Jason, Veronica

by Never Call It Love

  CHAPTER 14

  As long as Patrick Stanford could remember, the servants at Stanford Hall had displayed a cheerful nonchalance toward black beetles in the scullery, lamps in need of trimming, and dust on chandeliers of Waterford glass. Patrick was quite used to it. As he sat in the big library, Elizabeth Montlow's letter in his hand, he was not aware that books leaned every which way on the shelves, that the ashes of a fire kindled ten days earlier still lay in the grate, and that there were smears on the windowpane through which he gazed somberly at a distant line of green hills.

  He looked down at the letter and began to reread it. It was as stark and forthright as any business communication, holding none of the terror and desperation that must have caused her to appeal to him, her despoiler. She had written:

  My dear Sir Patrick,

  I find I am with child.

  At our last meeting, you described yourself as willing to marry me. Even though I realize that you did not mean it at the time, I am writing now in the hope that you would be willing to contract such a relationship.

  As you apparently know, my inheritance consists of approximately twenty thousand pounds. It would of course pass to your control upon our marriage, although I hope you would make some small provision for my mother.

  I am sure you realize that what I propose would be a marriage of form, not fact. Accordingly, I would make no objection to any other relationship you might choose to enjoy.

  It was only in the last two sentences that she had given him a glimpse of her desperation:

  If we do not marry, I must very soon decide upon some other course of action. Therefore I would appreciate an early reply.

  She had signed herself, "Your obedient servant, Elizabeth Montlow."

  He found his breathing restricted, as if a band had tightened around his chest. A child. His child.

  Whenever a twinge of regret had struck him these past weeks, he had conjured up justifying memories. Little Anne's dying face. Elizabeth Montlow, telling her lies on the witness stand. Christopher Montlow, stepping down from the dock. That carriage, the one his sister had arranged for, rattling away down the alley behind Old Bailey, with a vicious and unpunished young murderer inside it.

  Such defenses failed him now. All his mind's eye could see was Elizabeth. Elizabeth standing stripped before him, head drooping like that of a stricken doe. Elizabeth when he had left her, her face hidden in the pillow.

  Somehow, more poignant than either of those memories was one of a year earlier. Elizabeth at that ball in London. An Elizabeth who had impressed him as charming but not coy, self-assured but not vain, looking up at him as she said, "Should I go about swathed in veils ten months of the year...?"

  Would she ever be like that again, or had that Elizabeth died forever that night in her bedroom?

  He crossed to the massive table in the center of the big room, and after a certain amount of rummaging, found a leather box of letter paper engraved with the Stanford crest. He drew up a chair, and then sat motionless for a while. How to frame his answer?

  In such a relationship as theirs, begun in hatred and violence, there could never be mutual goodwill, let alone warmth. The best that could be hoped for would be formal courtesy. Undoubtedly it was that realization that had caused her to write in such stiff, businesslike terms. It would be best if his answer was couched in the same manner. He wrote:

  My dear Miss Montlow,

  I am in receipt of your letter.

  Tomorrow I shall book the earliest possible passage for England. In the meantime, I hereby ask you to do me the honor of becoming my wife.

  Since it would be best for us to marry as soon as possible, perhaps you will make preliminary arrangements as to posting of the banns, et cetera. Your letter did not mention the possibility of religious barriers, and so perhaps I should tell you that there are none. My father, although born a Catholic, renounced his faith and became a member of the Church of England, in order to avoid the disabilities which English law decrees for Catholics in Ireland.

  As for your mother, I shall accede to your wishes that proper provision be made for her.

  I remain,

  Your obedient servant,

  Patrick Stanford

  After further rummaging, he found sealing wax and a stamp incised with the Stanford crest. He folded the letter and addressed and sealed it. For a few moments he sat motionless. Then he shoved back his chair and went out into the vast, shadowy hall. Twin staircases of oak, built in massive Tudor style, curved upward to a balcony that ran along three sides of the hall. He walked back beyond the left-hand staircase to an open doorway.

  Inside the room, a much smaller one than the library, his illegitimate half-brother, Colin, looked up smilingly from a ledger outspread on a desk. At thirty-five, Colin was three years older than Patrick, and yet his dark-eyed face looked younger than his brother's.

  Perhaps it was because he had always lived more quietly. He had never been to London, nor did he have any desire to go there. The management of his brother's estate and of his own much smaller one ten miles away filled most of his life.

  Colin's smile wavered and then died. "What is it?"

  Patrick walked over to a casement window, open on this fine day, and looked out at the rear courtyard and the line of stables beyond. A stableboy of about fourteen was leading two rangy black Irish hunters across the cobblestones, lest their muscles stiffen after their brisk morning exercise.

  Patrick turned back into the room. "I am to be married."

  Colin had turned around from his desk. He said, once more smiling, "So she finally caught you."

  "If you are thinking of Moira Ashley, you are mistaken. It is not Moira that I intend to marry."

  "Who, then?"

  "Her name is Elizabeth Montlow."

  After a long moment Colin said incredulously, "Montlow! The sister of that Christopher Montlow, who—"

  "Yes."

  Fine dark eyes fixed on his brother's face, Colin said nothing. Patrick began to pace up and down. "I went to the Montlows' country house to try to find where that scurvy young monster had gone. So much I told you. What I did not tell you was that his sister was alone there. Apparently Mrs. Montlow and the servant had remained in London. Anyway, Elizabeth Montlow is now carrying a child, my child."

  Colin stared at him, stunned. "You mean that she, knowing how you hated her brother, nevertheless..." He broke off, and then added, "Patrick, I must say this. With a woman like that, how can you be sure the child is yours?"

  Patrick stopped his pacing. "Because she is not like that! It did not happen like that! I was angry," he went on, almost incoherently. "She had lied under oath. She had tricked me, spirited her brother away from me before I knew what was happening. And that night, she was up to more tricks. She distracted my attention, tried to get hold of the pistol..." He stopped speaking, his face flushed.

  Colin said into the silence, "I begin to see. You took your revenge. You forced her. And now she is to have a child."

  Patrick blazed, "I'll have none of your damned preaching!"

  "I don't intend to preach. I merely want you to know that I understand what happened."

  "All that needs understanding is that I am sailing for England, tomorrow if possible, and that I will be back in about three weeks with a wife." He paused. "Forgive me, Colin. I did not mean to rail at you."

  "There is no reason to ask my pardon. I can imagine how upsetting it must be for a bachelor to learn, at ten o'clock on a sunshiny morning... Besides, there is Moira. She will be disturbed indeed. These past weeks I have been sure you intended to marry her. Perhaps the has been sure, too."

  "I know, I know," Patrick said distractedly. He gave a strained smile. "Why don't you marry her?"

  "You think she would have me, with nothing but Edgewood to offer her?" Edgewood was the small estate that their father, the third baronet, had left to Colin. "Besides, it has always been you she fancied, not me."

  He closed the ledger and cross
ed the room to place it among a number of similar volumes on a shelf. It became apparent then that there was another reason why Lady Moira, a woman fond of riding and dancing, had never "fancied" Colin. He walked with a distinct limp.

  Patrick was used to his brother's limp. But this morning, already none too pleased with himself, he felt a stab of guilt at sight of that uneven gait, almost as if Colin's accident had happened yesterday. In fact, it had happened when Patrick was eleven and his brother fourteen. Proud that he was the better horseman, even though Colin was older and at that time taller, he had challenged his brother to put his mount over a four-foot-high stone wall. Patrick's horse had taken the jump cleanly, but Colin's had balked. Thrown from the saddle, Colin had suffered multiple breaks in his right leg. The bone, knitting improperly, had left him with one leg two inches shorter than the other.

  Patrick said, "I hope you will not let my marriage make any difference to you. Don't go to Edgewood. Let your steward go on running it I need you here."

  "I know you do." Away much of the time, and even when at home taken up with other matters—matters that Colin was sure would bring disaster someday—Patrick left most of the details of estate management to his brother.

  "Besides," Colin went on, "I have always known that sooner or later you would bring a bride here. I never had any intention of leaving when that time came."

  Patrick smiled. "Not even to take a bride of your own to Edgewood?"

  "You and I have been over that several times. I am quite content with Catherine." Catherine Ryan, a schoolmaster's widow, with two almost grown sons, lived in the coastal village of Haleworth, eight miles away. For the past nine years, Colin had been a regular visitor to her neat cottage. By now their relationship was as placid and comfortable as that of any long-married couple.

  Limping over to a liquor cabinet, he brought out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. "I think we should drink a toast to the child," he said, handing a filled glass to Patrick.

  Patrick said, "To the child," and drank.

  "To the child," Colin echoed. "May he be a fine son."

  CHAPTER 15

  As she descended the stairs, Elizabeth could feel the smoothness of the folded piece of notepaper she had thrust down the bosom of her dress. Since Hawkins had brought the letter up to her half an hour before, she had been standing at the window of her room rehearsing what she must say to her mother.

  The door to the large, seldom-used main parlor was open. Mrs. Montlow stood inside, lips pursed as she sat looking at a pair of blue brocade window hangings. Elizabeth said from the doorway, "May I speak to you for a moment in the side parlor?"

  Mrs. Montlow looked annoyed. "I am busy, Elizabeth. Can't you talk to me here?"

  "Please, Mother." Elizabeth felt it would be easier to tell her in the familiar side parlor than in this stiffly formal room.

  "Oh, very well." She moved past Elizabeth and led the way down the hall. When she had sat down in the armchair she usually occupied, she looked up at her daughter, standing before her. "Now, what is it?"

  "I am to be married."

  "Of course you are to be married! Why do you think I was inspecting the parlor hangings? They must be replaced before the wedding party, Elizabeth. We can make new ones ourselves, if you insist There is still plenty of time between now and June."

  "I shall be married as soon as possible, not in June. And not to Donald. I am going to marry Sir Patrick Stanford."

  Her mother stared at her blankly. "It fa not like you to make a jest about an important matter," she said finally, "especially a jest in such bad taste. But then, you have not been yourself lately."

  "Mother, it is not a jest. This morning I received a letter from Sir Patrick, asking me to marry him. By now he must be on his way here. I... I am asking you to arrange for the first reading of the banns at tomorrow morning's church service."

  After a long moment, Mrs. Montlow said slowly, "What you have told me makes no sense whatever. That man, out of all the men in the world. I cannot believe he has even written you such a letter, let alone mat you would accept his proposal. Why, you have never even exchanged a word with him."

  "But I have. I met him at a ball at Lord and Lady Armitage's, winter before last You weren't feeling well enough to attend, remember? And then after... after the trial, he came here."

  Mrs. Montlow clutched the arms of her chair. "Here? To the Hedges? Why?"

  "He wanted to know what ship Christopher had taken. I told him I didn't know."

  "He was here with you while you were alone in the house?"

  "Yes."

  Mrs. Montlow's eyes, wide with alarm now, swept her daughter's slim figure. "Elizabeth! Could it be that you have done something... dishonorable?"

  Yes, Elizabeth wanted to say, I perjured myself. Instead she said, "Mother, are you sure you want to know what happened in this house while you were in London?"

  They looked at each other. After a moment, Elizabeth saw the dawn of horrified comprehension in her mother's eyes. Mrs. Montlow's lips moved. "That devil. That black-hearted devil. No!" she cried. "I don't want you to tell me about it."

  She leaned back in her chair, her breathing ragged. Swiftly Elizabeth turned toward the cabinet that held the smelling salts. "No, I am all right," Mrs. Montlow managed to say. At least, she was thinking, the man was willing to marry Elizabeth. And Christopher would be safe. Surely not even that Irish devil would hunt down his own brother-in-law.

  Elizabeth said, "Then you will see to the posting of the banns?"

  "Yes," Mrs. Montlow whispered. "Yes, my darling girl."

  "And will you do one thing more for me, a... a very difficult thing? Donald will be here very shortly. I cannot, I simply cannot..." Her voice broke. She waited a moment, and then went on, "Will you tell him that Sir Patrick has proposed to me, and that I have decided to accept? Just that, nothing more. Once you have told him that, I will come down and say good... I will come down and speak to him."

  "Yes, I will tell him." She, who had always looked younger than her age, now looked years older. "Elizabeth, perhaps I have not been a good mother to you. Always I have been too much taken up with Christopher."

  "Nothing that has happened has been your fault, Mother."

  Mrs. Montlow went on, as if Elizabeth had not spoken, "But my son seemed to need more of my attention than my strong, sensible daughter. It never meant I loved you less." Even as she spoke, she realized, guiltily and helplessly, that that was not true. Always it was her handsome, wayward son who had held first place in her heart.

  Elizabeth glanced at the mantel clock. "Please, Mother, please don't cry. I know you love me. But right now I must get upstairs. I am afraid that Donald..."

  "I know." Mrs. Montlow took a handkerchief from inside the lacy cuff of her dress and dried her eyes. She said, shoulders straightening, "Go on upstairs. I will tell him."

  About ten minutes later, standing rigidly at the window of her room, Elizabeth heard the front-door knocker strike, and then Donald's footsteps going along the lower hall. Not more than another ten minutes passed, although it seemed to Elizabeth an eternity, before Mary Hawkins said from the open doorway, "Miss Liza."

  Hawkins had stopped calling her that when she was fourteen. Elizabeth turned around. The older woman's face, filled with pity and sorrow, told her that her mother had already broken the news to Hawkins.

  "Mr. Weymouth is alone in the side parlor now, miss."

  "Thank you, Hawkins."

  On legs that felt wooden, she moved down the stairs and back along the hallway to the side parlor. Donald stood in front of the unlighted fireplace. His face was as white as if he had bled from some actual although invisible wound. But at least such a wound would not kill him, Elizabeth told herself desperately. Donald would live, and assume the spiritual leadership of this parish, and eventually marry some gentle, loving woman.

  He said, "Your mother tells me that while I was in Bath, you formed... formed another attachment...."

 
"Yes."

  Something died out of his eyes, perhaps a faint hope that Mrs. Montlow had been mistaken. "I suppose that is why you have been so strange ever since I returned. You were afraid to tell me."

  "Yes."

  "It is impossible for me to comprehend, of course. I could not imagine my own affections... But I know such things happen."

  He stopped. Throat closed, Elizabeth found herself unable to speak.

  "Sir Patrick is a handsome man," he went on, "and a baronet." His lips stretched into a parody of a smile. "Compared to him, a country parson is scarcely a dashing figure."

  She cried, "Don't say things like that."

  "I don't say it to reproach you. It is just that I am trying very hard to understand."

  Pray God, Elizabeth thought, that you never do.

  He said, "You will go to Ireland to live, I suppose."

  "I suppose."

  In the ensuing silence, the ticking of the mantel clock sounded very loud. At last he said, "Then there is nothing left to say, except to wish you..." Apparently he could not even say that, because he broke off and walked past her, not touching her, to the doorway. There he turned.

  "Elizabeth, if you ever need me at any time, and for any reason whatsoever..."

  She dared not look at him, lest her self-control break entirely and she run sobbing into his arms. Back turned to him, she said, "I know."

  Standing, motionless, she listened, for what she knew was the last time, to his footsteps moving away down the hall.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Stanford carriage, drawn by two perfectly matched grays, moved briskly along Ireland's southeastern coast. Sometimes, when the road dipped into a valley, the blue waters of the Irish channel, breaking into foam on a pebbly beach, were very close. Other times, the sea was far below, its waves invisible. Now and then, as the curving road approached a headland, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of heavy seas foaming high against a cliff.

  The carriage and its driver, Michael, a stocky, cheerful man of forty-odd, had been waiting when the ship docked at Waterford. He had said, "Welcome to Ireland, Lady Stanford, and may you find every happiness." Then, to Elizabeth's astonishment, he had added with a wink, "And congratulations to you, Sir Patrick," and clapped his employer on the shoulder.