rose garden—yes, he remembered now that there was one—was his old sanctuary the walled garden. The place where he’d first dreamed his dream of escaping the claustrophobic confines of Elmswood and travelling to far-flung places.

      But when he tried to remember the dreams he’d dreamed, tried to recall the experience of climbing, diving, swimming, he could not. It was as if he’d been told the stories by someone else. But then, wasn’t that the case with most of his past life—or should that more accurately be lives? It was one of his strengths, the ability to put one persona behind him and assume another, never looking over his shoulder, wiping one slate clean before he started to write on another. No memories, no ties, no pain.

      Daniel shook his head impatiently. It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful. He would rather not be here at Elmswood, but he was, and he’d have to find a way to endure it. Hopefully it wouldn’t be for long.

      He leaned his forehead on the glass, which had been heated by the gentle English summer sun. There had been trout in the lake back in the day. He wondered if Kate kept it stocked. She would have told him if she had, in one of the letters she’d sent to him regular as clockwork every other month, since they had married, but it was the sort of detail he chose not to remember.

      They’d come into his possession sporadically, those carefully penned epistles, usually in bundles of two or three at a time, and as the years had passed, contained less and less detail. She had asked him to approve decisions in the early days, had on occasion asked his opinion on a decision still to be made, but his silence on both counts had led to silence on her part. She’d realised without him having to say so bluntly that he simply didn’t care.

      But, from the little he’d seen of the house and gardens, it was clear she did. His acceptance of her astonishing proposal all those years ago had been one of the best decisions of his life.