“Come and sit down,” Mrs. McKay said to Ben. “You are in pain.”
Well, it was all the result of being brought up short inside the door by her appearance. He was still in a lot less pain, though, than he had been an hour ago.
He moved toward the table without comment.
“You were in pain most of the afternoon, were you not?” she said after they had taken their seats and the girl had withdrawn. “I did not say anything then. It seemed like an impertinent intrusion upon your privacy. But perhaps I ought to have. Are you always in pain?”
“I make no complaint, ma’am,” he said. “You must not concern yourself.”
She clucked her tongue. “Matthew always complained,” she said, “and I sometimes wished he had exercised a little more restraint. You will never complain, I suspect, and I will probably find your heroic fortitude just as irritating.”
He laughed despite himself.
“Riding for hours in a carriage is not the most comfortable experience even for the most nimble,” she said. “I suppose it is the worst thing in the world for you.”
“Probably not the very worst,” he said.
“You make me feel selfish and insensitive,” she told him. “First my appearance and now this. We will not travel so far tomorrow or any other day after that. If we take two weeks, even three, to complete this journey, then so be it. We are in no particular hurry, are we?”
She might not be.
“I will not have you put yourself out for me,” he said. “I have grown accustomed to my condition. No one else need be burdened with it.”
She had taken his plate and was dishing out his food for him just as if she really were his wife and they were seated cozily at their own dining table.
“We will travel in a more leisurely fashion, beginning tomorrow,” she told him. “Perhaps we are on our honeymoon. Do you suppose we are?”
Her sudden smile looked impish. He could have wished, though, that she had found some other subject to joke upon. Their honeymoon, indeed! Drat and blast it all.
“You told me earlier today, Mrs. McKay,” he said, “that you were thankful I was not your husband. I replied in kind. I repeat that sentiment now. I have the feeling you would be one devil of a handful.”
“A devil of a handful.” She put down her knife and fork, set an elbow on the table, and rested her chin on her fist. “Indeed, Sir Benedict? How?”
Her voice had lowered to a throaty whisper, but her lips were curved up at the corners, and her eyes were dancing with mischief.
“Eat your dinner,” he told her. He was feeling overheated again and there was not even a fire in the hearth.
12
After that first day they traveled onward as man and wife. It was better that way, Samantha decided, for she could wear her own clothes again and forget about the ghastly oppression of her blacks. She had nothing particularly new and nothing very fashionable, but they were clothes she had chosen herself and, in a few cases, clothes she had made herself, and they suited her well enough. Wearing them again made her feel younger and more hopeful. They made her feel herself again.
She called him Ben. She had remarked—after one of their brief flare-ups—that Benedict made him sound like some sort of monk or saint and that no one had ever been more inappropriately named. Surprisingly, he had agreed with her and confided that he had always been uncomfortable with his name and far preferred the shortened form. She had told him that if he ever called her Sam she would have a temper tantrum. He had immediately called her Sammy and waggled his eyebrows at her. She had poked out her tongue and crossed her eyes in retaliation.
It actually felt good to act childishly. They had both ended up laughing.
After four days of travel, they crossed the River Wye into Wales. The land of her maternal forefathers. She had never expected that half of her heritage to mean anything to her and was surprised at the welling of emotion she felt at knowing that she was here at last.
She knew nothing about her mother’s kin, except for her dead great-aunt, who had been Miss Dilys Bevan, pronounced Dill-iss, according to her mother. She had always assumed there were no other living relatives.
But perhaps there were.
Did she want there to be? But she knew the answer was no almost before her mind had asked the question. For if any were still living, then they had neglected her mother and therefore her. And that would be worse than if they did not exist.
But suddenly, going to her cottage to live took on new meaning. For perhaps there was more awaiting her than just a dilapidated hovel of a building. Perhaps there was a whole story. A whole Pandora’s box, which she did not want to open. She must just hope it did not even exist.
She was feeling a little maudlin on the day they passed Tintern Abbey. They stopped to view the ruin, both of them having read and admired William Wordsworth’s lengthy poem about it. The building and its unspoiled, deeply rural surroundings were every bit as lovely and romantic as they were depicted in that poem. Wooded hills rose on either side of the valley and the Wye flowed between, the abbey on its western bank.
Their days had settled into a certain routine. Samantha rose early each morning to take Tramp out for a walk before breakfast, and then they traveled until the horses were tired and must be changed or at least rested. They spent what remained of the afternoons either strolling in the vicinity of the inn where they had stopped or finding some local landmark of interest to explore. They would find somewhere comfortable to take their tea. Then Ben would write conscientiously in his journal, having called for pen and ink, while Samantha took Tramp for another walk. Then they would relax in their separate rooms until it was time to meet again for their evening meal. They retired early in anticipation of the next day’s exertions.