by Allison Lane
They chatted for a time, then Marianne collected her books and headed home.
But her heart remained heavy. Jack was using Deerchester’s letter as an excuse to pull away and force her into independence. Clinging would do no good, but somehow she had to give him a reason to live.
Chapter Fourteen
The next days passed in a blur of activity. Though October was slow socially – Parliament was in recess and most gentlemen were either overseeing harvests or attending hunting or shooting parties – Marianne and Jack went out most afternoons and every evening. Barnett’s claims fell on deaf ears once Lady Beatrice and Lady Debenham welcomed Marianne, but she still endured considerable curiosity. Every event she attended was a crush.
Marianne had expected that her demeanor at the musicale would quell further interest in her affairs, but she soon realized her mistake. The gentlemen remaining in town were mostly jaded fribbles with nothing to do or dandies unwilling to rumple their meticulous toilette by engaging in the usual autumn sports. Now back from a summer in Brighton, they were bored. The ladies – young or old – were starving for new scandal. So Marianne’s affairs entertained them, providing interest and filling conversation. Their scrutiny created a circus atmosphere.
All eyes blazed to life whenever she did something odd – watching the stage instead of the audience at the theater, walking across Grosvenor Square to call on Lady Hartford instead of taking a carriage, avidly examining Lady Debenham’s relentlessly Egyptian drawing room instead of displaying ennui.
Speculation never ceased. Was she an Original or merely rustic? How could an admitted bluestocking know so little about the world as defined by London society? Might Barnett be right?
Her one surprise was that Barnett never appeared. She hadn’t seen him since Halworth. Devall believed that he was hiding from his creditors, all of whom knew he had mortgaged Barnett Court.
Marianne didn’t agree. Barnett could easily have accosted her on the street, but repeated confrontations would breed ease. He was desperate enough that he no longer cared whether she was mad. His only goal was to break her composure in front of the bishop, possibly by springing at her in court. In the meantime, his rumors would keep her off balance.
It was working, she admitted on Thursday, fighting back tears as she returned from morning calls. She wasn’t sure how long she could tolerate being the focus of so many eyes.
“I can’t take any more stares,” she told Angela, shaking her head so hard that several pins flew out – Daisy hadn’t quite mastered this style. “They expect me to be more conventional than the most sedate spinster. The pressure makes me want to scream. And Jack just heard that the hearing is Monday.”
“You will do fine,” said Angela soothingly. “The bishop is nothing like society’s dandies.”
“I know that, but his judgment will determine how I spend the rest of my life. How can I not be terrified? I can manage as long as I remain calm. But that grows harder each day. People analyze my every word and deed. Court will be even worse.”
“I know this is difficult for you,” agreed Angela. “I was in the same position two years ago when Atwater spread lies about me.”
“After you turned him down?”
“Exactly. He was mad, though no one yet realized it. One of his claims was that I’d bedded half of London’s gentlemen. You can imagine the response that raised among the rakes. Everyone who hadn’t had me wanted his share.” Her shoulders twitched in distaste.
“Heavens! That is far worse than being thought mad. What did you do?”
“Held my head up and pretended I didn’t care what anyone thought. For a fortnight society reveled in reviling me. I was cut, berated, slapped – ladies can be vicious in private – and attacked by drunken lechers. Not until Atwater tried to kill me did anyone question his claims."
“What happened then?”
“The last of Atwater’s reason snapped. Society decided that the word of a madman meant nothing, so they turned me into a saint. The same will happen to you. Once the bishop pronounces you sane, society will declare Barnett an unscrupulous rogue. He will be reviled for greed, ostracized for defrauding you, and run out of the country if his debts are as large as rumored. You will then have to endure the adoration that society bestows on those it has wronged.”
“That sounds almost as bad.”
“It is. But it will be temporary. Jack will take you home to the country. By the time you return next spring, this affair will have been forgotten. In the meantime, relax. The opinions of society’s fribbles mean nothing – even to them. They strut and pose and parrot the latest gossip, rarely noticing that today’s words of wisdom contradict yesterday’s.” She smiled. “The most enduring lesson of two years ago was that London society behaves like a flock of sheep, following its chosen leader blindly. The result is often ridiculous – half the young bucks sported lapel posies the size of dinner plates after a leader of fashion wore one as a joke one year. But they change course as often as they change clothes, so none of it matters.
“You make them sound like teapots, uncaring of what is poured in or out of their heads.”
Angela laughed. “Keep that image in mind, for it perfectly reflects how much their opinion is worth.”
Marianne felt better after their talk. She stopped fretting over the gossip, which allowed her to behave in a more natural manner. But she still couldn’t relax.
The problem was her growing frustration over Jack. He avoided her whenever possible. His reason was all too obvious. He’d decided that she must face life alone, so she’d better learn how.
It had started the day he’d received the letter. Until then, he’d protected her, cared for her, and stood between her and her fears. Then the letter had arrived, and he’d immediately pulled back, turning remote and cold. Even his public smiles rarely reached his eyes.
The letter must have raised new fears about his breeding, or perhaps Deerchester had given him a new reason to die. She couldn’t imagine what that might be, but it had to be more than a parental tirade over rejecting Miss Somerson – though the lady in question was not exactly a lady, according to Angela.
Then there was Saturday’s dinner at Carlton House. After accepting the invitation, Jack had realized that half of the guests would be army officers, including everyone from the War Office and Horse Guards. Pain now flashed in his eyes whenever he mentioned the event. And dread. She hoped his fear arose from his Waterloo nightmare, for she was confident that Devlin would prove him honorable. But if he was hiding some new problem, her job would be more difficult. She had no defense against the unknown.
Lady Hartford still had no idea where Jack’s mother was, but she had discovered that Jack’s nurse had been a Miss Witt. The woman should know about Lady Deerchester’s departure, but so far Lady Hartford hadn’t found her direction. After thirty-two years, it might turn out to be a churchyard.
Marianne had again warned against consulting a gossip. Aside from the danger of raking up another scandal that would embarrass Jack, finding his mother would not relieve his nightmares and might even make them worse. A dishonorable mother would validate his bad blood, yet an honorable mother might make his presumed dishonor seem worse. Who could tolerate disappointing a mother, especially if he’d set her on a pedestal while growing up?
Then there was Lord Devlin. He had not written. No matter what Lord Hardcastle had said, his report should have arrived by Friday. Yet as she dressed for Saturday’s dinner, she had heard nothing. Not even a note saying that Hardcastle hadn’t helped.
She nearly groaned. There was no mail on Sunday, and the hearing would begin Monday morning. Win or lose, Jack would be free of his promise as soon as it was over, and she had nothing with which to stop him from putting a ball through his brain.
* * * *
Jack grimaced as he approached the dignitaries at Carlton House. Walking through the door at Deerchester Hall would be more pleasant than facing Wellington and the dozens of other of
ficers. His dress uniform dragged at his shoulders, berating him for facing the Regent sporting a symbol of everything he’d betrayed. Imagining the condemnation in Wellington’s eyes made him break into a cold sweat. His cowardice welled up, demanding that he flee.
Again.
How many of tonight’s guests knew about his disgrace? Probably most of them, though few would do more than allude to it while they were gathered under the Regent’s roof. Granted, Damon had said nothing when they’d met last week, but he had sold out immediately after Waterloo, separating him from army gossip. He would know by now, though. Enough officers were in London that the tale must be common knowledge. That would explain why Damon had missed every event Jack had attended. The Devlin House knocker was still up, proving that Damon hadn’t left for Devlin Court.
The line inched forward. Jack had spent the hour as their carriage crept toward the door calming Marianne. But now that they were surrounded by people, her attention was elsewhere, leaving him nothing to think about but facing Wellington. What could he say?
The question circled his head unanswered for another quarter hour, until the line delivered him to the front.
“You look better than last time we met, Caldwell.” Wellington turned to the Regent, adding, “Colonel Caldwell, one of my most talented officers. You recognize the name, of course. He took several hits at Waterloo. For a time we feared he would lose a leg.”
Jack’s head swirled at the unexpected praise, but he managed the appropriate greetings, ending with, “My wife, the former Marianne Barnett, niece of Lord Barnett.” He drew her forward. “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, and His Grace, the Duke of Wellington.”
She curtsied. Being ladies’ men, both made flirtatious remarks on her sudden marriage, but Jack barely heard them for the buzzing in his ears. Why the devil didn’t Wellington cashier him and get it over with? Was he holding out for formal charges of treason?
They escaped into the crimson salon, which seemed garish tonight. Or perhaps thousands of candles flickering in unison with his pounding head exaggerated its impact. The heat didn’t help.
“What is wrong?” murmured Marianne. “You look like a ghost. A lady that pale would need a vinaigrette.”
“Nothing.” When she glared, he shrugged. “It is always stifling at Carlton House. The prince is terrified of drafts.”
Her glare deepened.
“My presence distressed Wellington,” he added. “With the Regent there, he had to put a good face on it, but after Waterloo, he probably expected my resignation.”
She didn’t accept that explanation either, but she dropped the subject. He was glad. Talking about it was dangerous. One overheard word would force his disgrace into the public eye. Yet it might wind up there anyway.
It took him half an hour to relax. Several officers alluded to Barnett’s rumors, and two mentioned Waterloo, but no one accused him of murder or cowardice. Airing regimental scandals in public wasn’t done. He was beginning to think he would survive the evening, when Fitzroy tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hooky wants you, Caldwell. Now.” He nodded toward an anteroom.
Jack’s heart hit the floor, but he had no choice. As he marched away, fury ripped him from head to toe. If Marianne hadn’t interfered, he would not have to face Wellington.
The duke would demand an explanation for that dead officer. Since Jack couldn’t provide one, he might well find himself imprisoned.
Not today! he screamed silently. He had to be at Bishop’s Court on Monday. Not only as a witness, but to support Marianne.
Setting his face in an expressionless mask, he entered the anteroom.
“You seem recovered, Caldwell,” said Wellington when Jack shut the door.
“Quite.” He would have preferred to remain at attention, but Wellington gestured to a chair. So he sat.
“Are you resigning your commission?”
Jack’s heart sank. “I hadn’t planned—”
“Then why have you ignored every query about your health in the past two months? And why did I learn you were in London from reading a newspaper?”
Jack flinched, recalling the pile of unopened mail on his desk. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he’d neglected to report his recovery to Horse Guards. He hadn’t expected to live this long, so duty hadn’t mattered. But after postponing his demise, he’d neglected to resume the rituals of living. Damn! The last time Wellington had heard from him, he’d been ensconced at Seacliff, unable to walk.
“An oversight on my part, Your Grace. My wife—”
“Another oversight, I take it? You neglected to mention her, too.”
Disgrace piled upon disgrace. Wellington hated incompetence. Heat crawled up Jack’s neck. “I wish my injuries were responsible, but the truth is that I’ve been so concerned with protecting my wife that I neglected other matters.”
Wellington frowned. “I heard enough gibberish on my arrival to make those Spanish intelligence reports seem clear in comparison. Something about madness. And theft?”
“All lies, sir. While her uncle is seeking to annul our marriage on grounds that she is mad, his real complaint is that it deprived him of her fortune.”
“Indeed.” His eyes brightened. “Explain.”
Jack quickly related the facts. It didn’t take long, for he’d prepared the synopsis for his presentation in court.
“It seems you have the matter well in hand,” said Wellington when he finished. “Brilliant campaign strategy, as usual. That knock you took on the head doesn’t seem to have hurt anything after all.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jack was bewildered at the duke’s reaction. Delayed retribution was not Wellington’s way. If not for Monday’s hearing, he would bring up the matter himself, for being cashiered would explain his suicide, diverting blame from Marianne. But it would also undermine his testimony.
“Once the trial is over, report to the Horse Guards,” Wellington ordered, breaking into Jack’s thoughts. “We are nearly through in Paris, so you needn’t come over. The Regent will announce my appointment as commander of all England’s forces tonight, so I will be working here once this treaty business is done. Help Frasier set up my new office, then study the reports from India. I want your thoughts on the situation by next week.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack snapped a salute and left, but his heart had turned to lead. The stain on his soul made it impossible to serve the best officer in the army. So he must finish the business as soon as the trial concluded. There would be no time to see Marianne settled. Devall would have to look after her.
* * * *
Bishop’s Court nearly drove Marianne mad indeed. Jack had said little about the actual procedure, leaving her imagination to conjure scenes of horror.
The hearing was worse than imagination. Instead of the series of lies and confrontations she’d expected, she found herself confined to an antechamber where she could hear nothing. Listening to Barnett describe her fits would have been difficult, but at least it would have kept her mind occupied. And it would have held a new terror at bay. With no idea of what was happening, she expected every moment to be summoned before the bishop. The strain made her jump at the least sound.
Questions chased each other around her head. What were they saying? Had Barnett convinced people to lie about her? Was Rowland, her barrister, refuting Barnett’s claims? Jack assured her that Rowland was very talented, but she wanted to hear his words for herself.
Angela tried her best to distract her, but nothing worked. Barnett was presenting his case first. Marianne was sure the bishop would find it so compelling that he wouldn’t listen to her.
She had expected the hearing to be quick – the facts could easily be stated in half an hour – but it dragged on for three interminable days. Monday was the worst. She paced the anteroom for hours, unable to sit as her imagination conjured disaster after disaster, all ending in a trip back to Carey’s asylum, followed by Jack’s suicide because she wasn’t there to stop him. He�
�d been even more withdrawn since Carlton House. She suspected that Wellington had said something to increase his determination – not that she had any hope of discovering what or why. He was barely speaking to her, busy constructing a wall between him and the rest of the world. This one was of impenetrable stone instead of the ice she’d melted on their wedding night.
She tried, of course. “I wish I could see what is happening,” she confided as they returned to Grosvenor Square Monday night. “Ignorance is too frustrating.”
“A natural reaction,” he agreed. “But Bishop’s Court is no different from other courts. Witnesses and potential witnesses cannot hear other testimony.”
“I don’t see why.”
“By knowing what others say, a man can tailor his words to either support or discredit previous testimony. That inhibits the court’s ability to discern truth.”
She’d tried to elicit further information about the proceedings, but having eased her main concern, he’d retired early, avoiding everyone in the house.
Rowland began presenting her case on Tuesday afternoon. Jack testified the rest of the day. He said even less that night. She knew he was not supposed to discuss the case, but his withdrawal bothered her. Had Barnett’s barrister attacked his reputation? If even a hint of Waterloo had arisen, he might be beyond her reach. There was still no word from Devlin.
Marianne was the last witness. The bishop had listened to both sides. He’d heard about her fits and tantrums, heard about her attack on her cousin, heard about her family’s death. Both barristers had propounded their theories. Rowland swore she had suffered a severe shock, but had long outgrown its effects. Hilliard swore that her mind, already fragile from an overindulgent childhood, had snapped, making her dangerous to herself and others and leaving her open to manipulation by unscrupulous scoundrels.
