Married to a Perfect Stranger

by Jane Ashford

  “No.”

  Mary blinked. “He isn’t station—?”

  “He’s very busy with his own friends.”

  “Surely you count yourself among…”

  “We can ask him when we’re completely settled,” John interrupted.

  “But we are…”

  “He and William Conolly wouldn’t get on.”

  At his curt tone, and third objection, Mary fell silent. It seemed that John did not intend to confide in her about his family either. She felt her temper rising. Did he imagine that they would confine their exchanges to practicalities and commonplaces? That he could continue to push her away? Was this his conception of a marriage?

  She’d met the Bexley brothers at her wedding and retained only a general impression of three young men who resembled her husband. She knew that Frederick, the oldest, managed the family property in Somerset. George was in the military, and Roger, the youngest, had gone off to India to make his fortune. The brothers had seemed cordial after the ceremony. Mary got no sense of friction among them. Yet John had not even mentioned George since she arrived, she realized. If one of her sisters lived in London, Mary would have haunted her household.

  She examined John’s set expression. “How can you be so sure that they won’t?” she pressed.

  “Because I know them both. As you do not,” he snapped.

  Mary put every bit of the irritation she felt in a look. As far as she could see, it had no effect. That evening it was she who retreated—to her parlor studio and sketchbooks—leaving her husband to go to his study without protest.

  * * *

  William Conolly came home with John on the appointed day, and Mary was introduced to a slender man of medium height with black hair, hazel eyes, and an engaging, mobile face. Though his clothes seemed designed not to call attention, he had a definite presence. There was a French phrase Mary had once heard—je ne sais quoi: an indefinable quality of…assurance. John’s friend possessed this. Perhaps it was his easy smile as he bowed over her hand or the slight lilt in his voice, just an echo of—Irish, or Welsh? Most importantly, it was clear that he liked and respected John, and Mary would have welcomed him for this if he’d been half as pleasant.

  He admired the neatness and comfort of their house as he drank a glass of the sherry John had bought specially. Mary was glad she’d hung new draperies in the front parlor. Kate appeared in the doorway right on time, curtsied correctly, and signaled that dinner was served. “Shall we go in?” said Mary. She savored the role of hostess in her own home.

  She was also proud of the meal she put before them. There was salmon in a pastry crust, roast beef and potatoes, and just the right array of side dishes—plentiful but not ostentatious. Kate actually was taking particular care with her serving. And Mary was secure in the knowledge that there was a Chantilly cream to finish. She’d managed it out of a cookery book. It looked and tasted lovely. Her eyes met John’s, and he smiled. Mary felt an odd little flutter in her chest as she smiled back.

  John held Mary’s gaze and felt a moment of perfect amity with her. It had been a bit strange to leave the office with Conolly and traverse the familiar streets in his company. Now, here he sat at the head of a laden board, his beautiful wife at the other end. She created a gracious setting, a fine meal. He’d never been the householder, the host. He rather liked it.

  “Do you enjoy living in London?” Conolly asked Mary. “You’ve been here only a short time, I believe?”

  She nodded. “I’m still getting accustomed to town life. There’s so much to see. This square is a very pleasant place to live, a little patch of country, with the trees and the garden to walk in. And I’ve met one kind neighbor, Eleanor Lanford.”

  “The Dowager Countess St. Clair? Someone said she’d moved out this way.”

  “Countess?”

  “They claim she’s become a hermit.” Conolly smiled as if to show he knew the label was ridiculousness. “She was the toast of society years ago, you know, during the American war.”

  “They?” said Mary, then she flushed as she realized she’d spoken aloud, repeating words like a parrot.

  “Well, her old friends. They like to pretend there’s no existence outside Mayfair. Lady Cast…” Conolly appeared to notice that he’d astonished his hosts.

  “Lady…?” Mary prompted.

  “Castlereagh.” For the first time all evening, Conolly looked self-conscious.

  John took a sip of wine to mask his surprise. He’d heard that Conolly had some family connections, though he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. He had not known that his colleague was acquainted with one of the chief arbiters of London society and the wife of the foreign secretary himself. “You know Lady Castlereagh?” he couldn’t help asking.

  Their guest seemed embarrassed. “I’m not a friend, or anything of that nature. Just a distant connection of her mother’s. Very distant—fifth cousin, eight times removed, or some such thing.” He made a deprecating gesture. “On the Irish side, to boot. I get the odd invitation, pick up this and that bit of gossip. I’m the sort of sad creature who enjoys hearing it.”

  Obviously he’d thought John was aware of this relationship already. Abruptly, John felt as if he was back at his job, navigating the shoals of the Foreign Office’s internal politics, rather than monarch of his own small homely kingdom. It seemed he’d made quite a clever move, inviting Conolly. He simply hadn’t done it on purpose.

  Conolly singled out the Chantilly cream for special compliments. He praised the wine John had chosen, working hard to restore their earlier ease. When they’d finished eating and Mary rose to leave the men to their port, he suggested they all retire to the front parlor. “It’s not as if we want to drink ourselves insensible,” he said with a laugh. “And why should you go and sit all alone?” He made it seem a jolly scheme rather than a deviation from etiquette or an acknowledgment that their house was so small, Mary would hear everything they said unless she retreated upstairs. But nothing put the evening back on a relaxed footing until he shifted the conversation to China. “I don’t see how we can ever establish proper diplomatic relations with a ruler who insists on the kŏutóu,” he said. Noticing Mary’s blank look, he added, “Anyone granted an audience with the Chinese emperor has to kneel before him and bang his forehead on the floor.”

  “Even foreign ambassadors?” Mary wondered.

  John nodded. “Lord Amherst couldn’t agree to it, of course.”

  “I should think not.” She tried to imagine an English nobleman in such a humiliating position before a foreign ruler, and could not.

  “You can’t even present credentials in a situation like that,” John added. “So how we’ll redress complex commercial grievances, I don’t know.” He spoke with calm authority. This was a side of him that Mary hadn’t seen.

  “We could give up tea,” Conolly suggested humorously.

  “Perhaps Englishmen should stop drinking it,” replied John, smiling to show he knew it had been meant as a joke. “A boycott would erase the trade imbalance in a matter of months.”

  Their guest shook his head. “We’ll never let go of our tea at this point. And it’s too late anyhow. The opium trade is established, and so profitable it will go on whatever the diplomats do.”

  John made a sour face, but nodded.

  Mary was fascinated by the way her husband came to life talking to a knowledgeable colleague. He sat straighter; his eyes glowed with a relish for debate. He looked absolutely confident of his ability to contribute. She wanted to see more of this man. “What does tea have to do with opium?” she asked.

  Conolly smiled at her and sat back to allow John to answer.

  “Just this,” her husband replied, ticking off points on his fingers. “Tea from China is the largest single item in Britain’s trading accounts. Every Englishman wants his tea. Of course we sell goods to the
Chinese as well, but not nearly enough to offset the amount we purchase. Some years ago, tea imports finally became so expensive that there wasn’t enough silver to pay for them. So traders looked for a profitable product to compensate for the loss.”

  “And discovered that many Chinese like opium,” said Conolly.

  “Which is illegal in China by imperial edict,” added John.

  He and his coworker were like a practiced chorus, Mary thought. Obviously this was much discussed at the Foreign Office.

  “However, opium is produced in India and sold there anyway.”

  “By private agencies, not the British government,” her husband assured her. “But the trade is silently condoned by the East India Company.”

  “Because it brings in piles of money,” Conolly supplied, “with which to buy tea.”

  Mary nodded. “I see.”

  “We’re rapidly reaching an impasse,” John concluded. “And it will end in war.”

  “Do you think so?” If he had begun the conversation out of politeness, Conolly was wholly engrossed now. Mary could see how much he valued John’s opinion.

  Her husband nodded. “All sides are obdurate. Communication is slow and uncertain and often contentious. Somebody will call out the troops in the next few years.”

  Mary understood better now why John cared so much about his work and devoted so much time to it.

  William Conolly looked glum, but he didn’t argue. “There must be some way we can stave it off.”

  “By doing our jobs,” replied John. “Get the most accurate information to the right people. Lay out the implications as best we can. I haven’t much hope, though.”

  “Do you think that your new explorations will…?”

  John made a quick gesture. Conolly bit off the end of his sentence. The two men had been leaning forward, gripped by the intensity of their discussion. Now they sat back, the rhythm of the exchange broken.

  Conolly glanced at the mantel clock. “Is that the time?” he exclaimed. “Lord, I’ve overstayed my welcome abominably.” He turned to Mary. “I can only plead the excellence of your hospitality.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not that late.” She looked from one man to the other, trying to figure out what had just happened. What had Conolly meant by “explorations”? Why had John cut him off?

  Conolly rose to go. The Bexleys stood to walk with him to the door. Mary rang for Kate as she passed the bellpull. When Kate brought their guest’s coat and hat, Conolly turned to Mary, smiled, and bowed. “Thank you very much for your kind hospitality, Mrs. Bexley. It’s been a most enjoyable evening.”

  “Good,” said Mary with a smile. “I hope we will see you again soon.” When the door was shut behind him, she added, “I like him. I’m so glad we invited him.”

  John nodded and turned back to the parlor.

  “What did he mean by ‘explorations’?” Mary asked as they sat down again.

  “Nothing.” John had retreated behind a barrier of hooded eyes.

  She felt a spark of irritation. “It didn’t seem like nothing. It seemed as if you didn’t wish to have it mentioned.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Mary’s irritation increased. It was as if John wasn’t really paying attention, now that their guest was gone. “Wasn’t it surprising to find that Conolly is related to Lady Castlereagh?” From his reaction, she was sure John hadn’t known.

  His laugh was curt. “That’s one word for it.”

  “What’s another?” Mary wanted the John of an hour ago back again. How could he be so clever and confident about his work and so dense about everything else?

  He paused and then said, “Complicated,” in a dismissive tone.

  But Mary didn’t wish to be dismissed. “In what way?”

  John’s gesture seemed to say that she couldn’t possibly understand. And that he had no intention of trying to explain it to her. “The dinner was very good.”

  “Well managed?” snapped the part of Mary who wasn’t going to be labeled negligible ever again.

  John stiffened, but he really looked at her, rather than at some indefinable object beyond Mary’s grasp. “You aren’t going to begin some sort of brangle, are you? Because I’m really not in the mood.”

  “And have far more important things on your mind?” said Mary, responding to his tone.

  “Yes, Mary, in fact, I do. As I think a wife might have the sense to know.”

  Afraid of what she might say if she stayed, Mary turned on her heel and walked up the stairs to her bedchamber. Her solitary bedchamber. Where she vented her temper by pounding an innocently ruffled pillow into complete submission.

  Six

  Mary tossed and turned all night and woke full of confusion. The new Bexley household had received formal calls from several sets of family friends. All of them belonged to their parents’ generation, however, and Mary had struggled to find common ground for conversation, beyond news of home. Though the exchanges were cordial, it was quickly clear that these visitors would be acquaintances, sources of practical information perhaps, but not friends. Their visits made Mary feel her distance from her family more acutely. She had no one to look to for advice.

  As a solace, she took her watercolors to the garden. She had a lidded jar for water and a neat little case for the paints. She wanted to be outdoors, even though the day was cool and overcast.

  The space was empty when she unlocked the gate and went in. She sat in a secluded corner and opened a small folding easel her father had given her years ago. Uncapping the jar, she wet her brush and swept it lightly over a sheet of paper. Then she held it poised over the row of colors and waited. Soon her hand began to move. Color and shape flowed over the page. A face began to form. Gradually, it revealed itself as her youngest sister, Petra.

  Mary smiled as she added detail. Petra always joked that their father, Peter Fleming, had finally given up on having a son when he named her. Petra hadn’t turned out boyish, but she was certainly the liveliest of the five Fleming sisters. Mary added a highlight to capture the twinkle that animated Petra’s hazel eyes. The portrait showed the characteristic tilt of her head, the mischievous quirk of her mouth.

  Mary’s hand slowed as she acknowledged how much she missed her. They’d been able to exchange occasional visits while she lived at Great-Aunt Lavinia’s, but that wouldn’t be possible now. London was too far. Her older sisters Eliza, Lucy, and Sophia, all married, the first two with small children, were too busy to make such a journey. And Petra was being presented to Bath society when the season began there next month; she’d be fully occupied. Mary wouldn’t see any of her family any time soon.

  And with that thought Mary acknowledged that she was terribly lonely. She’d been shoving aside the emptiness that had been building in her since she arrived in town, refusing to examine it. She was married; she was settled; this was her life. But she still felt so cut off from her husband. When they’d first married—it seemed so long ago now—they had talked more. Hadn’t they? She was sure they’d talked more. About…she didn’t remember specifically. Indeed, the memories of those first weeks of married life felt dim and pallid.

  Much of their talk had involved preparations for his long voyage, she realized. There had been so many details to settle and items to procure. They had worked together to gather them all in the short time he’d been given. Then he’d gone away for months and months, and he’d come home a different man.

  But still absorbed by his work, she thought. Or…even more absorbed.

  When his orders for the China mission first came, he’d been amazed. She was sure she remembered that properly. He’d marveled about the significance of the opportunity and his great good luck in being named to the group. Hurrying to prepare, he’d included her in the decisions about what to pack. He’d asked for her opinions; she was certain that he had. She’d struggled to come
up with some; she remembered that, too.

  Now, he seemed more deeply involved than ever in his job. He’d come to life last night, talking to William Conolly. But, beyond mere anecdotes of his travels, he didn’t want to talk to her about it. He’d pointedly excluded her.

  She remembered the two drawings of John she’d compared in Somerset, and she wished she had them with her to study again. The John who had come home in August was so much more compelling than the one she’d married. And what would portraits of her own face from two years ago and now show? Just as much change perhaps. No, certainly. Because she wanted so much more than she’d dreamed of then. She wanted John—all of him.

  It was all such a muddle. What was she going to do?

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, replied a stern inner voice, so strong she could almost hear it in the still autumn air. It sounded rather like her mother. Mary sat back and took a breath. She wasn’t the meek girl who waited for orders and did what she was told. What was she going to do? She was going to decide precisely what she wanted and find a way to get it.

  Sitting straighter on the bench, Mary noticed that Eleanor Lanford—or rather, the Dowager Countess St. Clair—was walking slowly along one of the garden paths toward her. Here was another person in her life who had turned out to be someone else. When she caught Mary’s eye, the old woman raised a hand in greeting. Mary composed herself and went to meet her. “Hello, uh, my lady.”

  The old woman’s smile shifted. “Ah, someone told you.”

  “Yes, my…”

  “Please. I thought you were going to call me Eleanor.”

  “That was before…”

  “My dear, if I cared about such things, I would have announced the title myself. If I’d even bothered to speak to you.” Her smile grew larger. “Or come to live here, for that matter, which I would not have.”