The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2)

Yes, he must not delay. There was a woman out there who would have need of everything Wolfbridge had to offer. A sense of urgency nagged at his mind and he fell asleep on the thought that he must not put off finding her any longer than necessary. He wasn’t sure why, but perhaps it would come to him…
*~~*~~*
Many miles away from the man sleeping in his warm study, a woman shivered and drew what was left of an old quilt around her shoulders.
She was tucked into a chair that had seen better days, but at least it was dry, now that she’d drawn it close to the fire. Everything seemed infused with a lingering damp that ate at one’s bones. There’d been little sun to warm the place since she had moved in, and her alleged housekeeper did nothing to earn that title.
Gwyneth, the Dowager Countess of Kilham, had been brought low, as low as she could be, by the spite and hatred of her stepson, but damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of letting him know about it. She missed a decent meal, a clean bed, a change of clothes and she really missed her maid, Dorothy, who’d been as much a friend as a servant. She prayed that Ernest had enough decency to provide for her, but couldn’t be sure.
Cold, damp and disgustingly filthy rooms notwithstanding, she’d carved out a small but habitable area for herself. A week of hard cleaning had turned what was to be her room into a place she could sit without fear of finding rodent droppings beneath her feet.
Tireless forays outside when the weather permitted, allowed her to drag firewood near to the door, and into a modicum of shelter. On the rare days when the sun shone, some of it dried, and thus there was a bit of warmth and light from the fireplace come bitter winter evenings.
Mrs. Ashe ignored her, so Gwyneth returned the favour. It was easier for both of them, since they occupied different areas of the rundown house.
Food appeared at random intervals during the day—when Mrs Ashe felt like cooking something, apparently—and sometimes they passed each other with a nod. Now and again, Gwyneth used her own fireplace to heat water, thanks to an oversized set of andirons upon which she could balance the old cooking pot she’d found and filled from an outside pump.
It was makeshift, but there was hot water for tea, or washing, both herself and her clothes. She’d had to ask for the tea and a cup, but had done so while staring the older woman right in the eye. She refused to be intimidated, but kept their few interactions on as impersonal a level as possible.
All these things were time-consuming, but Gwyneth realised that time was the one thing she had in abundance. So keeping busy with awkward chores like these took her mind off her plight. Otherwise she might have driven herself to the edge of madness.
Nights were the worst, since her mind would not tire as easily as her body, and she lay beneath whatever covers she could find, reliving her past, going over and over her mistakes, and trying vainly to make a plan for her future.
Being cold and most often hungry did not produce inspiration, and having no means of support, no horse, nothing to call her own except a useless title…she always ended up in the same bleak spot.
Leaving, packing everything she owned and setting off on her own—common sense told her that that idea lacked merit in so many areas it was an impossibility. Even if she found shelter, she had no way of keeping herself safe, nor would anyone willingly help a wandering penniless woman. She’d be more likely to end up in a house of ill-repute or worse. And that was if she survived the ten-mile walk through bitter cold.
There was no future for her. She would wither away here, in this godforsaken rundown house, forgotten by everyone.
She missed her husband at times. He’d been kind to her, although she knew he’d married her out of a desire for more children. They’d tried to accomplish his needs for five years, during which they’d come to know each other better, and find pleasure in each other’s company.
It was no great love affair, and there was little passion, but it was a good relationship that brought them both a measure of contentment. Their age difference had not been an impediment; she had been twenty-two when they married, and he just turned fifty.
His face, that gentle smile, often floated into her dreams. He’d not meant for this to happen, she was sure of it. But her stepson had rendered her powerless within days of his funeral, taking over with a savage burst of vicious energy, banishing her from Kilham Abbey as soon as he could.
He’d have killed her if he could, she thought, amazed that she could incur such hatred from someone she barely knew. His arrival at Kilham, scarcely a year ago, had galvanised her husband’s illness. There was little love lost between them anymore; a fact made plain by their constant arguments. She truly believed that her husband had deteriorated more rapidly after his son took apartments there. It was as if life had conspired against the Earl.
Gwyneth sighed again. There was little point in constantly going over and over what had been. And since there was nothing she could conjure in her mind to represent what might be, the only alternative—as had been for many a night now—was to take a few sips from the latest bottle of brandy she’d found in a small room behind a rusted lock and a fallen mound of plaster and woodwork.
She guarded it fiercely, creeping to it when Mrs Ashe was out of the house, hiding her bottle carefully behind a piece of wainscoting, and disposing of