by M C Beaton
And that was what Lucy did not understand. The hold Harriet Comfort had over her husband was fashionable rather than sexual.
He blundered his way through the ballroom to the exit and found himself face to face with Ann Hartford.
“Ah, just the lady I was looking for,” he said cheerfully. “Do tell my wife, Mrs. Hartford, that I have the headache and must leave. Lucy will understand. She is having such fun t’would be a pity to spoil her pleasure.”
“Being abandoned by her husband is the only thing that is likely to spoil her pleasure,” said Ann tartly, but the Marquess smiled vaguely, affected not to hear, and took his leave.
When the country dance finished, Ann conveyed the Marquess’s message to Lucy, bitterly watching the hurt and dismay in her friend’s wide eyes.
“Then I had better go too,” said Lucy.
“Tish!” exclaimed Ann. “Habard! My Lord Duke. My friend Lady Standish is threatening to leave us, and all because my lord has left with the headache.”
Lucy found the Duke’s eyes on her, strangely cool and calculating.
“I must go,” she said nervously. “Please do not try to detain me.”
The Duke bowed in indifferent acquiescence to her wishes and Ann sighed as Lucy hurried off.
Lucy could hardly wait to get home. She was consumed with guilt. It seemed to her now that her husband had every right to be furious with her. She had corrected him in front of the Duke, had made him sound like an absentee landlord. And she had sworn to be loving and gay and affectionate.
She decided, boldly, to go to her husband’s bedroom as soon as she got home. He had obviously left on foot or had taken a sedan, since he had at least, thoughtfully, left the carriage for her. Poor Lucy did not for a minute realize her husband’s “thoughtfulness” was simply prompted by a desire not to let the household servants know where he was spending the night.
She ran lightly up the stairs to her husband’s bedroom and knocked at the door. Only the silence of the house answered her, a silence punctuated by the ticking and tocking and chiming of the many clocks.
She opened the door very gently. An oil lamp was burning on the toilet table. The bed curtains were drawn back and my lord’s nightshirt was laid out on the bed.
But of the Marquess there was no sign.
Lucy went quickly to her room and went slowly to bed after telling her maid to awaken her early.
Her mind refused to think. Worn out and exhausted with emotion, she immediately fell asleep.
Chapter Two
Lucy could not help hoping for a new start to her marriage as her maid helped her to dress in the morning.
The sun was shining down outside and the little square of sky she could see from her window was the same celestial blue as her cambric gown.
The dress was one of her favorites, having a double row of shell lace at the neck and wrists. It was high-waisted in the current mode, with a broad blue silk ribbon tied under the bosom and meeting in a bow at the back. White linen gloves, an amber necklace, a blue parasol, and a white chip bonnet completed the ensemble.
She refused to think about the ball, or even about the Duke of Habard. It was an outing, and she and her husband would at least be, in part, together.
But Wilson, the butler, informed her as my lady descended the stairs that my lord was not at home and had sent no message.
“Very good, Wilson,” said Lucy flatly and went into the drawing room, standing with her back to the door until the butler quietly closed it behind her.
Lucy wondered sadly if butlers ever knew how many “very goods” covered so many infinite depths of grief and sorrow. She felt small and unattractive and insignificant, and the face that stared back at her from the glass looked pinched and white. She decided she would tell Wilson to inform the Duke of Habard that my lord and my lady were indisposed. But a barrel organ in the square was playing a jaunty tune, and a warm breeze holding all the scents of spring and the promise of summer to come drifted in at the window. A little spark of rebellion began to bum in Lucy’s heart. He should not find her meekly waiting if and when he returned home. She would go after all.
She felt so low in spirits that when the clocks in their jumbled way began to chime ten o’clock, she had quite decided that the Duke of Habard would not come either.
But the door of the drawing room opened and Wilson announced portentously that His Grace, The Duke of Habard, was awaiting my lord and my lady outside, not wanting to leave his cattle as the team was very fresh, and that he, Wilson, had not seen fit to inform His Grace that my lord was not at home.
“You did very well, Wilson,” said Lucy, picking up her diamond-shaped reticule. “You may inform my lord when he returns that I have gone ahead to Blackheath.”
Two tall footmen followed her from the house and assisted her into the Duke’s high-perched phaeton.
The Duke gave Lucy a quiet “good morning” and immediately set his team in motion.
“I am afraid my husband is indisposed,” said Lucy, rather startled at the Duke’s lack of interest in the whereabouts of the Marquess.
“Indeed,” said the Duke indifferently. “It is a fine morning, Lady Standish. I am going to set a fair pace once we are clear of the press of traffic, so I shall not be able to indulge much in conversation until we arrive.”
Lucy nodded, content after all her emotional turmoil to simply enjoy the drive without being obliged to talk.
She covertly studied the Duke’s profile from under the brim of her hat, noticing the strength of his chin and the way his heavy lids half veiled his eyes. He wore a curly brimmed beaver, a blue coat with silver buttons, leather breeches, and glossy essian boots.
He turned suddenly and smiled down at her, a smile of singular sweetness, and Lucy’s heart thudded against her ribs almost as if she had received a fright.
They drove south over the river, gradually picking up speed along the Old Kent Road, over the Grand Surrey Canal which sparkled in the bright sunlight, past Hatcham House, and through New Cross. At Loam Pit Hill, he slackened the pace and remarked that they were well ahead of time.
“Does your husband know of a certain Mr. Barrington?” he asked abruptly, slowing his team to a canter.
“I have never heard him speak of such a gentleman,” said Lucy.
“Well, Mr. Barrington is a financier who buys up bills of exchange.” He smiled a little at the blank look on Lucy’s face. “A bill of exchange is a written acknowledgment of the existence of a debt, Lady Standish.”
“Oh, IOU’s,” said Lucy, her face clearing.
“Yes. Say your husband gave such a bill of exchange to his tailor, the tailor may then use that bill or IOU to pay for cloth. The clothmaker may use the bill to pay for raw materials and so on, and sometimes the bill can pass through a hundred hands.”
“I don’t see how this concerns my husband.”
“I am only giving you a timely warning to pass on to him. Now, often a financier will buy some of these bills as an investment. As he loses his use of the money until the date of payment—usually three months for London bills—he charges interest. This interest is known as “discount” and can be very high. I am not only warning your husband. I have passed on this warning to many young men. Barrington specializes in securing the bills of any aristocrat whose land he covets.
“This Barrington is a Yorkshire man who cultivates a bluff, fatherly manner. He makes it appear, without precisely saying so, that he will not press for payment on the exact date. But he does. And he charges very high interest. It is not only land he wants, but power. So far as I know, no influential people have fallen into his clutches, but there are unsavory rumors circulating about his practices.”
Lucy thought guiltily of the rolls of unpaid bills stuffed into the pigeonholes of her husband’s desk. But they were small household bills, dressmakers bills, tailors bills, nothing she was sure that came to very much.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said demurely.
; “And tell me about yourself, Lady Standish,” he went on. “Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you about Town this Season?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, unaware that she sighed as she spoke. “We shall go to all the routs and ton parties, and the theater and the opera.”
“And how terribly sad it all is,” he mocked.
“Your Grace!”
“You make it sound like a catalogue of terrible, burdensome duties.”
“Oh, no. I did not mean to sound like that at all. I am merely depressed because my poor husband is indisposed.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgot. What is the nature of his indisposition?”
“A recurring trouble,” said Lucy repressively, while the Duke stole her a sidelong look. He wondered whether this little Marchioness was aware that her husband’s “recurring trouble” might be Harriet Comfort.
“Are you at all interested in archery?” asked the Duke to change the subject.
“I do not know. I am not acquainted with the sport.”
“It is very fashionable among the ladies. Perhaps today will inspire you. I am going to spring my horses again, so hold on tightly.”
Once more houses and cottages and fields raced past as the miles to Blackheath flashed by under the huge yellow wheels of the phaeton.
Lucy’s worries began to fade away before a feeling of exhilaration. If only Guy were here! How he would have admired the Duke’s driving!
Then Lucy began to wonder why the Duke had chosen to bring his phaeton, which was clearly built only to seat two, and he did not seem at all like the sort of gentleman who would neglect the comfort of his guests.
“Blackheath!” said the Duke, slowing once more and pointing with his whip.
Six huge marquees had been raised on the heath, their colorful banners fluttering in the breeze.
“It is perhaps as well my husband did not join us or we would have been sorely crushed on the journey,” said Lucy.
“I must have had a premonition he would not come,” answered the Duke calmly. “Do you know who is competing?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Quite an assembly. The Royal Surrey Bowmen, Saint George’s Bowmen, Royal Kentish Bowmen, the Toxophilites, Woodmen of Arden, Robin Hood’s Bowmen, Bowmen of Chevy Chase, and the Suffolk Bowmen. I hope you had a good breakfast, Lady Standish. We do not break for refreshments until three.”
Lucy had been too upset to eat any breakfast at all and was already extremely hungry with all the fresh air, but she murmured that she had indeed eaten.
There was already quite a large crowd there. After they had alighted from the carriage, they were led to the judging stand by the Earl of Avelsford. For the very first time, Lucy became aware of the Duke’s importance and popularity. Men bowed and women curtsied—the latter flashing Lucy envious glances.
The Duke made no excuse for the Marquess’s absence, nor was asked for any, Lucy noticed with a queer little pang.
To Lucy’s surprise and relief, the Duke did not ogle any of the very pretty women around—the Marquess had assured her that all gentlemen did this—but settled down comfortably next to her on the stand and began to explain which team of archers was which. The team of archers with a banner depicting three arrows surrounded with an oak wreath was Robin Hood’s Bowmen, and the sable field between a chevron and charged with bugle horns and three silver arrows belonged to the Toxopholites.
It was extremely flattering to Lucy to find that her companion seemed perfectly happy to devote his whole attention to her entertainment and comfort. Her large eyes began to sparkle and a faint rose mantled her normally pale face.
She almost managed to forget just how hungry she was until the archery contest broke at three o’clock for refreshments. It was only a half-hour break but thanks to the Duke’s eminent position and thoughtfulness, she was amply provided with tea and sandwiches and lemonade.
Then when the band in the middle of the heath struck up “The Girl I Left Behind Me” as a signal that the contest was about to resume, she thought guiltily about her husband and wondered for almost the first time in several hours what he was doing.
The Marquess had had an exhausting night—not in the arms of his mistress, but waiting below stairs until she should finish passing the night in the arms of one of her other lovers. Instead of sleeping, he passed the night playing solitaire and drinking, reluctant to leave this slim mansion in Manchester Square which he found strangely soothing.
He was just falling into an uneasy sleep as the gray light of dawn filtered through the shutters when a maid arrived with the intelligence that the mistress would see him now.
Immediately awake, he mounted the stairs to Harriet’s boudoir two at a time. To his relief she was alone, sitting in front of the dressing table, brushing her long brown hair.
Words tumbled one over the other as he explained the Duke’s insult, how he felt he should not go to Blackheath, but on the other hand longing to be seen in the Duke’s company.
And Harriet took his hand in her own and soothingly told him that everyone who was anyone in society insulted people behind their backs. It was the way of the world. She invented quite staggering and fictitious insults that had been endured with fortitude by such famous people as Beau Brummell and Lord Alvanley, speaking in her soft, well-modulated voice while he hung eagerly on her every word. He should go to Blackheath, advised Harriet, but a little late. His “little wife” would not mind traveling on her own with the Duke. Harriet in fact secretly enjoyed her power over the Marquess. She felt it did her reputation as a femme fatale no harm to be seen luring this young Marquess away from the bedchamber of his pretty bride.
“I have so many worries that Lucy does not understand,” complained the Marquess. “She does not realise the vast expense it takes to be fashionable. I am heading for dun territory, Harriet, and don’t know quite how I am to come about.”
“You have plenty of property,” said Harriet, raising her pencilled eyebrows. “You have a place in Yorkshire, I believe, that you never visit. Sell it!”
“Sell!” exclaimed the Marquess. He withdrew his hands. “You do not understand us, Harriet. We do not sell our property.”
Harriet lowered her eyes to mask her irritation.
She knew the Marquess was not using the “Royal we.” He meant that she, the commoner, did not understand “we,” the aristocrats.
“I am merely trying to be practical,” she said levelly. “But I should have remembered that all the Exclusives go to Mr. Barrington.”
“Yes, of course,” said the Marquess, who did not want to betray for a moment that he did not know of whom she was speaking. “Ah, yes, good old Barrington.”
“Yes,” murmured Harriet sweetly, “the bill broker. Such a seedy little office in Fetter Lane, but so understanding and so generous.…”
“Quite,” said the Marquess, making a firm mental note of the name.
“And now,” said Harriet soothingly. “You must lie down for a little or you will not look your best at the archery contest.…”
Lucy was beginning to feel sleepy. A stiff warm breeze had sprung up, snapping the banners above the marquees and sending the dresses of the ladies billowing out.
The crowd had become immense, sometimes pushing forward across the line of the targets, and there were a few awful moments when it seemed as if a spectator must surely be impaled by an arrow.
The motley crowd of entertainers which seemed to appear by magic at any large gathering was very much in evidence.
A half-naked man was demonstrating how he could roll his back on broken bottles and emerge unscathed. A bear ward was beating his drum, his large, shaggy animal stumbling behind him. A juggler was tossing silver balls up into the air and chapmen were selling pins and ribbons.
At last it was six o’clock and the band began to play to signal the end of the tournament. The Earl of Avelsford, with the stewards, collected the target papers, and went into a huddle around the Duke of Habard, who had crossed the
grass to meet them. After some deliberation, the prize was declared in favor of Dr. Leith of Greenwich, captain of target of the Royal Kentish Bowmen, for having split the central mark of the goal at a distance of 100 yards.
The Duke presented the prize to the much-excited and flushed doctor, and then the other prizes to the runners-up. Mr. Anderson, captain of numbers of Robin Hood’s Bowmen, who came in third, was just as excited and stammered his thanks to the Duke and offered his best wishes “to the fair Duchess.” To Lucy’s confusion, the Duke smiled blandly and did not correct him.
Lucy turned to thank the Duke for a pleasant day since she assumed they would be returning to London immediately, but the Duke looked down at her and said, “We sit down to dinner at Willis’s Rooms in Blackheath at eight o’clock. I engaged a private parlor for you at the Tub of Butter Inn, since I thought you would like to rest for a little before the celebrations.”
“But my husband…?” began Lucy.
“Ah, I had forgot. Very ill, is he?”
“Well, not exactly. You see…”
“In that case, I see no reason why you cannot enjoy your dinner first. Unless, of course, you think he is waiting impatiently for you at home?”
Lucy had a sudden picture of scrambling home only to find an empty house. Her face hardened. She would stay. But somewhere inside she was beginning to dread what her husband would say. And then it seemed quite terrible that she should dread anything about the man she loved so much.
“Thank you,” she replied. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble on my behalf, Your Grace.”
He merely smiled and began to lead her through the crowd towards his phaeton, stopping now and then to talk to his friends and to introduce her. He managed to convey a subtle atmosphere which implied that he was proud of her company. Lucy reflected wryly that he must be well mannered inside as well as out.
At one point when the dispersing crowd was shoving past in all directions, she stumbled against him and he quickly put an arm around her shoulders to steady her. The effect of his touch was startling, to say the least. It seemed as if her whole body had begun to throb. He quickly dropped his arm and Lucy blushed, wondering if these odd tumultuous feelings coursing through her body had been transmitted to him.
