by Joan Smith
A brief reconsideration of last night’s plans proved unhelpful. Rex was now struck irrecoverably from her list of supporters. She had only her own wits to rely on. The half-hour came and went, making up the hour he had said he would be gone. Another half-hour dragged by, and still he did not come. He had left at eight; it was finally ten, and still she waited.
It was patently obvious he was doing this to annoy her. Showing her a lesson. He would “tame” her, would he, as though she were some wild animal! Teach her to comport herself like the Marchioness of Claymore. Well, she would teach him a thing or two as well. She was interrupted from these edifying thoughts by the arrival of a letter from Lady Siderow, wishing her a bon voyage. She read it, tapped her toe on the carpet, and came to a decision. The bell was rung to summon Mrs. Meecham, who came hopping.
“I have had a note from his lordship,” Ellie lied affably. “He is detained and I shall go on without him.”
Mrs. Meecham’s bleary eyes bulged at such goings on. “You’ll never go alone to Somerset, ma’am,” she had the temerity to say.
“Certainly not. My Miss Pritchard will accompany me.” It seemed insufficient somehow, and she added a bit of substantiating material. “The Dowager is fallen ill, you see, and wishes me to come to her at once. His lordship will follow at his leisure.”
“But why would she want you? She doesn’t even know you!”
“That will soon be remedied. Will you have the carriage called, please? It is packed and ready to go. I daresay Claymore will be following on horseback, and catch me up before noon.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, very likely,” Mrs. Meecham said, yet it seemed odd to her. “Taken a bad spell, has she?”
“Yes, very bad,” Ellie confirmed, and whipped past the servant to tell the same lie to Miss Pritchard, whom she feared would not accompany her if she knew the truth. There seemed no great advantage to being a marchioness after all, if one still had to make excuses to servants to get them to do one’s bidding.
Miss Pritchard had no reason to suspect all was not well between the newlyweds. An early peep into Ellie’s room had shown her bed to be vacated. She could not bring herself to look into the Marquis’ room, but made no doubt that was where they were. She later discovered both bedrooms to have been deserted at an early hour, but again had no reason to suppose they had not arisen together.
Gone for a ride in the park perhaps. Miss Ellie liked a ride above anything. The broken glass on the floor explained the few drops of blood on the carpet, and a single question confirmed that it was Ellie who had stepped on it, with no fatal results. The only uncertainty to be cleared away was why they must go on ahead of Claymore.
An ingenious thought having to do with the desired presence of the Dowager’s solicitor from London for some last-minute changes to the will accounted for Claymore’s delay, as well as buttressing the story of the Dowager’s sad state of health. They were into their bonnets and pelisses and out to the carriage in a flash. Blackie, the groom, certainly thought it unusual to be setting out without the master, but then a mistress in the house was bound to be upsetting things, and he went, along with a footman, without a suspicion of involving himself in a plot. His new mistress found immediate favor by advising him to “spring them” as soon as he hit the open road. He was more than happy to oblige and whip the team up to a spanking pace. If they had to have a woman around their necks, he was happy it wasn’t the China doll, whom he well knew could stand nothing above a strict trot. This dame now was more like!
Ellie fretted during the trip. They had left around ten-thirty. Till luncheon she was hopeful, but when still Claymore had not overtaken them by nightfall, she was beginning to panic. To have to go alone to meet the Dowager, bad as it was, was not the worst of it. Why had not her husband come?
Chapter Fifteen
Due to the early hour of Elinor’s flight to Fenton’s Hotel on the morning following her wedding, and the rapidity with which her husband had brought her home, he ended up downtown trying to buy her a diamond an hour before the shops were open. This naturally played havoc with his given schedule, so that while his wife awaited his return for breakfast, he was still cooling his heels outside Van Ark’s Jewelry Shop. Even when he was finally admitted by an apologetic clerk, the purchase of the stone proved difficult. The matter of credit was no great thing—set up as soon as the proprietor arrived half an hour later, by which time the Marquis had examined every diamond in the shop and found them all too small, which is to say, smaller than Wanda’s. A small tray of larger stones was brought forth from some hidden vault with great ceremony. They were examined, admired, and finally one, larger than all the others, was chosen. The proprietor had to explain in minute detail how this was a brilliant cut, with seventy-two rather than thirty-two facets because of its huge size. It was hefted, held to the light, admired once again, and then the jeweler inquired what setting was desired.
“Setting?” Claymore said. “Oh yes, I see what you mean: I want it put into a ring. Right away.”
The jeweler rubbed his dry hands in glee and settled in for what he supposed would be a pleasant hour’s discussion of claw settings and diamond clips and so on.
“Whatever you think best,” Claymore said airily. “I want it right away.”
“Certainly, my lord. It can be ready in a day or two.”
“A day or two! No, no. I need it immediately.”
“Oh, my lord! Do but consider. A stone of this beauty and value must have a setting worthy of it. It is unique. We will not want to destroy its appearance by an overly-hasty job of mounting. Leave it to me, and by tomorrow I shall have it set in a way that must please you.”
“Waiting twenty-four hours does not please me,” Claymore replied haughtily. “I’m late already. Haven’t you got some setting you could stick it into?”
A hasty consideration that the mounting made for Lady Teasdale’s sapphire was about the right size and could be duplicated before her return to London settled the matter. “As you wish, Lord Claymore. I will have it done immediately.”
“Immediately,” however, turned out to be a good half-hour, and when the ring was finally presented to the fuming Marquis, it was found to slide over his own finger with ease, thus ensuring that Ellie could wear it for a bracelet.
Having already made himself two hours late, he could not return home with a ring that didn’t fit. He paced up and down the shop, his watch in his hand, receiving frequent and impatient glances. Finally the thing was done, to no one’s entire satisfaction.
Van Ark wiped his brow and said to his assistant, “What a fellow. Still, it pays to cater to these lords. He might buy any amount of stuff, now he sees how eager we are to help.”
Claymore jammed the box into his pocket, and as he slammed the door of the shop he promised to himself, That’s the last time I come to this old fool. Lord, he would keep me here all day while he talks of facets and brilliants, as though I were buying a dozen tiaras. He was pleased with the ring’s appearance, though. Plenty bigger than Wanda’s. He could hardly wait to slip it on Ellie’s finger, and see her eyes light up.
When he came into his home, he went first into the Green Saloon, thinking she would have finished her breakfast long since. She was not there, so he went along to the breakfast room. All traces of food and dishes had vanished; the room was empty. Becoming slightly annoyed at the delay in finding her, he took the stairs to her room two at a time. Drawing the box from his pocket, he held it behind his back and tapped at her door. It was opened immediately, but it was Betty, the upstairs maid, who stood looking at him, and who very nearly received a little black box, for it was already being brought around.
“Is your mistress not in here?” he asked.
“Oh no, sir; her’s gone long ago. I’ve got the bed made up and the clothes put away, the glass swept up and the dusting done and all. Should I be taking the bed curtains for a good airing while you’re away?”
“Where is she?”
“Her’s
gone, milord.”
“Gone where?” he asked, reining in his temper.
“As to that I couldn’t say. Mrs. Meecham could be telling you, for she were talking to the mistress.”
“Thank you.” He turned on his heel and flung himself downstairs, trying hard to suppress that rising panic. “Gone” didn’t mean anything. Gone from the room was all Betty meant. Besides, the girl was obviously a cretin. Mrs. Meecham would have the explanation.
She was in the hall waiting for him, having been apprised by her husband, the butler, that his lordship was home and would likely be wanting a bite before he set out for Somerset. “Where’s my wife?” he asked, rather sharply.
She looked her surprise. “Why, she’s left already, my lord. Set out an hour ago, as you requested.”
The panic could no longer be damped down. “Set out for where?” he shouted.
“For Somerset, to go to your mother. How is she, my lord? Not too severe an attack, I trust?”
“What, was there word from Mama? Is she ill?”
The two exchanged blank stares. “I thought you knew ... that is, she said... and there was a letter....”
“From Mama?”
“I don’t really know,” Mrs. Meecham replied. “I thought she said it was from you. Her ladyship received a letter, then she told me that your mother had taken ill, and she was going on ahead, and you would ride after her and overtake her along the way. I assumed the letter was from yourself, giving her instructions. . . . But then, I have remarked she is very decisive. The letter may have been from the Hall, and she made the decision on her own, expecting me to tell you...”
Claymore, somehow, did not think any such thing. “Do you think you might find the letter?” he asked, trying not to rip up at her.
“She was in the breakfast room at the time, and left the letter on the table as it happens, which I naturally did not open and read, but put it up on the side table. I’ll get it for you...”
His lordship had no such scruples about reading his wife’s private correspondence. A glance was sufficient to inform him the whole thing was a hoax. “You’re positive this is the same letter she received this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, and I do recall for sure now that she said it was from you, for she called you ‘his lordship’ and I was wondering before that how she’d refer to you, as ‘his lordship’ or ‘my husband.’ I thought it’d be ‘his lordship’ she’d say,” she added in a knowing tone. “Not from you, eh?”
For a fraction of a second Claymore considered prevaricating to hide his wife’s lie, but with Mrs. Meecham as his sole source of information, he decided she must be taken into his confidence. “No, not from me. She left half an hour ago you say. How did she go? What carriage I mean.”
“Why, the traveling carriage, that was all packed and ready to go. Took her Miss Pritchard with her, which made it seem all right to me, for if she were sheering off on you, I shouldn’t think she’d take the loaded traveling carriage, with your luggage on it, as well as her own...”
“Blackie driving?”
“Yes, and Pottrell went along too, so she’s safe at least.”
“It’s not her physical safety I’m worried about,” he said.
“After her accident last night I thought maybe …” She let it hang mutely. She was too experienced a retainer to let the least degree of encroaching curiosity show, but inside she was bursting to know what was afoot. So odd, Claymore getting hitched all of a sudden to a young girl none of them had ever heard of, though her connections seemed decent enough. Odder still that two beds should have been tossed the morning after their wedding night, and them up and streaking out of the house at the crack of dawn, not together either, whatever that blind Miss Pritchard might think, or let on to think.
As to the shambles of milady’s chamber with broken glass and blood all over—well! And now this; bolted on him, plain as the nose on your face. It looked black indeed. Anyone who hadn’t known the Marquis forever would be forgiven for thinking he’d misused the poor girl, but that she did not believe. Oh, he had the devil’s own temper and would say mean things when he got riled up, but as to laying a hand on a lady, it was no such a thing. No, and a body couldn’t credit that the brass-faced young lady he’d married would put up with any bullying from him or anyone else either. Still, he must have done something to set her off in such a pelter.
Claymore was only half listening; the greater part of his mind was occupied with figuring where the devil she’d gone off to this time. “Accident?” he asked, as the word finally penetrated. “What accident?”
“The broken glass in her room. And the blood all over. . . .”
At this recital, all other preoccupations left him, and he came to rigid attention. “What blood? How does it come I wasn’t informed of this?”
“I thought you knew,” Mrs. Meecham replied. “Betty said there was blood all over the carpet and the sheets. She got it cleaned up before I saw it You must have noticed milady was limping.”
“No! That is, I did notice—but it was only a very little, surely.”
“She was crying with the pain, but wouldn’t let me call the doctor.”
“You should have called him,” Claymore said, visions of his wife dragging around London, her foot all but severed from her leg, coming into his head.
“I wanted to, but she wouldn’t have it. Well, I fancy you know she’s not one to be told what to do.”
“My wife is shy,” he said. “Her abrupt manner is a result of shyness merely. You ought certainly to have called a doctor, Mrs. Meecham.”
She did not take well to being charged with negligence, and bristled. “Too late now.” She clamped her lips shut upon the deliverance of this platitude. She awaited instructions, but as Claymore fell into a daze of concentration, she spoke again. “What are we to do?”
“Bring me some wine,” he said. “I’ll be in the little parlor.”
She could only stare. His wife cut to shreds and bleeding all over the place, lying herself blue and peeling off on him the very day after the wedding, and he orders himself up a bottle of wine. Loony. The man had taken leave of his senses. She’d better get the wine, or he might become violent.
This taking of wine was not quite so cavalier a gesture as she supposed. Claymore’s mind was working furiously. It had many things to sort out, and he wished peace and quiet to do so. The little parlor was his thinking room. Chair tilted back, feet on the desk was his thinking posture, so that is how she found him a moment later when she brought the wine.
“Quite comfortable, my lord?” she asked in a voice of deep sarcasm. Having known him since he was breeched, she dared say what other menials would not.
“Shut the door when you go,” was her only reply. Claymore poured a glass, retilted his chair to a dangerous angle, closed his eyes, and sipped the madeira. He had wanted port or claret. This dashed stuff was sickeningly sweet. So, she had gone again. Where to this time? Rex? Hardly, after her last encounter with him. Taking the traveling carriage indicated a longish trip. Not, he was certain, to Somerset. She’d said she wouldn’t go, and he was fool enough to think she hadn’t meant it. Making up that Banbury story about his mama being ill, and having got a note from himself was all fudge, to deceive the servants. Wanted them to tell him where she was gone, so clearly she had gone off in another direction entirely.
He realized how little he knew his bride when he tried to think where she could possibly have gone. Doubtless she had many friends to whom she might run in this case, but he knew none of them. Only her family. If she hadn’t gone to one of her own sisters or to her home in Sussex, he was sunk. He hadn’t the faintest notion where to start looking. There were the Homberlys, too. She and Missie were chums. Might plan to join Mrs. Homberly and Missie at Bath; they were going to return there after the wedding. She knew his mama planned to go there though, and she went rigid at any mention of his mother. Probably not Bath. His possibilities quickly reduced themselves to three locatio
ns: the Siderows’, Tamesons’, or directly to her father’s house in Sussex.
He cringed in his boots to show up at the Siderows’ and ask if Ellie were there. God, what would they think? What could she possibly have told them to account for so unlikely a circumstance as leaving him the very day after their wedding? The embarrassment, the shame of it, made him writhe, and he felt a pronounced desire to have his wife’s white throat between his hands. He was mad enough to kill her. This tender thought called to mind the accident of which Mrs. Meecham had spoken. But he brushed it aside—stepped on a bit of glass very likely. It wouldn’t kill her. He took the ring box out of his pocket and admired the many-faceted stone, sitting majestically in Lady Teasdale’s setting. She wouldn’t have gone scooting off if she’d known this was waiting for her at home. Maybe he should have told her; he always seemed to do the wrong thing. No, dash it! Why should he have to bribe her with diamonds and riches? She was his wife. He opened the drawer and put the box inside the desk. He wouldn’t even give it to her for a while, that’d show her.
No matter how long he kept putting it off in this fashion, there still remained before him the humiliating job of going to Ellie’s family and confessing that she had left him. He heard some commotion in the hall, a deep voice, and he jumped up. Siderow must have brought her back! Thank God. He opened the door.
“Hallo, Clay,” Rex said, and ambled in. “Thought I’d drop by and see how you and Ellie’s making out. Got her back all right, did you?”
“Oh, it’s only you,” Clay said, disappointment visible on his drawn face.
“Who was you expecting?” Rex walked past Claymore and deposited his chubby frame in a chair. “I feel like the very devil today,” he continued, rubbing his eyes. “Too much wine at your wedding, that’s the trouble. That, and Ellie having me dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Where is she? Off catching up on her rest, I expect. Don’t call her on my account. Fancy she won’t want to receive me for a while.”
Clay slumped on to a sofa. “She’s not here,” he said.
