Wife Errant

by Joan Smith

It occurred to Tess that Revel might be following his cousin, and she ordered tea for five. Revel did not come, however. While awaiting the tea, Lord James was voluble on plans to bring Mr. Marchant to heel.

  “The thing is as good as done.” He smiled merrily. “I saw Marchant peering round the corner of the card room when we were waltzing, Lou. He wanted to jump up and knock my head off. You have certainly won him back, and I am honored that I was of some use to you in the matter.” His flashing eyes slid to Tess. “I only hope it does not give him an aversion to me,” he added.

  “I should not think it would matter much if it did,” Dulcie said bluntly.

  “Lord James means an aversion to the family,” Mrs. Marchant interpreted, casting a brightly curious eye on James to see if he agreed. “He is referring to Tess and Revel.”

  “Tess and Revel?” Lord James exclaimed. The idea obviously came as a shock to him. Soon he decided it was a joke and laughed loudly. “I shouldn’t count on Revel’s being serious, Lou. He has more flirts than a dog has fleas.”

  This comparison hardly pleased Tess. She listened in growing anger while her mother said, “Has he said anything?”

  “Nothing to indicate he is serious about Tess. He is not mature enough to appreciate her many sterling qualities,” he added, bowing in Tess’s direction.

  “Then why is he trying to get Lyle and myself back together? I made sure he wanted the family respectable so he could marry Tess.”

  Lord James didn’t believe for a minute that Revel was interested in Tess, but lest she was falling in love with Revel, it would be wise to squash that romance once and for all. “More likely he only wanted to make Esmée Gardener jealous,” he invented. “He was pretty miffed when she gave him his congé. That was something new for him. I wager it amused him to use her new flirt’s daughter to accomplish it.”

  “The wretch!” Mrs. Marchant gasped. “Really, this is the outside of enough. I never could credit that he wanted to marry you, Tess. You will not see Lord Revel again.”

  “I don’t think Lord Revel would do that. He seemed very nice,” Dulcie said.

  Tess kept her thoughts to herself. Not by so much as a frown did she reveal her consternation. It was only too easy to believe it of Revel. Of course, he had lied to her about Esmée; she had heard him lie any number of times. He did it as well as a politician, with an innocent smile on his face. Why else would he have gone so far out of his way to oblige her? It seemed very unlikely, now that she considered it, that he had “accidentally” invited her father to Lady Corbeil’s rout. He had done it on purpose, to throw her parents back together. He must be very eager to resume relations with Esmée!

  Tess pulled herself to attention and said, “I have told you before, Mama, Revel and I are only friends. I never had any idea he meant to offer for me.”

  “There, you have it from the lady’s own lips,” Lord James said. “Tess is not interested in Revel, so no harm is done.” His smile beamed fondly on her, until she wanted to strike him.

  The tea arrived, and Tess poured, to give her nervous fingers a job. When the knocker sounded again, every fiber of her body tensed. Revel! She prepared her blackest scowl, but it was not Lord Revel who was announced.

  “Mr. Marchant,” Crimshaw said. “Are you at home, madam?” he asked, lifting a brow in Lord James’s direction.

  “Show him in, Crimshaw,” she replied very civilly.

  Upon hearing her polite accents, Marchant hastened forward eagerly. His eyes spotted Lord James, comfortably ensconced beside Lou, and his temper flew into the treetops. He was not a patient man. To have to court his own wife was more than enough to put him out of curl. Guilt and fear added their weight to his frazzled nerves, and when he spoke, it was with a certain violence.

  “So this is how you carry on when my back is turned!” he charged, stalking forward at a menacing gait.

  Lord James bounced to his feet to defend the lady’s honor. “Now see here! How dare you speak to Lou like that!”

  “We are just having tea, Papa!” Dulcie exclaimed. She grabbed hold of Tess’s fingers for comfort.

  “Tea, is it!” Marchant said in a voice heavy with sarcasm, but as he looked around, he saw that this was indeed the case. And the girls were present, too. Embarrassment was a further goad to his exacerbated mood. “It is a fine thing when a man cannot enter his own house without seeing some jackanapes making up to his wife.”

  “Really, Mr. Marchant!” Lord James said. “I am a friend of the family.” His sly eyes turned to Tess, daring her to refute it at such a time.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Papa?” Tess asked, glad she had had a cup brought for Revel. Why had he not come?

  “No, I would not like a cup of tea. I would like to invite Lord James to step outside.” Marchant’s livid cheeks and indignant glare gave a hint of what he had in mind. It was to be a challenge, no less.

  That look was familiar to Lord James. He had no fear of meeting any man on the dueling ground, but to kill the father of the heiress he hoped to marry was unthinkable.

  “You quite misunderstand the matter, sir,” he said gently. “When you and your wife have discussed this delicate matter in private, you will understand the innocence of our being occasionally seen together. It was merely an offer of friendship to a deeply unhappy lady. You have a rare jewel in Mrs. Marchant.” He gazed deeply into her eyes. “I envy you, but I hope I am a gentleman. I do not aspire to steal another man's wife. Good night, Mr. Marchant.”

  He bowed and beat a hasty retreat while Marchant was still trying to figure out what the fellow meant. As soon as he was gone, Marchant turned his wrath on his benighted lady.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Lou rose up from the sofa, drawing her wrath about her like an outraged goddess and quite enjoying the melodrama. “How dare you come into my home and insult my friends—and me! Your association with lightskirts has made you unfit for decent company, Lyle. Remember, there are young ladies present.”

  Dulcie looked about for these people and realized they were herself and Tess. “Should we leave them alone?” she whispered. Tess looked uncertain, but decided they must remain, in case their mama needed protection.

  “My association with lightskirts has made me feel very much at home in this house!” he shouted back. “The place is no better than a brothel. You are unfit to have the guardianship of my daughters—if they are my daughters!”

  This was going a good deal too far. Without further ado, Lou picked up the closest vessel and threw it at his head. Fortunately her cup was empty. She missed her target by six inches, but the cup made a very satisfying clatter as it shattered against the grate.

  “Don’t ever set foot in this house again,” she said in awful accents. “I shall inform Mr. Pargeter that you are not to see the girls, ever. Nor Henry, either. I will not have my innocent babes subjected to such lechery. Go to your rooms, girls. And take a good look at this—person—before you leave. You will not be seeing him again.”

  “Mama!” Dulcie wailed, and ran to pitch herself into her father’s arms.

  Marchant patted her head and closed his arms around her. He was more affected by Dulcie’s tears than by his wife’s playacting. Looking across the room, he noticed that even Tess, that cold-blooded woman, had a tear in her eyes. What had he done? He saw a long future of desolation, robbed of his family and Northbay.

  “Lou, I didn’t mean—”

  She strode from the room, grabbing Tess by the hand and drawing her along with her. “Crimshaw, tell Miss Dulcie to come to bed at once. Mr. Marchant is just leaving. He is not to be admitted to this house again, if he is so ill-advised as to return.”

  “Oh, why did you do it, Papa?” Dulcie asked, lifting her tearstained face.

  Marchant wiped her tears with his handkerchief and said gruffly, “Run along, my dear. This is not the end of it.”

  He left, before Crimshaw had to throw him out. His spirits were as low as they had ever b
een in his life. It was not until he was back in his lonely hotel room that the full iniquity of the situation occurred to him. He had gone, in all good faith, to make it up with his wife, and found her with another man. That was what it came down to in the end. She was with another man, and he was thrown out, castigated as a lecher. Calling him names in front of his innocent daughters. Oddly it was Tess’s stern, sad face that stayed in his memory.

  By God, if Lou didn’t want him, there were plenty of women who did. He would show her.

  At Bartlett Street, Henshaw put her mistress to bed with a dose of laudanum to calm her hysterics. Dulcie didn’t want to sleep alone and curled up in Tess’s bed, where she cried herself to sleep.

  For Tess, sleep was impossible. Her best effort to reconcile her parents had brought disastrous results. A divorce was inevitable now. The whole family would be cast into that shady demimonde inhabited by such people as Mrs. Gardener.

  Where had she gone wrong? Everything had seemed so hopeful as they drove home from Lady Corbeil’s party. Mama was in excellent spirits. If Lord James had not come to the house, she didn’t doubt her father would be back home by now.

  She never should have interfered. Especially she should not have accepted Revel’s help. Knowing now why he had helped her, she looked for his hand in the most recent debacle. If he wanted Esmée back, he had outsmarted himself. Tess knew her father well enough to suspect he would return to Esmée. But then was there any real choice between Revel and her papa? Naturally Esmée would choose the younger, wealthier, and more handsome lord.

  Yet she had jilted Revel. Lord James had said so, and she believed him. What reason had he to lie? Perhaps Esmée was only using Papa to make Revel jealous and bring him up to scratch? Esmée was not considered quite a fallen woman. She had still some shred of respectability. Revel knew Mrs. Gardener’s terms. If he still wanted Esmée, he meant to marry her. And he had just used Tess to turn the tables on Esmée—to make her jealous and to pay off Papa.

  He didn’t care a groat that he had irreparably destroyed her parents’ marriage in the process. What did he care for anything but himself? She agreed with her mother that she should not see Revel again. But if it fell out that she did see him, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mrs. Marchant came to the table the next morning restored to spirits by a night’s sleep and to good looks by the wizardry of Henshaw.

  “What ails you two?” she demanded of her daughters, who sat morosely chewing toast. “You look like a pair of hired mourners. I shall have Henshaw give you both a tonic.”

  “A tonic will not cure what ails us, Mama,” Dulcie said.

  “Perhaps a trip to the Pump Room will do the trick.”

  Dulcie looked so sullen that Mrs. Marchant laughed aloud. “Peagoose! I hope you did not take that little dustup last night seriously.”

  “Mama!” Tess exclaimed, more angry than shocked. “You are not implying you would take Papa back after what he said to you.”

  “Poor Lyle,” she replied fondly. “He didn’t mean a word of it. He found himself at point non plus, and felt foolish for making a spectacle of himself in front of James, so he tried to bluster his way out of it. He will be utterly mortified by now. Your tears were a stroke of genius, Dulcie.”

  “Was it all pretending, then?” Tess asked.

  “No indeed!” Dulcie assured her.

  “Not all, my dear,” Mrs. Marchant agreed. “I was truly annoyed with him at the time, but I would have had a rant even if I had not been. One needs a good grumble from time to time. It keeps the marriage lively. Lyle will be in the slough of despond by now. We shall visit the Pump Room this morning, girls. One can hardly affect a reconciliation in the middle of Milsom Street. Your papa will certainly take the waters this morning. We shall choose a corner table. I expect I shall weep a little, to show him how miserable I am. Remind me to take one of my new hankies, Dulcie.” On this command, she took up her knife and fork and attacked her breakfast.

  Dulcie was as easily restored to good spirits as her mama. It was only Tess who expressed her chagrin at this farce.

  “Oh, pooh!” her mama said impatiently. “If you had a little more ingenuity about you, Tess, you would have hooked Revel by now, reeled him in and gaffed him. Plain girls have done as well before. You have had unlimited access to the greatest parti in all of England, and what use have you made of it? You ought to have been bawling and telling him how sad you feel, and how your life was over with the shame of it all. That would have allowed him to rescue you. Gentlemen like to play God, you must know. And what have you done instead? You let him kiss you the first evening he took you out. Dulcie is wiser. I noticed that sly puss making long faces at him last night. I wonder now if ...”

  “He was very sympathetic,” Dulcie said musingly.

  “You shall have your chance with him during your Season, my pet,” her mama assured her. “I shall contrive another battle with your papa if need be, but it must be done quietly, for we do not want a scandal at such a time. Secrecy would be all to the good. Gentlemen like to be in on a lady’s secret.”

  Tess sat listening, keeping her thoughts to herself. Her first fit of exasperation with her mother had spread to include herself. This scheming and insincerity were horrid ... yet she had an inkling the plan would work. Mama would indeed take Papa back. They would take Dulcie to London to make her bows. Revel had looked on Dulcie last night with a tenderness never shown to herself. With a whole Season to pitch them together, Mama might actually contrive a match. Tess had never given Revel any opportunity to be tender with her, to play the white knight and feel heroic.

  She had engineered all the schemes herself, preventing him from displaying his own cleverness. She had ripped up at him and scolded, when she ought to have dissolved in tears on his shoulder.

  She had shoved him out of the carriage into the cold, when she ought to have slyly said he must not do such a thing, in case he took a chill. Then he would have insisted on doing it, and she could have fussed over him.

  Oh, she was a fool. He may have begun their flirtation with the intention of winning back Esmée, but if she had had a quarter of Mama’s cunning, she could have changed his mind.

  The ladies were soon rushing upstairs for their bonnets and pelisses. A merry mood prevailed in the carriage as Mrs. Marchant and Dulcie made plans for the great reconciliation.

  “When I draw out my handkerchief and hold it to my eyes, Dulcie, you nip over to your papa’s table. Do it furtively, mind, so he thinks you are disobeying me. Tell him how miserable I am, and how you think I might be talked around. He will ask what he should do. He will begin with letters and flowers and presents, I should think. You know the little diamond bracelet I have in my eye. But Lyle knows that himself. And you, Tess— Pray try not to look like Jehovah. Nothing is more likely to put Papa off than knowing you disapprove.”

  Stung by this remark, for Tess had decided to pitch herself into the game, she replied, “I don’t know whether to disapprove of you both or to pity you.”

  “You may disapprove as much as you like, Tess, but save your pity for yourself,” her mama said sharply. “You will certainly end up a spinster, the way you go on. I don’t know why you must always take the pleasure out of every little bit of enjoyment that comes along. One would think you were weaned on a pickle. I never imagined I would have such a sour daughter.”

  “This is all so unnecessary and childish,” Tess objected. “Why do you not just write Papa a note and tell him you want him back?”

  “And give him the upper hand? My dear fool, that is no way to win a gentleman. You must make him suffer, so that he will appreciate you. I was as sweet as honey to your papa when we came to Bath, and you see the upshot of it. Tell him I am sorry indeed! Where is the fun in that?”

  “Fun? I did not realize love was a game.”

  “That is where you made your first mistake,” her mama said triumphantly.

 
; A goodly crowd had gathered at the Pump Room by the time the Marchant ladies entered. They made one promenade of the room before choosing their corner table, to discover whether Mr. Marchant was there. He had not arrived yet, but they felt sure he would come and were prepared to wait.

  It was as Mrs. Marchant was pouring their second cup of tea that Dulcie spotted him. “He is here, Mama!” she exclaimed quietly.

  Mrs. Marchant hastily drew out one of her new lace-edged handkerchiefs, ready for her performance. “What is he doing? Does he see us?”

  “Not yet. He is coming this way. There! He has spotted me now. Should I wave?”

  “Just a sad smile, dear.” Mrs. Marchant looked to see that Tess was not glowering. Far from it, the girl looked witless. She sat with her mouth open, staring stupidly. “Don’t overdo your grief, Tess,” she said.

  Tess’s lips moved, but no words came out. “What is it?” Mrs. Marchant demanded.

  “Oh, dear!” Dulcie said weakly. “He is with Esmée Gardener, Mama. And they are coming this way.”

  “He wouldn’t dare present that creature to me!”

  “No, he is taking a seat across the way,” Dulcie reported. “He cannot have seen us.”

  “He saw us,” Tess said. “He looked right at me—and did not even nod. He chose that seat near us on purpose. He is just pretending he doesn’t know we are here.”

  “How can we get out?” Mrs. Marchant asked, peering over the top of her handkerchief.

  Tess examined the corner for a doorway in vain. “We can’t. We have either to pass their table or stay until they leave.”

  Mrs. Marchant’s face disappeared in a billow of linen and lace. A low moan came from the handkerchief. “Traitor! The treachery of it. I shall never forgive him for this. Never!”

  Tears swelled in Dulcie’s eyes, but Tess felt strangely detached. She had heard her mama’s fatal declaration before, and seen her simulated grief. She felt that her mama did care for her papa, but not to the depths she pretended. That pretty handkerchief was hiding more annoyance than grief.