The Chadwick Ring
Page 20
Ginevra bit her lip and shook her head. “No, monsieur,” she said gently, “the fault is not with you personally, nor with any deed of yours. I will admit, however, that she is attentive to the difference in your ... stations.”
“Station?” Perrin repeated ironically. “I have no station. My title disappeared when the rabble shouting ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité! burned my home and slaughtered my family. There is no difference now between a physician and a lady’s maid.”
“Schoolteacher now,” Ginevra corrected, and the doctor looked puzzled. While she explained the plans Emma had outlined to her, Susan returned with refreshments, and they drank their tea in pensive silence. The doctor rubbed the aching muscles of his crippled leg, an action that Ginevra was beginning to recognize as a sign of tension. He said, “I approve very much of what Emma wants to do. We would have made a very good team, she and I, she attending to the minds of the poor, I to their bodies.”
Ginevra ventured awkwardly, “Forgive me for prying, but truly I don’t understand how you can feel such mercy toward the people who robbed you of so much.”
He sighed. “I have tried to put bitterness behind me. Besides, the people who sheltered and cared for me in those days were no less indigent than the ones in the mob is. The hungry have no politics.”
“Monsieur,” Ginevra asked suddenly, “if Richard takes me back to the country for my confinement, will you come with me?”
“Of course, madame. You know I am always at your service.”
“I thought...” She paused, framing her request. She id, continued more firmly, “I thought you might use the time to look around the countryside, with an eye to remaining there permanently. You know we are in desperate need of on a new physician at Queenshaven, and you said you prefer rural life. I am sure Richard would be delighted to provide you with a house, in exchange for attending the tenants, and you would be available to ... anyone else who might need you...”
“Such as a certain schoolmistress?” Perrin asked dryly.
Ginevra colored. “It was but a thought.”
He nodded. “And a thought I like very much. I should be delighted to do as you request.”
Afraid she had said too much, Ginevra added hastily, “Of course, there is no guarantee that Emma would—”
“Je vous ecoute, madame,” he agreed sagely. “There is not a guarantee. But in any case it would not be a hardship for me to leave London. Au contraire!” He smiled warmly. “As to the other, I will just have to be patient, won’t I?”
Ginevra sat curled up in a massive armchair in the library, leafing through a volume of Byron’s poetry without absorbing any of it. The room was silent except for the faint whisper of the gaslight and the pounding of her heart. She had dressed and come downstairs once more to await her husband’s return, and now every footfall in the hallway made her leap up expectantly, only to subside with disappointment when the steps passed by without pausing. At last she heard the front door open, and the butler greeted someone in a low monotone. Hard booted heels strode across the marble entryway and turned down the long corridor, approaching the library. She glanced up eagerly, her golden eyes shining with anticipation at the tall man who loomed in the doorway.
It was Bysshe.
Her hopes blasted yet again, Ginevra forced her mouth into a smile and said politely, “Hello, Bysshe, how are you? I haven’t seen you all day.”
His young face was oddly pale and intent as he stared at her silently for a long moment. “Ginnie,” he gulped hoarsely. After another pause he stammered uncertainly, “The ... the butler told me that ... that Dr. Perrin was here to see you. You aren’t sick, are you?”
Ginevra’s smile was genuine now, sweetened with the secret she was determined to relate first to her husband. “No, I am excellent well, thank you. I merely needed to consult with him about something.”
Bysshe glanced around, brown eyes furtive. “He is not here, is he?” he asked, and Ginevra knew at once that he meant the marquess. He never referred to his father by name, she noticed curiously.
She said, “No, Richard is out for the evening.” She gestured to a chair. “Won’t you please sit down? You make me quite apprehensive, hovering like that.”
He looked at her strangely. “You mustn’t be afraid of me, Ginnie. You know I’d never hurt you.”
Her brows lifted. “I never suggested that you would. Whatever can be the matter with you, to think such a thing?”
He brushed one hand across his eyes. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Perhaps ... perhaps it is just the heat.”
She watched him with concern. Indeed the boy did not look well; she had the impression that he had been living on his nerves for weeks. She rose and crossed the room to him. “You’re sure your ear is not troubling you again?” She touched his forehead experimentally, to check for fever. His skin felt clammy.
He caught her fingers in his own and smiled weakly. “Little mother,” he mused fondly, “how you’ve always taken care of me...” He dropped her hand and brushed his lank hair from his eyes. “I could do with a bit of fresh air,” he said brightly, “and I expect you could too. Will you come for a ride with me?”
“A ride?” Ginevra hesitated, remembering Susan’s admonition earlier. “It’s rather late to be taking out the horses, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “You still think in terms of country hours. Here the evening is just beginning. Besides, I did not mean for us to go on horseback. I have a curricle we could—”
“But we don’t have a curricle,” Ginevra persisted.
He said impatiently, “I borrowed it from ... from someone. I thought I would see how I like driving a light vehicle, in case I have a mind to purchase one later.” When she still looked uncertain, his tone softened, became cajoling. “Please, Ginnie, it would do you good to get out of the house, and I promise I shan’t put us in a ditch.”
“I should hope not,” Ginevra declared with a smile, relenting. It had been so long since Bysshe had spoken to her in anything approaching a normal manner that she hated to spoil this new-sprung amity by rejecting his overture. Besides, the alternative was to spend what might prove to be several hours alone, becoming increasingly tense and agitated as she awaited her husband’s return. “Very well,” she agreed, “let me fetch a wrap.”
Susan’s disapproval was evident as she helped Ginevra into her lightweight pelisse. “You must be extra careful now, my lady,” she cautioned. “ ’Twould be a sorry thing indeed if aught were to happen now that—”
“Susan,” Ginevra laughed, “we’re not going racing, for heaven’s sake! Lord Bysshe is simply taking me out for a brief drive, a chance to enjoy the cool of the evening. I expect we’ll be back in less than an hour.”
“Whatever you say, my lady,” Susan grumbled, and Ginevra was still chuckling at her tacit rebuke when Bysshe handed her into the jaunty yellow-wheeled curricle pulled by a pair of high-spirited matched blacks.
“This is quite an elegant equipage,” Ginevra observed as Bysshe settled beside her and took up the ribbons. “Who did you say lent it to you?”
“A ... friend.” Bysshe shrugged, snapping the reins. The horses responded instantly, and the carriage pulled away from the block with a jolt.
“Must be a good friend,” Ginevra said nervously as she clutched at the armrest. “Are you certain you can handle this?”
Bysshe growled, “Yes, Ginnie, I promise nothing will happen to you.”
His increasing recklessness alarmed her suddenly, the stress that seemed to radiate from him. When the curricle did not turn into Hyde Park as she had expected, but instead continued unabated westward along the Kensington Road, passing the moonlit depths of the Serpentine and leaving the city traffic behind to plunge deeper into the darkness of the rolling countryside, she cried, “Bysshe, for the love of God, where are you going?” His only answer was to urge his cattle to greater speed.
The road out of London was twisted and bumpy, and the thick, eerie shado
ws cast by the silvery moonlight reminded Ginevra of just how dark a country night could be. Only the jouncy yellow light cast by the two lanterns on the front of the curricle gave any hint of the road before them. Bysshe snapped his whip and the horses raced still faster. “Bysshe!” Ginevra cried again. She grabbed at his arm, and he swore violently and knocked her away with his elbow. The galloping horses swerved at the tug on the reins, raising the light rig on one wheel and almost oversetting it. They seemed to sense the novice hand driving them, and they began to panic. Bysshe struggled fiercely to regain control, straining on the leather ribbons with all the power of his adolescent muscles, and by the time he was able to pull the panting, lathered animals to a halt on the grassy verge alongside the road, his coat was drenched with sweat and his hands were blistered and bleeding. He turned on Ginevra, who huddled in the corner of the seat shaking and nauseous with fright, and he shrieked, “You stupid fool, you could have killed us both!”
Her body felt battered and jolted, and her heart seemed unable to accept that that mad race had ended, that the carriage was now at a standstill. She bowed her head and clutched at her thin arms, trying to fight off the dizzy sickness that threatened to overwhelm her. Whenever she tried to look up at him, fear rose like gall in her throat and choked her. At last she was able to gasp, “Have you ... taken leave of ... your senses? Why ... why are you doing this?”
One of the lanterns had blown out in their wild flight, and the murky light from the remaining lamp cast wavering shadows that distorted and aged Bysshe’s youthful features. He gazed down at her with eyes that seemed sunken and unfathomable, and he said slowly, “I have to save you, Ginnie.”
She could only gape. When she did not speak, he amplified urgently, “I have to get you away from him. I can’t let him ... defile you.”
She forced her heart to slow its pounding; she commanded her breath to smooth its ragged gait. When she felt she had the strength, with great care she eased herself upright on the seat and asked, “Bysshe Glover, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Him—the marquess,” he said. “I have to get you away from him before he ruins you.”
Ginevra’s warm eyes turned cold. “You are talking about my husband,” she said steadily.
“So what? He was my mother’s husband, and he drove her away!” The boy’s voice rose. “Ginnie, you don’t know the kind of man he is. Even since you’ve been married he’s been seen in bordellos of the lowest sort. He likes to ... to debauch women, to turn them into whores. Why, that Frenchwoman was virtuous before he seduced her!”
Ginevra snorted, “Who told you that—her?”
The sulfurous light could not disguise the bright color that painted his cheeks as he mumbled, “I ... I met her today, Ginnie. In the park. At first I could not believe that she would dare to approach me, but when she did, I found I could ... could not turn away.” His voice grew firmer, more steady, and Ginevra listened in amazement as he spoke. “Madame de Villeneuve is a very beautiful woman,” he said seriously, “and a greatly wronged one. When she spoke to me, I ... I thought at first that she was trying her wiles on me, yet it soon became clear that her sole concern was for you, Ginnie.”
“Me?” she choked, uncertain whether to laugh or scream. The woman’s audacity was incredible, surpassed only by the boy’s gullibility.
“Yes, Ginnie, you! Madame de Villeneuve told me frankly that she knows it is too late to save her, but she is much concerned that you should not suffer the same fate. She says she knows how easy it is for a young girl to be bewitched by the man’s charms, and something must be done to save you from him now, before you are irretrievably lost.”
Ginevra shook her head impatiently. “Oh, Bysshe, you idiot, can’t you see what she is doing? She has told you only what you wanted to hear. Women of her ... her profession are very good at that. But I am surprised at you. How can you believe such lies?”
His soft mouth hardened into a sneer of distaste. “I might not have believed her—had I not seen you come home last night.” Ginevra blanched. He said, “I could hear the pair of you even before he carried you up the stairs. You were giggling like some drunken bawd, your clothes were half off, and your hands were all over him, and you ... you practically reeked with the smell of him!”
Ginevra felt violated. She bit her lip and screwed her eyes shut to still her trembling. Tears spilled from beneath her silky lashes. Suddenly her patience with the boy disappeared like mist burnt away by the scorching, blinding anger that ignited in her, and she gritted, “Damn you, Bysshe Glover, damn you to hell! How dare you spy on something that was private and personal and ... and beautiful—”
“Beautiful?” he exclaimed in horror, and he grabbed her shoulders and shook her as if to convince her of his sincerity. “Oh, Ginnie, can’t you see? If you are so lost to all decency that you can think—”
She jerked her left arm free of his grasp and slapped him hard across the mouth.
The sound of that blow seemed to echo over the quiet, moon-drenched fields surrounding them. The two horses stirred uneasily in their harness. Bysshe lifted his hand to his face and touched his mouth gingerly; his fingertips came away stained with blood from where the stones on her betrothal ring had sliced his lip. His brown eyes narrowed and he took a deep, rasping breath.
Ginevra said, “Take me home, Bysshe. Take me home now.”
Slowly he shook his head. “No, Ginnie. I must get you away before it is too late before his hold on you becomes unbreakable.”
She was beginning to think she had stumbled into some nightmare, some drug-induced fantasy that stubbornly refused to dissolve in the face of reality. She pleaded desperately, “Bysshe, I beg you—you must understand. It is already too late: I love him and I carry his child.”
All color drained from his face, leaving behind in the dim jaundiced light a parchment mimicry of his features, like a death mask—the death of Bysshe’s youth. Helplessly Ginevra watched his bloodied lips gasp for air. She wondered if he would faint. Then as she gazed at him, mesmerized, suddenly the color returned, flowing under, his skin in waves of yellow, pink, red, until his face blackened with rage. All at once she became aware of the hazard of her position, her vulnerability, and she tried to retreat, moving backward across the leather seat until she was brought up sharp against the low armrest. Defenselessly she watched as Bysshe exploded, “You bitch!”—and when he raised his hand to strike her down, there was no place she could flee.
The Marquess of Chadwick felt young, younger than he had in years. He alit from the carriage with a spring in his step that had been missing since ... Sweet Jesus!—could it really have been since Maria? He dismissed the coachman and strode up the shadowed walkway toward his front door. No, he decided, he refused to believe that his life’s mood could have been dictated for almost twenty years by that travesty of a first marriage. Rather, he judged, his discontent must have settled upon him at about the same time that he started his stint as uncredentialled diplomat. Cynicism was inevitable when a man saw the future of Europe decided frequently not on battlefields but in brothels, the deaths of a thousand brave men as nothing compared to the charms of a whore with suitably exotic talents.
But all that was behind him now, he thought with relief as he reached for the massive brazen handle that gleamed in the glow of the porch light. He had at last kept the vow he had made to himself and had tendered his resignation, had resisted the blandishments of those at the ministry who urged him to stay on, and now he was going to devote his energies to the growing of crops and the welfare of his tenants. Times were hard and he had neglected them shamefully. In the brief time he and Ginevra had been married she had shown more concern for the people of Queenshaven than he had in all his years since acceding to the title.
“M’lord!”
His hand froze and he jerked his head around to peer blindly in the direction of that furtive hiss. The voice seemed to arise from the penumbral depths of the shrubbery lining the walk.
The thought of Amalie annoyed him, and he demanded irritably, “What do you want?” The girl shrank back. After a moment she stepped forward again to offer him a pale green envelope that reeked of patchouli even at a distance. His mouth thinned, and he refused to take it. She held the note closer and implored, “Oh, please, m’lord! If I didn’t deliver her note my mistress would...”
He looked down at her wide, frightened eyes, and he shook his head impatiently, sighing. “Very well. Far be it from me to bring down Amalie’s wrath on someone smaller than she is.” He accepted the envelope, grimacing at the smell, and he asked, “Is there supposed to be an answer?”
The girl said, “No, m’lord. My mistress was just on her way out of town when she gave it to me. We don’t know when she’ll be back.”
Chadwick received this news with an inscrutable expression. “That’s a relief,” he murmured, and he produced a coin and handed it to the maid. “Here, child,” he said with a commiserating smile, “you’ve done as you were bid. Now, hurry home, it’s much too late for you to be abroad.”