This stilted conversation was too painful. She rapped on the door and the coachman let her out. Wilson ran his hand down the back of her arm, but true to his word, didn’t follow her from the carriage. And Adela didn’t look back as she ran to the front door of her home and let herself in, not even waiting to hear the noise of the coachman resuming his seat and the carriage pulling away.
Inside, there was no time to even draw breath. As Adela removed her hat and handed her gloves to Minnie, the parlor maid, her mother swirled into the entrance hall to meet her, all aflutter, swathed in several shawls and clutching her handkerchief.
“Della! Good heavens, where have you been all this time? I’ve been worried to the point of prostration.” Mama’s eyes looked red, as if she’d been crying, and Adela felt a spear of guilt pierce her. Her mother did care for her, and worry about her, despite her apparent preference for Sybil. It was just that the love was quieter, and more shadowed.
“I sent round to Mrs. Ritchie’s, and to Mrs. Brigstock’s, but they hadn’t seen you at all. I even sent a note round to Mme Chamfleur...even though you know I think that woman isn’t quite respectable.” Mama stood, mangling her handkerchief, compounding Adela’s guilt.
“Now, now, Mama, Sofia is a splendid woman and very kind, and her house in Cheveley Street is perfectly respectable.” Which was completely true...because the man brothel was situated in a large and rather fine house in Hampstead that actually belonged to her husband, Monsieur Ambrose Chamfleur. “Come along, let’s take some tea. You must settle down and not worry so about me, you know. I’m twenty-five, Mama, not a silly romantic chit like Sybil, bless her heart. I simply decided to pay a call on a different friend while I was out. I’m sorry, I know I should have sent round a note with a servant.”
“What friend? What friend, Della?” demanded Mama, as Adela hustled her into the parlor, having requested Minnie bring them tea.
What friend indeed? Was Wilson even her friend? Yes, he was her distant cousin, and a man who’d possessed her body twice in her life now, but friend was such a small, inadequate word for what he was.
“Yes, what friend?” inquired Sybil, looking up from a copy of the Young Ladies’ Journal. Even Marguerite looked interested for a moment, although she returned almost immediately to her book.
“Not someone you know...but very, um, very respectable. Someone interested in art and anxious to show me a new acquisition.”
Lies and avoidance. How was she going to talk herself out of this one? The guilt piled up. And not for what she’d done with Wilson. No, that seemed beyond all consideration of desire or respectability, of right or wrong. It was the fibbing to Mama and to Sybil that made Adela feel hot and uncomfortable. Not to mention the fact that she suddenly realized she’d never even asked Wilson specifically about the letters. She hadn’t really considered it possible that he’d taken those, as well, but with his powers of observation, and insatiable curiosity, he might have been able to offer some theory as to their whereabouts. Moreover, his deductive skills would have been useful in solving the dilemma.
Both Mama and Sybil opened their mouths to continue the inquisition, but there was a rap at the door. Surely not the tea already? Minnie was quick and efficient, but nobody could get down to the kitchen, assemble the tea things, brew the pot and get back up to the parlor in barely moments.
Minnie entered the room again, sans tea and looking flustered.
“Mr. Wilson Ruffington to see you, ma’am.” She held out a card on her little silver salver, but it was immediately made redundant when Wilson strode into the room, right on her heels.
“Wilson, how delightful to see you again so soon! To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” Suddenly beaming, Mama held out her hand.
Adela was glad she was sitting down, because if it were otherwise, she would have had to flop into a chair. What was Wilson doing here? Had the carriage moved even one inch from the pavement outside the house?
You scheming devil, what are you up to now? What deviousness is this?
Wilson had dispensed with his hat and gloves and cane, leaving him still looking extraordinarily sartorial. His lean form in his dark and sober suit was drawing admiring glances from both Sybil and Marguerite, and Mama looked as if she was about to leap up and shower him in kisses.
Adela just wanted him to go. As soon as possible. She knew him, and this could only end in some kind of disaster.
“I won’t prevaricate, Mrs. Ruffington. I’ll get straight to the heart of my intentions.” Like some continental courtier, he swept up Mama’s proffered hand and dusted a kiss upon it. Then he turned to Adela, with a melee of dangerous emotions in his eyes. Humor. A strange excitement. Masculine triumph.
No! Please no!
She suddenly knew exactly what he was going to say, and silently exhorted him not to. It was incomprehensible, but she knew, she knew....
But it was too late; he was reaching for her hand now.
“I should like to ask for Adela’s hand in marriage. It would make me the happiest man in the world if you’d give us your blessing, Mrs. Ruffington.”
The room instantly became a chaos of excited voices. Mama almost shrieked and bounced up from her chair like a spring lamb. “My dear Wilson, this is such a surprise. But a wonderful one. I’m quite overcome!” Overcome or not, she wrapped her newly prospective son-in-law in a hug that was considerably more uninhibited than ladylike. “Of course you have my blessing, dear boy, of course.”
But what about my blessing, Wilson? You’ve presented me with a fait accompli.
Adela sat in silence. It was like being immobilized in the eye of a vortex. Mama, Sybil, and even Marguerite—who’d dropped her book in surprise—were all chattering to each other and to Wilson, but to Adela the words were jumbled noise, making no sense whatsoever. The only thing that did make sense was Wilson’s gaze upon her, his silver-gray eyes focused on her alone, even though he was surrounded by, and conversing with, three other females.
“Della, Della, Della...I never realized. This is the most wonderful news!” It was Adela’s turn to be hugged by her parent now, as if Mama had finally remembered her presence in the room. “You are such a sly one, my darling, so clever. But believe me, you’ve made me happier than you can possibly imagine.”
In the midst of her elation, Mrs. Ruffington suddenly looked deadly serious for about half a second, and Adela’s heart plummeted as she recognized the clang of the shutting gate. This, this ruse or whatever it was of Wilson’s, was the answer to all Mama’s prayers. A greater prize even than a potentially noble marriage for Sybil. A solid alliance with Wilson would mean the end of fear of poverty and being cast out in the cold. The happy return to the female Ruffington line of all that had seemed lost by Mama’s inability to produce a male heir.
Mama’s dream had come true, and thus, there was no escape. And even though Adela had no idea of Wilson’s real motivation for wanting to marry her, she prayed, for Mama’s sake, that it wasn’t just some capricious trick on his part. It would certainly crush her parent for good and all if he was merely playing out some cold experiment in human response and behavior, and planning to snatch back the proposal as suddenly as it had been proffered.
But even if his request was bona fide, and exactly what it seemed, the enormity of what lay ahead made Adela’s blood sink from her head, and giddiness engulf her.
“Dearest, are you all right?”
It was Wilson’s voice that brought back her wits. As if part of some elaborate dance, Mama had vacated her place on the sofa, and surrendered it to Wilson, so he could take his place as the dominant male of their small pack, seated at his chosen mate’s side.
His hands felt hot as fire around hers, and Adela realized that was because her skin was ice-cold, from genuine shock.
“Yes, thank you, dearest,” she said pointedly, rallying herself. This was no time to turn into Mama or Sybil, and succumb to the vapors. She needed all her faculties about her now. In fact, she’d
need all her faculties around her for the rest of her life if she was to deal with a creature like Wilson on a daily basis. “I’m quite well. Just a little taken aback...I thought that we weren’t going to reveal our happy news for a little while yet.”
Wilson chafed her hands in his, clearly knowing she was not precisely well. His eyes were smiling, but a little narrowed. He nodded as if he were acknowledging and applauding her quick uptake and the way she’d resisted the urge to protest, make a scene, or possibly even strike him.
“Ah, you know me, darling Della. I’m ever impatient.” His eyes glittered like pale blue steel fresh from the furnace, still sparking. “I just can’t wait to have you for my own.”
The word again seemed to sound between them like a bell.
Mama was still burbling at them, but Adela wasn’t taking any of it in; she could register only the touch of Wilson’s fingers, and the look in his eyes. He appeared so confident, so assured of what he was doing, and yet somehow, despite the fire, did she detect the merest hint of shock in his expression, too?
At Mama’s summons, champagne was brought. Probably one of the last bottles in the cellar, Adela guessed, hoping that there was still at least one left for the announcement they were anticipating for Sybil. Was her sibling a little miffed to be pipped to the post by such a rank outsider in the marriage stakes? It didn’t seem so. Sybil appeared to be at least as excited as Mama, possibly more so. Perhaps already planning a grand double wedding?
Wilson, however, would not be pressed on details.
“I’ll visit again tomorrow, Mrs. Ruffington, and then we’ll discuss the formalities. I think Adela is a little tired now, after all the excitement. Let’s just enjoy the moment and this excellent champagne, eh?”
Mama looked a little worried. Was she frightened that this bright new happiness was about to be snatched away? But Adela watched her parent squash the doubt and cover it with a fond smile.
“It’s a beautiful evening. Why don’t you take Wilson for a walk in the garden, Della? Show him the gazebo. Now that you’re formally betrothed, a few moments alone won’t harm anybody.”
Adela was almost compelled to bite her knuckle. Mama’s face was perfectly straight, but was it possible she suspected that improper things, in abundance, had already occurred? Her own marriage had been a very fond one. In fact, though her parent never spoke of it, Adela knew that Mama’s engagement had been scandalously short, and her own birth credited as premature.
“Yes, of course.” She sprang to her feet. Fresh air would be a blessing, even if she had to share it with Wilson. The parlor was beginning to feel like a steam room, it was so suffocating. “Come along, dearest.” Grabbing him by the hand, and digging in her nails out of sight of Mama, she hustled him from the room without further ado. At a swift march, they sped through the house and out of the back door into the garden, Adela keeping her lips tightly shut and her face resolutely forward. Wilson followed her lead, mercifully silent.
Because their house was small, their garden was pocket-size, too. A few paces brought them to the wrought-iron garden seat beneath an ornamental trellis. Adela wished the garden half a mile long, so the walk would have given her time to frame her thoughts. As it was, she sat down with a mind still blank from shock.
“Nothing to say, wife-to-be?”
That urge to punch Wilson on the nose surged up again, and her hand curled into a fist. But he caught her in time, effortless as usual.
“Well, that’s not exactly the response I was expecting. Joy and gratitude seem to be more appropriate reactions, wouldn’t you think?”
Snatching back her hand, she shuffled away on the seat, then grimaced when the heat in her bottom reminded her of what she and her “fiancé” had done such a short time ago.
“I’m completely at a loss for words, Wilson. I don’t know what to say.... What on earth are you thinking?” She scowled. “I know this isn’t because you respect and admire and adore me...so why are you doing this?”
Wilson looked as if she had indeed landed the intended blow. Or at least something had shocked him. But the expression faded in a moment, replaced by a grin.
“Logic, dear Della. Logic. It suddenly occurred to me that a marriage between us would actually be a perfectly rational act. It would solve a lot of problems and make some people, if not everybody, happy.”
A little bit of that was right. Mama was clearly ecstatic.
“How shiningly altruistic of you, Wilson.” Adela stared at him, wondering anew what he was up to and aware that confusion, and suspicion, were making her ungracious. “But if this is some kind of devious trick, and you up and renege at any minute... Well, I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands. I will do it. You’ve elevated Mama’s hopes now, and if you crush them it will cruel beyond imagining.”
Wilson gave her a steady look. A serious look, oddly unnuanced for him. “Your opinion of me is very low, isn’t it? Do you really think I would be so despicable as that? Well, I swear, too.... I swear to you that my intention to see this through is sincere and steadfast, Della. I want us to marry, for a number of reasons. Financial in particular.”
Adela frowned. What did he mean?
“Well, I don’t see any particular fiscal advantage to you in marrying me. Quite the reverse. You famously pointed out that the four of us are a quartet of parasites who expect to be supplied a luxurious living for having done very little.”
Wilson let out a sigh and stared up into the foliage above. “I’ve already told you that was a random, incorrect statement on my part, and that I didn’t really mean it. Why won’t you believe me?”
But he had spoken words to that effect. And they couldn’t simply be erased from her memory. Although it was looking as if he expected her to, now.
“Very well, I accept that. Now outline these advantages for me.”
“The fiscal advantage is to you, your mother and your sisters.” Without warning, he reached for her hand and folded it in both of his, almost in the way the sincerest of prospective husbands might. “I believe your grandfather, Lord Millingford, is being grossly unfair to you all. I have attempted to explain that to him in a number of letters, but even though he’s named me his financial heir in addition to me being the heir to his title, he still won’t see me in person, and persists in behaving like a recluse.”
Wilson had done that? Neither she nor her mother had been aware of it.
“So, in marrying you, I’m able to legitimately support you all and ensure that you enjoy a pleasant standard of life free of all financial cares.” His thumb moved over her knuckles in a caress she wasn’t sure he even registered. “It’s no burden to me. I’m independently wealthy with my consultancy, my patents and my investments, not to mention a generous bequest from an aunt on my mother’s side.”
“But you don’t owe us anything.”
“Yes, I feel I do. Since the untimely death of cousin Henry, the Old Curmudgeon seems to have fixated on me, to the exclusion of his moral responsibility to his closer family. It’s not your mother’s fault she didn’t give him a grandson, and it’s not her fault that your father died relatively young. It’s just fate, if you believe in such things, and none of you should be punished for it.” He shrugged. “And then, when the old monster kicks the bucket and I inherit, I can ensure that you all get your full share of the Ruffington assets...and I won’t feel guilty anymore.”
Adela had the sensation of being crushed. Diminished by emotions she didn’t dare inspect too closely, and hopes she’d extinguished a long time ago. “Ah, so I’m to be shackled to you in matrimony just to prevent you from feeling guilty?”
Another sigh, and his fingers tightened a bit around hers. “Not just for that...and I don’t intend you to feel shackled in any way.” Was there a glint in his eye then, a touch of humor? “No, there are other reasons, practical ones, advantageous to us both.”
“Pray tell.”
“Well, as I’ve recently discovered, you and I are both people of ent
husiastic carnal appetites. And though we don’t always see eye to eye in some matters, we’re well suited in the bodily sense. It seems to me that we both have physical needs at this point in our lives, and rather than seek satisfaction elsewhere...and take risks—” his eyes narrowed “—it seems more prudent, and more rational, to place ourselves in a situation where we can legally, morally and conveniently satisfy our needs and desires without recourse to other parties.”
How long had he been formulating this rational solution of his? They’d barely seen each other at all in recent months and years. It wasn’t until the Rayworths’ house party that he’d even seemed to take the slightest interest in her again, as a woman, since their encounter all those years ago.
Was all this just to stop her going to Sofia’s house of pleasure?
“Put like that, how can I argue? Although I would at least have liked to have had some choice in the matter. I was happy with my own arrangement. At least that way I didn’t have to take on wifely duties and responsibilities to...to satisfy my urges.”
“I’m not expecting you to take on duties and responsibilities, Della!” he cried, sounding exasperated. “I won’t expect any duties of you. You can do exactly what you want...pursue your artistic career, or whatever you choose. All I ask is that you don’t seek out other men, and preferably don’t view them unclothed, either, in order to draw them! You’re the one who’s pointed out that you draw from memory...and dash it, woman, if you need a new model, I’ll pose for you myself as long as you don’t show my face too clearly!”
Adela started to laugh. She couldn’t contain herself. The profound absurdity of what he suggested, coupled with its equally eminent practicality, was a complete paradox, both ludicrous and perfectly sane at the same time. Her giggles became uncontrollable. She got the hiccups. She couldn’t breathe.
Portia Da Costa Page 21
