Byron Buttery-Clements, the third Viscount Aston, lowered the letter from his sister Katherine with a contented sigh. She was happy. That was such a relief! He’d been a little worried when he’d given her and the Duke of Drayton permission to hare off to Drayton’s estate to marry. They’d insisted that they didn’t want a big social wedding, though, and who was he to deny his sister anything she wanted. And, really, she was marrying a duke! A brother couldn’t ask for more.
But she’d now written to him a long letter detailing the quiet little ceremony they’d had in the Drayton House chapel. Only the servants and her grace, the Duchess of Drayton, Dray’s mother, were present. And now she claimed to be the happiest woman in all of England.
With a smile, Byron set aside his sister’s letter and picked up the next one in the pile of correspondence. This one would, in all likelihood not bring a smile to his face, which was a terrible shame because, truly, a letter from one’s wife should.
Before opening the missive, Byron sat back and closed his eyes trying to picture Marianne. His mind came up a blank. He opened his eyes and scowled. He couldn’t even bring her face to mind. Granted, it had been about six months since he’d seen her last, but still—she was his wife!
They’d been married almost two years, now. But it hadn’t exactly been a love match. Her father had sought Byron out at their club, Powell’s, and asked if he were looking to get married. It just so happened that he’d decided only a short time before that he really did need to do so. He’d met the man’s daughter once and vaguely remembered her as being quite pretty in a delicate way, so he agreed to pay a call and begin to court the girl.
It hadn’t been a long courtship, less than a month in all honesty and now… now Byron couldn’t even remember what she looked like. Wheat-blond hair, he thought. And blue eyes? Or were they green? With a sad shake of his head, he gave up and opened her letter.
“Husband,
Thank you for your letter and kind offer to bring some things home from London. In truth, all I would like is material for clothing. Please see below for a complete list along with lengths.
Most sincerely,
Marianne, Viscountess Aston”
Byron glanced down the list: sprigged muslin with blue flowers, another with pink, and ribbons to match. That sounded normal and nice. Deep blue velvet for curtains. That sounded rather rich, but he could afford it. But then the list went on: heavy cotton in brown and tan. Shirting material in cream. What did she need a heavy cotton for? And shirting material? She wasn’t planning on making shirts for him, was she? If so, that would be kind, but all of his shirts were white. It was an odd list, but if that’s what she wanted, that was what he would get.
A week later, his traveling coach, laden with trunks of Byron’s belongings and one with nothing but all the material he’d bought, turned onto the mile-long drive that led to Aston Abbey.
It was a beautiful summer day and now that they’d left the busier road, Byron put down the glass window so he could enjoy the fresh air. It was so nice after London where—
Shouts and screams interrupted Byron’s thoughts. Quickly, he rapped on the roof signaling for the coachman to stop. Was there someone in distress? He bent his ear to listen more closely.
Now the screams were accompanied by laughter. The sound of children playing. Who was on his land?
He got out of the coach, jumped the ditch that separated the road from the field and walked up the slight slope to the field. There were six or eight children all running around screaming and laughing. It looked like they were chasing each other in a great game of tag. No, they were all running away from one girl who must have been ‘it’.
She spun on her toe, making a sharp turn and reached out to touch one of the smaller children, but the boy was too fast and darted right out from under her hand. It was just at that moment that she happened to look up and caught sight of Byron. She slowed and then came to a stop, her chest heaving, her cheek pink with exertion.
But she was no child. With a start, Byron realized that she was wife!
Her laughter fell silent and the smile faded from her face. One child nearly ran into her and she caught him before he did so. Within a minute, all the children had seen him and stopped what they were doing. They all just stood there, staring at him as if he were the intruder.
Marianne strode forward, pausing to dip into a curtsey a few feet in front of him. “My lord, welcome home.”
Byron bowed as formally as she had curtsied. “Thank you. Who, pray tell, are these children?”
She turned to look back at them all as they now stood stock still looking rather terrified. When she turned back to him, she said, “These are my students. Children from the village. We were just taking a break from our studies.”
“Studies? With village children? But they don’t—”
“I am teaching them to read and figure,” she said. She took a small step closer to him and said more softly, “Mrs. Harding will have a bath prepared for you as well as a light meal if you are hungry.”
Bryon got her meaning. She wanted him gone. He held back a huff of annoyance, and instead gave her a nod of his head. “Very good. I shall see you when you return.”
He returned to his coach and soon was continuing along the drive.
***
An hour later, with his hair still dripping into his collar from his bath, Byron heard the soft click of Marianne’s door. He’d deliberately left the connecting door between their bedrooms open.
“Oh! I beg your pardon, my lord,” she started, when saw that he was not yet fully dressed.
She stood in the doorway, her blue—they were blue!—eyes large taking him in. He was in trousers and a shirt, but was still barefoot and was working on his cravat.
“No, please, come in,” he said, dropping the ends of the heavily starched cotton to his chest.
Hesitantly, she did so.
“Tell me how you are doing,” he said, moving over to one of the chairs by the empty fireplace.
“Very well, thank you, my lord,” she said, staying right where she was.
“Marianne, come and sit down. And please, there is no need to be so formal when we are alone.” He waited for her to sit in the other chair before seating himself.
She sat upright, her feet neatly tucked under the chair, her hands folded in her lap. She looked like a guilty school girl.
“So, when did you begin teaching the village children, and why?” he asked trying hard to not make it sound like an accusation.
She kept her gaze firmly on the carpet in between them. “In January, soon after the new year. I wanted to give them opportunities their parents did not have. Being able to read and do simple maths will do that.”
“Indeed, it will. Is there a reason why they do not farm or… or do whatever their parents do? That is the way things have always gone.”
“Yes, but sadly, a good number of their fathers are not working or, if they are, they don’t have enough work. These families have next to nothing.” She raised her eyes and looked him straight in the eye as if daring him to tell her to stop caring for these people and their children.
But Byron was too concerned with the fact that there was such a problem so close to his home and he hadn’t known. “That is why you asked for the material,” he said, understanding.
She exhaled. “Yes.”
“So you are educating the children, but it sounds as if their parents are in need of assistance as well.”
“My lord?”
He tilted his head. “Byron or Aston, if you must.”
She gave him a hesitant little smile. “What are you thinking of, Byron?”
He couldn’t help but return the smile, but then he became serious again as him mind returned to the villagers. “I don’t know, but perhaps we could think of something, together. Some sort of manufacturing, perhaps? Something that would employ the people of the area.”
“Together?” Her eyes went wide. “We could think of something… together?”
“Well, yes. You clearly know these people better than I. We are not so very far from Manchester. I’m certain if I wrote to some people, I could get introductions to learn about what sort of opportunities there might be.”
Marrianne’s mouth opened in surprise before she said, “That would be so very good—”
“Marianne, I know I have not been the best of husbands, nor, clearly, a very active participant in this area. That is all going to change. I… I’d like the opportunity to start over, with you.”
Her countenance softened as she gazed at him. Finally, she said, “I don’t know what happened in London but I am not going to complain. I would like that very much—to start over.”
He stood and held out his hand to her. When she put her own into his, he guided her to stand in front of him. With a hand to her soft cheek, he looked into her eyes. “This is good. This is very good.”