by Joan Smith
“It was the company you kept, Oliver. I didn’t care for your friends.”
“I never made you go out with my friends—well, except for a few dos we could not well avoid. A husband and wife are expected to appear together occasionally, you know, in public.”
“Oh yes, I know. Even more than once a week in some marriages, and in some bizarre cases they even spend some time alone together, but then we would not want to push eccentricity too far. There must be some limits to togetherness, after all, or husbands and wives will be taking the notion they own each other.”
“Are you telling me you wished for more of my company than you had? Is that it?” Oliver’s case too had its weak point, and he felt they had come to it now. With no more encouragement than a word or a tear from his wife, he would have admitted to guilt and promised to rectify his ways. He was overwhelmingly eager to do so, but her reply gave him no opportunity.
“At the time, I found the once a week more than enough.”
“Belle, this is no time to be facetious. I asked you to come to Belwood with me. We might have been quite alone there. You refused.”
“You could hardly wait to get away from Crockett Hall, where you were cut off from your friends for three days. You would have hated it alone at Belwood.”
“I enjoyed it at Crockett!” he said quickly, seeing some glimmering of hope yet for his scheme. His eye flew to the books, and his mind to the oak-lined walls so like Crockett, and he tried to think of a natural way to raise the similarities.
“You asked me ten times a day if I wouldn’t like to go back to London.”
“I thought you were bored.”
“You were the one who was bored. You were bored with me, and no other company but a bunch of old relics."
“Belle . . .” He reached out his hands toward her. “I adored it at Crockett. Come back with me to Belwood. We’ll start over."
But nothing had really changed, and his next speech told her so quite clearly. “You can get a new bunch of gowns, and any carriage you want.”
“I have plenty of gowns, and don’t want a carriage. I don’t see anything to be gained by going to Belwood,” she answered ironically, to let him know what she thought of his bribes.
“Come with me,” he insisted, brushing aside her objections. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
“You don’t have anything I want,” she answered, a little sadly, for it was not quite true. He had what she wanted—love, and time and companionship, but he just wasn’t offering them. Setting down her glass, she arose and walked slowly from the room.
Avondale stood silent and motionless, watching her go, and a wave of despair washed over him. What do you do, what more can you say when your own wife tells you that she wants no part of you? He flung his wineglass into the grate, to be smashed to smithereens against the stones.
He resumed his pacing back and forth in the room, empty now but for himself. What did she want? He had offered her everything he had, and it was a good deal more than most men had to offer, too. He glanced at the ineffectual books as he paced, and they, like the glass, were pitched into the grate, to go up in a gratifying burst of flames. He then picked up the champagne bottle to follow the other fuels for the fire, but sat it down again and stalked from the room. The despair gave way to anger, and was soon translated into hope.
At least she hadn’t been cold. He had jostled her out of that damned indifference, anyway, and he still held his trump card. She was his wife. Possession is nine points of the law, he cheered himself, and she was legally still his wife. It had been a mistake to give in to her wish for a legal separation. He should never have done that, but he would never give her a divorce in any case, nor give her any grounds to secure one from him either.
Belle was too upset to go to the concert after the meeting. She went abovestairs and went to bed, to consider the “chat,” that had in fact been a ring-around fight. How odd—her first argument with Oliver! She knew him to be insufferably proud, and thought it must have cost him something to do everything but beg her to return to him. She had thought the divorce would please him, open the way for him to get on with his own life, but his very positive assertions in that regard made her think again.
If there was to be no divorce, ever, then perhaps she would do some more thinking. She might even go back to him, but it would be on very different terms from formerly. She felt better able to stand up to him now, after her year of maturing at Easthill. She hadn’t fallen into a quake at his anger, and she had never seen him so angry either. She found the anger easier to take than the cold sarcasm. It was more human.
If she went back it wouldn’t be as a toy doll for him to dress up in his overly ornate taste and parade around to parties to show her off. He had mentioned Belwood, and she had of course some curiosity to see it. She rather thought she might be tolerably happy with him at Belwood, away from all his city flirts. But what a life—like living in a box. A very large and extravagant box no doubt, but still confined to one spot. Who wanted a husband she was afraid to let off the leash? The word “leash” brought inevitably to mind Arnold, who would be as faithful as a spaniel, whether leashed or not. Yet she didn’t really want him either. Perhaps his fidelity had been somewhat overestimated too. He hadn’t been so faithful that evening. Went slinking off into the shadows every time Oliver approached her—just when she needed his support, in other words.
He was frightened to death of Oliver, that was the fact of the matter. Had their roles been reversed, she didn’t think Oliver would be scooting off on her every time Arnold approached. Knock him down and walk on him was more like it. It had been a long day, and in spite of being at the watershed of her life, she was tired enough to sleep.
Avondale went along to the concert when he left the study, thinking Belle would be there. He soon learned she was not, but the Italian soprano (and he really adored Italian sopranos) was very good. He didn’t hear much, though. He fell into a spot of deep thinking about further schemes to win his wife back. He tried to remember what she had said. There had been some intimation that he had not spent enough time with her, and really he had not, either. Just married, he should have been with her more. He thought about his friends, and how they ran their marriages, but Florian had married an ugly cousin for her money, and Roger had been forced to it to get his hands on his own money, and every other friend and relation he canvassed had been similarly involved in a marriage of convenience.
There were others who behaved differently, he knew. The Delfords, for instance, were a good deal in each other’s company, and no one seemed to find it odd. In fact that whole group, the Sloanes and others, had a pretty good time with their wives. Belle liked them. She often spoke of the balloon ascent she had gone to see with the Delfords. Why hadn’t he gone with her? Just the first week of their marriage—he should have gone. He had gone to Jackson’s Boxing Parlor and been laid low by the champ because his mind was off with Belle. He remembered her asking, with that sweet little smile, if he would like to go. “I know it is childish,” she had said apologetically, “but I have never seen one, and would like to. I suppose you have seen dozens.”
“Quite a few,” he had answered with worldly ennui, to strut his sophistication and impress her. “But you go ahead, Belle. You will enjoy it.” She hadn’t bothered inviting him on her other outings, but had occasionally mentioned spending an afternoon at some tourist spot—the Tower of London, or the Wax Works.
Why hadn’t he gone the first time? Then she would have asked him again. He loved to see a balloon go up. He would love to go up in one himself. It would be great fun. Next time they would do things together. If there was a next time.
He had to fabricate compliments on the signora’s voice to please Kay, as he had heard so little. But she was more interested in the success of his campaign and inquired of it.
“I haven’t made much headway so far,” he confessed, but in no despondent way at all. Despondency had been all done away with while Trava
lli sang, and he was now in a hopeful mood again.
“Get her off somewhere by herself tomorrow,” Kay advised. “Take my mount for her—she is a good horsewoman, you said. The two of you go for a ride and be by yourselves. I have kept the room next to hers empty, as I promised. We’ll get you into it yet, Ollie. See if we don’t. Oh, speaking of rooms! The Italian has pulled a new stunt on me. She was found in Lady Dempster’s room, stretched out on the bed snoring. Lizzie is in the boughs, and swears she went there to steal something. I pointed to the name on the door, and she—La Travalli—went off into whoops. What is to be done with her? And not a single word of English will she understand, obstinate creature.”
“At least she has an excuse,” Oliver replied, and thought again of his English wife, who refused to understand him.
Chapter Seven
When Arnold Henderson awoke in a strange room at Ashbourne, it took him a few minutes to remember where he was, and upon doing so, he put his head under his pillow and groaned. Thus far in his somewhat uneventful life, yesterday had been his worst day, but he had the sinking feeling today would be worse. This whole holiday with Belle had been looked forward to with the greatest anticipation. He liked her immensely, always had, and though his mama would hit the roof if he ever tried marrying a divorced lady, she was really strangely lenient about letting him run around with a married one, so long as she was a duchess.
The duchess was even invited home for tea, and for drives with Mama, and it was becoming clear to the son that the duchess was also taking into her head the notion that she would be an acceptable bride, which was far from the case. He knew a day of reckoning must come. He could not escape scot-free from carrying on a dalliance with a married woman, but he had never thought he must account to the lady’s husband. He had envisioned the time he must renounce her, but had seen himself as the injured party. Not till two weeks ago had she started talking up divorce, and after having told her so many times how he regretted that she was not free for him to marry, what the devil was he to say when she was free?
That little cloud had been hovering there in the distance these two weeks, but at a good few years hence. A much blacker, uglier cloud had suddenly blown in from the crushed-shell path of Lady Hathaway’s garden to turn this supposed pleasure trip into a nightmare.
He had come with Belle. Together they had planned outings for this visit; she expected him to be her partner. To walk and sit and ride and talk with her, to dance and flirt discreetly and entertain her, and it was not only extremely difficult but actually impossible to do so with Avondale glowering at him with murder in his eyes.
Avondale was a big man, for one thing, a good three inches taller than himself and a couple of stones heavier, in all the right places. Shoulders like a dashed door, and of course he was a famous boxer, in an amateur capacity. Besides this physical superiority, he had the advantage of the highest nonroyal title England had to offer. All this was bad enough, but to complete the disaster, he was Belle’s husband. Nature, the law, morality, society— everything was on his side. But still Belle expected himself to stand up to this Titan and go on partnering her, and doing it too under the eyes of all these city sharks, that he knew perfectly well were laughing at him up their sleeves.
He knew some very fancy footwork indeed was called for to get him through this visit without some catastrophe befalling him. And when he got back to Amesbury, he would leave off courting Belle once and for all, and marry Miss Mickles, as his mama wanted him to do. Mama, good, simple soul, often mentioned his taking Miss Mickles out with Belle and himself. But he would leave off Belle entirely once he got safely home. He struck a silent and one-sided bargain with his Maker that if He would keep him safe from harm till he got home, he would marry Miss Mickles and forsake Belle. He longed to get up and slip out the back way home alone that very minute—it was only seven o’clock and not a soul would see him, but he had promised Belle they would go to see Dr. Hutchison, and certainly they must. He had told Mama they would.
He propped himself up in his bed and began figuring how he could spirit Belle off for this visit without her husband knowing anything about it. Followed her about like a cat after a mouse. Time at least was on his side. He was awake early, and Belle too he knew always arose early. At these fancy parties, he expected people slept in till all hours. If he could get her out before Avondale came downstairs, and sneak her back in while he was away somewhere, he might avoid violence for one more day.
Well before eight o’clock Arnold was seated at an empty breakfast table, where a perfectly astonished servant told him he would bring breakfast as soon as possible. Clearly he had committed a solecism by appearing so early, and he regretted having displayed his lack of manners to a country servant who could neither read nor write. He liked to appear worldly to such menials. He knew Belle would not be so gauche as to show up this early; she’d been at a few of these dos before.
At eight-thirty he realized his plan of an early departure was going all to pieces, and asked a maid if she would ask the duchess’ dresser to remind her they were to leave for their visit at nine. No time had actually been set, but he hoped Belle would think she had forgotten.
It was not long before Belle came down the stairs, looking a little surprised at the early hour at which she had been called, but not tired at all. She had gone to bed early. With Arnold looking at his watch every two minutes and writhing in his chair with impatience, she made only a light breakfast, about half a cup of coffee, before she arose to get her pelisse. As he hustled her out the front door, there was the fall of feet on the top stairs, but he didn’t dare risk turning around to see whom they belonged to. The footfalls had the sound of doom to him, of Avondale in other words.
The visit was not a great success. Dr. Hutchison was amazed to see his company at the door so early, just half an hour before he had a meeting with some townspeople. He had planned to show them around his little place, some nice gardens and a bit of an orchard, but they had hardly time for a cup of tea before he must leave. He urged them to come back for luncheon, but this was impossible for them. Henderson was very anxious indeed to get back to Ashbourne. Finally, he turned them over to his housekeeper to give them their tour, and by ten-thirty they had left. Arnold was all for getting back to Ashbourne at once, possibly even before Avondale had noticed they were gone, but with a new town to reconnoiter, Belle was as determined to tarry as he was to hurry back. He had never seen her so stubborn, and became quite brusque with her. He tried to step this little misunderstanding up into a battle, thus having an excellent excuse to stay away from her, but she had no idea of falling out with him entirely, and refused to take offense at anything. With the best nature in the world she loitered around the one main street, pointing out quaint chimneys and pretty rosebushes. He could hardly object to a suggestion that they take a peek at Dr. Hutchison’s church. Mama would think it very odd if they had no account to give her of it.
She next had the idea of getting some little gift for Kay, the selection of which took another half hour, though she only bought a small figurine. She managed to put him in the wrong over this, and made him realize it was considered gauche in the extreme to proffer no gift to one’s hostess. In the end they were bolting the horses back to Ashbourne to avoid being late for luncheon.
The morning had been bad enough, but Arnold foresaw a worse afternoon developing when he recognized the form of the duke lounging down the front steps of Ashbourne just at that moment when he drove his carriage up the drive. He hoped to escape him by taking both Belle and himself around to the stables, from which they could get safely into the house by the French doors leading from the garden to the library without encountering him at all, but he was too sly for them. He was waiting in the garden when they came down the crushed-shell drive. Arnold squared his shoulders and readied himself for battle as best he could.
“Morning, Avondale,” he said, in a noncommittal tone that could turn to friendliness or rancor as demanded.
Avondale nodded a passing glance at him, but spoke to Belle, which was a good relief. “Been out driving, have you?” he asked. Another noncommittal tone.
“Yes, we have been visiting a friend. I was afraid we were late for lunch. We had better get in and freshen up,” she replied, and made to move past him.
He detained her physically with a hand on the arm, but Arnold was allowed to shab off with no more than a warning glance. Henderson read nemesis into the glance, but it was to be a delayed nemesis, it seemed.
“Who is this mutual friend you went to see?” Avondale asked his wife.
“No one you would know, Avondale. It is Dr. Hutchison, the old rector from Amesbury. He is moved to this vicinity.”
“I have told you once, Belle, and I now repeat for the last time, I do not want you going about with that man.”
“Oh, for heaven sake! We went to pay a call on a minister of the church! Where is the impropriety in that?”
“The impropriety is in your going with him. However, there is no real harm in it, of course,” he added more conciliatingly, as he had a little plan of his own to put forward that would require a good mood from Belle. “What have you planned for this afternoon?” he asked.
“I have no plans.”
“Good, then you can come riding with me.”
She didn’t say a word, but there was a negative look on her whole face. “I have no mount. We didn’t bring our hacks,” she said after a moment.
“Kay has one she’ll be happy to lend you. I have spoken to her.”
“She will have something else planned for us to do.”
“The old biddies have an afternoon of loo coming up, and guzzling ratafia. Your friends the Delfords and Sloanes said something about taking a spin over to Winchester to see the cathedral, but they are all four going together in one of their carriages. We can go along in mine if you’d rather do that. I thought you would prefer a ride on such a fine day.”
