“Why, they seem a charming people to me,” interjected Ann Harding who noted the sudden frigid stare of Valerie Claridge.
“Oh, I don’t deny their charm Mrs. Harding. As a matter pf fact, some of the… ah… Potruguese senho-ras are very charming.”
Mrs. Buxton’s pointed remark shocked both Ann and Marisa.
“Indeed.” Lady Claridge drew herself up into battle stature.
“Oh Mrs. Buxton,” Ann charged in indiscriminately, “it is not only the people, but their style of living. I mean they seem so free and easy in their way of life…” Ann quit midway, realizing that she merely added coals to the pending fire, and looked about frantically for a way out of a situation that was threatening to become very unpleasant.
“Pardon me, Valerie,” Marisa came to Ann’s rescue. “Is not Sir Roger beckoning to you from across the room?” She was determined to avert the mischief Adele unaccountably intended. “Perhaps he wishes this dance with you. A set is forming for a quadrille at this very moment.”
“Oh, indeed it is, Marisa,” Ann joined in quickly. “And I believe we are promised for this one ourselves.” She cast about a hopeful glance which was speedily intercepted by an eager youth from the British military, and soon the ladies were swept away from further exchange with the perplexing Adele Buxton.
From that moment on, Marisa barely had a moment to herself. She dauced every dance—engaged by young men in scarlet uniforms, elegant Portuguese courtiers and charming English diplomats. The night wore on to the early morning hours, and she danced quadrilles, waltzes and a cotillion. Her radiant English beauty was much admired, and Marisa drank deeply of the heady wine of admiration.
Two admirers escorted the countess to supper where she feasted on cold lobster and crepes stuffed with deviled crab. She imbibed several glasses of champagne and felt her head grow light. What was happening to her? She had never relaxed her guard so greatly before.
Back on the dance floor once more she found herself in the arms of a Latin charmer whose flashing black eyes continually devoured her face. He held her far too closely, whispering soft endearments into her ear, and she did not discourage him. Whatever had gotten into her? she wondered. And later when Vargas led her into the conservatory to admire the orchids, she gave but little resistance to his advances.
As the gentleman’s passion became less restrained, however, and he ardently crushed her to him in an impetuous embrace, her head suddenly cleared.
“Please, senhor. I beg you to let me go.”
“Ah, menina. Just one kiss. My lips burn to press your sweet mouth.”
“No, no. You must not.”
“Ah, but you are cruel. You dance with me and smile so sweet. You come with me to the conservatory. And now it is no, no. I think you make a game with me.”
“You are mistaken, senhor. I did not mean for you to think…”
But it was too late. Senhor Vargas’s mouth was clamped to hers, crushing out all further protest—and for one foolish moment, Marisa melted against him. Then wrenching away suddenly, she fled from the conservatory so flustered she collided with several couples. In her confusion she suffered a further shock which set her legs trembling. For one terrible second she thought she had glimpsed her husband’s dark head in the ballroom beyond. Her own head was whirling. She must be hallucinating!
Struggling to regain her composure, she darted to the supper room seeking Ann Harding. When she found her friend, she begged that they leave and return to their villa.
Marisa fell into a dreamless sleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but she woke with a start when the first pale rays of December sunlight crept into her room. For some inexplicable reason, she could not sleep longer. A sense of unease troubled her mind as she lay in bed trying to discover its source. Last night had been wonderful. She never expected to enjoy herself so much at the party. Of course there was that shocking little episode with Senhor Vargas… but actually it was nothing—no need to dwell upon that trifling incident. Yet her peace of mind was unraveled, and she gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed.
Garbed in a rose satin dressing gown, the countess went in search of the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of tea would soothe her nerves.
She had almost reached the bottom stair when voices drifting from the library reached her ears. Even before the words became recognizable, she understood the reason for her early morning unease. It was Justin. He was here, and he was angry. Her heart gave a sudden lurch before her brain relayed the threatening message it received.
“I tell you, Harding, Ann never should have encouraged my wife to come to Portugal.”
“It was not Ann who put her up to it, but Lady Maxwell. Ann merely assisted in accommodating your wife once the decision was made.” Harding spoke in defense of Ann.
“That meddling old crone is at the bottom of this whole miserable affair.”
“Come on old man, you make too much of this. What is so terrible about your wife’s desire to be with you?”
“She has no business being here. Women and war do not mix. I cannot trouble my mind to dance attendance on her whims.”
“I do not think you credit the lady’s good sense. She does not expect you to ‘dance attendance’ on her.”
“I wonder what she does expect. There is Hot a female alive without some ulterior purpose for her actions.”
“Did you ever stop to consider that love may be her purpose?” Harding claimed quietly.
Straeford received that suggestion with a snort of derisive laughter. “Don’t prate to me of sentimental nonsense, Edward. Love is a delusion for fond fools who beguile themselves and avoid facing the truth of female falsity.”
“You’re a bitter man, Justin?… and a fool who himself won’t face the truth. The countess cares deeply for you.”
“Have done, Edward. You’ll not convince me it was devotion that inspired the lady. I was at the reception last night, remember? I saw her come out of the conservatory followed by that Latin cur.”
“You place too much importance on a mere incident…”
“Mere incident!” Straeford exploded. But he paused to consider. “This time perhaps…”
“Justin, I will not hear you slander that lovely woman. She has done nothing to deserve such shameful words from you.”
“Not yet she hasn’t. And I mean to keep it that way—at least until the Straeford line is secured.”
“Well man, if that is your aim… she’s here now. Perhaps you can accomplish your desires in that direction.”
“I have no thought for such matters at the present. She must be sent packing as soon as there is passage back to London. And I shall advise that meddling old fool, Lady Maxwell, to guard her tongue hereafter.”
“My friend, do not be so hasty in your decision. Give your wife a chance to express her wishes in this matter. You may live to regret your unjust treatment of her. Consider your wife’s feelings for once.”
“You are too soft-hearted, Edward. I tell you I do not want this chain about my neck at this time.”
“What a cold-hearted bastard you are!” Edward claimed disgustedly. “She is too good for you. How you managed to inspire love in such as she is beyond me.”
“Love!” Straeford mocked cruelly. “It is not love I seek but fertility. God grant the wench is not barren!”
A sudden crash in the hall interrupted their exchange. Marisa, blinded by tears, had stumbled into a console, overturning a vase of roses as she hastened to flee up the stairs to her room.
The men rushed from the library in time to catch a glimpse of Marisa’s rose-clad form flying across the gallery above. Both men looked to each other, shock and guilt frozen on their stricken face.
Straeford recovered himself in a moment and charged up the stairs two at a time after Marisa’s retreating form’.
She slammed the door to her room and bolted it fast. Immediately Straeford began pounding on it, attracting the attention of the servants who peered around corners in petrifi
ed terror.
“Marisa, open this door at once and let me in,” her husband demanded.
“Go away!” she screamed. “I will never let you in.”
By this time Ann Harding had roused herself and come to her door to stare in amazement. Edward came to his wife and grasped her hand in his.
“Open now, I say, or I will break it down!”
“Go away! Go away!” The frenzy in Marisa’s voice sent a premonition of alarm through Straeford.
He pounded once more, but the door remained fast. He lifted his booted foot, and with a mighty thrust he kicked the door down.
Marisa was standing in the middle of the room, the back of one hand pressed against her mouth, hqr eyes staring huge and wild. Her hair was tumbling carelessly onto her shoulders and streaming over her heaving bosom, and one shoulder was bare where the negligée and strap of her gown were falling off her arm. Marisa cast her eyes frantically about the room as if searching for a means of escape.
The look of her halted Straeford in his tracks. He recognized the sight of blind hysteria. He had seen it on the faces of battle-shocked soldiers before.
“Marisa,” he called to her quietly and took a step forward.
“No—don’t you dare come near me,” she cried. “You’ll never come near me again!”
He halted once more. “Of course, my dear. Of course. Whatever you say; only calm yourself and let me speak to you.”
“Go away, go away.” She began crying in terrible, wracking sobs that cut him to the core.
Straeford started toward her, but in a sudden shift Marisa sprang to the balcony doors and flung them open. Reading her frantic purpose and knowing that she was thinking to throw herself over the balcony, Straeford hurled himself at her in one desperate lunge and grabbed hold of her arm. But his grasp was not secure enough, and Marisa whirled and wrenched free. The force of her thrust was of such strength that she lost her balance and stumbled backward to the steps leading to the patio below. For one terrible moment she swayed precariously while time seemed to stop, and then, to Justin’s horrified eyes, Marisa toppled backward, plummeting to the flagstones below.
His nerves jolted sickeningly at the sound of her body hitting the stones at the bottom of the stairs.
“My God!” he cried, stricken. “What have I done?” he groaned, racing down the steps and bending over his wife’s crumpled form.
15
For three days Marisa hovered in the realms of unconsciousness and there was fear that the fall would prove fatal. She had broken her right ankle and that side of her face bore the marks of ugly red abrasions. Little could be done about the concussion. The full extent of that injury would be discovered if and when she regained consciousness.
To everyone’s dismay, Straeford would not leave her side. He slept on a cot beside Marisa’s bed and was often seen holding his wife’s hand for hours during his long vigil. His remorse was unassuageable. He accused himself of being a black-hearted devil whose lot it was to bring grief and suffering to those conpected with him. Searching his soul, he found only darkness and despair for himself. In blind misery Straeford prayed that Marisa would recover and give him a chance to redeem the damage he had done.
His prayers for her recovery were answered. When, on the third day, she opened her eyes and recognition registered in their pain-darkened depths, he knew a moment of gratitude so piercing it brought tears to his eyes.
Marisa gazed at his gaunt face, darkened by three days’ growth of beard and stared at the tears welling in his hollow green eyes. She felt as one waking unto a frozen world barren of human feeling. His lordship’s apparent grief and pain no longer touched her. It mattered not to her what he was feeling—for herself, she felt nothing. She closed her eyes and turned her head away.
And in that slight gesture, Straeford read the full significance of their future relationship. Lady Marisa, the Countess of Straeford, had severed bonds with the earl as surely as if a court of law had struck down the marriage tie between them. She would have nothing more to do with him, and it was no less than he deserved. His prayer for redemption went unanswered.
The countess’s recuperation was slow and unsatisfactory. Dr. Lomas warned that her recovery would depend as much on keeping her spirits up as in assisting the body in its mending process. He noted his patient’s lassitude as the days passed, and queried the earl cautiously as he attempted to combat the lady’s apathy.
“The condesa, Lord Straeford, needs diversion. It is difficult being confined to one’s chamber for such long hours. Perhaps you know of some interest that the lady could be encouraged to pursue while she is an invalid.Painting or needlepoint…” He looked hopefully to the earl.
“I know little of such female fripperies,” the earlreplied impatiently.
“It is not frippery to restore your wife’s spirits, senhor. Your wife exhibits uncommon apathy, my lord. It hinders the healing greatly.”
The earl saw his point and relented. “My wife, sir, had exhibited a recent interest in your national poet, Camões. It may be that she would wish to resume her studies of that particular writer at this time.”
“Excellent idea! Mental stimulation—perhaps a change of environment—I shall arrange to have your lady spend some time each afternoon in the library, and we shall banish the dark shadows, you shall see.” He was enthusiastic. “And, I think, a small glass of our good port to build up the blood and stimulate the appetite. Yes, yes, I think this is the very program to hasten your good wife’s recovery. You shall see a change very soon, I am sure.”
Lord Straeford did not reply, feeling little hope for the physician’s eager program. He knew the deeper cause of Marisa’s present state of apathy and secretly feared that her recovery depended upon removal of his person from her presence. He knew she wished him away, and he was caught in a bleak dilemma, desiring Marisa’s recovery but fearing to withdraw lest it become a permanent breach between them.
Whenever he visited her for a brief period each morning, it was to exchange polite amenities as two strangers forced to endure the company of persons they merely tolerated but did not. enjoy.
And what, the earl questioned himself, did he really feel for Marisa? What made him so reluctant to leave her side when a short time ago he wished to send her back to England?
The answer to that question troubled him constantly. Finally unable to hide from the truth, he was forced to admit that Marisa meant more to him than he had wanted her to—arid probably long before the accident had occurred. She was his wife, and he would not relinquish his claim on her. He dared not ask himself if it were the threat to his rights as husband that afflicted him, or if it were something more. He would not allow the word “love” to break through the surface of his troubled thoughts.
Despite the physician’s high hopes, Marisa continued to languish. Each afternoon Lord Straeford would gently gather Marisa in his arms and carry her slight bbdy into the library where a cheerful fire leapt invitingly in the grate. But for all the solicitude showered upon her—Ann and Edward would often be present to alleviate the strain between the Straefords, and the cook prepared luscious delicacies daily to tempt the countess’s waning appetite—Marisa seemed more and more to withdraw into a private world of shadows much like the midwinter world of overcast skies and barren countryside outside.
For his part, the earl grew restive. It was against his nature to stand by idly and watch a situation deteriorate. He was a man of action, and it went hard with him to endure helplessly as Marisa faded before their watching eyes.
The colorless days of January ran one into another with little change in the emotional atmosphere between the Straefords. It was apparent to those who observed them that Marisa had withdrawn from her husband. He could not reuse a show of interest from her even when he presented her with her own richly bound volume of Os Lusiadas. Despite his dutiful attendance on her daily, despite his patient forbearance, she remained unmoved.
The library was filled with late afte
rnoon gloom; a flickering fire cast dancing shadows on the dark paneled walls, and from the corridors beyond the quiet room the mournful notes of a sad love song drifted hauntingly. Josefe, the gardener’s son, was strumming his guitar. The Earl of Straeford paced restlessly about the room, pausing to stare out the windows at the wind-driven rain lashing at the sturdy casements. Marisa watched the fire and waited for the waning day to dissolve into the enveloping darkness of another nighttime.
“We cannot go on like this, Marisa.” The earl spoke while continuing to stare out the window at the rain.
She did not respond.
Her husband shifted his weight and turned to regard Marisa’s delicate profile sporadically highlighted by the fire. A terrible yearning seized him, and for one brief moment he considered throwing himself at her feet and begging her forgiveness. The moment passed, leaving him shaken, but clear-sighted at last.
He went to her side and knelt beside her chair. This in itself was uncharacteristic enough to cause Marisa to turn her head and look at him.
“Marisa,” he began quietly, “I have come to a decision.”
She waited for him to go on.
“I have exercised my wits constantly to devise a means of altering your outlook and preventing the slow decline you are entering, but in vain. Were it in my power to restore you to health and happiness, I would leave no stone unturned to do so. But you have made it abundantly clear, my dear, that I can offer you nothing of myself.” He paused, but having made his decision, he continued. “I finally realize there is only one thing I can offer you… and that is your freedom.”
At last Marisa looked at him with eyes that showed awareness. “My freedom… I don’t understand. What kind of freedom?”
“Total. Complete. The marriage shall be dissolved.”
“Dissolved?” She was filled with awe.
“You shall be free to seek your happiness elsewhere.” As he spoke the words that would part her from himself, his thoughts were bitterly ironic. At last, when he could admit his need of her to himself, he was offering her her freedom.
Tender Torment Page 24
