The Discarded Wife

by Camille Oster

  Back then, she hadn't understood how unwillingly he had entered their marriage. In hindsight, she could perhaps commiserate with the position he'd been in.

  Sitting there now, Sophie wondered if she wasn't better off eating supper with Alfie in the nursery, but Mr. Smyth had informed her that his lordship expected her company for supper at seven. The clock on the mantle showed it was two minutes past seven and he was not there.

  Soft footsteps approached and she knew it was Mr. Smyth rather than Lord Aberley. Even now, somewhere in her mind, she knew the difference between their steps. Mr. Smyth appeared. "Good evening, Mrs. Duthie."

  "Mr. Smyth," she said with a small smile. "Does his lordship still intend to dine tonight?" It was true that she hoped he'd changed his mind, because it seemed he was setting the precedence for them dining together. Although why he would want that, she had no idea.

  A second set of approaching footsteps were definitely Lord Aberley's. He didn't walk softly. This was his house and he strolled as he saw fit. Appearing at the door, Sophie felt her gut clench with unease. Why had he insisted on them dining together? Surely he didn't wish for her company. They had barely been civil earlier in the afternoon in the garden. She'd even gone to lengths to convey that she had no fondness for the manners and falsities of discourse in a setting like this.

  Sadness washed over her as she remembered the family suppers they'd had with Doug, where they'd simply been together and had talked about music and passion. It seemed so long ago, and it saddened her that Alfie might not remember those evenings as he grew, because Doug had become more and more ill, and had had to eat in bed toward the end.

  Mr. Smyth was careful to guide her to the middle of the table, as opposed to the other end where she had used to sit. It was a clear indication of demotion, not that she cared. Being the mistress of this house was not something she missed or in any way aspired to.

  "It surprises me that you wish for me to dine with you. I would be perfectly happy to dine upstairs."

  Lord Aberley placed the napkin on his lap and finally looked at her with his icy blue eyes. The downside to her demotion was that she now sat much closer to him, as opposed to the other side of the table. "I felt it was important to set the precedence for Alfred. It is not appropriate that his mother dines in the nursery. Adults eat in the dining room."

  Sophie didn't know what to say, feeling admonished in some way as if he was informing her she wasn't raising her son the right way. All these pointless rules where everyone was put in their place and kept there was what she strived against. "How thoughtful of you," she said tightly, hiding the sarcasm she felt. This man was going to raise Alfie to be a gentleman and perhaps she simply needed to get used to it, because Lord Aberley was not going to bend.

  The soup course was served, a delicate broth of vegetables and meat. This kind of food was so different from the simple food they normally ate. Lord Aberley's cook had always been excellent, and he never skimped on ingredients.

  The silence was awkward. They had nothing to talk about. It was almost painful sitting there, trying to sip her soup without making a noise. But it was also embarrassing that she managed to make absolutely no conversation whatsoever. What was there to talk about? They had nothing in common, except perhaps her brother, who had been released from prison. Now that was a wonderful topic of conversation.

  "The roses in your garden will probably bloom soon," she finally managed.

  "Will they? I am not enlightened as to the schedules of roses. I actually have no idea how they got there."

  "I planted them."

  "Oh, right. Well, you are welcome to do with them as you wish."

  With a tight smile, she wondered how to acknowledge the statement. Should she thank him for giving the care to her of some roses he hadn't even noticed were there.

  "You are, of course, welcome to plant anything you wish at Sommerfield. The garden as it is was set out before living memory if I were to guess."

  "I am not actually herbaceously inclined. I planted them because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I have since given up any notion of being a gardener."

  "The garden will have to remain as it is then. The groundsmen are sufficiently skilled to maintain it. There is a pond that is quite good for swimming if Alfie wishes to use it in the summer. Does he know how to swim?"

  "We've had little opportunity to. We took the train to Brighton once, but it was too cold to swim. The sea air was… beneficial." Why was she talking about this? Wasn't it better that they simply sat in silence?

  "He will have to learn to swim, of course," Lord Aberley said absently.

  Roast beef was served. It smelled wonderfully and a dark, rich sauce accompanied it. Again they ate in silence, only the sounds of Mr. Smyth walking softly was heard.

  Lord Aberley cleared his throat when he was finished. "I don't normally have dessert, so there is nothing planned, but in the future, you are welcome to inform the cook if there is something sweet you should like."

  "No, it is fine. I really don't think I can eat more. It was delicious. Please inform the cook, Mr. Smyth."

  The man smiled. "Will you be joining us in the salon?" he asked her.

  "Yes," Lord Aberley cut in. "I think that is for the best." Oh wonderful, this charade was to continue. "As I said, we should conform with normalcy as much as possible. One does learn the rules of etiquette at home."

  "I hadn't realized you were such a proponent." Perhaps it wasn't a surprise. When she'd been here before, he would always adhere to the most basic etiquette. But then, he'd spent most of his time away from the house.

  Rising from his seat, he waited for her to follow suit. Was there really any point to this? Alfie was upstairs.

  With a small smile, she walked ahead into the salon. It was uncomfortable having him behind her where she couldn't see him. Not that she expected him to attack her, but it was still uncomfortable. They sat on opposite sofas in the main arrangement by the fire. Sophie watched it crackle for a while. In the middle of winter, their apartments had become so cold they could see their breath condensing. She had feared for Doug through those nights. Lord Aberley kept his house warm from morning to night.

  "A small glass of sherry, perhaps?" Mr. Smyth suggested.

  Sophie smiled and nodded. One drink and she would make her excuses. Taking a deep breath, she considered the man sitting opposite of her. "I was sorry to hear of your sister's passing." Only during the divorce trial had she heard the news and she had never had the opportunity to give her condolences.

  Lord Aberley's eyebrows rose. "Really? It was the thing that was devastating for you." And so easily they slipped out of the bounds of polite conversation. This exercise in etiquette only applied when it suited him, it seemed.

  "Not devastating. Surprising, but I think we can both agree the outcome suited both of us."

  "I've missed six years of my son's life."

  Sophie stopped herself from shuddering trying to think of the alternative and having spent the last six years living here—and never knowing Doug. "Well, I did try to inform you. I even came to the house, but I was turned away."

  "You were barred from the house. But you didn't try very hard." Also not a topic for polite conversation.

  "No, I suppose I didn't," she admitted. She'd made one attempt and finding she wasn't to be let in, she made no more. And when Doug agreed to marry her, she more or less concluded that he would be the father and they would have a lovely little family. Him going along with that made it happen. Her time in this house wasn't something she had wanted to look back on.

  "Did you not think you owed me?"

  "I think in light of how I was treated, I didn't think you would care."

  He watched her without any discernible expression. Perhaps it had been a mistake to not inform him. It was a guilt she would have to live with. "I found happiness and we were a little family. I expected you would remarry. I even understood for a while that you were set to."

  "It
didn't suit. Apparently she found a better title."

  "Oh." Sophie hadn't been aware. That sounded a bit mercenary. "And also, the divorce made it quite clear what your opinion was of me. I wasn't going to foist my child on you."

  "I am not in the habit of maligning a child with the sin of its parent."

  "I am glad to hear that, because you certainly maligned me for the sins of my brother, and punished me—several times, in fact."

  "I accepted you under duress, then you had the audacity to keep my son from me. You didn't expect me to simply walk away, did you?"

  "Frankly, that was my hope."

  He blatantly regarded her, but she couldn't read his expression. She'd never been good at reading his expressions. There was a practiced coolness that belied his feelings. Originally she had believed that there weren't any feelings, but in the last few weeks, she had seen that cool exterior crack a time or two. Anger and disdain got the better of him.

  "It seems neither of us is prepared to walk away."

  "No," she agreed, blatantly studying him as he did her.

  Chapter 18

  A WEEK PASSED IN SIMILAR fashion. At times, he would watch from his study as Sophie took Alfred out for a walk to Hyde Park. A tailor had been brought to create a new wardrobe for the boy, and he now looked suitably attired. Sophie, however, hadn't done a thing to address her drab dresses. Perhaps he should send a seamstress to her as he'd sent a tailor to Alfred. Her wardrobe both distressed him and didn't, because on one hand, she was not his wife to keep in high fashion, but also, his son's mother dressed worse than a servant. It was a dilemma he didn't quite know how to solve. Perhaps he should order the dresses to be accidentally destroyed while laundered.

  Uncertain, he drummed his fingers on the desk. The issue of her status made things difficult, but perhaps that wasn't something he needed to worry about for long. A number of replies had come to his advert for a teaching master. One looked particularly good. The son of a clergyman, Oxford-educated, and had worked for a time for the Duke of Cumberland. This man was exactly the caliber he was looking for.

  Tristan wrote a reply inviting the man to come and discuss the position's requirements. Once in front of him, Tristan would make a decision if the man was suitable or not.

  A sharp bang made the ink blotch on the paper and Tristan looked up angrily. Who dared to interrupt him so rudely? Sophie stood in the doorway to his study, both of the doors thrown open. Her mouth was drawn tight as he was now quite accustomed to seeing her, and her eyes were narrowed. His houseguest was unhappy.

  "Apparently," she said sharply, walking into his study and leaning on her hands on his desk a mere foot from him, "you have barred every single one of my acquaintances from the house."

  Who exactly had been trying to visit his house? Technically Tristan wasn't in the position to control who she saw, but he could forbid entry into his house. Obviously, someone had tried. Who? Her bounder of a brother?

  "Ah yes, I do worry about the people who come to the house and the influence they try to exert," Tristan said.

  "Influence? What are you trying to say? Who exactly are you expecting that I let into the house?”

  "Your brother to start with. Perhaps he needed to worry that you would not always be there to clean up his messes—which you seem inclined to do no matter how atrociously he behaves."

  "How is that any different from how you cleaned up your sister's mess?" That stumped him for a moment. "What consequences are you facing for your bad behavior?"

  Tristan snorted. "I get the pleasure of your company. That should be punishment enough for any man.”

  “So I am a prisoner here?”

  “Of course not, but I don’t want your brother near my son. Nor your musician friends, or whatever other association you have.” It was really her brother he was concerned about, but he had no idea what other undesirables she associated with.

  Still looking murderous, she marched out of the room. She really was too forgiving of her brother's bad behavior, rushing in to save him from whatever hare-brain scheme he had concocted. It was that very weakness that now had her here in his house. A trait her brother toyed with more than anyone.

  As before, dining at home was an uncomfortable experience. Dealing with Sophie was generally unpleasant and Tristan found himself yet again seeking diversions, while telling himself she was not chasing him out of house and home. There wasn't the bitter resentment that had been there before, just an acknowledgment that they didn't deal well together.

  And Alfred was essentially a mystery too. He still wasn't independent of his mother, seeking her approval and interaction in all things. Frankly, he simply couldn't recognize the age, or himself at that age.

  As much as he tried interacting with the boy, he ended up skulking like a shadow until he could more or less see wariness on the boy’s face. Who would have thought it would be so difficult to interact with his son? Whatever quality people who were liked by children had, he didn’t possess it.

  His club always provided a home when he felt uncomfortable at home. There were never any discomforts. The dining was excellent and the company was amusing. A few known feuds existed between some members, but on the whole, it was a peaceful group who were all there for roughly the same reason.

  Of course there were options for more raucous entertainment, but he wasn't in the mood, feeling as if he needed calmness and a rational perspective. There was also the issue of potentially running into Sophie's brother, who would likely be irate at his treatment. The man had a tendency to frequent the more unsavory clubs. Tristan certainly didn't fear a confrontation, but the man could cool his temper for a few days.

  *

  The tutor had come and Tristan had deemed him to be sufficiently suited to the role. He would be starting the next week, so it was time to move Sophie and Alfred to Sommerfield. Tristan would convey them to make any necessary introductions. The staff at Sommerfield would need some direction.

  The clock standing against the wall chimed nine and many of the club members were drifting away, either toward home or otherwise. Perhaps he should follow suit or he would start drinking, and enough of it and he would probably seek out Oliver Bancroft himself. No, best to go home.

  Drawing the attention of one of the butlers, he ordered his carriage brought around. And within minutes, the black carriage with his emblem stood outside the main entrance, patiently waiting. The streets were still lively, some of the costermongers touting their wares. All sorts of dangers hid in the dark recesses of London's streets. He was glad Alfred was safely tucked into his bed at home where he was protected. Sophie too, he supposed.

  He'd never wish her any harm, although she seemed too willing to put herself at risk—and her son. To even contemplate sailing across the ocean to a world unknown and a future she had no understanding of. That was irresponsible. On some level she had to understand that.

  The carriage traveled home without incident and Tristan was soon walking up the stairs to the glossy set of doors. As usual, he knocked and Smyth let him in. The butler wasn't alone, however, Sophie stood at the bottom of the stairs, her arms tightly crossed and her mouth drawn tight. Clearly she was upset—again. It seemed a perpetual state with her, and she wasn't a creature who hid her displeasure, and right now it was written all over her features.

  Tension crept up Tristan's shoulders. Was it any wonder he felt uncomfortable in his own house when he was met with such displeasure every time he returned home? What could have upset her now? She was also not a woman who kept quiet when she found herself offended. Not exactly the demure, delicate flower one would hope for in a wife—or otherwise.

  With a tight and disingenuous smile, he bowed his head to her. "Mrs. Duthie."

  "You engaged a tutor without even consulting me?" she demanded. "Why would you do such a thing?"

  "Because the man was eminently qualified. Have you been going through my correspondence?"

  "No, I haven't been going through your correspondenc
e. Something was said in passing."

  Tristan turned his gaze on Smyth, who looked horrified at the accusation being turned on him.

  "I should have some say in who educates my child," she continued.

  "If you had your way, he'd be a day boy at some pauper school."

  "That is completely false and unjust, and I insist that you apologize."

  Could he please just strangle her? Any judge in the land would understand. "Fine, I apologize for suggesting the inappropriate school you had him enrolled in was more inappropriate than it really is."

  "Is that what you call an apology?"

  "I am not in the habit of lying."

  Unfortunately, she followed as he walked into his study, which was still warm with a fire in the grate.

  "Yet you make these unilateral decisions that I only find out about afterwards."

  Tristan sat down on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms, wondering what to say. It wasn't a decision she would have any material contribution to, but saying that would probably invite some indelicate behavior on her part. It was his prerogative to make decisions for his son. "Good tutors are hard to come by and it was sheer luck this one was suitable. What is it you would like to add to the decision?"

  With a huff, she turned sharply and left. Yes, they were getting on swimmingly. Perhaps he could have done more to consult her, but that would mean talking to her, and neither of them was comfortable with that.

  Chapter 19

  IT WAS COLD THE DAY they were traveling to Dorset. I was going to be a long ride, but Lord Aberley's carriage was comfortable and well sprung. Their trunks were loaded onto the back and they set off shortly after breakfast. Alfie was excited.

  To her surprise, Lord Aberley joined them. Perhaps he wanted to see that they didn't run off somewhere between here and there, Sophie wondered as she sat down on the opposite side from where she assumed he would sit. Pale silk covered the insides of the carriage and the benches were in a similar color velvet. It was by far the finest carriage she had ever seen. She didn't remember it from before, but they hadn't traveled anywhere during their brief marriage.