by M C Beaton
The lengthy dinner was at last over and the guests removed to the ballroom, where the orchestra was already playing. Emma noticed two footmen helping her husband from the room. He appeared to be very drunk. Her eyes scanned the other guests, hoping that her friends, Matilda and Annabelle, might have arrived late, but there was no sign of them. Perhaps something had happened and they had decided not to come to London for the Season. But that was so bleak a thought that she thrust it away.
She sat down on a little gilt chair in a corner of the ballroom, unfurled her fan, and fanned herself slowly and languidly, suddenly weary after the long journey.
There was an arrangement of hothouse plants in tubs between her and the ballroom floor. Her eyelids began to droop. With any luck she could sit quietly until it was time to go home. She knew her husband would sleep off the worst of his drunkenness in some anteroom and then would come and look for her. She remembered with a shudder his wrath the first time in their marriage when this had happened and she had assumed he had left and so had gone home. He had burst into her bedroom and slapped her across the face for having dared to leave without him.
Dancers were making up sets for the quadrille. The ballroom was very hot. Suddenly, as in a dream, she heard a light, pleasant voice saying, “No, I beg you, ma chère marquise, it is better we leave the sleeping beauty alone!”
She slowly raised her heavy lids and then started in confusion. The Comte Saint-Juste with the Marquise D’Osmond at his elbow was smiling down at her.
Emma rose, blushing, and dropped a low curtsy. “Pray, forgive me, Madame la Marquise,” she said. “I am fatigued having arrived only this day from the country.”
“Do not distress yourself,” said the little marquise. “Lady Wright, may I present the Comte Saint-Juste. My dear comte… the Lady Wright.”
He gave a magnificent bow, elegantly waving a lace-edged handkerchief with many flourishes.
“My husband…?” said Emma, looking nervously about her. “He must be looking for me.”
“Sir Benjamin is asleep in the library,” replied the marquise. “He sleeps well. I shall rouse him in a little while. Ah, you must excuse me. I must attend to my other guests.”
She trotted off, leaving Emma alone with the comte.
He pulled a chair forward. “You permit? It would be pleasant to sit quietly for a moment.”
Emma curtsied again and sat down, fanning herself nervously.
The comte studied her curiously. She had high cheekbones that gave her face an almost Slavic look. Her mouth was beautifully shaped and a deep pink against the whiteness of her skin. Her eyes were guarded and wary.
Emma looked back at him. He did not have that wooden look so fashionable among the members of the ton. He had a high-nosed, clever, mobile face. His eyes were very blue and fringed with thick black lashes. He was tall with a slim, athletic figure and very good legs. He could surely not lead such an indolent life as that described by Mr. Rush. He did not bear any marks of dissipation in his face or figure.
“And what is the result of your inspection?” he mocked.
Emma realized she had been staring at him and raised her fan to her face. His voice was light and pleasant but with a definite French accent.
“I hear you were educated in England, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, “and yet you have a French accent.”
“My poor parents were sure that at any moment order would be restored in France and their lands returned to them. My education was by French tutors. I did not speak English until I went to university. And such English! Ma foi! Imagine the English of a young man who had learned that language from grooms in the stables. I cursed like a trooper.”
“And do you hope to return to France at some time?”
He shrugged. “I go back from time to time. It is so depressing. There is barely a whole man in France—arms missing, legs missing, all the horrors of war. But such are not things for your pretty ears to hear. I would rather tell you that you are possessed of a rare beauty.”
“And I would rather you did not,” replied Emma tartly. “I am married.”
“And still asleep.”
“I was fatigued after today’s journey. I am a bad traveler.”
“I did not mean that. I meant that no man has awakened you yet.”
Emma regarded him steadily. “You insult me and my husband. Please leave me.”
“I apologize from the bottom of my heart. You have the right of it. We shall talk of social things. Shall I tell you the latest on-dit? Mrs. Bambury, that lady of impeccable breeding and icy manners, eloped some time back with her footman. La! The disgrace and the prophecies of doom. It appeared her husband beat her and made her life hell, but everyone sympathized with him. Is that not the English way? Mrs. Bambury, the fallen Mrs. Bambury, would end up dying of poverty in some ditch, said everyone. She fled with her footman to America. With her jewels the young footman bought land in Virginia and prospered. Last seen, the fallen Mrs. Bambury is a deliriously happy and wealthy lady. I do not think London society will ever forgive her. I do, of course, for I made a great deal of money out of her.”
“How so?” asked Emma, trying not to laugh, for there was something comical about the rapidly changing expressions on his face.
“When they were all predicting the ruination of Mrs. Bambury, I thought about that strong lady and her young and powerful footman and I bet a great number of gentlemen that the odd liaison would prosper. I am proved to be right. I collect my bets. You remind me of Mrs. Bambury.”
“You find my manners icy?”
“On the contrary, Lady Wright, you are neither icy nor haughty, but like Mrs. Bambury, I feel you have a great strength of character and great courage.”
“Believe me, Monsieur le Comte, I am hardly likely to form a tendre for one of my footmen. I find you conversation shocking.”
“You have the right of it,” he said, getting to his feet. Emma felt a pang of disappointment. He was going to leave her. So many men found her dull. But how could she sparkle and be amusing when the thought of her violent and brutish husband lay always across her mind like a dark thunder-cloud?
“So we shall dance,” he said, holding out his hand.
There was a gaiety, an irresponsibility about him that was very infectious. Emma suddenly smiled and the comte caught his breath. That smile brought her to life. Her large eyes sparkled and her stolen youth came back to her.
The dance was a waltz. Emma felt his hand at her waist and looked up into those laughing, mocking blue eyes and forgot about Sir Benjamin and lived only for that dance. He smelled of clean linen and soap. He danced beautifully. The ball-room swam around them, candles and flowers and jewels melting into a blur. The Marquise D’Osmond stopped dancing and drew her partner aside so that they could watch the comte and Emma. Others followed suit.
Sir Benjamin awoke in the library and lay in an armchair, staring at the ceiling and wondering for a moment where he was. Then memory came flooding back. His head ached and his mouth felt dry. He lurched to his feet. Better get his wife and go home.
He went into the ballroom. Everyone was grouped around the dance floor, watching some couple dancing. His bleary eyes focused on the couple, and he let out a gasp of pure rage.
There was his Emma, radiant and beautiful and alive, making an exhibition of herself in the arms of some mountebank. He wanted to rush onto the floor and drag her away but was mindful, even in his rage, of his position as a member of His Majesty’s government. The Prince Regent appeared to have left, but Sir Benjamin knew he could not make a scene in front of the world’s ambassadors.
At last, after what seemed like an age, that dreadful, haunting waltz music died away. The audience applauded. He made his way to Emma’s side and took her arm above the elbow in a cruel grip.
“Time we left, m’dear,” he said in a voice thick with suppressed rage.
And all the lights went out, thought the comte, watching the extinguished look on Emma’s face, watching how
her whole body, so pliant in the waltz, stiffened. He bowed as Sir Benjamin, looking neither to the right nor the left, marched his wife from the floor like a jailor, convinced he was acting discreetly, and yet creating almost as much attention as if he had publicly slapped her.
In the carriage on the way home, the floodgates of Sir Benjamin’s wrath burst. He called Emma a slut. He said she would be locked in her room that night and whipped before all the servants in the hall in the morning. And worse than any of this to Emma, he told her her friends Annabelle and Matilda were a bad influence and he forbade her to see them again.
In vain did Emma cry out in their defense, saying they had only just arrived in London and she had, therefore, had no opportunity of seeing her friends. He struck her across the mouth to silence her, and as she raised a handkerchief to staunch the blood from her cut and bruised lips, he said he would call on that man-milliner with whom she had been dancing in the morning and command that fribble to keep away from his wife. He demanded to know his name, but Emma said she had not caught his name when the Marquise D’Osmond had introduced them. Sir Benjamin was forced to believe the lie, for he did not dream for a moment that his wife would have enough courage to do other than tell him the truth.
When they reached the house, once more holding Emma tightly by the arm Sir Benjamin summoned all the servants. In ringing tones he told Tamworthy, the butler, that Lady Wright was to be locked in her bedchamber and publicly whipped in the morning. He himself was going to his study and was not to be disturbed. He wanted all the servants in their quarters for the rest of the night.
Emma pulled away from him. “You monster!” she shouted. “I wish you were dead! I could kill you!”
“By the time I have finished with you, madam,” he grated, “you will be praying for your own death.” He signaled to Austin, the lady’s maid. “Take your mistress upstairs,” he commanded. “Prepare her for bed, lock the door, and give the key to Tamworthy.”
Head held high, Emma walked up the stairs with her maid hurrying after her. She sat like stone while the silent maid brushed her hair and then helped her to undress and prepared her for bed.
“That will be all, Austin,” said Emma. “You may leave me.”
“My lady,” said Austin, keeping her eyes lowered, “if you would allow me to fetch some salve for your mouth from the stillroom.”
“No, Austin,” said Emma wearily. “It does not matter. Nothing matters now.”
Austin curtsied and went out and shut the door. A moment later Emma heard the key turn in the lock.
She sat up against the pillows, her eyes hard and dry. No, this time she would not cry. She was past tears. She was married to a monster, and her own parents would not step in to save her.
She knew Sir Benjamin would carry out his threat in the morning. He was an insanely jealous man. He was not only jealous of her affections, but jealous of every other Member of Parliament who was capable of commanding more attention than himself—and there were many. There must be some way out. Any sort of life was better than the one into which she was locked and fettered by the bonds of matrimony.
She would defy him. When he left for the House, she would escape and go to see Matilda and Annabelle and beg their help. They must find some way to get her out of the country.
She thought of the comte’s story of Mrs. Bambury. There was a woman who had managed to escape the laws of society. She wished with all her heart and soul that her husband would die.
She knew he kept a loaded pistol in the drawer of the desk in his study. He was always complaining about Irish terrorists or the number of burglars in London. The house was locked and bolted and shuttered at night like a prison. Wires and clusters of alarm bells were placed on the downstairs windows, where any forced entry would set them jangling through the night. Emma thought longingly that if she could escape from her room, she might be able to go down to the study, take out that pistol, and shoot her husband through the heart. It was only a fantasy. But a very vivid one.
So vivid was it that when the sound of a pistol shot rang through the house, she turned pale, thinking for one awful moment that she had run mad and turned fantasy into reality. She got out of bed and tried the door of her bedroom, but it was firmly locked. She leaned her head against the panels of the door and listened hard. But there was no commotion, no sound of running feet.
And then she gave a little sigh. Of course, it had happened before. Insanely drunk on two occasions, Sir Benjamin had imagined burglars in the house and had fired his pistol. He must have started drinking again in his study.
Emma climbed back into bed. Despite her distress and fear, her eyes began to close and soon she was fast asleep.
Chapter Two
Emma was awakened the following morning by a piercing scream echoing through the house. She lay still for a moment and then leapt from the bed and ran to the door and hammered on it. Light footsteps came running up the stairs and along the corridor. She heard the key click in the lock and then the door opened.
Austin stood there, her eyes dilated with fright. “It’s Sir Benjamin, my lady,” she cried. “He’s dead!”
Guilt and shock would soon follow, but all in that moment Emma felt weak with relief. So he had finally drunk himself to death.
“Where is he, Austin?” she asked. “Are you sure? Have you sent for the physician?”
“Oh, he’s dead as dead. Tamworthy’s sent for the magistrate and the constable.”
“Does one need a parish constable to record a natural death?”
“He was shot. Shot through the heart.”
Emma raised her hands to her face. “It’s not possible,” she whispered.
“My lady,” said Austin, “pray sit down. I had no right to burst out with the news like that. Oh, my poor lady.”
“No, no, Austin, you must help me dress. I must do what I can. I heard a pistol shot during the night, but I assumed Sir Benjamin had imagined there to be burglars in the house again.”
“That’s what Tamworthy said, my lady.” Austin searched the wardrobe and brought out a somber black gown which Emma had worn six months before to attend the funeral of one of Sir Benjamin’s relatives. “He heard the shot, but you know Sir Benjamin said he wasn’t to be disturbed… but Tamworthy became worried when Mary took up the master’s tea this morning and found his bed not slept in. Oh, my lady, Tamworthy and the footmen had to break down the door of the study.”
“Do you mean he had locked himself in his study?”
“Yes, my lady. Tamworthy says as how nobody could have got in and so he must have shot himself, my lady.”
Emma shook her head in a dazed way. “Oh, no, Austin, he would never do that.”
“My lady, you are white and trembling. Please do not go downstairs. Please let me put you to bed.”
“No, I must find out what has happened.”
When she was dressed, Emma walked down the stairs to the main hall, where a small group of men were standing. There was a magistrate, a constable, a Bow Street runner, and a doctor.
The magistrate walked forward to meet her. “Lady Wright,” he said, and his eyes were hard and calculating. “It is my sad duty to accuse you of the murder of your husband, Sir Benjamin Wright.”
Emma felt as if someone had punched her over the heart. She swayed for a moment and looked as if she would faint, but thrust Austin aside, who had rushed to her to support her.
“Why on earth do you say such a monstrous thing?” demanded Emma.
The magistrate signaled to the constable who walked across the hall and held open the door to the library which was across the hall from the study. “In here, Lady Wright,” said the magistrate. “I am Sir Henry Biggs, magistrate at Bow Street.”
Emma walked in and sat down in a high carved chair in the middle of the room.
“Now,” said the magistrate, Sir Henry. “The facts are these. Your husband was found shot through the heart. The murder was done with his own pistol. The pistol was lying on the
floor near the door beside a fan which one of the maidservants has identified as your own. The door was locked, but I assume you have a key to the study.”
Emma shook her head. “He would not allow either myself or any of the servants to have a key. I could not have shot him, Sir Henry, for I was locked in my bedchamber all night.”
“Get that butler here,” snapped the magistrate.
Tamworthy came in. He was the quintessential English butler, fat, with a large, white, heavy face and small, shrewd eyes. “Tamworthy is devoted to me,” Sir Benjamin had often bragged.
“See here, Tamworthy,” said Sir Henry. “Lady Wright says she was locked in her bedchamber last night and neither she nor any of you were allowed a key to Sir Benjamin’s study.”
Tamworthy’s bright little eyes in his large white face rested briefly on Emma. Emma shrank a little in her chair. She remembered threatening to kill Sir Benjamin only the night before.
The butler cleared his throat and said pompously, “That is right, Sir Henry. I had instructions to see that my lady was locked in her room. Sir Benjamin took the decanter of brandy into the study and locked the door behind him. He had given instructions he was not to be disturbed. I heard a shot during the night, but Sir Benjamin had an abnormal fear of burglars and when he was in his cups, he would often fire his pistol.”
“This is most odd,” said the magistrate testily. “Why was Lady Wright to be locked in her room?”
“Sir Benjamin said he was going to whip my lady before us servants in the hall in the morning.”
“Be careful what you say, man! Sir Benjamin was a most respected politician. I find all this hard to believe.”
Tamworthy took a deep breath. “I tell the truth. Although Sir Benjamin’s behavior was worse than usual, he was in the way of abusing my lady shamefully. Led her a dog’s life,” said Tamworthy with sudden passion.
