Or—humiliating thought!—perhaps her treacherous body, now restored to health, had begun to clamor for the lovemaking of this man she had every reason to loathe, and yet could not help desiring. Perhaps without her ever admitting the thought to her consciousness, she had hoped that during the course of a few nights away from both Stanford Hall and Wetherly, she might lure him permanently away from Moira's bed.
He said, "You could take Mrs. Corcoran to Dublin with you. Or if you want to wait awhile, perhaps I could go with you. But not now. In fact, I plan to ride out again right after supper, perhaps to be gone several days."
"In that case," she said coldly, "I will not wait. I will go with Mrs. Corcoran."
CHAPTER 24
In Dublin one afternoon less than a week later, Elizabeth stood in the sitting room of her two-room lodgings, the same lodgings she and Patrick had occupied the previous summer. In her hand was a note a manservant had just brought to the door. Frowning, she read it for the second time:
My dear Lady Stanford,
Since I too am staying at this inn, would you grant me the great pleasure of serving you tea in my rooms? They are directly above your own.
I do hope to see you at four this afternoon.
Your obedient servant,
Moira Ashley
Elizabeth's gaze went to the traveling clock she had placed on a desk in one corner. Almost three-thirty. Should she go? Even as she asked herself the question, she knew that she would. Curiosity alone would impel her to do so.
What did Moira Ashley want? Was her arrival at this particular inn at this particular time a coincidence? Elizabeth did not think so.
She herself, with Mrs. Corcoran riding beside her in the Stanford coach, had arrived in Dublin the day before, too late in the afternoon to visit Madame Leclerc's establishment. It was not until this morning that she had gone to the Frenchwoman's shop. In a letter written from Stanford Hall, Elizabeth already had informed Madame Leclerc of the miscarriage. Yesterday the modiste, after expressing sympathy, had abandoned the topic. Nevertheless, as Elizabeth turned this way and that at the Frenchwoman's direction, she thought of how differently she had once visualized her second visit to this establishment, with herself describing to an appreciative Madame Leclerc the charms of her little son or daughter.
"Voilà! This gown will now be of the perfect fit through the waist. Can you remain in Dublin until late tomorrow afternoon, Lady Stanford? Bon! I will have your gowns ready to put in the trunk of your carriage."
Elizabeth had returned to her rooms at the inn. Only minutes later, Lady Moira's note had arrived.
How had Moira known that Elizabeth was even in Dublin, let alone at this particular inn? Through Patrick? Probably, but not necessarily. Servants from both Wetherly and Stanford Hall, traveling to and from the village on various errands, regularly exchanged information.
She laid the note on the desk. Briefly she considered ringing for one of the inn servants, so that he could fetch Mrs. Corcoran from her room in the east wing of the building. But no. She did not need the housekeeper to help her change. In fact, she would not change. Here at a public inn, the violet bombazine she wore was quite elaborate enough for tea. Besides, the chances were that Moira Ashley had been watching from her window when the Stanford carriage had returned from the modiste's a few minutes ago. If so, she had seen the bombazine dress. Elizabeth felt that she would be at a disadvantage if Moira could picture her, in response to that note, hurrying to make herself sufficiently grand to take tea with a peeress. Elizabeth would tidy her hair, and leave it at that
At four o'clock she knocked on the door of a room directly above her own sitting room. She heard light footsteps. Then the door opened. Lady Moira stood there in a silk gown, the color of champagne, that left her shoulders bare. Her dark hair, informally loosened, curled about her face. No matter how long it had taken Moira to achieve it, the effect was one of careless déshabillé. And she had never looked more beautiful.
"How kind of you to come, Lady Stanford!"
Murmuring that it was pleasant to have been asked, Elizabeth stepped into the room. The shades had been drawn at the windows, shutting out the gray light of the October afternoon. Only candleglow fell on the tea table, with its trays of scones and buttered bread and small chocolate cakes, its silver tea service so elaborate that Elizabeth realized her hostess must have brought it with her from Wetherly. Not even the finest inn in Dublin would provide its guests with a teapot that valuable.
When they had settled themselves at the table, Elizabeth asked, "How long have you been in Dublin, Lady Moira?"
"Since last night. And I will leave for Wetherly early tomorrow morning. Milk, Lady Stanford?"
"A little. No sugar, thank you."
Moira handed her guest a teacup, and then said with a laugh, "I am here on what Patrick calls a fool's errand."
At the other woman's easy use of Patrick's name, Elizabeth felt her hackles rise. "What sort of errand?"
"Have you ever heard of the Brazilian Company? No? Well, it has been formed to exploit newly discovered diamond mines in South America. Some shares have earned as much as thirty percent a year! Here in Dublin this morning I arranged with my banker and my lawyer to mortgage Wetherly and my other properties. The money raised will be invested in the Brazilian Company." She gave an excited laugh. "By this time next year, I should be the richest woman in Ireland!"
"But isn't there a risk...?"
"There is always risk when one sets out to make a great deal of money. But as I told Patrick, it is not in my nature to take the prudent course." She laughed again. This time the sound was tenderly amused. "He is quite exasperated with me. He advises me in all financial matters, you know, and usually I take his advice. Thus he is doubly annoyed when I do not."
Elizabeth had no doubt that her husband and this highly desirable woman were lovers. But the knowledge that they frequently shared the same bed conveyed to her less of a sense of their intimacy than the thought of him advising Moira in business matters, arguing with her, losing his temper, and telling her she was a fool. To behave like that, a man had to feel more than just desire tor a woman. Her welfare had to be important to him.
"Anyway," Moira went on, "when I heard you had gone to Dublin, I decided to make my visit here at the same time, in the hope we could have a talk."
"Who told you I had gone to Dublin?"
Moira's indigo eyes widened. "Why, Patrick, of course."
Had he? Or had she heard through servants' gossip?
"Now, as for what I felt we should talk about." She leaned forward and placed her teacup on the table. The gesture seemed to say that the polite skirmishing was over, and the real battle was about to be joined. After a moment's hesitation, Elizabeth also placed her cup on the table.
"Yes?" she said.
"How long, Lady Stanford, are you going to prolong a situation that must make you even more unhappy than it makes Patrick and me?"
Elizabeth said, sparring for time, "Unhappy?"
"Come, come, Lady Stanford! You know how little time Patrick spends at his own home. Where do you think he does spend it?"
Anger at the other woman's arrogance speeded Elizabeth's heartbeats. "And what are you proposing I do about it?"
Moira leaned forward. "You could petition for divorce."
"Divorce!"
"Yes! It can be managed. Consanguinity—you know, blood relationship—is the best grounds. A clever lawyer could find some degree of relationship between the Stan-fords and the Montlows, even if it was many generations back. Almost anything can serve as a pretext. Why, did you know that a marriage was once dissolved because the husband, years before his marriage, had stood godfather to a baby who was a cousin of his future wife's? All it takes is a clever lawyer and a sufficient amount of money."
"No doubt," Elizabeth said dryly. After a moment she added, "Did Patrick know you were going to discuss with me the possibility of divorce?"
"Why, of course!"
Somehow the tone was a little emphatic, and the dark blue eyes too wide and candid, to carry conviction.
"I see. And after dissolution of the marriage, you would become Patrick's wife. Is that it?"
"Exactly. Patrick and I have always been perfectly suited to one another. Now, I don't know how it is that he married you..."
"You don't?" So it was apparent, Elizabeth thought grimly, that the understanding between Patrick and Moira was not as complete as the lady represented it to be.
As if aware she had blundered, Moira said quickly, "Oh, I know in a general way. I know it was because you... became pregnant. But my point is this. Patrick and I are right for each other by any standard you can mention—rank, temperament, even nationality."
"Perhaps so. But why should I oblige you and Patrick by consenting to divorce?"
"Because then you would be free to marry that Englishman."
"So you know about Donald Weymouth." Moira nodded, smiling. "Then you must know also that he is a clergyman of the Church of England. As such, he could not possibly marry a divorced woman."
"No law compels him to be a vicar! He could leave the church."
Elizabeth said quietly, "That is something I would strive at all costs to keep him from doing."
"Why must you be such a fool! Why do you want to keep all three of us unhappy? No, four, counting your Englishman. I should think that your miscarriage—or rather, the quarrel leading up to it—would make you realize that nothing can turn out well for you and Patrick."
"What do you know of that quarrel?"
"Why... why, I know it was because you and the Englishman had left the hall together, he on horseback and you in a cart. Patrick came home, heard about it, and flew into a rage. Not out of any sort of jealousy," she added quickly. "He just felt that you, a woman at least legally his wife, had made a fool of yourself, trailing alongside the departing guest in a farmer's cart."
So, Elizabeth thought, Patrick had not told her of seeing his wife in Donald Weymouth's arms. More than likely, Patrick had told Moira nothing about that quarrel. All she knew was what she had learned from servants.
Elizabeth said, "Lady Moira, if Patrick wants his marriage dissolved, then let him tell me so. And now, since you have been so free with advice, I should like to give you some. Why don't you try to get over your obsession with my husband?"
"Obsession!" Rage, swift and to Elizabeth inexplicable, expanded Moira's pupils until her eyes looked black.
"Yes, obsession. Here you are, beautiful, rich, and still young. Surely you could have your choice of a number of men. And yet nothing will content you short of marrying a man now legally tied to another woman."
"But only legally." Moira was one of those people who smile when most infuriated, and she was smiling now. "I should think that your pride would welcome a chance to be free of such a marriage."
"There are some kinds of pride that one cannot afford. True, my situation now is a humiliating one. It would be much more so if I returned to England alone, penniless, and unable to marry the one man I ever wanted to marry."
"There would be no need for you to return penniless. As you have said, I am rich."
Elizabeth smiled. "I am afraid I do have pride, after all—at least, enough that I could not possibly accept money from you. Nor can I believe that Patrick suggested that you discuss with me the possibility of divorce. Cowardice is not one of his faults. But if by any chance I am mistaken, if he did send you to Dublin to find out whether I would consider such a step, then tell him I will not, unless he himself asks me to."
She rose. "Perhaps I had best go now."
Lady Moira also stood up. "Perhaps you had," she said evenly.
When her guest had gone, Moira crossed to the window and with angry force swept the draperies apart. The last of the daylight came in to mingle with the candles' glow. Face white with rage, she looked down into the street.
Obsession. It was that word which had enraged her even more than Elizabeth's apparent determination to remain Lady Stanford. It was a word she hated, because ever since her earliest childhood she had heard it applied to both her mother and her Aunt Sara.
It was her aunt, the elder of Lord Rawling's daughters, whose behavior had first scandalized his neighbors there in the misty northern countryside near Belfast. At the age of twenty-one she had fallen in love with an artist who had been commissioned to do her portrait. After stealing a large sum from her father's strongbox, Sara had pursued the unfortunate painter to London. Despite his repeated rejections of her, she had followed him from one European capital to another. Finally, in Venice, she had tried to kill him with a knife. When the attempt failed, she had stabbed herself fatally through the heart.
As for Moira's mother, her obsession had taken an even more bizarre turn. When Moira was three, her mother had given birth to a male child who lived less than a week. Moving into the room that had been set aside for the child, the bereaved woman had insisted that all the shades be drawn permanently. By the light of one candle she had sat there day after day, year after year, all during Moira's childhood and girlhood, rocking the empty cradle.
She was dead now, but she had still been alive at the time of Moira's marriage. Both Moira and her father knew why she, a beautiful and spirited viscount's daughter, had not been courted by any of the local young men of sufficiently high birth. All those men were aware that there was an "odd" streak on the maternal side of Moira's family. In the end, Lord Rawling had felt fortunate to be able to marry his daughter to a rich visitor from southern Ireland, even though Sir Kevin Ashley, a widower, was three times her age.
She thought of the afternoon eight years ago when she, a bride of a few weeks, had walked out onto a terrace at Wetherly and found her stooped, graying husband in conversation with a tall young man. Sir Kevin had made the introduction. For a second or two before he bent to kiss her hand, Patrick Stanford's eyes had looked straight into hers. She'd had a strange sensation, as if her heart quite literally had moved within her breast. Oh, she had known it was not love at first sight. Perhaps there was no such thing. But it was recognition that here was a man she could love. And certainly it was desire at first sight. Her husband's ineffectual lovemaking had awakened her sensuality without satisfying it. She knew instinctively that Patrick could satisfy her.
She had no doubt that he too had felt the strong pull of attraction between them. But apparently he was determined not to betray his lifelong friend and neighbor, Sir Kevin. After that first afternoon, he stayed away from Wetherly except for large balls and for meetings of the local hunt.
Other men were not so scrupulous. During the four years that passed before Sir Kevin was found crumpled up on the floor of his dressing room, dead hand still clutching at his chest, Moira had taken several lovers. But they had been only substitutes for the man she wanted.
After her husband's death, suitors for her hand had appeared as soon as the official mourning period was over. But Patrick made no proposal of marriage. He did give every indication, however, that he wanted to share her bed, now that Sir Kevin was gone. Angrily, Moira had refused him what she had granted to others. "You'll have to marry me," she had told him.
Instead, he had married that gray-eyed Englishwoman. And at last, Moira, after eight years of frustration, had capitulated and become his mistress. Now she was more in love with him than ever, more determined than ever that their union would become permanent and legal.
She felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. What had she ever had out of life? A childhood and girlhood shadowed by her mother's madness. Four years of marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather. And now, when she was more than ever in love with Patrick, more than ever needing to become his wife, she found her way barred by a whey-faced creature who did not love Patrick and who—oh, surely!—was not loved by him.
Damn Elizabeth Stanford! Damn her!
She whirled around, seized the cup from which her guest had drunk, and hurled it. Leaving a trail of spilled d
rops across the pastel floral rug, it shattered against the door.
***
Two nights later the Stanford carriage emerged from the grove of oaks and alders and moved across the meadow toward Stanford Hall. In one corner Elizabeth sat with her gaze fixed on the rows of mullioned windows reflecting the light of a three-quarter moon. In the other corner Mrs. Corcoran slept, her chin sunk on her chest
As she had told Moira Ashley, Elizabeth had no intentions of even considering a divorce unless Patrick asked her to. And yet, all during the journey from Dublin she had been aware of the irony of those elaborate gowns back there in the carriage trunk, gowns that in all likelihood she would seldom if ever wear. As their relations were now, it was unlikely that they would be giving many parties, or going to them. And she felt sure that if Patrick went to London for the season, it would be without her.
Was she going to live out her life like this, bound in marriage to a man who had ceased even to desire her?
She reached over and touched the housekeeper's arm. "Wake up. We are here."
As Mrs. Corcoran straightened her bonnet, the carriage clattered through the wrought-iron gates and into the courtyard. The hall's door swung open, and Clarence came down the stone stairs to open the carriage door and let down its steps. Elizabeth asked, "Is Sir Patrick at home?"
"No, milady. He has not been here since this morning."
Of course not, Elizabeth thought. Leaving Dublin well before she herself had, Moira must have reached Wetherly last night. Undoubtedly Patrick was there with her right now.
CHAPTER 25
Elizabeth was wrong about Patrick being at Wetherly. He was a good five miles from there in an upstairs room of the fishing village's one public house. With a companion, the same vaguely foreign-looking man Elizabeth once had glimpsed in the taproom of that fashionable Dublin inn, he sat a rough table, drawn up close to the fire on this crisp night. On the table, amid the remains of the meal they had shared, lay a map of Ireland and several sheets of paper, each covered with writing in Patrick's bold hand.
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