The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  “Beautiful?” he questioned. “I cannot quite concur with you on that. It could be, I expect, but much needs to be done. In recent years my father never came here. I, of course, was with Wellington’s forces, and my mother died young.”

  “I know,” she said gently.

  He reddened. “Of course, you would,” he said quickly. “You must pardon me if I tax you with much that you must have heard me mention before.”

  “You did not mention this house,” she responded.

  “Did I not? It was not often in my mind, I expect. I imagine that I did speak of the London house.”

  She nodded, regretting the memories that sprang once more to the surface of her mind.

  “ ’Tis closed now, but it can be opened easily enough,” he said tentatively.

  “I have seen London, but Yorkshire’s new to me and life here will not be so demanding.”

  He gave her a grateful look. “That is true. And as I was saying, I should like to see the abbey put in order. After all, ’tis our family seat. The room before mine, for instance, belonged to my mother; my grandmother once resided there and before her my great-grandmother, but my father closed it after my mother died. He avoided this entire wing.”

  “I can understand that,” she said gently. “He must have been very much in love with her.”

  “That is true, but”—his face darkened—“he did not mourn her overlong. There was a Madame Violetta from the opera, but be that as it may, I have put you in one of the guest chambers and I think that is not right. You ought to be occupying the adjoining rooms.”

  “No,” Alicia said quickly. “I would prefer to remain where I am for the nonce. I am willing to stay and help you get this house in order, but as for the rest, I am entirely aware of your difficulties.” She paused. Hovering near the tip of her tongue were the words that would grant him the freedom he might still greatly desire. It was even possible that he regarded her in the same light that his father had regarded the mistress he had taken after the death of his wife: as some manner of inferior substitute for the woman he had really loved. But Barbara Barrington was not dead, and were she, Alicia, to be so magnanimous, there was the possibility that in the long run Lucian might suffer as much as herself even though he would not be aware of it now. “I think,” she continued determinedly, “that before we resume our marriage, as it were, we must be friends rather than mere acquaintances. I am sure you must agree.”

  The long breath he expelled before answering her told her that he had been holding it. “I can only commend you on your wisdom.” He sounded actually eager as he added, “But you will stay and will try to forget all that passed between us this afternoon—prior to my fall, I mean?”

  “I have already forgotten.” She rose. “And now I think you must sleep.”

  “I will be able to sleep now,” he told her. “I do thank you, Alicia.”

  It was the first time since they had met again that he had called her by her name, she realized. Tears threatened yet again, but as before, she determinedly willed them away. “Good afternoon, Lucian,” she said as brightly and as calmly as though she had never lain clasped in his arms, her lips ready for his ardent kisses. “Sleep well, my dear.” Without waiting for his response, she hurried out of the room.

  Reaching her chamber, Alicia found the curtains billowing out and a shutter banging. A wind had risen, and as she hurried to close the window, she saw gray clouds scudding across the darkening sky. Probably it would rain very shortly. She went into the dressing room, hoping to find Effie there, but she was not. She was sorry for that. She did not want to be alone with her thoughts. These were too inclined to lead her backward into a glowing past, a sorry contrast, indeed, with the present and, she feared, the future. Uppermost in her mind was the feeling that in spite of the fact that she had gained a small victory, she might have made a grave mistake in insisting that her husband honor those forgotten vows. Though he had just made a definite concession in her favor, his pain and confusion were still present, and in coming here, she had taken on a burden that she could compare to that of Sisyphus, forever pushing the stone up the hill with Barbara at the summit ready to kick it back down again. True, Lucian was making a valiant effort to abide by his promises, but such efforts could not make for a happy union. She smiled mirthlessly. It would be a union of three rather than two, for there was no dismissing the Honorable Barbara. She might be residing in a spot some two hundred miles distant, but to all intents and purposes she was here, a potent force in their lives.

  “And what did you expect?” she murmured. “Did you imagine that he would forget her the moment the coach rounded a bend in the road?”

  That self to whom she had addressed the question made answer, “You are too impatient, Alicia. ’Tis but four and twenty hours since you arrived.”

  She frowned. Had so much happened in so brief a time? Their arrival, her going through the house, her meeting with Barbara’s talkative cousin, her visit to the ruins, her encounter with Lucian, his anger and fall, her subsequent conversation with the young doctor. It seemed almost too much for one day, never mind a very few hours. An ominous rumble brought her back to the window. The clouds were coalescing. Presently there would be rain and more rain and more rain. The roads would be muddied and eventually snow-laden, and through all this winter would Lucian be the resentful young man she had met earlier in the ruins or the polite husband who was doing his honorable best to accustom himself to this stranger he had so unaccountably married?

  “Oh, God, it is hard,” she whispered. “I ought not to have come, but supposing . . . supposing he does remember me? He’d not understand why I deserted him.”

  It was a very fragile thread on which to build a hope or to hang a marriage, but at the same time it was strong enough to bind her to this man. “I will stay,” she whispered defiantly, and winced as hard on that resolution came an ominous roll of thunder.

  “Miss—oh, milady . .

  There was a hand on her shoulder gently shaking her. Alicia, coming out of a deep sleep, filled with fragmented dreams of Lucian, opened her eyes to rainbow colors that, she realized a second later, were candle flames caught in the prisms of her sleep-wet eyes. She blinked the effect away and stared up into Effie’s pale, frightened countenance. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “Oh, m-milady, can you not ’ear?”

  A crash of thunder resounded through the room and the wind shrieked around the comer of the house. “The rain . . . the wind,” Alicia mumbled.

  “Listen, milady, oh, do I listen,” Effie’s voice trembled. “ ’Tis them, out t-there in the r-r-ruins.”

  Alicia was silent, straining to hear whatever it was Effie was talking about. Then she tensed. There was a sound that was not of the storm, a droning; more than a droning, it rose and fell, like chanting.

  “Do you ’ear it now, milady?” Effie whispered.

  Alicia sat up. She nodded, and slipping from her bed, she ran to the window, staring down into a darkness intermittently relieved by vivid flashes of jagged lightning. The eerie sound still filled her ears, and behind her Effie broke into tears.

  “Hush, my dear,” Alicia whispered.

  “Oh, milady.” Effie clutched her arm. “Supposin’ that they come in ’ere?”

  “Shhh.” Alicia frowned.

  “They was turned out from there when—when the wind were ’igh ... all them Papist monks. J-Jacob s-says they was wicked.”

  Alicia hardly heeded her. She was thinking of that motionless figure she had seen that morning. It had been equally eerie. However, as Effie continued to sob, she said calmly, “I beg you’ll not be alarmed. ’Tis highly unlikely that what we are hearing comes from any supernatural source. I cannot fathom the reason why anyone, let alone a group of people, would care to serenade us at this hour and during so furious a storm, but I am rather sure we’ll take no harm from them. Now I beg you’ll go back to your bed and try to sleep. I shall do the same.”

  “You do not b-believe
that—”

  “That the dead return?” In dreams, perhaps, but since you and I are both awake, Effie, I think that sounds we are hearing are issuing from human throats.”

  “But why?”

  “I do not know why,” Alicia responded, hoping that she sounded reassuring enough. “Now please go back to bed, Effie.”

  “Yes, milady.” Effie sounded a trifle calmer as she went toward the dressing room.

  Left alone in her chamber, Alicia stared into the darkness. The chanting had ceased, but the storm had not. It still raged about the house, and listening to it, Alicia wondered how many hours must pass before she could confront Lucian with a description of what she and Effie had heard. In her mind, she went over their conversation of the afternoon and heard him say hesitantly, “I have put you in one of the guest chambers.”

  And she had been in haste to assure him that she was quite willing to remain there. Had he anticipated her response? Had he deliberately placed her in this chamber that overlooked the ruins because he planned to frighten her into leaving? It was well within the realm of possibility. Yet, thinking of the Lucian she had known, such a device seemed foreign to his frank and open nature. He could not have changed so drastically! Yet, he had mentioned the haunting of the ruins yesterday in the coach and again this afternoon. Had he been trying to prepare her for that unholy chorus? Unexpectedly she yawned. She was growing sleepy again. She must needs ponder these questions in the morning.

  Mrs. Gibbs was angry. Alicia had heard her voice from the top of the stairs, and now, as she reached the lower hall, she saw the housekeeper, arms akimbo, as she faced Mary, the parlor maid, and another girl whom Alicia did not recognize. Both were wearing their cloaks and carrying bundles of what appeared to be clothing and both looked defiant.

  ‘‘An’ so yer goin’ an’ because o’ wot ye ’eard last night . . . as if you was goin’ to be ’armed by them.”

  “ ’Twas terrible.” Mary shuddered. “They come up outa ’ell!”

  “An’ do you say your prayers at night?” Mrs. Gibbs glared at her. “Do you?”

  “Y-yes, but—”

  “But they don’t ’old with nobody but the wicked,” the housekeeper said sharply. “An’ the godless,” she added.

  “I’m not stayin’ where there’s ghosts,” Mary said.

  “Me neither.” The other girl’s voice quavered.

  “Then he’d best leave off bein’ a servant . . . ’round ’ere at least. ’Alf the places ’ereabouts ’ave their ghosts’n I never did ’ear of anybody bein’ ’armed by ’em.”

  Alicia concealed a smile. Joining them, she said brightly, “Good morning, Mrs. Gibbs.” She had a smile for Mary and the other girl. “Do I understand that you are leaving us?”

  Mary gave her a glance that was half-timid, half-determined. “Me’n Bessie ’ere, we ’eard them last night... the monks.”

  “An’ so did the others’n you don’t see ’em turnin’ tail’n runnin’ off,” snapped the housekeeper.

  “There’ve been other things,” Mary said stubbornly. “Noises in the cellar—”

  “An’ don’t most old’houses ’ave the same?” demanded Mrs. Gibbs. “Still, if yer that set on goin’, I’ll not ’old ye ’ere. But ye’ll not be gettin’ yer wages an’ the ’iring fair’s already been ’eld.” She bent a stem glance on Mary. “Yer ma’ll not like ye cornin’ back now, Mary Middleton. An’ nor will yours, Bessie Smith.”

  “Us d-don’t mind,” Bessie said.

  “Then go, an’ good riddance,” sighed the housekeeper, rolling her eyes in Alicia’s direction. “I’ve said all I’m a-goin’ to.”

  “If they are uncomfortable here, they ought not to stay,” Alicia added. “Though in my estimation there’s more to be feared from the living than from the dead.”

  “My thoughts exactly. “Mrs. Gibbs directed a sharp glance of approval at her.

  “What is all this talk of the dead?” came a voice from the stairs.

  Alicia turned swiftly and saw Lucian standing on the first landing. “Oh, should you be from your bed?” she cried.

  “I am well enough.” Holding on to the balustrade, he came down. The two servant girls, instinctively backed away and then, belatedly, dropped curtsies. He smiled at them. “I understand that there was a disturbance in the night. My valet also tells me that there have been other sounds that have given you cause for alarm. What manner of sounds, may I ask, Mary?”

  Finding his eyes on her, the girl reddened, but she said, “There’ve been noises in the cellar, my Lord.”

  ‘‘And not attributable to rats?” Lucian inquired.

  “Charlie, oo ’eard them said ’as ’ow they sounded like— like footsteps,” Mary said.

  “But you, I take it, did not hear them?”

  Mary flushed and shook her head. “No, my Lord.”

  “An’ in my estimation neither did Charlie,” the housekeeper put in.

  “But the worst were outside," Bessie whispered. “Them voices wot were in the ruins. The monks . . . sing in’.”

  “Stuff!” snapped Mrs. Gibbs.

  “You was asleep, ma’am,” Mary said.

  “As you should’ve been.” Mrs. Gibbs glared at her.

  “For what it is worth,” Lucian said, “I lived here as a child and there were also tales of phantom monks, but none in this house ever heard or experienced anything out of the way. If last night there was such a chorus, I can only think ’twas of the earth—earthly and some prankster thinking to play a trick on us. You may, of course, believe as you choose, but that, I am sure, is the explanation.” He looked at Alicia. “I am pleased that my wife, who must also have heard it, has chosen to dismiss it.” His eyes rested on Alicia’s face and it seemed to her that he looked oddly ashamed. “You,” he continued, his gaze on the two girls, “may of course go or stay. I would rather you stayed; still, if you feel you cannot remain, I will see that you are given such wages as you have earned.”

  The girls regarded him somewhat uncertainly and Mary looked a trifle sheepish. “Well, I ... I expect I will stay, your Lordship.”

  “That’s more like it,” Mrs. Gibbs exclaimed. She turned her sharp eyes on Bessie. “And you?” she demanded.

  The girl still appeared nervous, but she said, “Guess as I’ll stay if Mary do.”

  “Very good, then, get to your tasks,” Mrs. Gibbs ordered, “but first ’ave a cup o’ tea in the ’all.”

  As the two girls curtsied and hurried from the hall, Mrs. Gibbs turned to Lucian. “I do thank you, your Lordship.” She shook her head and said with considerable annoyance, “I’d like to know oo it were was out there last night. ’Tis ’ard enough as ’tis to keep servants without some fool scarin' them outa their silly minds. ’Twas well you come when you did, my Lord.”

  “I am glad I was able to reassure them. And”—he smiled at the housekeeper—“I am pleased by your good sense, Mrs. Gibbs.”

  The housekeeper reddened with pleasure. She said gruffly. “We’ve enough trouble wi’ the livin’ without me exercisin' my mind about a passel o’ dead monks. Do I ’ave your leave to go, my Lord?”

  “You have, Mrs. Gibbs.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. There be breakfast laid on in the second dinin’ room.” She bustled out of the room.

  Lucian turned to Alicia. “I am sorry you were troubled in the night.”

  “ ’Twas none of your doing,” she said. “I am only glad that you came to soothe those girls. I know from what you’ve told me that those tales of phantom monks are not new, but if these rumors were to circulate again, we should have trouble getting other servants to come and we have a slender staff as it is.”

  “I know. We will need to hire more,” he agreed.

  A question was hovering on her tongue, and almost without volition she voiced it. “Would you have any notion who it was might wish to frighten us away from the house?”

  It was a moment before he responded. “I have no idea who would do it,” he said fin
ally. “But in common with you, I am sure that the sounds were of a human origin.”

  “How could they not be?” she said reasonably. “I am sure the dead sleep well and soundly. But enough ... I hope you are feeling better this morning, Lucian?”

  “I am. My sleep, at least, remained undisturbed.” He paused. “Shall we go to breakfast?”

  Despite suspicions that she had yet to wholly abandon, Alicia could not help experiencing a surge of something that, while not pure happiness, could be considered pleasurable. “Yes, please,” she assented. She was even more pleased when he held out his arm. Taking it, she had an odd sensation, one she might be forced to relinquish later, but at this precise moment she did feel as if she actually belonged here.

  9

  The attics of Morley Abbey were immense. There were rooms filled with old furniture and others stocked with trunks of household goods, draperies, and garments. Indeed, there was a family legend to the effect that somewhere in three centuries’ worth of bundles and bales lay a fig leaf plucked from a tree in the Garden of Paradise and brought back from the Holy Land by a crusader ancestor.

  “I doubt,” Lucian said upon regaling Alicia with this piece of apocrypha, ‘‘that you will find it, since the Sieur de Morley who embarked upon that mission was dust and ashes some four centuries before this estate was deeded to his descendant. But 'tis an interesting tale, the usual souvenir from the Holy Land being a piece of the True Cross.”

  Remembering that anecdote as she and Effie stood in one of the several low-ceilinged rooms said to contain some of the materials left over from the last time the house had been redecorated, some thirty years earlier, Alicia smiled. In the four days that had passed since they had arrived at the abbey or, rather, she amended mentally, since that moment when Lucian had persuaded Mary and Bessie to remain, he had been much less antagonistic. That there was still considerable constraint in his manner went without saying, but he did not avoid her as much as she had feared he might—even given their conversation late in the afternoon of the day she had encountered him in the ruins. She had an odd feeling, however, that that had less to do with his change in attitude than the advent of that ghostly choir.