Bething's Folly

by Barbara Metzger

  “No, my Lady. I believe it is—that is, I know it to be Lord Carleton’s wedding gift to you. It was only delivered yesterday. I ... I believe he had intended to give it to you himself.”

  “Yes, of course.” She continued on her way out of the room.

  There was no message from Carleton concerning dinner, so Elizabeth dressed in one of her new gowns, but he did not come. She had to eat in the long dining room all by herself. She did not have much appetite. Later she wandered around the quiet house, reading a few pages of a book here, playing a few chords on the piano there, ending in the small sitting room to look over the wedding gifts again. After a few minutes of contemplation, she turned and dragged Carleton’s gift out to the centre of the room and propped it against the back of the sofa. She tore at a corner of the tissue, ripping it straight across to reveal, as she had thought, a large painting in a gilt frame—from the back. Annoyed and impatient, Elizabeth pulled the painting around to where she could see its front. She stood very still for a moment or two until, her eyes filled with tears, she could barely read the artist’s signature. Whoever he was, in however short a time he must have had, he had done a magnificent portrait of Folly’s Pride, with Elizabeth’s home in the background. She slumped to the floor and, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed for hours.

  THIRTEEN

  When Elizabeth came down to breakfast the next morning, the second since her marriage, the butler informed her that Lord Carleton would not return to dinner so she need not dress.

  “What, was he here then, Henrys?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And did you tell him I wanted to see him?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And?”

  “It was three o’clock in the morning, madam.”

  “What has that to do with anything? My butler would have called me!”

  “Yes, madam.” Henrys later told his wife they had better be looking for a new position. He could deal very well with the master, even in his cups as he was last night, and a black mood to boot, but a tiny young lady with dark shadows under her eyes, that was too much to ask of any respectable butler. Such a pretty little thing, too, he added.

  Elizabeth spent the day inside again, keeping busy with the thank you’s, picking at her food, watching the clock. She refused to eat dinner in the formal dining room again, ordering a tray sent to her room instead. After dinner she spent almost an hour in her study, composing a note to the Marquis. Dear Lord Carleton, it read, I would hope we might resolve this foolish misunderstanding. Won’t you please let me explain? If you are regretting our marriage so badly, I will return to the Folly as soon as I have made that explanation. Sincerely, Elizabeth. She sealed the paper and handed it to Henrys with the admonition that her butler would not only see that Carleton got the note but would make sure that he read it.

  “Yes, madam.”

  The note was still on the hall table when Elizabeth came down the third morning, after another sleepless night. Before she could discuss what her butler might have done, Henrys told her that the master had not come in at all. It almost burned his tongue to lie to the poor thing like that, but those were Carleton’s orders. Henrys had tried to hand him the note on his way out again in fresh clothes, only the Marquis would have none of it. “No, I do not want any letters, and I cannot see her yet. If she thinks I am going to spend all of my days and nights in this house, going mad with wanting her, she can be damned. Tell her I was too drunk to read her letter; tell her I never came in; tell her to go home!” There was no way Henrys or his wife could think of to handle this without hurting the new mistress worse. He was not going to tell her the Marquis wished her to leave, so this seemed the best for now. Elizabeth went dejectedly back to her study to continue the correspondence. She would have to write to Aunt Claudia today, and the Duchess, though what she could say was beyond her.

  About mid-morning Henrys knocked on the door. Elizabeth’s eyes lit up when she saw the note on his tray until he announced that Lady Emilia Hazelton and Miss Darlinda Hazelton had come to leave their cards; was she receiving callers? Lady Hazelton was a bore, a gossipy chatterbox; Miss Hazelton was also a bore, though at least inoffensive, a quiet mouse. Elizabeth would never have seen them except that she’d seen no one in days, she hadn’t been out of the house, she was edgy, restless, and already bored.

  “Please ask them to come to the drawing room, Henrys.”

  “My dear Lady Carleton, I was so sorry to hear you are not feeling well,” Lady Hazelton began as she took a seat. “And I see you are still not looking at all the thing. I wondered if we should call, since Carleton said you might be returning to the countryside to recuperate—so healthful—but then we received your kind note. I do hope you like green? I said to Darlinda, why, if Lady Carleton is well enough to write her thank-you’s, surely she might like a visitor, didn’t I, Darlinda?”

  Miss Hazelton nodded.

  “I told Carleton, too, last night at the theatre. I said I’m sure you’d like a little company, but you know how men are. Lord Hazelton was always the same, one sniffle and he’d be out of the house. Couldn’t bear suffering, he said. Lady Gilmore also sends her regards.”

  “How kind, Lady Hazelton, thank you very much for coming. You were right, a little company has done wonders for my health.”

  So Carleton was telling everyone she was sick, was he, while he was at the theatre with Alicia Gilmore, whose husband was with the Foreign Office somewhere. Elizabeth stalked out to the hall, took her note to Carleton off the table and slowly, precisely, tore it to shreds. She neatly placed the bits in Henrys’s tray, then asked him to have her horse brought round in half an hour.

  Juno was skittering around outside when Elizabeth returned in a gold velvet riding habit. Jeremy, Carleton’s groom, was at the horse’s head; another horse, also saddled and ready, stood quietly by.

  “I did not ask for a groom to accompany me, Henrys.”

  “No, madam.”

  “If I requested you to have him stay home, would you listen to me?”

  “No, madam.”

  She smiled, the first time Henrys had seen her dimples. “You know, Henrys, that is precisely what my butler would have said.”

  Jeremy, who’d never actually seen her Ladyship ride though he’d been driving her in the carriage, warned her of the black’s high spirits. “She’s a mite skittish, ma’am. Needs a good run, I’d say.”

  “Then that’s what she shall have.” Elizabeth was holding Juno to a sedate trot, allowing Jeremy to mount and catch up, until she reached the park. So close to luncheon was not a fashionable time for the ton to be riding, so for once the paths were not blocked. All Elizabeth had to do was lean forward a bit and whisper in Juno’s ear; they were off and almost out of Jeremy’s sight, a gold and black blur.

  “C’mon, you old nag you,” Jeremy called to his horse as he urged him on with his heels. “We’ll never catch ’em, but at least let’s ’ave the pleasure a watchin’ ’er Ladyship ride!” A few other visitors to the park also had the pleasure. Two old dowagers watched her gallop around their ancient brougham. “Isn’t that the girl young Carlyle married?” one asked. After Jeremy struggled past, the other answered: “And in remarkable good health, wouldn’t you say?”

  By chance Lord Milbrooke had also been on a solitary ride in the park, trying to clear a head misted with too much drink and not enough sleep. He was letting his mount pick its own way home when Elizabeth flew by on Juno, her hair trailing undone behind her, her skirts in disarray. Ferddie pulled his horse around, thinking to go to her rescue, when she reined the black mare in and turned her back, in perfect control.

  “Why, good morning, Lord Milbrooke. I didn’t expect to see you,” she said, drawing up to him.

  “No, I daresay you didn’t. Where is your groom?”

  She laughed as she bent to smooth her skirts. “He’s right behind me, all perfectly proper.”

  “Good grief, Elizabeth, what have you done to yoursel
f?” he asked when she straightened and he could see her face. She looked like a waif, with the dark smudges under her big brown eyes, the bones of her cheeks standing out in her pale face. She turned away, as if searching in her pockets for a hairpin. Ferddie was instantly sorry for his words; he only wished he could think of something else to say. “I suppose you’ll be going to the Haversham ball tonight now that you’re out and about? Everyone is, I guess.”

  “No, I don’t—that is, Carleton hasn’t—Ferddie, are you going? Would you take me, please?”

  Now I’ve done it, Ferddie thought. He could either say he wasn’t going—and be caught in a lie if she came—or say he did not want to take her. He knew things were bad between her and Carleton; he didn’t know why and he didn’t want to be in the middle. Yet here was Elizabeth looking up at him like an abandoned puppy. He was genuinely fond of her, and she really had no friends in Town, and Carleton could be damned cruel when his temper was riled ... “My pleasure, I’m sure.” He was rewarded with a wide smile as Jeremy finally appeared, then they parted, with Milbrooke wondering where Carleton had holed up, so he could warn him.

  Milbrooke was never able to run Carleton to ground though he left notes at the clubs, which dimmed his pleasure in seeing Elizabeth in better looks that evening. She had slept a little—more from exhaustion than any purposeful coddling of her appearance—and Bessie had applied some cosmetic assistance to her unnatural pallor. She was nervous. Almack’s had not fazed her, nor Buckingham Palace; this made her tremble. Ferddie, who also had reason to be uneasy over the evening, nevertheless took her hand as they reached the receiving line.

  “Ah, Lady Haversham, see whom I’ve brought! You do know Lady Carleton, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, Lord Milbrooke,” she said, kissing Elizabeth’s cheek, “and I am delighted you have come. When Carleton said you were still not up to socialising I was quite concerned, but you have relieved me greatly.”

  Elizabeth murmured something about feeling quite well, thank you, so kind, before Ferddie was able to lead her away. He took a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He knew Carleton would come; Alicia Gilmore wouldn’t miss a chance like this to show off her new prize. Perhaps Elizabeth might never see them. Lord, in such a crush anything was possible. On the other hand, he considered, maybe she and Carleton could resolve their difficulties if they met out in company, having a civilised talk in one of the side-rooms like the reasonable people he knew they weren’t. At any rate, he could not see the Marquis yet, although a group of their friends was beckoning. He led Elizabeth to them, where she was warmly received, touched by their concern for her health, supposedly. Ferddie asked Northwell about his new team of bays when he sensed Elizabeth’s growing embarrassment. Lord, he thought, this chaperoning was a touchy business. The pair of horses had to be described for Elizabeth, who turned out to know an anecdote about the stables they had come from, so soon everyone was laughing and joking, to Ferddie’s relief. He led her out for the first dance, with still no sign of Carleton. Rutley had the second dance, Northwell the third. Ferddie was keeping a watchful eye as other, younger men approached her until he saw she could handle herself. In fact, he could almost hear the hearts dropping at her feet. Her laugh was a little forced, and her eyes had no golden sparkle, but the girl was learning to flirt. Nevertheless, by unspoken consent, Carleton’s friends stayed close to her, unobtrusively shielding her from any unwelcome advances. If anyone had asked them, they would have claimed loyalty to Carleton as the reason, though if truth be known, they were jealously protecting their own enjoyment. Elizabeth was still a novelty to Northwell, Rutley and the others in that she was intelligent and witty, involved in their own interests, and safe. Her company among them was a good reflection, without being a threat to their bachelorhoods or purses. These friends of Carleton’s were no longer green youths, hanging out for a wife; nor were they remotely considering her as a mistress. The companionship of a beautiful, intelligent woman who would not question their intentions, that was a rarity indeed. The time passing pleasantly, Milbrooke felt free to leave Elizabeth for his duty-dances, though it might take him a while to cross the crowded room. As he strolled toward where he’d last seen his hostess, he saw Carleton re-entering the ballroom through the glass doors of the balcony, with Lady Alicia Gilmore on his arm. Milbrooke turned in that direction, but Lady Haversham grabbed his sleeve and was about to present him to a drab girl at her side when the music began, a waltz.

  A number of people must have seen Carleton enter for Elizabeth’s admirers, especially Carleton’s friends, so used not to asking her to waltz, all stood aside. A few even wandered off to seek other partners, leaving Elizabeth with an unobstructed view of her husband raising Lady Gilmore’s hand to his lips and kissing it before leading her onto the floor. Whatever polite apologies or explanations Elizabeth had wanted to make melted like snow in the heat of the words on her tongue. The insult, the shame of standing there ... She made to leave but her path was blocked by a stranger in a black waistcoat with lace at his throat.

  “Madame, may I have the pleasure of the dance?” he asked. Elizabeth was too distracted to notice anything more than the French accent.

  “No, thank you, I must leave.”

  “What, like a whipped dog?”

  Elizabeth lifted her eyes from the floor, at first outraged by this stranger’s presumption, then acknowledging the wisdom behind his taunt. “No, monsieur, not like a whipped dog. I am pleased to have this dance. Merci.”

  He bowed low, introducing himself as Giles Jean-Christophe, le Comte de Rochefonte.

  “How is it we have not met, monsieur?” Elizabeth asked, determined to pretend Carleton’s nonexistence, though the look of his face smiling at Alicia Gilmore was burnt in her memory.

  “Ah, madame,” the Count answered as he led her out, “I am not often introduced to young ladies, although I know their fathers and brothers well.”

  “I don’t understand, monsieur.” Elizabeth looked closely at her partner for the first time after this curious statement. She saw dark, dark eyes in a sombre face that was more interesting than handsome, with its deep lines and harsh planes. She guessed de Rochefonte was about forty, older than most of the men she knew, with more experience of life, too. Suffering showed in the shadows of his eyes, and something else behind it.

  “I am afraid I am considered too dangerous company for young maidens. I am thought to be a fortune-hunter.” He spoke seriously, not in the bantering, flirtatious tone she was used to hearing tonight, and his words startled her, that he might know of her own still-maidenly state. She stiffened a little in arms, which told him what he had suspected, before she asked, “And are you a fortune-hunter, sir?”

  “Alas, Lady Carleton, I am forced to be,” he admitted ruefully. “I have lost everything to Napoleon but my name. If I wish even that to outlast him in hopes of returning to claim what is ours, I must marry; yet I cannot afford a mere wife, only an heiress. You see”—he smiled slightly, a quick shadow-lifting—“I am honest, at least.”

  Elizabeth was not offended. In fact, since she was not an heiress, and married besides, she could be sympathetic. Who was she to disdain a marriage of convenience? If he arrived penniless at some rich man’s door, at least he possessed an elegance and a nobility missing in the typical English lordling.

  When the dance was over de Rochefonte returned her to her friends. “Au revoir, madame, perhaps another time—” but Rutley cut in with his request for the next dance. When Elizabeth turned around, the Count was separated from her by smiling young faces.

  Milbrooke, meanwhile, was detained from hurrying to her side by yet another hand on his sleeve—this one in blue superfine, with a sapphire signet ring. Carleton was furious, Ferddie saw, as he followed him out to the balcony. “Well?” Carleton demanded.

  “I tried to warn you—left notes all over. She asked me to take her. How could I refuse?”

  “I am not referring to my wife’s presence here. I am referring to
de Rochefonte and well you know it.”

  And he did, too, know what an unsuitable companion the Count was for Elizabeth, yet the injustice of Carleton’s words stung him. “Well, I didn’t see you doing anything about it! For all anybody’d know, you couldn’t care at all whom she danced with.”

  “But I didn’t bring her, you did.”

  “Dammit, she’s your wife!”

  “Precisely why I do not care to have monsieur le Comte near her.”

  Something clicked in Ferddie’s mind. “God, he’s not Yvette’s Frenchman, is he?”

  Carleton nodded, his lips in a grim line. “He can look for another pigeon to pluck if he wants, but not as high as my wife.”

  “Yes, well, you know she’s only a girl; she ain’t been in Town long. Maybe you ought to look after her yourself...”

  “She’ll do fine until the races, then home she goes.”

  “Aren’t you being hard on her, Carleton? I don’t know—”

  “No, you don’t, so leave it be.”

  Ferddie was familiar with these tempers of Carleton’s from their school days. He would forget about his anger tomorrow; tonight there was no reasoning with him. Milbrooke moved toward the door back to the ballroom. “I’ll see what I can do about the Count. I’ll—”

  “We’ve already seen what you can do. I’ll speak to Elizabeth myself.” Carleton walked off, not toward his wife and his friends but out to where punch was being served. Ferddie spotted Elizabeth dancing with Reggie Skeffington so he had time before she came back for a few words with Rutley and Northwell, who in turn looked over their shoulders and nodded. The ranks closed up a bit around Elizabeth at the next interlude. A young cousin of Northwell’s who was looking at Elizabeth adoringly was sent to fetch some punch. She agreed with Ferddie that perhaps she should sit out the next dance or two since she was supposed to have been quite ill. As a matter of fact, Elizabeth was exhausted and depressed. She was just about to ask Ferddie to take her home after the next dance when the orchestra again began a waltz. This time everyone was ready, five men immediately asking for the dance. Milbrooke claimed priority, making light of it by joking about his role as dance instructor. “I taught her to dance, you know. Tell them it’s true, Elizabeth.”