“As do I,” Alicia said feelingly.
“And meanwhile . . .” Tilda scanned Alicia’s face. “You do look happier, my dear.”
“I am happier,” Alicia said softly.
“And deserve to be even happier,” Tilda said pointedly. “And will be,” she added.
Alicia smiled and blew her a kiss. “I must be going.”
“Swear that you will come again soon. I can see that this is going to be a difficult period for me—full of megrims! I shall need a shoulder to weep upon.”
“I promise I will come again as soon as I may,” Alicia told her.
Because the weather had been uncertain when she had started out, Alicia had not taken Bess as was her wont. She had come in the post-chaise. Now, as the coachman drove her toward the abbey, she was thinking of Tilda’s comments. In the fortnight that had passed since the departure of Dr. Hepworth, she had been happy, but as to whether she would be happier, she was still not sure. Lucian’s attitude had undergone considerable change. He was kinder and, on occasion, even affectionate. He had also insisted that she move from her chamber into the wing he occupied. She guessed that her outburst on the day she had brought Juliet into the house had precipitated that decision.
She grimaced. She had been settled in the suite of rooms generally occupied by the mistress of the house, and though Lucian had taken to accompanying her there each night and though he kissed her before going to his own chambers, he had as yet made no other overtures. Yet, that he was becoming fonder of her she had no doubt. Fondness, however, was not love. Still, many marriages among the ton had been contracted for reasons other than love, and very often they did not even have the alleviating factor of fondness.
“If only ...” she murmured, and sighed deeply, not wishing to pursue that thought any further. But it was impossible not to remember the days and nights they had spent together before the fateful Battle of Waterloo! Thinking about them, she felt a warmth on her cheeks and a telltale throbbing at the base of her throat. There were other sensations as well. Having drunk from the cup of passion, it was hard, indeed, to forget the excitement that heady draft had brought her.
“You must be patient,” Dr. Hepworth had told her on that afternoon he had paid her a last, unexpected visit. It had been the day before he and his new bride had taken the coach for Liverpool. “I can see a change in your husband already and ’tis my belief that he will regain his memory, my dear Alicia.”
“Let him be right,” she prayed silently as the post-chaise passed between the gateposts at the abbey.
Coming into the front hall, Alicia was amazed to find a portmanteau at the foot of the stairs. Nearby was Lucian’s many-caped overcoat. And in another second, Lucian himself, dressed for traveling, came hurrying down the stairs. Seeing her, he frowned and said coldly, “I was hoping that you would return before I left.”
Alicia tensed, surprised as much by his manner as by his comment. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
“I have had a communication from my man of business. I must leave for London immediately,” he said curtly.
“Oh, must you go so far . . . in this weather?” she protested.
“This weather?” he repeated. “I see nothing untoward about the weather.” He spoke, she thought, almost challengingly, and he was still regarding her so strangely, almost suspiciously, she decided.
“It is passing cold. The snows cannot be far off.”
“You forget that I am Yorkshire-born. And I have been subjected to rougher climates.”
“I hope you will be taking the traveling coach.”
“That is my intent.” He nodded.
“How long will you be away?"
“That will depend upon what he has to tell me,” Lucian said cryptically.
Again she read suspicion in his gaze, suspicion intermingled with anger, an anger that appeared to be directed at her. She said, “It must be something very important to take you such a long distance.”
“I consider it thus.”
“Might I know what it is?” she asked.
She received a smoldering glance. “You will be informed in due course, Alicia.” He paused and looked upward as Effie’s plaintive voice reached them.
“An’ ’ow long will ye be gone, then, Jacob?”
“There’s no sayin’,” the valet answered in equally un- happy tones. Dressed for traveling, Jacob came slowly down the stairs.
Lucian said crisply, “See if the coach is waiting, Jacob.’’
“Yes, my Lord.” He went out.
Lucian looked at Alicia. “You may tell your abigail that I will be back in something over a week.”
“I see,” she said. “I hope you are taking outriders with you.”
“I am.”
Jacob returned. “The coach is waiting, my Lord.”
“Good.” He bent a stem look on Alicia. “I will bid you farewell, then.”
“I wish you a safe journey, Lucian.”
“I thank you,” he responded curtly, and with a brief bow he strode out, followed by his valet. Alicia moved to the door and, opening it, saw him get into the coach. He did not look back.
Coming out onto the porch, Alicia watched the coach until it rounded a bend in the driveway and was lost to sight. A gust of wind stirred the trees and sent a shower of yellowed leaves to the ground. She shivered. It was a cold wind, but no colder than the man she called husband. Why was he going to London, and on such short notice? Obviously because he had received some urgent news . . . About what? What or who required his presence in the city?
Barbara.
The name had lost some of its potency in the last weeks, but now it loomed large in her consciousness, and into her mind floated the phrase “Journeys end in lover’s meetings.” And was he going to meet Barbara rather than his man of business? Was that the message that had spurred him into action? She was suddenly positive that it had been. Why else would there have been this drastic change in his attitude? Why else . . . She paused in her thinking, overcome by a great lassitude. It occurred to her that she was weary of trying to fathom the workings of Lucian’s mind, weary of trying to compete against the potent charms of the Honorable and Incomparable Barbara Barrington! Evidently, she would always stand between them. She had only to lift a beckoning finger and he would be off!
The wind tore at Alicia’s hair and sent another shower of leaves raining down. She felt lonely and, worse yet, defeated. A conclusion she had of late put behind her arose once more, and this time she faced it squarely. She ought not to have pressed her claim on this man, who had once but now no longer loved her. Even if he remained with her, he would always yearn for his lost Barbara. Alicia thought longingly of her father and brother. She had heard from them only sporadically in the past months. Timothy, contrary to expectations, had not remained in London to pursue his writing career. He had returned to Brussels. He and Papa had both told her how much they missed her and how they longed to see her again. And she wanted to see them. She even longed for Brussels. She had never been entirely happy in that city, but despite that and despite their straitened circumstances, she had been loved.
As she came into the house, it seemed to her that the chill walked with her. Staring about the cavernous hall with its two armored figures, she felt even more lonely, and in that moment she made a decision. When Lucian came back from his mysterious visit to London, he would not find her. He had taken the coach, but the post-chaise remained, and as soon as she could put the house in order, she would shake the dust of Yorkshire from her feet forever and go home.
It was raining in London and consequently the streets were even more cluttered than usual. Lucian’s coachman, his equipage halted by an enormous dray, was uttering words that reached his passenger only as angry mutters. Lucian sympathized with him. The city had never seemed more drab or uninviting. Of course, he reasoned, he was tired—tired and depressed, which was odd, for he ought to have been exultant. Barbara’s letter had contained the news that must
free him from the so-called bonds of matrimony. Five sentences from that missive ran though his mind as the coach finally moved forward toward the turn that must bring them onto Clarges Street and the Barrington mansion:
You are not and have never been wed to her. The license is a fraud. By rights she should be transported to New South Wales for forgery. And fortunately, my dear, I can prove these allegations. The time is not far off when we can be married—as planned.
Lucian moved restively. His leg ached and he was weary. The trip had been arduous. They had covered a distance of nearly two hundred miles in three rather than four days, mainly because he had insisted they drive by night as well as by day—with his outriders prepared to shoot if they were troubled by highwaymen.
Rather than staying in his own house, shut for the season, he had gone to Grillons Hotel, coming to that hostelry at the hour of eleven last night. Being overtired, he had not slept well. Indeed, he had spent a good part of the night thinking and trying to reconcile the young woman he had come to admire, if not to love, with the “abandoned creature,” as Barbara had termed her in her letter. Oddly enough, it had been Alicia’s image that had haunted the dreams that had visited him in his brief and troubled sleep. One of these images had been particularly strange. He had seen her bearing a great number of bundles and standing on the steps of an old house he was sure he had never viewed before, and he certainly had never known Alicia to be so loaded down with heavy bundles. Yet, she had not seemed to mind being so encumbered. In fact, she had been laughing. To his knowledge, he had also never seen her look so young, so carefree, and at the same time, so very beguiling. She was very pretty—more than merely pretty, actually. Of late her looks had improved, and really, she was quite lovely. In fact, in her way she was every bit as beautiful as Barbara, and she appeared to love his old home, something he knew Barbara did not.
Alicia had made great improvements in the house. Furthermore, she had proved to be an excellent hostess. She had appeared to be aware of her guests’ wants even before they mentioned them. Several of his friends had privately praised her. Sir Anthony Fothringale had called him a “most fortunate man,” adding that if Alicia were an example of what was to be found in Brussels, he would be visiting that city in the near future.
Also, of late Lucian had found himself looking at the door that divided their apartments and wondering what it would be like were he to exchange more than a mere good-night kiss with the woman he was having much less trouble referring to as his wife . . . But, according to Barbara, she had never been his wife. According to Barbara, Alicia was a “scheming harpy,” a “cold-blooded adventuress” who had cunningly deceived him. It was very difficult to match the young woman he had been seeing every day for the past few months with Barbara’s contemptuous description.
Inadvertently, he found himself thinking of Dr. Hepworth. There had been a time when he had thought Alicia attracted to the physician. He had been wrong about that, and though he had not refined too much upon it, he had greatly admired his wife’s courage in bringing Hepworth together with the poor girl she had found in the ruins. Barbara, he knew, would not have done that. She would have wasted no time in remanding the girl to the authorities as a vagrant. She would have been absolutely horrified at the idea of foisting a “ruined” woman on a man she had come to call friend. He frowned. Had Alicia’s attitude been based on something more than mere compassion? Had there been an empathy between her and the disgraced Juliet Cotterel, an empathy predicated on their similar circumstances?
Lucian winced and then stiffened. The coach was slowing down. A glance out the window showed him the familiar facade of Barbara’s house. As the footman opened the door of the vehicle, it occurred to him that he was most reluctant to descend the three steps to the street, even more reluctant to enter the house. He did not want to hear what Barbara had to tell him concerning his wife. Into his mind flashed an image of Alicia’s surprised and troubled face as he had bade her a chill farewell. As the coach had rolled away from the house, he had been unable to resist a backward glance and had seen her standing there on the porch—a small and, he had thought, lonely figure. He had been conscious of wanting to instruct his coachman to stop and turn around. But he had not surrendered to that impulse and he would not surrender to this one either.
As he walked up the steps of the Barrington house, he was surprised to find the curtains closed. Upon ringing, the elderly caretaker, not the butler, admitted him. The hall was darker than usual, lighted only by a pair of candelabra standing on the marble-topped consul table. "Miss Barbara’ll be cornin’ soon. Sit ye down, my Lord,” the caretaker advised.
Lucian did not avail himself of this invitation. Instead, he stared about him with increasing surprise. He could see the drawing room from here and it, too, was dark, the shades and curtains drawn. It occurred to him that neither the staff nor Barbara’s mother was in residence. While he was speculating on the reasons for that, Barbara came swiftly down the stairs "Lucian,” she cried. "Oh, my dearest, at last, at last!” She flung her arms around him.
Surprised and more taken aback than excited, Lucian kissed her on the cheek but, meeting her astonished and hurt look, hastily remedied his error by kissing her on the lips.
"My dearest”—Barbara loosed a gusty sigh—“you are too, too bold and I should never allow such liberties, but I have missed you so dreadfully.”
"I have missed you, too,” he responded automatically, and much to his secret amazement, he wondered if that were entirely true. He had missed her from time to time, perhaps, but now ... He looked around the hall. "Where is your mother, my dear?”
"She is in the country.” She gave him a conspiratorial glance. “The house, as you must have guessed, is officially closed and I am ostensibly staying in Wiltshire with a friend. That is what Mama believes, and I beg you’ll not betray me. ’Twas in your interest that I came here.”
"Was that not a chancy thing to do?” He frowned.
"Entirely”—she flung out her hands—"but I had no choice. Once the runner came to me with his discoveries, I had to follow his advice! Pray excuse me for a moment, my love. You can go into the drawing room. There is a fire laid on.”
Considerably mystified by her manner and by the fact that her mother was absent, Lucian came into the drawing room, which, as Barbara had said, was much warmer. Sitting down on a brocade settee near the fire, he stared into the flames. They were only a few shades lighter than Barbara’s hair, he thought. She was looking very well, but for some odd reason his heart had not leapt at the sight of her. In fact . . . Before he had time to pursue that thought any further, she had joined him.
“There,” she said with some satisfaction. “I have sent for her.”
“For whom?” Lucian demanded.
“Madame Tasnier. She is from Brussels and she has some very interesting information for you. But first, let me show you what I have!” She moved to a table and, opening a small drawer, took out a folded paper. “The runner procured this in Brussels. Oh, Lucian, I was never so shocked as when he told me all that he had discovered.”
"The runner?” Lucian repeated. “Would you be meaning that you hired a Bow Street runner?”
"Exactly, my love. He is a Mr. Blount, a dreadful little man with a vile accent that absolutely grated on my ears—but clever. I told him all about that creature who calls herself your wife, and, Lucian, he immediately left for Brussels!”
With an air of triumph, Barbara handed Lucian the folded paper. “This, my dearest,” she continued, "is a copy of the marriage register in the church, where you were supposedly married. According to your, er, bride, that wedding took place on June eleventh. This is an exact copy of the church register for that day. Do you see your name on it or hers? I do not.”
Unfolding the paper with fingers that were trembling slightly, Lucian scanned it. “No, ’tis not here,” he corroborated, and was surprised at the wave of disappointment that washed over him.
“Of course it is no
t there,” she said joyfully. “I never doubted it for a minute. I knew you could not have betrayed me—not you, Lucian. Oh, my poor love, you have been most hardly used.”
He put the paper down on an adjacent table. “So it seems,”
he said heavily.
“However, we will unmask the culprit together,” Barbara said happily. “In my estimation she ought to be clapped into Newgate prison, but, of course, there would be the most dreadfull scandal. ’Twould be better to send her away. I expect you will have to give her money—quite a sum, I fear, if you are to rid yourself of her.”
“She does not seem grasping,” he felt it incumbent upon him to protest.
Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “Have you become her champion, then? Or perhaps her lover?”
Annoyance flooded through him, though he was not sure why, because naturally Barbara, loving him as she did, would be hurt and suspicious by what she must consider a possible defense. He said quickly, “I am neither. Yet she has not asked me for monies. Quite the contrary, she even wanted to make her own clothes—”
“And you did not want that?” Without giving him a chance to reply, she rushed on, “But I understand your thinking, my own. Servants talk and you did not want to be accused of being penny-pinching, as well she knew. She is very clever. You will see how very clever she has been when you meet Madame Tasnier. She will tell you the real truth about the woman you have mistakenly believed to be your wife.” Barbara sighed. “Oh, dear, it is all so ugly and unpleasant, but enough! You are looking very well, my dearest, and how is your poor leg?”
“ ’Tis better,” he said.
“Oh, that is good. And as I have told you, you are certainly looking more fit. Lucian, my angel, I have missed you dreadfully, as I have said. I am so glad this wretched business will soon be concluded and that strumpet out of your life!”
The Forgotten Marriage Page 20
