Page 37 of An Inconvenient Vow

He grunted. “Perhaps you had better put together a few lines of instruction to that woman of yours over at Morecotte.”

Sabina turned quickly toward him. “Did you send over any of your uncle’s servants yet?”

“A party is leaving shortly. Some men and a couple of maids to get the place straight. If you write your note now they can take it with them.”

Sabina sat herself back down and reached once more for the pen. She wrote a few hasty lines, predicting her return in some three weeks or so. She hoped devoutly this was not a rash promise. Surely after a couple of weeks of her constant company, Sir Jeffree would be only too glad to be rid of her? Casting a quick look at his frowning face, she thought it would not be long before he would be glad to banish her to Morecotte and forget he even had a wife.

The deputation of servants was dispatched, and they ate supper in the Great Hall with the duke that evening, though the table was sparsely populated for most of the De Crecy clan had now departed. From the pointed comments the duke dropped and his injured air, it seemed Sir Charles had now also taken himself off. Sabina could only be glad to be freed from the icy disapproval of his presence.

To her surprise, the Vyses did not join them at table, instead preferring to take their meals in their rooms. Watching how fussily Bethencourt turned away his dishes and complained about “a faint scratching noise” that was giving him palpitations, Sabina could only guess how two boisterous young lads at table might disquiet him. She thought overall that Sir Dudley and Lady Maud were wise to absent themselves.

Jeffree, too, turned away a good deal of the dishes with a thunderous frown. “This fowl is practically inedible,” he muttered, pushing away a dish of goose which had been stewed in ginger, saffron, and pepper, and gilded in gold leaf. “What is the point in gold-plating it? I want to eat it, not display it on a shelf!” He threw down his knife in disgust.

“A choleric disposition such as mine should never eat goose,” Bethencourt complained querulously from the head of the table. “My physician has begged me many times to avoid it like the plague. It unbalances my humours. Naseby, have a care to inform Cook.” His steward promptly abandoned his fruitless search for a mouse under the table and straightened up to relay the duke’s message. Sabina felt a stab of sympathy for the duke’s superior kitchens. Did they never receive any praise?

“These capons stuffed with grapes are extremely tasty,” she said loudly. “Will you not try one, husband?” It was only when Jeffree looked so startled that she realized she had likely not addressed him as such before.

He reached across and stabbed one of the capons with a knife and plunked it on his plate. Naseby gave her a distracted smile as he scurried away. “The stuffing is too sweet,” Jeffree grouched after eating a mere mouthful. Sabina rolled her eyes. She had never met so many people who were so hard to please.

They retired early and Sabina found her bags had been carried up and placed in Jeffree’s rooms. She transferred them into his storeroom, collected one of the jugs of hot water, and wished him a speedy goodnight before he could say anything to further irritate her.

Once alone, having hastily washed, undressed, and laid down in the truckle bed, she breathed a sigh of relief. She would savor this quiet moment to herself before they set out on the morrow. She was not sorry to see the last of Ganford Chase, for all it was so grand.

The Duke of Bethencourt was a finicking old woman, Sabina decided. If Isemay should consent once more to become his wife, then she would need the patience of a saint to put up with his constant stream of complaints. The fact they were so gently expressed made it ten times worse in Sabina’s eyes, for it meant he did not feel strongly about any of them.

At least with Jeffree, he genuinely did not seem to favor fancy foods. He had tucked into her parent’s plain fare without quibbling. She suspected for all his privileged upbringing, his palate was not really refined at all. That was probably a good thing if he was ever to eat from her own table at Morecotte, which she supposed he must do on some few occasions at least before they distanced themselves.

Sabina rolled onto her side and hitched her blankets up to her shoulder. How she wished they could simply reach that stage in their negotiations already where they could be frank with one another about what they hoped to salvage from this disastrous marriage.

At the moment though… they were far from that point. She sighed. There was still plenty of tiptoeing around each other to do before then. It was vexing, but there it was. Her eyelids drooped. He had returned Morecotte to her; she would have to focus on that and grit her teeth over the rest of it.

Sabina woke herself early the next morn, hearing next door’s occupant moving about and muffled voices. When the soft knock on the door came, she opened it quickly and took the jug of hot water from Jeffree with thanks. As always, he hastily averted his eyes from her shift-clad form and backed out of the room as though fearing he might catch something.

Sabina readied herself and redonned the faded red dress, which was certainly fit for a day’s traveling if not much else. She had not unpacked her things the night before, save for a comb and a clean shift, so she had precious little else to do by way of preparations. She was just lowering her circlet over her veil, fixing it firmly in place, when another knock sounded on her door.

This time Jeffree was accompanied by a stout-looking servant. “Osborn needs to pack my things,” he said briefly and held the door open for her. Sabina glanced at the servant and found him looking fixedly straight through her. Someone else who did not want her around, she thought suppressing a sigh.

“Very well.” She passed through the door and found that some small repast had been set out on the table before the fire.

“We can break our fast here this morn,” Jeffree said clearing his throat and waving a hand toward it.

Sabina sat down and helped herself to some toasted bread. After a moment, Jeffree sat opposite her. “We set out in an hour,” he said. Sabina nodded. “Lancer’s here.”

“Lancer?” Sabina looked up quickly, hearing the name of the servant from Morecotte. “What is he doing here?”

“He brought over your horse.”

“Horse?” Sabina stared at him.

“And your hounds.”

“My hounds?” she echoed incredulously. His blue gaze flicked to meet hers a moment and he nodded before attacking the butter with his knife. “I have no notion what you are talking about!”

“I tasked Lancer with reclaiming them from whomever it was Alfred Hendry sold them to,” Jeffree replied casually.

Sabina’s eyes widened with astonishment. “You did?”

“Of course. Yesterday, you seemed firmly of the opinion they were your property.”