Tarleton's Wife

by Blair Bancroft

  Julia gasped. “If you think I would have lived under the same roof with that niminy-piminy little wisp of a wilted violet, you are quite mistaken. That was my house, my servants. If you thought I was going to stand by and let that child lord it over me in my own home…”

  The major’s loud applause drowned out Julia’s fury. “You really should go on the stage, my dear. Mrs. Siddons might quake in her boots. You are quite superb, you know, for I find it difficult to believe you actually thought I would condone such a ménage à trois.” When his wife maintained her much-put-upon silence, Nicholas was inspired to inquire thoughtfully, “I suppose that becomes ménage à quatre if we add Jack Harding?”

  Julia’s attempt to box his ears almost succeeded. When he had her right arm motionless in midair and her left pinned to her side, the major clicked his tongue and shook his head. His gray eyes sparkled with glints of silver. “Violence, my girl? When I merely wished to point out that I have not created quite all the problems we face. That’s what we’re doing here, is it not? The only thing we seem to agree upon is that our problems cannot be solved in London. We must return home and pay the piper.”

  For a few quivering moments the tableau held until slowly, reluctantly, defiance drained from Julia’s body as she accepted the inevitable. Nicholas lowered her arm to her side, his hands continuing down, seemingly of their own volition, to gather her stiff form hard against his chest. It had been a damned long day, Nicholas thought wearily. This, the first good moment in it.

  After a silent struggle of wills, Julia’s body sagged against his, her shoulders shaking. Nicholas continued to hold her while she cried, grimly aware that every hot, slow, silent tear was drawing the net tighter about him. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind. The thought of being married to a termagant like Julia instead of his darling Violante was not as disquieting as it should have been.

  Julia finally ceased to quiver, her tears slowing to an occasional sniff but she made no attempt to pull away from the haven of Nicholas’ broad shoulder. Eyes downcast, her tone surprisingly meek, she murmured into the smooth wool of his cloak, “I have an idea…a compromise, if you wish.” She did not see the sharp look he aimed at the top of her head. “I suppose your aunt must have shown you the room above the old storage area near the kitchen?”

  “The room where great-grandfather Summerton kept his doxies? Now that I remember well,” was his provocative reply.

  Julia’s foray into humility was short-lived. She tore herself out of his arms, drawing back into the far corner of the velvet squabs. “Your selective memory is astonishing, Major!”

  “Quite. Now explain this intriguing change of subject.”

  Julia turned away, staring out the window toward the dusk-shrouded fields of Lincolnshire, punctuated by occasional clumps of silhouetted trees. Sadly, she recalled the day Daniel had first shown her these magnificent lowland acres, the agricultural heart of Britain. She had found a home here, a purpose, a new way of life. Whatever had prompted her mad emotional flight to London and her offer of an annulment, in her heart she did not want to give up The Willows. Most particularly, she did not want to give up the man who owned it. Surely, there was a limit to nobility.

  “I thought…” Julia ventured, choosing her words with great deliberation, “I thought there might be a way we could compromise, you and I. At the moment our dilemma is too new too painful, for us to make reasonable decisions. If it were only the two of us, it might be different but so many other people are affected by what we do and say. I believe we should give ourselves time. In the same way it is obvious that Violante and I cannot live under the same roof, so you and I cannot live together. There will be enough talk as it is. In a week or two the herbs should be dry enough to move and Sophy and I can return to her cottage. Meanwhile, I can stay in the secret room. A token separation, I admit but it should be enough to avert some of the scandal.”

  “Living apart from your husband is a way to avert scandal?” the major returned with a fine blend of sarcasm and incredulity.

  “And just what do you suppose is going to happen,” asked his wife with slow and awful clarity, “if you and I occupy adjoining rooms?”

  “Just exactly what should happen between a husband and wife.” Nicholas reached out to pull her back into his arms.

  Panicked, Julia swatted his hand more viciously than she intended. Nicholas jerked back, glaring at her with a ludicrous hint of a sulky boy’s pout.

  “It’s the secret room or nothing,” Julia declared flatly.

  “Very well,” Nicholas conceded, his swift capitulation causing his wife to eye him with suspicion. “Though I doubt a tapestry will be enough to deter the phantom lover,” he added with an air of thoughtful innocence.

  “Damn you, Nicholas! That’s why there’s a bar on the door and a very large chest of drawers, to boot.”

  The major shook his head, grinning. “I let you use a chest against me once, Julia. Not twice, I promise you.”

  “You will behave yourself, Nicholas Tarleton, or I’ll…I’ll tell your precious Violante!”

  “Bar that door and I’ll wring your neck,” the major promised, ignoring her threat.

  Unable to think of a suitably scathing reply, Julia returned to her examination of the landscape, now so shadowed by the October night only the pale glow from an occasional farmhouse could be seen.

  She was going home. To the only true home she had ever known. To people who cared about her. Surely somehow, some way, all would be well.

  * * * * *

  In the fashion of the male of the species, particularly military men of a decisive and confident character, the major had no dread of his return to The Willows. Whatever unpleasantness might result from having a wife and his betrothed living within a few miles of each other, hostile tenants and an overly wily solicitor was a mere bagatelle, a challenge to be met and solved with dispatch. As the welcoming glow from The Willow’s many windows—now free from clinging tendrils of ivy—announced their arrival, the major allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. All would resolve itself. He had come home.

  To Julia, well aware of the anguish of living as a pensioner where she was accustomed to ruling the roost, the brightly lit windows of The Willows brought an attack of rising nausea. She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. But inside those walls were Sophy and Meg, the Peters and Cook, Jeffries, Harkins… Julia took a deep breath and put up her chin. It could not, after all, be that bad.

  It was worse.

  Peters forgot himself enough to smile as he welcomed the major and his wife back to The Willows. The brief warmth was swiftly followed by a look both conspiratorial and apologetic. “I must inform you, Major, Mrs. Tarleton, that Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey Tarleton and Mr. Oliver have been in residence for several days. They are currently in the drawing room with Miss Upton. Shall I announce you?”

  When Nicholas’ eyes lit with pleasure, Julia was ashamed of her own horrified reaction to what she could only consider a disaster of major proportions. As the major strode toward his family reunion, Julia murmured soft commands to Jeffries and started purposefully up the broad staircase toward her room. Since it scarcely seemed the proper moment to announce she was moving to the secret room, her old bedchamber was the best refuge. She could gather up the items she had left behind and—

  “Julia!” She had not quite reached the top of the stairs when the major’s parade ground voice stopped her in her tracks. Nicholas held out an imperious hand. There was no way she could argue with him before a crowd of interested spectators, which now included The Willow’s entire panoply of servants. Steel gray clashed with brilliant blue, exchanging promises of retribution. With great dignity Julia descended the staircase, placed her hand into her husband’s outstretched palm and swept into the drawing room with all the aplomb of a lady of the manor.

  She needn’t have worried that anyone would notice her pallor, Julia realized as Pamela Tarleton rushed to embrace her son. Julia backed away, relieved by the excuse to step away
from Nicholas as his father and brother added their welcome.

  The hubbub around Nicholas finally died away. The room chilled as her husband beckoned her forward.

  Ramsey Tarleton’s gaze flicked over his daughter-in-law with disdain. “So he’s found you, has he? Quite right, quite right. Could have been deuced awkward if you disappeared before this matter is settled.” He turned equally disapproving eyes on his elder son. “That poor child deserves better of you, Nicholas. Must make matters right as soon as possible.” Not even Peters, discreetly hovering in the background, was foolish enough to believe that poor child referred to his son’s wife.

  “Violante’s been dashed brave about it all, Old Nick,” Oliver assured his brother. “Never doubted you a minute. I’ve called on her each day—nothing else to do, don’t you know? She has remained steadfast in her belief you would come back to her. A few tears, of course, an occasional display of temper. Quite surprised me from such a fragile little charmer but all in all she’s behaved astonishingly well. One could almost suppose she’s English,” Oliver conceded in a manner which caused Julia to clench her teeth even tighter.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” Julia retreated toward the door.

  “We will not.” The major’s uncompromising tone.

  Caught in mid-stride, Julia hesitated, then doggedly continued her march toward the door. With almost leisurely grace Nicholas sidestepped into her path, bringing her retreat to an abrupt halt by the sheer expediency of grabbing her about the waist and swinging her around. With his left hand still on her waist and the right now draped over her shoulder, he turned to Pamela Tarleton and announced, “Mother, may I present my wife?”

  “We’ve already met,” Julia hissed at Nicholas, sketching as much of a curtsey as possible considering she was firmly held in place some fifteen feet from Nicholas’ mother. As Julia straightened, she groped with her toe for Nicholas’ boot, hoping to stomp on it. Unfortunately, the major’s footwork had been honed on the battlefield and success was doomed. “Let go!” she hissed. “I wish to leave this instant.”

  Nicholas walked her across the room toward his mother and Sophy Upton as easily as if she had been a recalcitrant child half her size. Julia too proud to struggle further when under the scrutiny of the entire Tarleton family, held her head high. She had spent the entire day arguing with Nicholas. She had longed for the peace and privacy of her own room…and now this.

  To her astonishment, help came from a most unlikely source.

  “My dear, I am so sorry,” Pamela Tarleton ventured. “You have had a very bad time of it and I wish you to know I understand how very awkward this is for you. You quite have my sympathy. I know I am not a strong person but I offer you whatever support I can give.”

  While Peters hid a smile behind a fit of coughing, the other three men in the room gaped at Pamela Tarleton as if she had turned into a dragon before their very eyes.

  Finding her husband’s grip gone slack, Julia bent in a deep curtsey before her mother-in-law. “I thank you, ma’am, most heartily. “And Sophy,” Julia’s lips quivered, her eyes misted, “Sophy, dear, it is so good to see you again!” The two women embraced. Then all three ladies closed ranks in an animated conversation which allowed the men only a glimpse of their backs.

  For once, the Tarleton men found themselves in complete accord. Women were very odd creatures indeed and best left alone in times such as these. They stood in front of the fireplace on the far side of the room, indulging in brandy and some moments of private conversation. After hearing an expurgated version of Nicholas’ search in London, Oliver gave his brother a sly grin, going so far as to punctuate it with a nudge of his elbow. “She’s turned out rather well, your wife,” he announced. “Never thought she’d pay for dressing. Quite astonishing, really. Can’t help thinking, old chap, take her off your hands if you’d like. Well, I mean, you’ve got to do something with her, haven’t you?”

  The outrage on his elder brother’s face sent Oliver into a fit of stuttering. “Y-you c-c-can’t have your c-cake and eat it t-too,” he protested. “I-I mean, old N-Nick, y-you c-can’t have ’em b-b-both!”

  “I’ll have them both before I let you at either one of them!”

  For a moment Oliver quailed before his brother’s fury but he was gifted with the family stubbornness. After all, Nick was not apt to murder him in the drawing room in front of his wife and mother. “C-come now, Nick, no insult intended. It’s m-marriage I had in mind. You’ll do well by her, I know. Good old dependable Nick would never cast his wife off without a feather to fly with. And I think, perhaps, an allowance for little brother too—for being so handy to pick up the pieces. Julia and I should do very well on our respective stipends. Call them a remittance if you like. I’ll take her far enough away that you’ll never have to worry. Just keep the drafts coming and you’ll not hear from us again.”

  Nicholas had never been fool enough to credit his brother with a noble character but he had hoped that with maturity Oliver would develop into a reasonably responsible and caring young man. Why then did he feel that if he had his sword in his hand, his brother would be in imminent danger of shedding his blood all over the soft pastels of the thick Aubusson carpet?

  Surely Oliver had proposed a perfectly reasonable and equitable solution. Yet the thought of his younger brother so much as kissing Julia’s hand sent Nicholas beyond anger. “Get out,” he ordered in the tones that had sent both officers and men scurrying in Spain. “Do not let me see you again until you can assure me all thought of that scheme has been erased from your mind. Go on, get out! Before I forget myself and do something our mother would not like.”

  Oliver Tarleton bolted for the door, forgetting in his haste to bid the ladies goodnight. Nicholas pasted a smile on his face and made his brother’s apologies to his mother, his wife and Sophy Upton. An attack of biliousness. Quite possibly something he ate.

  Julia’s searching glance was met by Nicholas’ perfectly blank parade ground face. Within minutes she and Sophy made their goodnights, leaving Nicholas to pursue a private reunion with his parents.

  Sometime later, when all had retired and the house was quiet, Nicholas—with more anticipation than he cared to admit—turned the knob of the connecting door into his wife’s room and stepped inside. The room enveloped him in emptiness. A chill was creeping in as the fire decayed to graying embers. There were no candles lit. The bed was neatly made, the closet and dresser empty of the meager assortment of clothing Julia had left behind. Of Julia herself, there was no sign. Not a brush, comb, glove, or slipper. Not so much as a single hair.

  Bloody hell! Nicholas slammed out of the room and down the long hallway. He tore the tapestry aside. As his fingers fumbled for the catch which allowed the door to slide into the thickness of the wall, he paused, fury coming off the boil as reason reared its unwelcome head. He had quarreled with Julia for the better part of a day. If he went to her now, they would continue the quarrel or end up in bed. Either action was unacceptable. Oliver was an oaf, an idiot, but he was right on one point. Nicholas could not have both women. They were ladies. He could not marry one and keep the other as his mistress. He had agreed to this token separation from Julia, this breathing space and he would have to abide by it. For the moment. No matter how little he liked it.

  Nicholas stepped back from the door, carefully rearranging the medieval tapestry. Only inches away, Julia put her ear to the door, listening as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

  Cursing himself for a fool for his belated recollection he was an officer and a gentleman, Nicholas did not pause to reexamine his wife’s barren room but fed his fit of pique with a liberal dose of brandy before throwing himself onto the bed which had never before seemed lonely.

  Both the major and his wife slept badly that night. They did not dream.

  * * * * *

  The Earl of Ellington’s dower house was nestled in a charming meadow some two miles from the earl’s principal seat. The lace curtains in the dra
wing room of the modest structure—which contained a mere fourteen rooms—were twitched aside, and a piquant face framed in shining, carefully coifed black hair peered out. The lace sagged back in place. The face, disheartened, disappeared. In what had become a continuing ritual—her Aunt Elvira swore she would soon wear a path in the carpet—Doña Violante Modestia Vila Santiago turned away from the window, her chocolate brown eyes misting with angry tears.

  “And still he does not come!” she cried.

  “Basta, basta, my child,” Doña Elvira chided. “He will come when he comes. If you wish to attract a gentleman’s devotion, you must practice patience. Men do as they will and women must ever bite their tongues and wait. If you are not careful, the major will return to find you grown into a shrew.”

  Violante opened her eyes wide, the warm brown sparkling in the morning sunlight filtering through the lacy curtains. “When he comes, I think I shall not see him. When he wishes to beg my forgiveness for allowing that great creature to take the place which should be mine, I shall ignore him. He must camp on our doorstep, grovel at my feet before I will speak one word.”

  “You are not only a child, you are a fool as well,” intoned Doña Elvira. “Have I come all the way to this cold, godforsaken land to see you lose what you once held in the palm of your hand? He is a man, that one. He will do as he pleases. Your father has explained this to you. The major is married in the eyes of God and his country and only he may decide what is to be done. Are you truly fool enough to believe that if you cry and moan or show him a fit of temper he will put his wife aside so he might have the privilege of living with a waterfall or a witch?”

  With a swish of her golden silk skirt, Violante stalked back to the window, her conscience troubling her for the aggravation she was causing her dear aunt who had fled her own comfortable existence to follow her brother and niece into exile. Doña Elvira took her responsibility too seriously but it was impossible not to admit—only to oneself of course—that her aunt might have sense on her side. Yet again, Violante peeked around the edge of the lace curtain. Anyone close to the window might have seen a pout which marred the perfection of her delicate heart-shaped face. The rider coming up the driveway was too far away to detect more than a blur of white as the curtain shivered back into place.