by M C Beaton
They had almost reached the gates when, to Jennie’s horror, her husband blithely swung around and began to march her back into the park at a brisk trot. Feathery snow flakes gathered on her eyelashes. He was taking her down a deserted path under some old trees which moaned and rattled in the wind. Jennie was about to give up and plead that she could not endure the cold one more minute, when she saw to her dismay that two burly men had crept out from behind the trees and were blocking their path.
The footmen had held off their attack for the last hour. They had recognized their quarry as the Marquis of Charrington and were fearful of being recognized themselves. But the thickening snow had given them courage. A few blows with their cudgels and the Marquis would be down. And then they could collect the other half of their money from Guy.
Jennie let out a squeak of terror. The Marquis pushed her behind him, never taking his eyes from the two men.
It was then that Jennie did what she always afterwards considered a most shameful thing. She picked up her skirts and ran. Ran through the now heavily falling snow, gasping and panting with fright, until she reached the edge of the park. There was no sound of pursuit.
She hung on to a tree trunk for dear life until she had recovered her breath.
It was then she realized what she had done. She had abandoned her husband to the mercy of two thugs who would no doubt kill him. She, who had always prided herself on her courage, had run away and left Chemmy to die.
She whirled around and began to run back the way she had come. “Let him only be alive,” she prayed, “and I will never see Guy again.”
But trees and snow seemed to dance in front of her eyes in a bewildering pattern. She could not find the path where her husband had been attacked.
A huge figure suddenly loomed up out of the snow in front of her and she threw back her head and screamed.
“It’s me, dear heart,” said a familiar voice and familiar arms were wrapped around her.
“There, do not cry,” said the Marquis. “Did you think I would abandon you? I came in search of you immediately.”
This was too much for the guilty Jennie, who began to sob, “How can I ever forgive myself. I ran away and left you. I thought you would be killed.”
“Of course not,” he teased. “Would you like me to show you the bodies?”
“Oh, are they dead?”
“No, just stunned.”
“How did you… how could you…”
“Never mind,” he said, leading her towards the park gates. “Let us go home.”
“Oh, let’s,” sobbed Jennie. “I am so cold and miserable. I-I foolishly hoped to punish you. I thought you would feel the cold before I did. I am so tired, too.”
“Now, why do you want to punish me?” he asked.
“I d-don’t know,” said Jennie, beginning to cry in earnest.
“You are overwrought,” he said kindly. “And you do not know what you are saying.”
How splendid it was to return home to blazing fires and hot drinks and hot food! Jennie had bathed and changed and was sitting with her feet up on the fender in the sitting room when her husband entered carrying a book.
“I never see you reading,” he began. “You must feel free to use my library any time you wish. Here is a copy of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Count Ugolino. I know it is the fashion to despise novels, but many ladies appear to enjoy this one. Have you read it?”
Jennie shook her head.
“Do but glance at the first page and see if you think it would amuse you.”
He then looked at his wife curiously. She was staring at the volume as if it were a species of poisonous snake. She reluctantly turned to the opening chapter and stared fixedly at the page, her face growing redder and redder.
He studied her thoughtfully. Her eyes were staring straight at the print, moving neither to right nor left.
“As you can see,” he said in a gentle voice, “the heroine is called Sally, just like your friend.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Jennie, staring at the page.
He moved forwards and took the book from her trembling fingers. “There is no Sally, my dear. You cannot read.” The latter remark was a statement rather than a question.
Jennie bowed her head and the hot tears of shame began to roll down her cheeks. It had not taken her long since her arrival in London to realize that her unlettered state was the exception rather than the rule.
He put a long finger under her chin and drawing out his handkerchief gently dried her eyes. “The shame is your grandparents, not yours. It can be easily remedied. I shall hire you a tutor this very day.”
“I don’t want a tutor,” said Jennie pettishly. “Guy says there is no reason for a lady to read or write.”
Her husband picked up Mrs. Radcliffe’s book. “As you will,” he said amiably and left the room, quietly closing the doors behind him.
Jennie stared at the doors and bit her lip. What was wrong with her? For some silly whim—for some stupid reason she was unable to fathom, she had condemned herself to a life of illiteracy.
She slowly got to her feet and went in search of her husband. He was seated at a desk in his study and he did not turn his head when she entered the room.
Jennie stared at his elegant back and tried to summon up her courage. Then she noticed that his hand, grasping the quill pen, was bruised and the skin was broken over the knuckles.
“What happened to your hand?” she cried, feeling a strange stab of concern.
“You cannot expect me to fight two gentlemen in Green Park and come off unscathed,” he said.
Jennie flushed guiltily. She had not believed he had routed his two assailants. She had thought the thugs had somehow changed their minds and fled.
She looked at her husband with dawning respect. He got to his feet and looked down at her with a certain lazy amusement in his blue eyes.
“Did you want to see me about something, dear heart?”
“I would like a tutor, after all,” said Jennie, her eyes dropping before his gaze.
“Then you shall have one,” he said, kissing her gently on the corner of her mouth.
He always manages to make me feel guilty, thought Jennie. Why does he never reproach me? His feelings for me are not strong enough, she decided, feeling all of a sudden very flat.
“I shall not be free this evening to escort you to the Hambledon ball. Shall I ask Perry to stand in for me?”
“You should not be so concerned,” said Jennie. “’Tis not fashionable to be seen everywhere with one’s husband. Guy shall take me. I suppose you want to go to your club.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you cannot have Mr. Chalmers to escort you. He is not invited.”
“Nonsense!” said Jennie. “Guy is invited everywhere. He simply finds all these occasions too dull.”
“Perry shall escort you—or no one,” said her husband equably.
Jennie stamped her foot. “Then I won’t go at all!” she cried. “I shall stay at home and sew.”
“As you will,” said her husband in his usual infuriating manner. He sat down at his desk and began to write.
Jennie stared for a few fulminating seconds at his well-tailored back and then noisily exited from the study, slamming the door behind her.
She spent a long and boring afternoon in her sitting room. If only she had a dictionary. Then she could send a note to Guy. But even if she could find one in the library, it would take her ages to complete even one sentence.
The street door slammed and Jennie crossed to the window. She had an excellent view of her husband as he climbed up into his carriage and took the reins. The snow had ceased to fall and was already beginning to melt into dingy slush.
The Marquis called to his butler who was standing on the pavement by the carriage, “I shall not be back until very late tonight. There is no need to wait up for me.”
Jennie turned from the window as a diminutive housemaid came in and began to make up the fire.
Jenni
e eyed the little girl with sudden hope.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Perkins, my lady.”
“Well, Perkins, I have a letter to write but I am suffering from severe eye strain,” lied Jennie. “Do you know anyone in the household who could pen a note for me?”
“I could, my lady,” said Perkins brightly. “I was taught at parochial school.”
Oh, the injustices of society, thought Jennie. Here she was, a peeress of His Majesty’s realm, having to ask a housemaid to write a letter.
Soon a carefully distant and formal message begging Mr. Chalmers to call was sent around to his lodgings.
Jennie eagerly hung about the hall, frightened that the stern butler would tell Guy she was not at home.
At last he arrived. His first words startled Jennie. “I gather the Marquis is indisposed,” he said cheerfully, allowing the disapproving butler to relieve him of his drab benjamin.
“He is in the best of health,” said Jennie. “What made you think he would be ill? You look ill yourself, Guy. You’ve gone quite white. He could have been killed, however. Two terrible thugs set upon him in the park. But he knocked them senseless,” added Jennie with a trace of pride in her voice.
“Forget about that,” said Guy hurriedly. He suddenly seemed anxious to be off. “What did you want to see me about?”
Jennie simply looked confused. She had wanted comfort and reassurance. She had wanted to punish her husband. But Guy upset her, standing as he did, shuffling from foot to foot and shying like a frightened horse every time a carriage passed on the street outside.
“I just wanted to see you,” said Jennie plaintively. “Being married feels so strange and we never have much time together as we did in the old days, Guy.” She put her hand on his sleeve and stared up, almost timidly, into his face as if willing him to become the old Guy—half brother, half lover.
A man’s voice sounded from the street outside and a horse neighed and stamped.
“Tell you what, Jennie,” said Guy quickly. “I know of a place where we can spend the evening together. Here… I’ll write a note… oh, blast, I haven’t got time to do it. Just remember it. It’s a place called the White Swan, a posting house just beyond Highgate on the Barnet Road. Come there tomorrow night. I shall send a carriage for you. We shall have a cozy supper together and talk about old times.”
“But Chemmy…” wailed Jennie.
“Did you get rid of him this evening?” countered Guy “Yes. I thought so. Well, do it again tomorrow night.”
Still Jennie hesitated. Guy’s manner seemed excited and strange.
“Don’t worry about that husband of yours,” said Guy, shrewdly noticing her hesitation. “He’s probably in the arms of Alice Waring right now.”
Jennie remembered Sally’s words. “But Guy,” she protested, “that affair is now over. Mrs. Waring is in the protection of the Earl of Freize.”
“And who says she can’t have two lovers?” sneered Guy.
Jennie’s face went pale and pinched. What a messy sordid world it had turned out to be. Why couldn’t people just get married and remain loyal to each other?
There was a sharp rap on the knocker of the street door and Jennie gulped and jumped guiltily.
“Hurry, Jennie,” said Guy urgently. “Give me your answer.”
“Mr. Deighton,” announced the butler from the doorway.
Perry’s slightly protruding eyes flicked across Guy for one brief second and settled on Jennie. “My lady,” he said, bowing low. “I came in the hope of finding your husband at home.”
“I-I think you will find him at one of his clubs,” said Jennie, throwing Guy an anguished look.
“Good evening, Deighton,” said Guy in a hearty voice, but the dapper little man kept his eyes fixed on Jennie.
“Thank you, my lady,” he replied. “I shall go in search of him.”
Jennie blushed miserably. The air seemed to be thick with censure. “Can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Deighton?” she asked.
“That is very kind of you,” said Perry primly. “I am pleased to accept.” He sat down neatly on a sofa. “I thought you would have been at the Hambledon ball. I called there and was surprised to find you absent.”
“Oh, Jennie didn’t care to go,” said Guy. “The Hambledons can be monstrous dull.”
Perry looked at him for the first time. “I am surprised you know the Hambledons well enough to form any opinion of them at all, Mr. Chalmers,” he said coldly.
Jennie flew to Guy’s defense. “Guy is invited everywhere,” she cried.
“No, he isn’t,” said Perry forthrightly, “especially after that…”
“I must go, Jennie,” interrupted Guy hurriedly. “What is your answer?”
“Yes,” said Jennie, staring coldly at Mr. Deighton, who was sitting very still and upright on the backless sofa, emanating waves of distaste and dislike.
“Very well,” said Guy, kissing her cheek.
Perry watched him leave. He looked about to burst.
“How can you,” he exclaimed when the door had closed behind Guy. “How can you entertain such a man?”
“Mr. Chalmers is my cousin,” said Jennie in freezing accents.
“That’s no reason to know him,” pointed out Perry. “Every family’s got a loose screw in it somewhere.”
Jennie completely lost her temper. “You horrid little, little man,” she spluttered. “Take yourself off.” She suddenly recoiled as Perry jumped to his feet. No one had ever before dared to call the fire-eater that was Mr. Deighton “little.” He was abnormally sensitive about his lack of inches.
“I would rather be little and remain loyal to my sex,” he said acidly. “You, my virgin bride, are not even a woman. Pah! No wonder poor Chemmy has to seek his pleasures elsewhere. You have neither grace nor wit nor loyalty nor femininity. You have the mind of a trollop atop a frigid body, madame. Chemmy has my sincere pity.”
“How dare you!” screamed Jennie, jumping up and down with rage. “Get out. Out, out, out, out!” She picked up a pretty figurine and flung it full at him.
Perry caught it neatly, put it down gently on a side table and walked to the doors. He swung around.
“Your incestuous relationship with your cousin disgusts me, madame. You do not belong in society. You belong to the demimonde. Good day to you!”
He closed the doors with a hearty bang and Jennie dissolved into tears. No one had ever said such harsh and horrible things to her before. It was all Chemmy’s fault. Everyone had liaisons, didn’t they?
But for the first time she heard the disturbing voice of her conscience and began to feel afraid.
Chapter Six
“The provocation was great, look you!” said Mr. Peregrine Deighton.
The Marquis of Charrington eyed him with mild surprise. He had returned home in the small hours of the morning to be told by a sleepy butler that Mr. Deighton had been waiting for him in the drawing room since midnight.
“Who’s been provoking you, Perry?” said the Marquis lazily. “Do you want me to act as your second?”
“I was provoked by a lady,” said Perry.
The Marquis had been in the act of helping himself to a glass of canary from the decanter. He put the glass down on the silver tray with a little click and said in a deceptively mild voice, “And what did my dear wife say to you?”
“She… she called me ‘little,’” said Perry.
“To which you replied…?”
“To which I replied that she had the mind of a trollop atop a frigid body,” said Perry miserably.
The Marquis stood very still. “Harsh words, dear friend,” he said at last in the soft, gentle voice that Perry knew meant he was very angry indeed. “You will sit just where you are, Perry, and begin at the beginning and go on to the end.”
Perry hung his head and then began to repeat all that had been said, word for word.
“My wife is young and heedless,” said the Marquis when
he had finished, “but mark this, my friend. This is as much her house as mine and whom she chooses to entertain here is of concern only to Jennie and myself. You will write my wife a letter of apology, Perry. The provocation, as you say, was great. But she is a young, untried girl and you are a mature gentleman of the world. I value your friendship and loyalty but it does not give you license to insult my wife. Do I make myself plain?”
“Yes,” mumbled Perry.
“But one thing intrigues me. Chalmers asked her for her answer and she said ‘yes.’ Are you sure that was all?”
Perry nodded miserably.
The Marquis poured out two glasses of the pale yellow liquid and handed one to his friend. “Very well,” he said. “Come! Do not look so gloomy, my friend. You have confessed all like an officer and gentleman. We shall consider the matter closed. I attended the Hambledons’ ball after all. I did not arrive till midnight but it was still a sad crush. Brummell was there with Alvanley. He said a vastly amusing thing….”
The Marquis chatted on in his lazy voice of this and that until he saw the embarrassment and unease leaving his friend’s face.
But the Marquis was only human after all. As Perry began to chat in his turn, the Marquis stretched his long legs to the fire and wondered happily how his wife had enjoyed being called frigid.
Jennie had lain awake until about half an hour before the Marquis arrived home, burning for revenge. The Marquis should challenge his friend to a duel at the very least. She then fell into a heavy sleep where she dreamed she was back at the Manor being visited by the Marquis, who had Alice Waring on his arm and who was denying in his usual lazy and indifferent way that he had ever been married.
Jennie woke to the sunlight of a clear, early winter’s day. She hurriedly dressed and ran lightly down the stairs to look for her husband, only to be informed that he was still abed.
She paced restlessly through the rooms, waiting for him to appear and finally went in search of him.
She pushed open the door of his bedroom and stood for a moment on the threshold. He was lying in a lofty four-poster bed, quietly and completely asleep. Jennie moved slowly forward, held on to one of the elaborately turned and carved posts and stared down at her lord’s placid face. She gave a loud cough but still he slept on. She moved up to the head of the bed and leaned over, looking closely at his face, as if hoping he might betray some of his real feelings in sleep.
