The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  A sigh escaped her. She wondered what her guests would have thought had they been aware that she and her husband still lived as strangers—she on one side of the house and he on the other. No, she corrected herself, they were not quite strangers. Of late, he was becoming a little more friendly, and there had been the matter of her wardrobe and the necklace.

  On the morning after Tilda’s ball, Lucian had actually insisted that she replenish her wardrobe, telling her that if she would not make an appointment with Madame de la Tour, he would make it for her.

  “My wife,” he had continued angrily, “must not dig her garments from a blasted rag barrel.”

  “But, Lucian," she remembered replying, “there was nothing ragged about the gown I wore to the ball. I imagine that the material would be much more costly today than—”

  He had raised his hand. “Enough. That is not at issue. Will you speak to Madame de la Tour or must I?”

  Taking him at his word, she had had several ensembles made at a cost that had easily equaled the London prices and that had filled her with trepidation. Lucian, however, had not complained. He had actually praised her taste and had seemed to have a special fondness for a golden-brown kerseymere that, he had said, was the exact shade of her eyes. And last night he had surprised her by coming to her chamber, something he had not done in the nearly three months they had been residing at the abbey. He had brought with him a flat, velvet-covered casket that had proved to contain a magnificent diamond necklace; he had explained that it had been in the family since his grandmother’s day. He had insisted that she wear it. She had agreed to do so and had told him she was delighted. However, even though it had glittered like ice around her slim throat and had looked particularly lovely with the white satin gown she had just received from the mantua maker, she had not been delighted.

  Despite a certain softening in his attitude toward her, Lucian was undoubtedly still suspicious and still on the alert for any crack in what he might yet believe to be the facade that concealed her true nature. Barbara had done her work well, and of course, coupled with that was Lucian’s continued awareness of having betrayed his betrothed. Would nothing ever change his clouded mind?

  James Hepworth had not been particularly encouraging when, on meeting him in town last week, she had told him of the episode at the ball before the Duke of Pryde had stumbled in.

  James Hepworth . . . Janies and Jacob.

  Alicia’s cheeks grew warm as she unwillingly remembered the ramifications attendant upon that encounter.

  As usual, when on going to the mantua maker’s she took the gig, Effie accompanied her, and on this particular afternoon Jacob, of all people, drove them. Effie, who always enjoyed going to Richmond, had been unusually quiet and had darted shy glances at her on the way. When they arrived at Madame de la Tour’s little shop, which was also her home, Effie had asked if Alicia would mind if she and Jacob went for a short drive. Knowing the attachment that had sprung up between the abigail and the valet, Alicia had given her permission, only asking that they return in an hour, at which time she expected to be finished with that final fitting. Effie had promised faithfully that they would be ready and waiting, but unsurprisingly, they were not.

  Alicia had stood in front of Madame de la Tour’s white wicket gate for the better part of a half-hour when the doctor passed her in his gig and, seeing her, stopped to exchange a few words with her. Learning why she was there, he had insisted on driving her back to the abbey. She had agreed and left a message for Effie with one of the mantua maker’s assistants. “And,” Alicia muttered to herself, “that is all there was to it.”

  Unfortunately, that was not true. Her disobedient mind, ignoring her pleas to desist, provided an accurate recreation of that troubling incident.

  Once more she was standing just beyond the gate of Madame de la Tour’s house, squinting against the sunlight and with increasing impatience looking in the direction she had expected Jacob and Effie must come. She had heard the jingle of a harness and the snuffle of a horse and, looking up, saw Dr. Hepworth with the sun glinting on his bright hair.

  In that same moment he saw her, and immediately pulling his horse to a stop, he called, “Good afternoon. Lady Morley.”

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Hepworth.”

  After that exchange of greetings, why had she asked him if he had seen anything of the gig driven by Jacob? Naturally, he would want to know why, and of course, she had explained; even more naturally, he had offered to drive her back to the abbey. But, of course, none of it was natural! She should not have asked, should not have explained—it was a direct invitation to him, which he had accepted with alacrity, even though on the surface it had seemed as though she was the one who had accepted his kind offer.

  And anyone could have seen her up there with the doctor, but unfortunately no one had. He had driven out of town rather rapidly, slowing down only later, when they had turned into a quiet country lane, a shortcut, he had explained, one that would lead them to the abbey in less time than it usually took.

  His manner was so sympathetic, so understanding, and of course he had asked about Lucian.

  She had said immediately, “I had been hoping I would meet you. I had wanted to tell you what happened at the ball.”

  “Tell me,” he had urged. He had listened carefully, as if he were afraid to lose one syllable of what she was saying.

  “And he believed he heard guns?”

  “Yes, and it was just like that night when—when he left with the rest of them and did not return. And then, the Duke of Pryde came in.” She had clasped her hands. “Did you ever notice anything similar in your patient the Highlands chief?”

  He had frowned and said slowly, “Occasionally, there seemed to be a blank look in his eyes, as if he were staring beyond us into another place.”

  “Another time?” she had asked eagerly.

  “I cannot really say.”

  “I see.”

  He had given her a long look and then said in a low voice, “Oh, Lady Morley, what does it matter if he cannot remember? He is not without you.”

  She had believed that he must be remembering his own sad circumstances and his lost Juliet, but she never, never should have answered so despairingly, “But he does not want me. He was betrothed to Barbara Barrington again—can you not understand?—and all he can think on is the fact that he is married to me, whom he does not, cannot love.” Tears had sprung to her eyes and she had not been able to restrain her sobs.

  Dr. Hepworth had stopped the gig, and putting his arms around her, he had held her against him. “He is a damned fool,” he had said in a low furious voice. “Were I in his place, I would count myself the most fortunate man in the world. How can he be with you? How can he look at you without wanting you?” He had kissed her then, passionately, and she had responded. Had she responded passionately? She had! It had been such a long time and she had been so very starved for affection and . . .Was she really attracted to him?

  “Oh, God,” Alicia moaned, and then silently thanked her creator for not having allowed her to act even more foolishly. She had moved back. He had apologized profusely and said that he would make some excuse so as not to come to her dinner on the following Friday. And she had insisted that he must come, else it would seem strange. And he had come and everything had passed off easily enough—as easily as though she had never betrayed herself and her husband by her impassioned response to James Hepworth’s embrace.

  They had met again before dinner last night—at the Assembly Rooms in Richmond, whence she and Lucian had gone with Tilda and Lord Hewes. They had even danced together. And Lucian had danced with her, too. Twice. She had hoped that he might experience a sensation similar to that on the night of Tilda’s ball, but he had not. She shook her head. She ought not to be dwelling at length upon this situation, for that way lay frustration, mingled now with guilt and also a corroding bitterness, intensified last week by Tilda’s delighted confidence. After three years she was finally bree
ding again.

  “My dearest Alicia,” she had said, “I was beginning to give up hope that we would have a third. I do hope ’twill be a girl this time, not that I do not adore my two boys, but ’twould be pleasant to give them a little sister, do you not

  agree?”

  Alicia sighed. She had always wanted children. She and Lucian had talked of a family all those months ago. He had spoken of having four and had mentioned the difficulties as well as the loneliness attendant upon being an only child. That conversation seemed to have taken place in another lifetime, but it had not. Today was but the second of November and her husband had left her side on the evening of the seventeenth of June—five months earlier, five short months that, at present, seemed twice their length. And could she continue living with him in this pretense of a marriage?

  Doubts, gnatlike, stung her. She needed more than a marriage in name only; she needed Lucian’s love to protect her. To protect her from what? From searching for it in different, dangerous places. The episode with Dr. Hepworth had frightened her. It had shown her a side of her nature she did not even want to contemplate. She craved affection, and there was no persuading herself that she had not wanted Dr. Hepworth’s arms around her, had not welcomed his kisses. But had it been he or was she mentally putting Lucian in his place? However, if anyone had witnessed that episode, they would not have shared her doubts.

  “Oh, God.” She shuddered. “What am I to think? What will happen to me if . . .” She did not want to consider the questions inexorably seeping into her mind. She stared down into the ruins and then leaned forward, shocked out of her melancholy reflections. Someone was down there—a girl had just darted inside, a gaunt, dirty creature carrying a big bundle of rags. She stared about her like some hunted beast, and then, whirling about, she sped toward the tower, disappearing through the broken doorway.

  Alicia looked after her in stunned amazement. The girl had seemed terribly frightened of . . . What or whom? Obviously she had been fleeing. Thrusting open the window, Alicia leaned out, looking in the direction from which she had come, and shivered as the cold air penetrated her nightshift. She did not see anyone. She shifted her gaze to the tower, but the girl did not emerge again, and if she had been pursued, she had not been followed into the ruins.

  And who was she? A gypsy perhaps? But she had not been dark. Possibly, she was a village girl. Not possibly, probably, and from whom had she been running? She had been barefoot, Alicia recalled, and she had been wearing an old gown without even a shawl to warm her. Impulsively Alicia went to her armoire and took out a morning gown. She dressed hurriedly, and then threw her cloak about her and put another cloak over her arm. She came out of her chamber and, reaching the head of the stairs, paused. A moment later, satisfied that no one was stirring in that sleep-bound house, she went quietly down the steps. It was not until she was outside and at the entrance to the ruins that she wondered whether she ought to have brought Effie with her. The girl had obviously been badly frightened, and frightened creatures often struck out, even at those who offered protection. However, she doubted that she could have much to fear from one who had been so painfully thin—actually emaciated, now that she came to think of it.

  Coming to the doorway, she did hesitate, but hearing nothing, she moved inside. Staring about her in the dimness, she saw nothing. Had the girl slipped out while she was dressing? She tensed, hearing a little mewling cry overhead. It sounded like a kitten or ... a child? Alicia suddenly remembered the bundle of rags the girl had been carrying. Had it been merely rags or an infant? Another louder cry reached her and there was no mistaking it for anything but the wail of a child.

  Alicia hesitated no longer. She hurried to the winding stair, negotiating it as quietly as she could, glad that the treads were of stone rather than a creaking wood. In a few moments she had reached the top and could see across the shadowy floor to where the girl sat holding her baby against her thin bosom and whispering to it. Then, looking up, she gasped and shrank back, clutching her baby tightly, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Please,” Alicia said as gently as she could, “I mean you no harm. I saw you come in here. I have brought you a cloak. ’Tis such a cold morning.” She moved a step nearer and the girl shrank back still further. She had begun to tremble. “Please,” Alicia continued soothingly, “I want only to help you. Sure, you cannot remain up here in the cold, you and the poor little baby.” She held out the cloak. “At least wrap this about you.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “They—they—-they might have followed you.”

  “No one followed me or you, my dear. I saw you from my window.”

  “From the window? You live in the abbey?”

  Alicia nodded. “Yes, I am Lady Morley.”

  “Lady Morley?” the girl repeated. “I—I did not know there was a Lady Morley.”

  Alicia regarded her with considerable surprise. Despite her tattered garments, her dirty face, and unbound hair, she had an educated voice. “I have been here only a few months,” she exclaimed.

  “They said there—there were lights in the abbey. They were angry,” the girl said incomprehensibly. The child moaned and she kissed the top of its head, “There, there, little love.”

  “Please take this cloak,” Alicia urged, moving a step closer.

  The girl tensed. “How—how do I know you are not one of them?” she breathed. “There are some around here, give them shelter. Lucian Morley was to wed Barbara Barrington, so I was told. You are not she.”

  “No,” Alicia winced. “But I am yet wed to Lucian Morley. And you, you are from this district?”

  The girl hung her head. “No,” she said in a constricted tone of voice. “I am from nowhere, and am nobody. Hush!” she added almost fiercely as the baby wailed again. Then she lifted him in her arms and covered his face with kisses. “He is hungry, poor lamb.”

  “He must have milk,” Alicia said compassionately. “You’d best come with me to the kitchens.”

  “No,” the girl exclaimed loudly. “You are a stranger here, Lady Morley, else you’d not want me in any part of your house. And neither would you want him.” She kissed the top of her baby’s head. “He and I are outcasts, vagrants, beggars, because, you see, I chose to live rather than to die.” There was defiance in her tone now. “I should have found a way to die at once but I was young and I wanted to live even afterwards . . .” She shuddered, then continued, “Again, I should have found a way to end my life when I felt the stirring in my womb. I prayed I might die bearing him, but when they put my son into my arms, I could not bring myself to kill myself ... or him. I did not know that I should love him so much when I hated his father with all my being, but to hold him was to love him, poor little nameless waif that he is.”

  Alicia stared at her. It had grown lighter in the tower and now she saw that the girl’s hair was long and fair, and despite the dirt on her face and garments, it looked new-washed. Her hair was, in fact, beautiful, almost silvery, and suddenly she remembered Tilda’s description of hair that had also been silvery. She said, “Juliet!”

  “Yes?” the girl answered, and stared at her wide-eyed. “How did you know?”

  “I know Dr. Hepworth,” Alicia blurted.

  “Oh, God, James!” The girl put her thin hands over her face, “But he—he is no longer here; he cannot be. He has gone to London, has he not?”

  In that moment Alicia made a quick decision. “Yes,” she said. “He has gone. He went in late September.”

  “Ah . . .” Juliet whispered. “I thought he must have been long gone, but I am glad he is not here. He must never find out about me.”

  “He will not, but you, you must come into the house if only for the child’s sake. As you love your son, you cannot let him remain here in the cold.”

  “You are uncommon kind,” Juliet murmured. “Does . . . can it mean nothing to you, what I have told you? I am very sure that your husband—”

  “For the child,” Alicia repeated firmly, and almo
st as if he knew what she was saying, the baby loosed a fretful cry.

  “Very well,” Juliet agreed reluctantly. “But I am positive that your husband would not—”

  Alicia hesitated and then said more brusquely than she had intended, “My husband will know nothing. We sleep on opposite sides of the house.” She flushed and looked down as she met the girl’s surprised glance, but she continued determinedly, “My rooms are the only ones in that wing that are presently occupied.”

  “But I—I am dirty,” Juliet protested. “I have been running and hiding, anywhere I might. My ... my man was killed and there was another wanted me. A week ago he tried to take me, but I was able to escape him. I thought I saw them on the road this morning, the three of them, which is why I came here. But I have been hiding out in stables and even in ditches. Look at me!”

  “No matter, you will soon be bathed. My abigail will see to you, and since we are much of a size, I think you can wear one of my gowns. And you must rest.” As she anticipated another protest, she added quickly, “For the sake of your child.”

  “You are uncommon kind." Juliet’s voice broke, but a second later she had managed to regain her equilibrium.

  “Come,” Alicia repeated, carefully expelling any hint of sympathy from her tone. The fragile girl of eighteen had, in two years of untold misery and horror, gained a strength she admired. She would not try to undermine it with pity.

  Dr. Hepworth lived in a large old house on the edge of town. Alicia had Tilda to thank for having once pointed it out to her. She had found it again easily enough, but now, as she dismounted from Bess, the mare Lucian had provided for her use, she found herself very nervous. She almost regretted the impulse that had brought here here, immediately after she had left Juliet with a bemused Effie. John, the groom who had saddled her horse, had looked at her as if she were mad, riding unaccompanied to an unknown destination. She had not tried to shed any light on his confusion. She had been too much in a hurry to see the doctor, but now, in the very act of reaching for the knocker that centered his front door, she hesitated, wondering what he would think or, rather, what he must feel in view of what had passed between them. But that could not matter, not when she told him about Juliet. Yet, what would he feel on hearing, as she herself had once heard, that the person he had believed lost forever was found?