by Mary Balogh
“Yes,” she said.
“Well.” He rose from the breakfast table and tossed his napkin down beside his empty cup. “If you change your mind about the bonnets, Madeline, you may have the bill sent to me.”
“Thank you,” she said, “but you have made me a generous enough allowance that I have plenty to last me until the next quarter.”
He left the room angry and hurt.
“Your letter this morning was from Dominic?” he asked on another occasion.
“Yes,” she said. He thought he was to be punished with only the monosyllable, but she added after a few moments, “And from Ellen. They both wrote.”
“They are well?” he asked. “And the children?”
“Yes,” she said. “All well.” Another pause. “The babies have been cutting teeth. Charles in particular has been very cross. Dom has been walking floors with him at night. It seems that no one else can comfort him.”
It was a long speech for her. With him, anyway. She could still chatter brightly when they were in company.
“Olivia is not so bad?” he asked.
“She is sensible enough to fall asleep when she is feverish, according to Ellen,” she said.
“Do you miss your family, Madeline?” he asked quietly.
She carefully moved a pile of peas from one side of her plate to the other. “I am a married lady,” she said, “living in my husband’s home. I left my family behind when I married. It is the way of the world.”
“It is a pity we live so far away from them,” he said. “Hampshire and Wiltshire are not so far distant from each other. Your brothers can visit each other with comparative ease.”
“Dom and Ellen are going to Amberley for Christmas,” she said. “And Jennifer Simpson too.”
“Are they?” He sat looking at her downcast eyes as she shifted the peas back to their original position on her plate. “We have been invited to Jean Cameron’s wedding to Howard Courtney in Abbotsford just before Christmas. Would you like to go?”
She looked up at him fleetingly. “So that you may have a last look at your old love before she marries someone else?” she said.
He made an impatient gesture to a footman to remove their plates. “I thought you might like to spend Christmas with your mother and brothers,” he said. “But of course it would be good to see Jean again. She is invariably friendly.”
“Yes,” she said, “and pretty.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched as it so often did when they sat alone together at meals.
“Do you want to go?” he asked abruptly at last.
“No,” she said.
He looked at her, surprised. “Why not?”
He thought she would not answer. She waited until the footman had placed their dessert plates before them and moved back to stand beside the sideboard.
“My brothers both have happy marriages,” she said very quietly at last.
She said no more. But she did not need to. Her words cut like a knife. Close as she was to her family, much as she must long to see them again, especially at Christmas, she would stay away from them rather than see her own marriage in contrast to theirs. And she would not have them see what a disastrous marriage she had made.
And did he want Alex to see?
“Well, then,” he said, “we will have Christmas alone together here. Did I tell you that my mother has decided to take up permanent residence with my aunt?”
“Yes,” she said.
There was no pleasing her. And though sometimes—far too often—he lashed out in anger at her and they quarreled loudly and bitterly a few times every week, he took the burden of the blame upon himself. It was Madeline’s gaiety, her seemingly irrepressible vitality, that had first attracted him to her years before. It was the same quality that had drawn him back to her as a drug early in the summer. And yet now, in the privacy of their own home—though not outside it and in company—the gaiety and vitality were gone. And in their place sullenness or defiance.
He had done what he had always known he would do if he married her. He had destroyed her. And in the process his hard-won confidence in himself and faith in life were being fast eroded too.
MADELINE HAD NOT EXPECTED her marriage to be a happy one. She had married because she had to. Not because she had given herself to him on the night after his father’s funeral. That had not forced her into marriage. Had that been all, she would have refused him, even knowing the risk she ran of bearing an illegitimate child.
No, it was not that that had forced her into marriage. It had been her knowledge that she had no other choice. For four years she had been obsessed with James Purnell, so much so that she could not find any happiness at all in the prospect of marrying any other eligible man.
She knew she would not be happy married to him. Yet she knew that it was only with him she stood any chance at all at happiness. When the opportunity had presented itself, she could not let him go. She did not have the courage to let him go.
Perhaps, she thought months after her marriage, she could have been marginally happy if the first month had not raised such hopes in her. She had had glimpses of heaven during that month—brief and tantalizing glimpses, but enough to plunge her into the deepest gloom once they disappeared forever.
There was nothing left. No companionship. No affection. No passion.
She had convinced herself during that first month that the physical pleasure without everything else was pointless and even degrading to her as a person. But once it disappeared from their marriage, she knew black despair. She had asked for it, of course. She had told him it was merely a duty to her. But she had not expected to be taken so literally at her word.
It would last for just a few nights, she had thought at first, until his anger cooled. And so she had turned from him on those nights, when he was finished with her, and urged patience on her aching and dissatisfied body.
But those few nights had set a permanent pattern. He had not kissed her since that afternoon on the moors, or caressed her, or unclothed her. There was only the swift and ruthless penetration of her body, the planting of a seed that never took root.
The moments of blackest despair came each month with painful regularity—even more painful on the one occasion when she was four days late. She was not even to have a child to comfort her, a child of his to love instead of him.
Each time it happened she rode out away from the house and lay on the ground sobbing until she felt that her chest would split in two. And then she would find the stream and bathe her face and sit beside it until the water and the air had repaired the damage done by her tears. Sometime during the rest of the day she would find the opportunity to tell James, but she would never let him see her disappointment. Or know her sense of inadequacy. If she never did have a child, the fault would be in her. James was capable of having children.
She had felt quite sick the first time she saw the John Drummond family at church, all of them remarkably alike, fair, plump, and amiable—except for the tall, dark oldest boy, with his intense dark eyes.
She had never met Dora Drummond face-to-face, or Jonathan Drummond. Somehow they were never at the same entertainments. But that the woman had been pretty—and still was in a matronly sort of way—was perfectly clear.
At some time during their youth James had made love to Dora Drummond, or Dora Beasley as she had been then, and left her with child.
It seemed sometimes to Madeline that there was a knife permanently fixed in her stomach and twisting and turning at frequent intervals.
She had developed a clandestine friendship with Carl Beasley. Clandestine only in the sense that she did not tell James about it. There was nothing improper in the friendship.
He found her beside the stream on one of the occasions when she had gone out to cry in private. Fortunately she was past the first stages of grief, but even so it was still perfectly obvious what she had been about.
“Hello,” he called across the stream. He was on foot, carrying a gun. “Is
it not a little cold to be sitting there?”
It was late in November.
“I had not noticed,” she said.
He took a closer look at her and frowned. And he came wading across the water. He was wearing hip boots. The dog that had come panting out of the trees behind him stood looking after him. Carl sat down beside her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked quietly.
She was ashamed and embarrassed. “Oh, nothing,” she said with a slightly watery smile. “You know us women, sir. Always vaporish.”
“But not Lady Beckworth, I think,” he said. “You have not hurt yourself? You did not fall from your horse?”
She shook her head and smiled.
“Well, that is a relief anyway,” he said. “I would hate to see you with a sprained or broken ankle with all the dances of Christmas coming up.”
“That would be a terrible fate, would it not?” she said lightly.
He looked at her in concern again. “I will not pry if you would rather not confide in me,” he said. “But sometimes it helps to unburden oneself to a stranger. Is it Beckworth? Has he been unkind?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He hesitated and reached across to squeeze her hand briefly. “But you are not happy with him, are you?” he asked.
She stiffened and said nothing.
“We used to be friends as boys,” he said. “I don’t think he has changed a great deal. He is moody but not cruel. He must be hard to live with, but he is probably fonder of you than he seems. Am I speaking out of turn?”
Despite herself she felt herself relaxing. “Tell me about him as he used to be,” she said. “I know so little about his childhood.”
“It was not an easy childhood,” he said. “His father was a very stern man—did you know him? He was very devoted to his religion and what he considered godly behavior. I’m afraid there were very few people in this neighborhood who were deemed suitable associates for the Beckworths or their children.”
“When did you and James become friends?” she asked. “And your sister?”
He smiled. “I imagine your husband is reluctant to talk about either of us, isn’t he?” he said. And he proceeded to tell her about the times they had spent together, he and James, and later Dora too, whenever James could get away from his father’s watchful eye.
She soon forgot her embarrassment, and the telltale marks of her tears disappeared long before they stopped talking.
“I must be getting home,” she said at last. “I have been away longer than I intended.”
He got to his feet and helped her to hers. “You may safely go home,” he said with a grin. “No one will know of your tears. It will be a secret between you and me.” He winked at her.
Somehow, without their ever making any definite plans, they began to meet at the stream every few days. And they fell into an easy friendship. He was someone to talk to, someone to help her break the terrible silence or the bitter quarrels of home.
She never discussed her relationship with her husband with him, but she knew that he knew. And so she never pretended, either, to a marital happiness that she did not feel. They talked on topics that interested them both. Or he talked about the past. Her hunger to know what James had been like as a boy was insatiable.
He told her, at her request, about the love that had blossomed between James and Dora during that one summer. But he did not make a great deal about it or mention the child.
“You must not feel threatened by it,” he said. “It was a very long time ago. And Dora is contentedly married to John Drummond now. Have you been made uneasy by the fact that Beckworth has called on her a few times? You need not, you know. It has been merely one old acquaintance calling on another.”
“I did not know he had called there,” she said.
“Did you not?” He grimaced. “Then I should not have mentioned it. I am sorry. But really it has been nothing at all. I know. My sister has talked of his visits with the greatest placidity. You must forget that I committed the faux pas of telling you something you did not know.”
She changed the subject and thought of nothing else for days and even weeks afterward. Why had James been visiting Dora Drummond? And why had he said nothing to her? But then he very rarely talked to her about anything.
She had made several friends in the neighborhood and had been well accepted by everyone. But she particularly enjoyed her friendship with Carl Beasley because it was a private one in which she could relax and talk about anything that came to mind.
“My nephew Jonathan has taken to spending more and more time with me,” he told her with a laugh one day. “I’m afraid the lad does not get treated very well by his father. John is always impatient with the boy. I suppose most families have one member who is very different from all the others. Poor Jonathan. He even looks different. The proverbial black sheep. A somewhat moody lad, but he has potential. I enjoy his company.”
“Perhaps he does not have enough to do to keep him amused,” Madeline said. Her friend did not realize how he was twisting the knife in her wound.
“He will be sent to school when he is old enough,” he said. “He will find plenty to occupy him there.”
“Mr. Drummond will send him to school?” Madeline asked.
Carl Beasley smiled. “John is not a wealthy man,” he said. “But somehow it will be arranged, you may be sure. The money will be found to give Jonathan an education to suit his birth.”
They moved on to talk of other matters.
It was Carl too who told her that the Duke and Duchess of Peterleigh were to come sometime after Christmas, though the news was soon generally known in the neighborhood. The duchess, it seemed, was expecting their first child and was to be brought to the country for her confinement.
There was some comfort in the news. The duke and duchess had been married for almost four years.
JAMES SAW DORA for the first time at church. After her husband had recovered from his lengthy illness, they came together with their four children, the youngest a mere baby in arms.
It was a shock to see her. For so many years he had lived through the agony of having lost her beyond trace. He had always imagined their reunion, if ever it was to occur, as a moment of great emotion, when their eyes would meet and all they had meant to each other would be there in their look.
And he had always imagined her pale and haggard, a ruined and an unhappy woman. And seeing her he would know again his guilt in all its rawness. He would still feel as guilty as if he had abandoned her knowingly. He had been enjoying himself at university, enjoying the freedom from his father. And he had not been living a celibate life.
It came as a shock to see her in church, then, and to discover the same Dora ten years later. She had been prettily plump as a girl. Now that plumpness had a matronly quality about it. She had been a placid and trusting girl, always willing to please. He had not had to use many wiles to persuade her to lie with him. And there had been only a few tears afterward.
She looked placid still. There were no outward signs of the dreadful suffering he had imagined. Of course, many years had passed.
She saw him as they were leaving the church, and he inclined his head to her, unsmiling. She colored up and bobbed a curtsy, and turned to say something to one of her children. Not to the eldest, Jonathan.
There was a certain nightmare quality to the moment. He had his wife on his arm, her head turned away as she exchanged some pleasantry with one of their neighbors. And his former mistress was in the church with their child, who looked so much like himself.
How could he have been so mad as to come back? For weeks the whole situation with Dora had lain dormant, almost as if he had thought he could go through the rest of his life without encountering her.
But she was there and could not be ignored. At some time he must talk with her, get some answers finally to questions that had gnawed at him for years. And his son was there. His son. He must do something about the boy. Arrange somethi
ng for his future. Send him to a good school, perhaps. Arrange for a good career for him.
Yet Madeline was on his arm. And she knew nothing of either Dora or Jonathan. Unless Beasley had told her, of course. She was friendly with Beasley, and years before the man had promised revenge.
She should be told. Sooner or later she was bound to find out. He should tell her. Better that it should come from him than from someone else.
But how could he tell his wife such a thing? Especially when his relations with her were on such shaky ground. How could he convince her that it was a thing of the past, something for which he still felt responsible, but nothing to interfere with his love for her?
What love? she would ask.
And he would be unable to reply. He seemed quite incapable of telling her that he loved her.
And so he led Madeline out of the church and directly to their waiting carriage, helped her inside, and sat beside her all the way home, looking out through the window in silence. Composing an explanation to her that he never delivered. Composing a speech in which he told her of his true feelings for her. And never speaking the words aloud.
He should not have come home. He should not have married Madeline. He should have returned to Canada and the fur trade, where he could be alone and harm no one but himself.
One afternoon he was riding home from a lengthy visit to one of his tenants, having listened to and finally approved the man’s schemes for clearing more arable land, when he saw two small figures walking along the laneway ahead of him. Or rather, the larger child was walking with one arm around the smaller, who hopped on one leg.
Jonathan and Patrick Drummond, he saw as he rode closer. Jonathan glowered up at him as he drew rein beside them. Patrick was sobbing.
“What has happened?” James asked.
“I told him he was not to come,” Jonathan said, “but Father said I must let him. And then I told him not to jump down from the top of the stile but to climb down properly. But jump he did and hurt his foot and now it will serve him right if Father thrashes him.”
The younger child hiccuped.
“Mother sent me on an errand to Mrs. Potter,” Jonathan said by way of explanation.
