by Jane Feather
During her self-imposed seclusion she was visited only by Arabella who, although she appeared much more subdued than usual, sad even, made no reference to Merrie’s shameless conduct. With her brother’s permission, she had told a little of their guest’s extraordinary story to her husband, who deserved some explanation. The marquis had not been particularly mollified by the little she could tell him. He found it quite inexplicable that any woman should go to such lengths to avoid a brilliant marriage, particularly a woman who, he had thought, possessed more than average sense. He expressed the opinion that Rutherford would do well to forget the widow. Clearly she should never have been transplanted from the soil of Cornwall to the rarified London air, and the sooner she returned, the better.
Arabella did not, of course, impart any of this to Meredith, but neither was she as full of plans as usual. On the contrary, she encouraged her guest to keep to her room until she was quite certain she had thrown off her cold and was in no danger of the influenza.
Meredith drew her own conclusions. All her instincts told her to confront the subject with Arabella, but the thought of upsetting her hostess even further kept her in unhappy silence, pretending that nothing had happened, that she just had a simple cold and was a little fagged by the unceasing round of entertainment.
Nan, seeing little evidence of genuine illness, demanded an explanation for this pale-faced malingering. She received a judiciously censured version that nonetheless set her head nodding with comprehension. Something had to be done to break the deadlock, and Nan waited with patient trust for Lord Rutherford to make a move. Unfortunately, the one he did make had the opposite of the desired effect, sending Meredith into a passion that eclipsed all considerations of conscience and courtesy.
Rutherford had finally decided that matters were running out of hand. Their secret was now threatened, and, even if he dealt with this threat, there was always the possibility of others. It was time to bring an end to the deception. Since his own powers of persuasion seemed sadly inadequate, he would enlist support from an unexpected quarter. Before doing so, however, he paid a visit to Gerald Devereux. That gentleman received the bland statement that an understanding most definitely existed between Lord Rutherford and Lady Blake with a small nod and the offer of sherry. Rutherford accepted before going on to explain in the same bland tone that her ladyship, for family reasons to do with her brothers, wished to keep the engagement secret. She had felt she owed Mr. Devereux an explanation, but delicacy forbade her giving it to him herself. Rutherford was, therefore, her messenger. He was sure Mr. Devereux now understood the position perfectly. Mr. Devereux assured him that he did, and the gentlemen parted amicably: one satisfied that the explanation, while tenuous at the moment, would achieve unimpeachable credence the minute the notice of the marriage appeared in the Gazette; the other, remembering Lady Blake’s declaration that she did not intend to marry Rutherford or anyone else, remained intrigued. But chivalry required that he accept Rutherford’s statement at face value at least for the time being.
Within the week, the postman, in scarlet coat and cockaded hat, delivered three letters to Cavendish Square, addressed to Lady Blake.
Meredith, returning from a stroll in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour of five and six, recognised the handwriting on all three missives immediately and felt an instant sense of foreboding. All her correspondence was sent to a poste restante address and collected from there by a footman. Why then were her brothers writing directly to Cavendish Square when they had no idea she was here? But it seemed that they did know now, and, if they knew that, then how much more had been revealed and by whom?
Excusing herself to Bella, she took the letters and went upstairs. What she read left her shaking with rage. Rutherford had visited Hugo at Oxford, Rob and Theo at Harrow ostensibly to invite them all to spend Christmas at Rutherford Abbey, but the ulterior motive was clear. All three thought it capital that Meredith had met up with Rutherford in London and was now staying with his sister. Their opinions were expressed with their usual individuality. Hugo was restrained although he said Rutherford had entertained him to dinner in a most elegant fashion, and they had had a very sensible conversation about the Church and about running an estate the size of Pendennis. If Merrie wished to be at Rutherford Abbey for Christmas, then Hugo would be happy to join the party. Theo declared that Lord Rutherford was quite splendid, not at all toplofty, and all the fellows at school had been green with envy when he’d taken him and Rob out for exeat in a bang-up curricle with a team of grays. It was a pity they’d had to take Rob, but his lordship had insisted. If Merrie was intending to marry Lord Rutherford, Theo had no objections and was looking forward to Christmas at Rutherford Abbey. They’d need evening clothes, though, since all the fellows said it would be very grand. Rob seemed to have difficulty finding sufficient superlatives. Not only had Lord Rutherford persuaded the Master to allow Rob to go on exeat, although first years were not allowed to leave the grounds, he had also brought enough tuck to feed the entire first form. They’d had luncheon in the town and a minute description of this repast followed. The letter ended with an impassioned plea that they spend Christmas at Rutherford Abbey because his lordship had promised him and Theo that they should join a proper shoot, and Rob was determined to bag the most grouse.
How dared Rutherford involve her brothers! It was one thing to employ underhand cunning when only she was affected. But to ingratiate himself with the boys, to show them what benefits there were in having such a magnificent figure for friend and relative! To imply that he and their sister were in a fair way to coming to an understanding! To dangle the riches and entertainments of a society Christmas before someone as susceptible as Theo! It was quite unpardonable.
Meredith left her boudoir, closing the door with a barely controlled slam, making her way to Arabella’s apartments.
“Whatever is it?” Arabella looked at her friend’s ashen face, blazing eyes and set lips.
“I beg your pardon for being so precipitate, Bella, but I shall be leaving for Cornwall in two days.” Merrie struggled to calm the tremor in her voice.
“But why?” Bella faltered, aghast. “It is not because of that business the other evening, surely? Because no one has said anything, or—”
“No, it is not that,” Merrie interrupted. “At least, not directly. It was foolish of me, and I have been meaning to apologize to you for it. Your brother just makes reasonable action impossible at times.”
“Oh, please, do not refine too much upon it,” begged poor, bewildered Bella. “But I do not understand why you will not marry Damian when he wishes it so much.”
“Your brother has been accustomed to having his own way for too long,” Meredith said, quite unable to hide her own anger. “When he is thwarted, he becomes depressed and disagreeable. He did not wish to leave the army and suffered black moods that made everyone miserable until he decided he wished to marry me and so forgot about the army.”
“I think you are being unfair!” Bella sprang to her brother’s defense. “He was very unhappy after his furlough, but that was because he had always been a soldier and he did not know what else to do.”
“So he decided to marry a totally unsuitable Cornishwoman,” Merrie replied bluntly. “That gave him plenty to do and blinded him to the intransigent differences between us. I am not his equal in either rank or fortune, and it matters not that society believes otherwise. I know the truth. If things went wrong between us, I could not endure the humiliation of that truth, the knowledge that by marrying a duke’s heir, all my material problems had been dissolved with one wave of the wand, and I was now responsible for making the fairy godfather unhappy because I did not fit in his world.”
“But you do fit,” Bella protested, “except when you choose not to.”
Meredith frowned. What that true? Did she sometimes choose not to? If that were so, then she could always choose the other path. She was still too enraged, however, to puzzle over that novel thought. “I am n
ot the stuff of which duchesses are made, Bella,” she said, her voice quite calm now. “Damian persists in ignoring this fact. He will not accept what I can offer him, and what he has just done makes it impossible for me to remain under your roof any longer. I must leave immediately, although”—smiling, she took the other woman’s hand—“I shall miss you, my dear friend.”
Arabella began to weep. “But what has he done?”
“You must ask him yourself,” Meredith said. “I am not a tattletale. Please do not cry, Bella.” The request went unheeded and Meredith stood by helplessly, unwilling to leave her so distraught but quite unable to do or say the one thing that would restore Bella’s customary good cheer.
“You do not love him then?” Bella found her handkerchief and snuffled, pathetically red-eyed.
Meredith sighed, shaking her head sadly. “If that were true, my dear, I would marry him tomorrow. If I did not love him, I would not care if I made his life a misery.”
Leaving Arabella then, she returned to her own boudoir where she informed a grim-faced Nan of their impending departure.
“And just what bee have you got in your bonnet this time?” Nan demanded. “Seems to me you don’t know when you’re well off, my girl.”
“I do not wish to discuss it,” Meredith said coldly. “You will pack only those things I brought with me, please.” She marched into her bedchamber, emerging pale, red-eyed, but firm of purpose an hour later. They would have to travel by stage coach at least as far as Honiton since she could not begin to afford the cost of a post chaise for the entire journey. In the morning, she would go to the George in the Strand and reserve their places on the waybill. It would be an horrendously uncomfortable journey, but there was little point in complaining.
Damian, blithely unaware of these events, passed a pleasant evening with friends, intending to call in Cavendish Square on the morrow, having decided that he had left Meredith to her own devices for long enough. On returning to his house after dinner, however, he found a hastily penned, distraught scrawl from his sister: Bella did not understand anything, but Merrie was going home to Cornwall and, if he intended to prevent her, he had best make haste.
It was too late to seek an explanation that night so Rutherford was obliged to bide his time until the morning, which found him, at an unconscionably early hour, in Cavendish Square.
Grantly, upon informing his lordship that the ladies were not yet up, found himself holding my lord’s hat and gloves while their owner mounted the stairs to the upper region two at a time. Damian walked without ceremony into Meredith’s boudoir where he found her, in a simple morning wrapper, packing her dressing case. A dour-faced Nan was folding gowns preparatory to laying them in the trunk standing open beneath the window.
“What the devil is this nonsense?” Rutherford demanded.
“I am going home,” Meredith informed him. “I was about to write you a letter.”
“I am honored,” said he, sarcastically. “However, it will not do. Will you please get dressed? We shall go to Highgate where we may discuss this nonsensical business properly.”
“There is nothing nonsensical about it. If you have anything to say, you may say it here. I have a great deal to do this morning.”
“Meredith, must I request you again to get dressed?” There was a distinct note of menace in the usually level tones, but Merrie was beyond caution. A panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that she could not afford to be alone with him, and the fear merely increased her legitimate anger.
“I am going nowhere, my lord. I will, of course, do you the courtesy of listening to whatever you may wish to say.” She began to roll up a pair of long evening gloves with hands that shook slightly.
Nan sniffed derisively and Rutherford said, “Very well, if you wish to take the hard road, that is your choice. Since you will not dress yourself, I must do it for you.”
Before she could guess at his intention, he had swept her off her feet and carried her to the chaise longue where he sat down, imprisoning her legs between his own, holding her wrists in one large hand behind her back while he began unbuttoning the wrapper with his free hand.
“Stop this!’ ’Meredith spoke with fierce desperation, jerking at her captive wrists. ”You cannot compel me in this manner.”
“Can I not?” he replied grimly. “Nan, bring me a driving dress.”
“Nan, don’t you dare!” Meredith exclaimed.
“I’ve waited nigh on twenty-four years to see you broke to bridle, Meredith,” Nan announced, shaking out the folds of a dark-green driving habit. “If you’d be a little less worried about the happiness of others, then maybe you’d find your own. It’s as plain as the nose on your face where it lies.” So saying, she tossed the dress over Merrie’s head.
Meredith, realizing with a sick horror that, between them, these two would have her dressed regardless of struggles and protest, knew that she could not bear the humiliation and capitulated the minute her head emerged from the folds of material. “Let me go. I will come with you if you insist.”
She was instantly set on her feet by a greatly relieved Damian. Shaking off Nan’s assisting hands, she said, “I can manage myself.”
“Yes, I am sure you think you can,” Nan muttered, returning to her packing.
“I will wait for you downstairs.” Damian beat a hasty retreat, hoping by this withdrawal to lessen the effects of that regrettable show of force.
Meredith, when she joined him in a very few minutes, offered little reassurance that he need not regret it. The sloe eyes were coldly blank, her face set, her voice a monotone. She sat beside him in the curricle, hands folded in her lap, staring at the road ahead.
When they reached the house in Highgate, she walked into the parlor, turning to face him as he closed the door quietly. “Well, sir, what is it you wish to say to me?”
“What the devil is the matter?” he exclaimed in frustration. “Why are you behaving in this manner?”
“How can you ask such a question? After the way you have just treated me—that brutal, humilating—”
“Merrie, I beg your pardon. It was insufferable, but what else was I to do?”
“Accede to my wishes, of course,” she clipped. “But then, that is something you cannot bring yourself to do if they run counter to your own.”
Damian took a deep breath and went to the sherry decanter on the marquetry sideboard. “Do you care for a glass?”
“No, thank you,” she answered stiffly. “It is a little early for me.”
“Will you please tell me what precipitated this—this crisis?” he asked, taking a deep draft of the tawny wine. “The only fault which I am aware of having committed is in preventing you from making yourself the talk of the town.”
“You do not consider going behind my back to my brothers a fault then?” she inquired, one mobile eyebrow lifted. “You consider it perfectly acceptable to issue invitations to my wards without consulting me? You do not consider it in the least despicable to enlist the unwitting support of total innocents in your own interests—interests that run against mine and, therefore, against theirs?”
Rutherford’s startled expression told her very clearly that he had not considered the matter in this light. He had, in fact, seen it as a perfectly legitimate move. Only now did he realize his mistake. It was a mistake based on the firm belief that Meredith’s true interests did not run counter to his, quite the opposite. Unless she could be brought to believe this also, then his action was indeed despicably underhanded.
Meredith, seeing him for once at a loss for a reply, pressed her advantage. “I will no longer be compelled to run between your shafts, Rutherford. It is quite clear that you will use any method to obtain your way, including force. I can no longer continue with this masquerade, continue to deceive your mother and my host. Since you cannot see your way to accepting what I have to give, then I am returning by stage to Cornwall tomorrow.” The slight figure radiated resolution and a pride that could not be
gainsaid. Dimly, Rutherford began to see that his tactics had been wrong from the start. In trying to overcome that damnable, proud independence, he had simply reinforced it. By trying to make her a part of his world, he had merely emphasized the chasm that lay between them. Certainly, he had demonstrated that she could bridge that chasm, but he had not shown that so could he also. Unless he did so, Meredith would remain convinced that the gap was not to be traversed.
“You will not return by stage,” he informed her crisply, putting his now empty glass back on the tray. “You will return home exactly as you came. At Okehampton, you may engage your own conveyance.”
If Meredith felt any satisfaction at this evidence of an instantaneous, effortless victory, it did not show on her face. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary.”
“It is necessary,” he said forcefully. “Do you think that I do not have my pride? You came here under my protection, you have lived here under that protection, and you will leave here under it. You cannot refuse to end this without a veneer of grace at least.”
“No,” Meredith said quietly. “I cannot and would not under any circumstances. I accept your offer, sir. May we now go back to Cavendish Square?”
Damian thought of the bedchamber upstairs under the thatched roof, the wide bed with its patchwork quilt. In that room there had been laughter, love, friendship between them, the glorious heights of ecstasy. Only once had there been anger, quickly dissipated by the passion that was, after all, only the reverse side of the coin. Would it work this time? Would the act of love dissipate the desolation of that anger? The bodily fusion cement the division of spirit? Looking at Meredith, so pale and set and unhappy in her resolution, he did not think so, and, if it did not work, the failure would tarnish the gold of a memory that they must both keep bright. It was not a risk he could afford to take.
