by M C Beaton
He stroked his chin and moved back into the shadow of the pillar.
As Matilda had expected, her besotted husband, deaf and blind to the conventions, led the way to the supper room with Mary on his arm. She shivered as she remembered the first two days of their marriage when he had seemed obsessed by her. And then he had complained that her voice was too deep and her manner of speaking too direct. Still young and used to independence, Matilda had told him not to be silly. Surely honesty and openness were assets. His manner had grown gradually chilly and then crossed the line into open dislike. He had not courted her before their marriage. He had seen her at a ball and had approached her parents. She had not said a word to him until the first night of their marriage. Matilda did not care for her own looks—blondes were not fashionable—but when still doting on her, the duke had shown her one of his favorite Dresden figurines and said she looked just like that. But china figurines were silent and did not have minds or wishes.
“You are so quiet,” said the Earl of Torridon. “Is it because of your husband’s monstrous behavior?”
Matilda shook her head. “I was remembering something unhappy,” she said. “He is behaving very badly, is he not? I should not be discussing my husband with you, my lord, but believe me, everyone else is talking about him. He is a great collector.”
“I do not understand.”
“He collected me,” said Matilda. “He thought I looked like a Dresden figurine. But he could not bear my fatal flaws. I am glad I am not of china, or he would have smashed me. Everything must be perfect, you see.”
“I can see no flaw in you,” he said, his matter-of-fact voice persuading the surprised Matilda that he was not flirting with her.
“It is my voice. It is a trifle deep toned for a lady, and I am apt to speak my mind.”
“Both endearing qualities.”
His voice was husky and intimate. Matilda colored. “But, my lord, your own wife should be here with you. I am afraid I am behaving as scandalously as my husband.”
“I must match you in frankness. This evening I have asked my wife, nay, commanded my wife to give me a separation.”
Her blue eyes flew to meet his. “I am sorry,” she said quickly. “But perhaps it is only a row. Married couples are often rowing, I fear, and say things they do not mean.”
“I meant it. It was well considered, well thought out. Not something I would do lightly. I made my vows in church.”
“But not a divorce? You will not be free to marry,” said Matilda.
“I have no wish to marry anyone else,” he said in a low voice. “Once is enough.”
“It is the fault of these arranged marriages,” said Matilda. “We are expected to live out our lives in intimacy with someone we barely knew before we met them at the altar.”
“Not in my case. I had freedom of choice. I was in love.”
“Love.” Matilda sighed. “What is love?”
“I do not know. Perhaps it has little to do with infatuation. Perhaps liking and admiration come first, a feeling of being at ease with someone, a feeling of coming home.”
She looked at him, startled, aware, her mouth opening to say “But that is how I feel with you.”
She blushed suddenly and looked away. And met the cold stare of her husband, a cold, calculating stare.
The duke did not love her, he hated her, but if he thought she was enjoying the company of any other man, then he would soon find some punishment to fit the crime. Matilda shuddered.
“My lord,” she said, “I do not dislike your company, rather I enjoy it. But I am paying you too much attention and my husband has noticed the fact and will punish me.”
“But how can he?” demanded the earl wrathfully. “Surely his own behavior is such that he has no right to criticize you!”
“You do not know him. I have enjoyed speaking to you and wish we could meet again, but I fear after this evening, that is not possible. I should not have discussed my husband with you. I will keep saying that and yet when I see you, I go ahead and do it,” said Matilda ruefully. “I keep hoping there is some way this odd marriage might work. One must try.”
“I myself have tried and tried,” he said wearily. He remembered three months before coming south, he had gone to his wife’s bedchamber and given her a diamond necklace, diamonds of the finest water. She had thrown her arms about his neck and drawn him to her bed. He had made love to her, willing her to change, hoping that the scenes and tantrums would cease. But after their brief intercourse was over, she had spat at him and said he disgusted her.
Both the earl and Matilda sat silent, each wrapped in miserable thoughts until the orchestra started playing in the ballroom again, reminding both that the world went on, reality was waiting for both of them, and it was a reality in which their brief fleeting comfort in each other’s company had no place.
But as the ball drew toward its close, he had a longing to see her one more time, somewhere he could speak to her freely.
He waited his opportunity. When the duke led Mary off to the card room and his wife was busily engaged in dancing the quadrille with a young captain, he approached her and whispered, “Meet me tomorrow.”
“Where?” demanded Matilda, half afraid, half exhilarated.
“Somewhere where we will not be seen.”
Matilda thought quickly.
“There is a pool in the grounds. If you climb over the wall where you left me that day and walk through the wood you will come to it. I shall be there at ten in the morning.” Her partner came to claim her for the next dance and she moved away.
The earl smiled to himself. He would see her again. He would look forward to that moment and forget about all his other cares.
Chapter Three
Matilda slept uneasily. She had lain awake for a long time, dreading that her husband might send Rougemont to punish her.
She awoke at nine. She had told Betty she did not plan to rise until the afternoon and hoped the maid would not put in one of her sudden appearances.
She dressed hastily in a morning gown consisting of a silk slip under an overdress of white Brussels lace trimmed with blue ribbons. Matilda hesitated in front of the mirror. She felt she looked too, well, bridal. She had never worn the dress before, having been keeping it for some grand event. She put the dummy in the bed and quietly made her way through the secret entrance to the gardens outside. A pale-blue sky stretched overhead. Mist was winding round the boles of the trees. It promised to be a hot day.
“I should not be doing this,” said a voice over and over again in her head.
She reached the pool and sat down on a flat rock in the sun and looked at the tranquil dark water. She had a premonition of disaster, and yet what could happen to her? Her husband was no doubt sleeping in the arms of Mary and would not rise until late. He had said nothing to her after the ball. But she knew he enjoyed cat-and-mouse games and liked to punish her when she was least expecting it.
A slight breeze ruffled the delicate green leaves above her head. She grew even more nervous. Time was passing and yet there was no sign of him. What could be keeping him? Or had he realized the folly of it all and decided not to come? Why had she accepted the fact that his marriage was over so easily? And why did she automatically assume that the breakdown in that marriage was his wife’s fault?
The Earl of Torridon rode hard toward the duke’s estate. He had been delayed, and delayed for a reason he could not have expected. Before retiring for the night, his wife had visited his room. He had eyed her narrowly, expecting a scene. But she had sat down quietly and had said, “Before you decide to leave me forever, there is something you should know.”
“And what is that?” he had asked cynically.
Her voice, unusually low and even, answered him. “I am with child.”
“How convenient,” he said dryly. “And why did you not tell me of this before?”
“I wanted the right moment,” she said wearily, putting her hand to her brow. “You must un
derstand, my condition upsets my nerves and I become tetchy and unreasonable. I visited the physician in Hadsborough yesterday and he confirmed my suspicions.”
Still he would not believe her. Countesses did not visit physicians in small market towns. The physician called on them and attended to them in the comfort of their homes or wherever they happened to be staying. It could not be possible. And yet he had lain with her the night he had given her the diamonds.
“I know I am a wearisome burden to you, Torridon,” she said, still in that quiet tone of voice, a tone he had never heard her use before, “but I could hardly believe the news myself. I was going to tell you when we were quiet together, sometime after the ball.”
“What is the name of this doctor?” he demanded harshly.
“Dr. Ferguson.”
“You must realize, madam, in view of your scenes and tantrums of this night, I find it hard to believe you.”
“Ask the doctor if you wish,” she said sadly. “He is a good man and will not lie to you.”
She rose to her feet, steadying herself against a chair back. “I shall retire now, Torridon,” she said.
He instinctively moved forward to help her from the room, and she leaned against him and smiled up into his worried face. “So we will stay together?” she asked.
“If what you say is true,” he said in a neutral voice, “then we will stay together.”
She kissed him gently on the cheek and moved softly away into her room.
He did not sleep. He went out early, barely noticing the glory of the morning, and rode hard to Hadsborough. After finding the doctor’s house, he roused the physician, apologizing for the unexpected call.
The doctor led him into a small parlor. He was an old Scotchman, a venerable-looking gentleman with a soft, lilting voice.
“I am Torridon,” said the earl. “I believe my wife visited you yesterday.”
“I had the honor of being consulted by her ladyship, yes.”
“And is she with child?”
“I should say there is no doubt about it,” the doctor said calmly.
“But how can you tell? And for how long?”
“I would estimate about three months.”
Three months ago! That was that night, the last night he had lain with her.
Still, he persevered, unwilling to believe it. “My good man, surely no physician can tell a woman whether she is three months’ pregnant or not.”
“My lady told me she had not had her monthly bleeding, if you take my meaning, my lord. Also, she has been sick in the mornings, in fact, was sick when she visited me yesterday morning. I have treated many, many ladies in my time. I should say there is no doubt.”
And so now he was riding to keep his appointment with the duchess. He had always longed for a child, and yet he felt exactly as if a trapdoor had come down on his head, locking him in a dark dungeon.
He dismounted at the estate wall where she had climbed over, tethered his horse to a tree, nimbly scaled the wall, and began to hurry through the trees.
She was sitting on a flat rock by the water, the lace of her dress spread out about her. The sunlight was shining on her silver-fair hair. She looked delicate, beautiful, ethereal—and out of reach.
He walked forward and sat down beside her and stared at the water.
“So you are come,” said Matilda, breaking the silence and looking uneasily at his tense face.
“Yes, I promised to see you. Did your husband punish you?”
“Not yet,” said Matilda. “But he likes to wait and pounce. Why are you so unhappy, Torridon?”
She put a small hand on top of his and looked up into his face.
How blue her eyes were, he thought, and how soft her mouth. He put both hands on her shoulders and then roughly jerked her into his arms and kissed her long and deep. There was an urgency and desperation in that kiss, and Matilda answered with rising passion, feeling his lips against her own, his body against hers, the warmth of the sun on her back, feeling his passion mount to meet her own until they were clutched together like a drowning couple.
When he finally raised his head, she said with a half sob, “We must make plans. We must go away together. Far away. To Naples. Would you like Naples? I have never seen it. We would be together. No one would be able to come between us. No one—”
He put a hand over her lips and looked at her with a world of sadness in his green eyes.
“I cannot leave,” he said. “My wife is with child. She told me last night and the physician confirmed it this morning.”
Matilda jerked herself out of his arms and rose to her feet.
“You—you—you,” she stammered. Then she turned and ran away from him through the trees, her small feet making no sound on the grass.
He watched her go until the last flicker of her white gown disappeared among the trees. Why had he kissed her? Because, he told himself wearily, she represented everything he had ever longed for. He had been kissing good-bye, to not only her, but to a life of love and freedom.
Matilda crept into her bedchamber, a great tiredness making her stumble. Men! They were all the same. In that one glorious moment, she had believed he loved her, but he had decided she was easy game, that was all. The day ahead had to be faced. Her husband and Mary Hendry and the guests who had stayed on had to be entertained.
She looked at the clock. Eleven in the morning and yet she felt she had spent a lifetime in the woods, a lifetime of rejection and pain.
Too depressed to think any longer, she fell asleep, facedown on the bed, and did not wake up till Betty entered to rouse her and tell her the duke was demanding her presence. She blinked and looked at the clock. Four. He would be expecting her in the drawing room before dinner.
She stood miserably while Betty took out an evening gown and then brought forward her jewel box to select items to match the gown.
I feel like a doll, thought Matilda, being taken out of its box and put in another robe before being carried down to be shown off to the company.
She entered the drawing room half an hour later. The duke was bent over Mary who was sitting in a chair, smiling up at him. He did not even turn his head. There were various couples standing or sitting or promenading about the long room. She stood and talked to a Mr. and Mrs. Kirwan. She remembered they lived locally, near Hadsborough, and had once called but had received such a chilly reception from the duke that they had not called again. They were a plain, respectable couple who talked to Matilda in hushed and sympathetic tones as if someone had died, their eyes constantly sliding to where the duke was paying court to his mistress.
Behind the couple, in a corner, stood Rougemont, ever watchful. Matilda saw the way he looked at Mary and shuddered. At least Rougemont had never hated her with such passion.
Dinner was announced. The air of embarrassment in the room was almost tangible. For without even looking at his wife, the duke held out his arm to Mary and led the way through to the long dining room where the table glittered with gold plate.
Matilda was seated next to Mr. Kirwan with a local squire, Sir Harry Burke, on her other side. Both men vied with each other to engage her in conversation as if to keep her mind off the scandalous behavior of her husband.
She answered each automatically, picking at her food and taking little sips of wine. Mary, Matilda noticed, was drinking lemonade. Matilda had also noticed that Rougemont had brought that jug of lemonade into the dining room and had given it to a footman to serve to Mary. So I was wrong, thought Matilda. Even Rougemont is won over.
Mary sipped at her glass of lemonade. Her eyes flirted with the duke while all the time her mind was making busy calculations. If she played her cards right, then the duke would find some way to get rid of his wife and then this could all be hers, the palace and the town house in Grosvenor Square. She looked down the long table to where Matilda sat at the other end. The duchess was wearing a pearl tiara in her fair hair and round her neck was a rope of the finest pearls. I’ll make sure s
he takes none of that jewelry with her, thought Mary. The lemonade was very pleasant to drink and had been flavored with liquorice. She drained her glass and signaled to the footman to refill it.
Mary began to enjoy a feeling of power. Here she was, Mary Hendry, risen from serving wench to marry a rich haberdasher, then to comfortably off widow and now on the brink of becoming a duchess. For had not the duke more or less said he would like to be free of his wife?
The more lemonade she drank, the more she wanted. She felt happy and elated. “I cannot wait for this night,” whispered the duke on her ear.
“Oh, go on with you,” giggled Mary, and nudged him in the ribs.
A shiver of distaste crossed the duke’s face, but Mary did not notice it.
She leaned and whispered to him, a very loud whisper, “Your duchess is looking right Friday-faced and I can’t say as how I blame her. Little nose proper put out of joint.”
She gave a happy laugh, which sounded in the duke’s ears like the cawing of a crow. He could not think what had happened to his beloved Mary’s normally dulcet tones. Her voice now held a common whine.
The covers were removed and the nuts and fruit put on the polished wood. The footmen moved deftly about with decanters of tokay, claret, port, madeira, canary, and brandy.
Mary was determined to have something “decent” to drink. She had drunk nothing but lemonade during the meal. She deserved a proper drink. She accepted a glass of brandy from a footman. Ah, that was better. She could feel the fiery liquid coiling about her stomach. She was invincible. She was the most beautiful woman in the land.
Matilda saw her husband was glaring down the table at her. He gave a little jerk of his head. She promptly rose to her feet as a signal that the ladies should leave the gentlemen to their wine.
It will soon be me, thought Mary. I will soon be the one to lead the ladies from the room.
Once in the drawing room, Matilda went straight to the piano and began to play. The others talked to each other in low voices, all ignoring Mary.
Mary’s elation fled. She began to become angry. She herself played the piano indifferently but prided herself on her singing. That music teacher she had hired to train her voice had begged her not to perform in public until she had more lessons, but all at once Mary was determined to startle the duke with her performance.
