by Mary Balogh
The neighborhood perked up with the anticipation of new entertainment at Ferndale. It was just what they all needed after the dreadful weather of the previous week, Lady Worthing confided to Mrs. Rowe when she met the latter in Granby one morning when they had both ventured outside to make some purchases and to catch up on local news.
A couple of incidents conspired to prevent the entertainment, though. Mrs. Claridge and Anne arrived to visit Mrs. Rowe and Cecily just two days after the invitations had been issued. The former brought the news that the Prossers and Amelia Norris were planning to leave within the next few days. Mr. Prosser had told the vicar that his sister-in-law was fretting over the fact that she had already missed much of the summer season at Brighton. She wished to be one of the Prince Regent's social set at the Pavilion. She had persuaded her sister and brother-in-law to accompany her.
"I am sure we shall all be better-off here without that young woman," Mrs. Claridge said, "but I shall be very sorry to see the Prossers leave."
"Yes, they are a most genteel couple," Mrs. Rowe agreed.
"Oh, will Mr. Mainwaring cancel the evening of charades?" Cecily wailed. "How provoking that would be."
"I do not see why he would, my love," her mother comforted. "He could hardly withdraw invitations once they are given."
"I wonder why Miss Norris came here in the first place if she so wishes to be in Brighton," Mrs. Claridge said.
"We did hear that she was to be betrothed to the Marquess of Hetherington," Mrs. Rowe replied. "Perhaps they had a falling out."
"I am glad of it," Anne said impulsively. "He is far too handsome and amiable for her, do you not agree, Cecily?"
Elizabeth had been sewing quietly in the window seat. She had not participated at all in this conversation, had not divulged the contents of the argument she had overheard at the ball. She did speak now, though.
"Perhaps we should change the topic," she advised calmly. "The subjects of conversation are presently riding up to the house."
She did not feel as calm as she soundedv In her one glance through the window she had seen that the whole Ferndale party had come. And her heart turned over at sight of Hetherington. It should get easier as time went on to face him calmly, she reasoned as she resumed her sewing. Instead, it was getting worse.
She kept to her seat during the bustle of the new arrivals. Mr. Rowe had met them outside and brought them into the drawing room.
"It seems that we are to lose some of our neighborhood guests," he announced. "Mr. and Mrs. Prosser and Miss Norris are leaving us and have come to say good-bye."
"And very sorry I am to hear it," his wife said, nodding graciously at the three persons indicated. "Do you leave soon?"
"The day after tomorrow," Mrs. Prosser replied, and proceeded to seat herself close to Mrs. Rowe.
Elizabeth had looked up to find Mr. Mainwaring smiling warmly at her. She returned the smile and lowered her head to her work again.
"Miss Rossiter," Mr. Rowe said, walking across to her and putting his hand into a pocket, "I picked up this letter of yours with my bundle this morning and have been meaning to find you out with it ever since." He handed her a letter.
Elizabeth looked at the direction and smiled. "It is from my brother," she said, smiling up at him. "Will you excuse me, sir, while I walk into the garden to read it?"
He nodded his acquiescence and Elizabeth gathered together her work and left the room. She took her sewing and her workbox to her room and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before going out into the rose arbor with her letter. Even when she was there, she did not immediately break the seal and read it. She savored the moment and drank in the beauty of the scene around her. She felt that she could breathe again now that she no longer shared a roof with Hetherington. She planned to stay exactly where she was until the visitors left, though she felt she owed the courtesy of a farewell to the Prossers.
She finally broke the seal of her letter and opened it on her knee.
A few minutes later, the people gathered in the drawing room were startled by the appearance of a distraught and wild-eyed young woman who flung back the double doors as if she were making a grand entrance on a stage.
"Goodness me, Miss Rossiter, what has happened?" Mrs. Rowe cried, leaping to her feet.
"Pardon me, ma'am," Elizabeth replied, not even having the presence of mind to call her employer out where she could speak to her in private. "I must go."
"Go? Go where, child?" Mrs. Rowe asked.
"Home," said Elizabeth. "My nephew is very sick. He may be d-dying. Please, I must go at once."
Suddenly Mr. Mainwaring was guiding her to the nearest chair and Mr. Rowe was pressing a glass of something into her cold hand.
"Calm yourself," the latter gentleman said evenly. "Tell us what was in your letter, Miss Rossiter, if you will."
"The child toddled off a few days ago in the rain," she said, staring only at Mr. Rowe. "They all searched but could not find him for all of one night. When they did come upon him, he was already in a high fever. And when my brother wrote me several hours later, he was even worse and like to d-die, the physician said. Ma'am"-she turned in frenzy to Mrs. Rowe-"the mail coach leaves town in a little less than two hours time. I must be on it. It is faster than the stage. And my brother and my sister-in-law will need me. Louise is in delicate health again."
"Yes, yes, my dear," Mrs. Rowe agreed, "you must go. But not on the mail. Mr. Rowe will order out the carriage for you. It will be slower, but a great deal more comfortable and suited to your station."
"No, ma'am," she said, agitated. "I would not inconvenience you. And indeed speed is essential."
Mr. Mainwaring bent over her. "I shall take you, Elizabeth," he said, "in my curricle. It is not comfortable tor a long journey, but it is as fast as any vehicle."
"It would not answer, William," said Mrs. Prosser. "A curricle will accommodate only two persons. And you could not take Miss Rossiter without a chaperone. It really would not do at all. Even with a curricle you would need to spend a night on the road. Your brother lives in Norfolk, does he not, my dear?"
Elizabeth looked up in an agony of frustration, about to say that she did not care a fig for chaperones or the proprieties, provided only that she reach John as soon as was humanly possible. She met the eyes of Hetherington, who was standing across the room, his face white and drawn.
"I shall drive Elizabeth home," he said distinctly now.
Everyone turned in his direction.
"Nonsense, Robert," Amelia Norris said crossly. "None of this is your concern."
"There would still be the need of a chaperone, Robert," Mrs. Prosser said more practically.
"Not with me," he said, his eyes fixed on Elizabeth's. "A woman does not need a chaperone when she travels with her own husband."
The silent attention that was suddenly focused entirely on his person was worthy of any melodrama.
"The lady is my wife," he said quietly, "and has been for six years."
Pandemonium broke loose. Everyone spoke at once. But the central figures were alone in the room. Elizabeth found that she could scarcely breathe. Even the anxiety over John and Jeremy faded for a moment.
"Was," she said. "Was, Robert. I have been youi divorced wife for almost as long."
"Have you?" he said… "That is certainly news to me."
"Beth, this cannot be so, can it?" Cecily was asking, bright spots of color in her cheeks.
"Is this true, Elizabeth?" Mr. Mainwaring was asking.
"Robert, what are you talking about?" Amelia Norris was asking shrilly.
"Well, Cinderella!" Mr. Rowe commented.
"Miss Ross-my wife wishes to leave with all speed," Hetherington said firmly, taking command of the situation and striding across the room toward her. "Go and pack a bag, ma'am. I shall ride to Ferndale and do likewise. I shall be back here with a curricle within the hour. You will get to your brother by noon tomorrow at the latest." He turned, without waiting for her reply, a
nd strode from the room.
There was a stunned silence in the room for a few moments.
"Well, bless my soul," said Mrs. Rowe, "bless my soul."
"Bertha," Amelia Norris said in a brittle voice that sounded close to breaking, "let us leave here at once. I have never been so insulted in my life. Hetherington and a-a governess!" She swept from the room, her back rigid, her head held high, and did not pause to see if her sister was following.
Mrs. Prosser did follow, but she paused beside Elizabeth's chair. "You certainly do not need our presence here to complicate matters, ma'am," she said pleasantly to Mrs. Rowe. She put a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "I do hope that you will find all well when you reach home, my dear," she said.
Mr. Prosser bowed to the company and left the room with his wife.
"Come, Anne," Mrs. Claridge said, rising to her feet with obvious reluctance. It was not every day that there was such drama in the neighborhood. "It is time we took our leave, too."
After they had left, Mrs. Rowe turned to Elizabeth.
"Well, bless my soul," she said, "I do not know what to say."
"Then say nothing, my love," her husband suggested. "You can see that Miss Rossiter is in shock. I suggest that you and Cecily take her upstairs and help her pack a bag. Hetherington will be here soon."
"Yes, yes, of course we must," his wife agreed. "But, really, Mr. Rowe, we must call her the Marchioness of Hetherington now. Dear me, and I never even suspected."
"Miss Rossiter has chosen her name," Mr. Rowe answered firmly. "I see no reason why we should call her differently until she asks us to do so."
Elizabeth, on whom her outer surroundings were beginning to penetrate again, shot him a grateful glance and looked up to Mr. Mainwaring, who was standing ashen-faced beside her chair.
"Will you take me, sir?" she asked. "I do not wish to go with him."
He looked deeply into her eyes, and looking back, she could see pain there. "I cannot, ma'am," he said in a strained voice. "I would not interfere between a man and his wife."
She rose and left the room numbly. Mrs. Rowe and Cecily followed her upstairs, though she packed her own bag, mechanically and silently.
"The marquess is here," Cecily said finally. She had been standing looking out the window for several minutes. She turned away from it, ran impulsively to Elizabeth, and threw her arms around her. "I do not know what happened, Beth," she cried, "but I do know it must have been something dreadful. You are both such dear people, and I know something quite extraordinary must have driven you apart. But I love you, Beth."
"Well, I declare," Mrs. Rowe added, her nose turning pink as the tears started to her eyes, "I am sure this house is much too humble a one for you, my lady, but you are always welcome here."
Elizabeth hugged them both quickly. "I shall write as soon as I have the chance," she said. "I know I owe you some explanation."
Downstairs, the three men stood in the hallway. Hetherington, dressed in a caped greatcoat and holding his beaver hat in one hand, stretched out the other for Elizabeth's bag.
"We should be on our way without further delay," he said briskly.
Mr. Rowe grasped Elizabeth by the shoulders. "Go, Cinderella," he said quietly, "and remember that you have both a home and employment here to come back to." He bent and kissed her on the cheek.
She would not trust her voice but smiled fleetingly and hurried after the striding figure of Hetherington. Mr. Mainwanng came after her and helped her up to the high seat of the curricle while Hetherington was strapping her bag at the back.
"I may not interfere," he said before lifting her up, "but I am your friend, Elizabeth. Always. You may depend on me."
She was swung up into her seat, Hetherington climbed up beside her and took the ribbons from the waiting groom, and they were on their way.
---
Elizabeth felt all the strangeness and awkwardness of the situation as soon as she turned back from waving to the little group outside the house. The man beside her was silent, concentrating on guiding the horses through the stone gateposts at the end of the driveway and out into the road.
"Why did you do it, Robert?" she asked.
"Do what, ma'am?"
"Why did you tell them about the connection between us? There was a roomful of people to hear. This is the place I had chosen for my new life. Now I do not know if I shall ever be able to return here."
"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "I believed that your concern for your nephew and your need to go to your brother were your first consideration. Under the circumstances, I put aside the desire both you and I might have to disown our relationship."
She could feel his anger and it subdued her own. "I am sorry," she said. "Of course, it must have been very painful for you, too, confessing to such a thing in the presence of your friends."
Silence descended on them once more.
"What did you mean," she asked, "when you said that it was news to you?"
"About your being my divorced wife?"
"Yes," she said. "Were you merely trying to make things easier for me, letting those people believe that there is nothing improper in our being together?"
He looked across at her fleetingly. "What made you believe that we are divorced?" he asked.
"But we are," she insisted. "You informed Papa and he broke the news to me. Why do you deny it?"
"Your father was lying to you, if indeed he did tell you that," Hetherington said cynically. "He was probably ashamed of you and wished to ensure that you did not keep coming back to me for more."
"For more?" she asked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come, Elizabeth," he said impatiently, "let us not reopen that sordid episode in our lives. I do not wish to talk about it. In fact, my dear, I do not particularly wish to talk to you at all. I am taking you to your brother because you need help and because I still owe you the protection of a husband. I do not pretend that there is any sentiment involved. This is no social occasion."
Elizabeth did not feel the set-down because she had heard it with only part of her mind. "Are you telling me that we are still married?" she asked incredulously.
"As tight as parson's mousetrap," he answered. "You are a marchioness, my lady. Are you not highly gratified?"
This time she heard the sneer in his voice. She stiffened, then drew her cloak more tightly around her against the chill of the cloudy summer afternoon and sank lower in the seat. If he wished for silence, she was quite willing to give it to him. And even if he did not want silence, he probably needed it. The curricle was moving along the narrow country road at a spanking pace. She felt safe; even as a very young man, Robert Denning had been a notable whip. She could see now that his ability had not left him. He took hills and corners with a skill that suggested perfect concentration, perfect confidence. And speed was everything. If only she could reach home in time. She dreaded to face the question: in time for what? When the thought that Jeremy might already be dead threatened to intrude, she thrust it resolutely to one side. He could not be dead. By the time she arrived, he would probably be toddling around again and everyone would wonder why she had come. Anyway, brooding would accomplish nothing. She turned her head to one side and tried to concentrate on the scenery.
They were still married. The thought would not dislodge itself from her mind. She was still legally his wife. Why had Papa lied about that? Could there possibly have been a misunderstanding? But no. He had said there was a letter from Hetherington and legal papers of divorcement from his solicitor. He had refused to show her the papers, had not wanted to upset her further, he had said. Why had he done it? The answer seemed obvious enough. He had been unusually concerned about her as she had grieved almost to the point of madness over her broken marriage. He had probably hoped that by telling her Hetherington had divorced her he would force her to face reality more quickly. And he had been right, probably. It was after that news that she had finally taken a hold of herself and started to put her life back to
gether again. Poor Papa. He had done it for the best.
But her marriage still existed. It was as legal and as real as it had been on that day in Devon. It was the day after their arrival from London. They had both been taut with anxiety, fearful that someone would come galloping down from London and prevent the marriage. Lady Bothwell had not raised any objection when they had asked if the wedding could take place in the morning. The elderly vicar from the nearby village had come out to the small stone chapel that was part of the estate, but that was hardly ever used any longer. And in the presence of Robert's grandmother and several of the servants from the house, they had been married. She had worn a garland of fresh flowers in her hair, lovingly fashioned by the countess's ancient gardener, and had carried a small matching posy.
Elizabeth's eyes misted now as she looked back to that day. It was such a cliche to say that it had been the happiest day of her life. But that was the simple truth. There had been a fairy-tale quality about the day. It had not seemed as real as others. She remembered Robert as he had looked when the vicar had pronounced them married. The sun itself had seemed to be behind his smile as he had turned to her and kissed her lightly on the lips. It had seemed that they had conquered fate, that they were now safe forever.
They had walked back to the house and eaten a wedding breakfast with only Lady Bothwell and the old vicar for company, but they had not felt the absence of larger celebrations. They had wanted only each other. Their world had been complete.
When the meal was over and the vicar had taken his leave, Lady Bothwell had announced that she was going to visit a few friends for several days.
"They have been inviting me for at least a quarter of a century, so it is time I went," she had said. "And newlyweds need to be alone for a while. Mrs. Cummings and the other servants will take care of all your needs."
By the middle of the afternoon they had been alone. And they had had two days together, forty-eight hours into which to cram a lifetime of happiness. No longer.
It was almost beyond belief that the Robert of those two days was the same person as the man who sat silently beside her now, the man who had told her only a little while ago that he had no wish to talk to her at all. He had talked and talked in those two days, and laughed and joked and teased. They had walked a great deal along the cliffs that formed one boundary of the estate and along the wide, sandy beach that could be reached after a difficult climb down a winding cliff path. They had cared nothing for the salt wind that had blown their hair into tangles and whipped color into their cheeks. They had not worried about the sand that filled their shoes and found its way into the rest of their clothing. They had been intent only on each other, their fingers entwined or their arms encircling each other's waists, since there were no other eyes to see and to censure them.
