* * * *
For several weeks both Francis and Elspeth behaved in an almost seemly fashion. Of course, Francis agonized in his poetry over what a struggle it was, and Elspeth spent many sleepless hours at night congratulating herself on the restraint with which they both acted. But she was aware, as Francis must have been, that there was an undercurrent of severe physical tension between them.
To offset this, Elspeth spent extra time with Andrew, she visited Emily Marden more often, she worked at renovations in her bedchamber and the Queen's Closet. Occasionally, when she was sure no one was around, she snuck a peek at some of Greywell's more enticing snuffboxes. Unfortunately, there were mostly naked women on them, and she would have been more interested in seeing some naked men.
Abigail Waltham appeared at Ashfield less often, though she did sometimes come to visit. “Your father wrote that he's thinking of coming to stay with you again,” she said one day in June.
Elspeth had heard nothing of the plan, and wasn't at all sure she liked it. With her father in the house, she couldn't very well see Francis as often. It would have aroused his suspicions, though she assured herself there was nothing of which he need be suspicious. She and Francis were behaving themselves remarkably well. It did occur to her that Mrs. Waltham might have written to him to suggest such a step. “Had you been corresponding with him regularly?” she asked, not meeting Abigail's eyes.
"Of course. Ever since he left here.” Abigail was put out that Elspeth would think her connection with Sir Edward was so unimportant as to have terminated the moment he was out of sight. “Doesn't he write you?"
"Not very often,” Elspeth admitted. “I haven't heard from him in over a month."
"Does Greywell write you?"
"Of course. I heard from him this morning."
"What did he have to say?"
"Only that a battle was brewing. Apparently Bonaparte has gathered a considerable army about him. Greywell says there's a reckless gaiety in Brussels; everyone knows how important this battle will be, and that it won't be an easy one for Wellington and our allies to win."
"So he intends to stay there until he sees the outcome?"
"I presume so. Certainly he made no mention of coming home."
Abigail regarded her closely. “Do you care?"
"It would be nice for Andrew to see his father."
"For yourself, I mean. Do you want to see him?"
Elspeth felt herself stiffen. “He's my husband. I would be pleased to have him home."
Her companion snorted. “He's worth two of that Treyford fellow, my dear girl, though I doubt you realize it. The sooner he returns, the better."
Elspeth did not disagree with her, nor did she mention that Greywell had written that Wellington had accepted Greywell's offer to act as an aide to the general. That was a piece of information she did not intend to tell anyone, mostly because she didn't know how she felt about it. There would be plenty of time to consider it in private, and no reason to alarm anyone in the household.
For it was alarming news. Greywell had been a soldier much earlier in the Peninsular War, but he had sold out after an injury temporarily disabled him. It was while he had been in London recuperating that he had met his first wife, and there had been no thought of his returning to battle after that. To Elspeth his desire to immerse himself in the deadly duel now indicated that he hadn't considered his son, but was still in a kind of desperate mourning for Caroline.
When Abigail left, unsatisfied with Elspeth's response but unable to get her to say more, Elspeth went straight to the Queen's Closet to pen a letter to her husband. Perhaps it was a tinge of her own guilt that made the letter sound rather sharp to him when he read it.
My dear Greywell, I am not at all pleased to hear you have agreed to act as one of Wellington's aides. Have you forgotten your responsibilities to your son? The poor child has already lost his mother; how is he to manage if he should lose his father as well? Of course I would raise him to the best of my ability, but your recklessness appalls me. Pray reconsider taking such a drastic step. You say there is an immensely important battle in the offing and that Wellington needs all the help he can get. Is it your pride which dictates this step, or some other part of your character? In either case, I consider it highly ill advised.
Greywell received the letter as he was dressing to attend the Duchess of Richmond's ball on the 15th of June, when rumor had it that battle would ensue before the night was out. He had, for several months, refused to attend the entertainments which might have distracted him from his grief and from his work, but be had eventually realized that more business took place at these social gatherings than in all the negotiation chambers he had yet entered.
So it was nothing new for him to attend a ball, though the thought still rankled with him. He had not found it necessary to mention them in his letters home, fearing Elspeth would hardly understand the necessity. What he didn't need was some acerbic comment from her on his social life. And now this! How did she dare to advise him of where his duty lay? She knew nothing whatever of the matter. And perhaps, somewhere in him, he knew she had a grain of truth on her side. If he was killed, poor Andrew would be an orphan—but at least he would be there to carry on the Greywell title.
As he stood patiently waiting for his valet to achieve perfection in his cravat for the distinguished occasion ahead of him, Greywell mentally composed an answer to his wife's letter, something that would give her a proper setdown, but he hadn't time to actually put pen to paper before he had to leave.
* * * *
The news of the Battle of Waterloo reached Elspeth when she was sitting in the garden with Andrew. Francis was the one to bring it to her, and he knew little beyond the fact that there was a tremendous death toll for the English, though they had eventually proved victorious, with their allies.
Elspeth hadn't told him of Greywell's involvement. “Oh, my God,” she said, scooping up the child to hold him protectively in her arms. “When did you hear? Was Greywell in the battle? Is he all right?"
Francis frowned at her. “Why would he have been in the battle? He's one of the diplomats."
The child was regarding her with large eyes, uncomprehending of all her words, but aware from her tenseness that something was amiss. She ran a hand gently through his soft hair, trying to calm herself before she spoke. “He wrote me that he'd become one of Wellington's aides,” she admitted, not lifting her eyes to Francis. “I wrote back trying to dissuade him. But I haven't heard from him since. Have you seen a list of casualties?"
"No. I was told about it, and several names were mentioned. Not Greywell's. Which doesn't really mean anything. For God's sake, Elspeth, why didn't you tell me?"
There was a hum of bees in the hollyhocks nearby and the smell of new-mown grass. Elspeth had a terrible premonition she would always remember this day, with Francis standing there looking down at her as though he'd somehow been betrayed by her not confiding in him.
"I didn't tell anyone. The news would have caused too much anxiety, without there being the chance of anyone doing a thing to change matters.” She stood up with Andrew still in her arms. “I'm going to take the child in now. Find out what you can for me, will you, Francis?"
"Certainly.” He hesitated for a moment before asking, “May I come this evening? You'll want someone to keep you company."
"Thank you, yes. That's very kind of you."
"Do you still want me not to tell anyone?"
"It would serve no purpose to mention it now. The battle is apparently over. Either Greywell is safe, or he isn't. I'll just have to wait for word."
She gathered her full skirts with one hand and settled the baby against her shoulder. Francis stood watching as she walked toward the house. A variety of emotions passed over his face, but she didn't see any of them. Even at the side door she didn't look back, and he slowly retraced his footsteps to the stables.
* * * *
Francis was aware of the tenuous nature of the
relationship between Elspeth and himself. He liked the ideal of an impossible love between them, but he was also very strongly physically attracted to her. So he wisely chose to arrive that evening after she had put Andrew to bed and was free for the remainder of the evening. Guessing correctly that this latest news would render her even more susceptible to his advances, he nevertheless moved very slowly. It was not that he guessed Elspeth was a virgin. The thought had never occurred to him. She was, after all, married to Greywell, and Francis, not one for paying overmuch attention to the proprieties, would not have considered the possibility of there being no consummation because of the recent death of Greywell's first wife.
It was a warm summer evening, with a light breeze blowing through the North Drawing Room from one of the doors to the terrace which had been left open. Elspeth had taken a seat on a chair, rather than the sofa, which had been her practice for the last few weeks. This prevented the proximity with Francis which had led to that one reckless evening, and she continued to feel it was a necessary condition of their meeting. On this occasion Francis didn't take a seat at all, after the brandy had been brought, but wandered over to the French doors and stood looking out into the fading evening light.
"Would you like to sit on the terrace and watch the sunset?” he asked. “It's a little stuffy inside."
There seemed no reason not to join him on the terrace. True, there was only the stone bench for them to share, but it was still light outside. The rich aroma of summer flowers lingered with the heat of the day, and Elspeth stood for a moment at the railing looking over a neatly tended bed of antirrhinum, sweet peas, calceolaria, and linaria. Farther along there were larkspur and petunias, nasturtium and foxglove, their colors only dimly visible in the fading light. She hadn't cut any flowers for the drawing room that day, being too preoccupied with other matters.
"I often come here in the evening,” she said, looking out now over the rolling lawn to a stand of trees on the north. “It makes me feel more a part of Ashfield. At Lyndhurst I roamed about more, taking strolls in the evening to use up some of my excess energy, but Selsey looked totally distraught the one time he found me returning from a short walk. Perhaps he thought I might have fallen and hurt myself, or been abducted by some brigand. I don't know, but I stopped doing it so I wouldn't worry him."
Francis smiled at her. “I'm sure he'd consider you perfectly safe with me. Why don't we walk as far as the trees?"
Dew hadn't really settled on the grass yet, and Elspeth's light rose-colored slippers were perfectly adequate for crossing the lawn. Francis took her hand, in an ostensible effort to prevent her from falling, should there be anything so dangerous as a hole in the ground. As they strolled along, he quoted poetry, not his own, on the beauty of the night. There was something soothing about black velvet skies and ivory moonlight. Elspeth allowed herself to relax under the influence of his melodious voice and the magic of the night. Actually, there was only a bit of a moon, and it cast very little light after the last of the sun's rays had disappeared from the sky.
When they reached the trees, Francis gazed down at her for a long moment. “I remember a path through the trees to a clearing.
"Yes,” she agreed, “there's a path, but it will be a little dark to see."
"We'll manage."
Elspeth knew then that she should refuse. The intensity of his eyes was a sure sign of some other intent than a mere stroll through the gray-barked beech trees. The ground underfoot was covered with the silky husks from the budding leaves, a soft cushion on which to lie down if one chose. But Elspeth didn't refuse to follow him. With her hand still in his, he led the way through the small forest to the dimly lit clearing. Almost no light penetrated the thick foliage, but her eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness.
Without a word, Francis removed his coat and spread it on the soft beech husks, motioning for her to join him. Elspeth gingerly lowered herself to a sitting position, spreading the skirts of her dress down over her ankles. Francis was momentarily touched by this modesty and seated himself slightly apart from her.
"This is a very upsetting time for you,” he suggested tentatively. “You must be worried about Greywell. I'm sorry I couldn't find out any more for you. Perhaps tomorrow will bring some news."
He reached out to stroke her hair in a comforting gesture, as she might have done with Andrew. But his hands lingered at the nape of her neck, caressing the silken skin there. “You've had a great deal of responsibility over the last few months, Elspeth. You deserve a chance to relax and forget all your worries."
Elspeth stared at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her mouth felt dry and her throat had begun to ache with suppressed emotion. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to cry, but his sympathy was almost unbearable somehow. Just for the moment she wanted to lay all her cares in his lap, to escape from the constant confusion of her thoughts. Why should she have to worry about whether what she wanted was right or wrong? Hadn't she earned a few minutes of release? She turned her face to him expectantly.
He did not immediately kiss her. Instead he put his arms around her and hugged her to him, rocking her gently, like a child. “My poor, sweet love. What a lot you've had to bear! I wish I could be the one to make it all right for you.” He kissed the top of her head while he stroked her back with long gliding movements of his fingers. At first she could feel his fingertips only through her thin dress, but soon they were above the material on the bare skin of her back. She shivered.
"Are you cold?” he asked, concerned.
"No. Not at all."
"It's a warm night,” he murmured, at last bringing his lips down to meet hers. He could feel her lips tremble under his, but it was with an eagerness that instantly aroused him. Still, he cautioned himself to proceed slowly. She could be startled as easily as a wild animal by any abrupt demands.
It was then he conceived of lovemaking as poetry. He hadn't actually looked at it quite that way before, and he considered Elspeth the inspiration for this new vision of what he'd always thought of as a basic physical necessity. Not that in the ordinary course of things Francis was particularly highly sexed. If he could find a willing woman once every few months, that was quite sufficient for him.
But Elspeth was different; he had known it all along. She was a woman among women, an inspirer of poetical fancy, a guideline to the resources of the soul. He was so incredibly moved that he actually composed verses to her body as he began to explore it with his sensitive hands. Nor did he keep these verses to himself. Francis, in the throes of both love and poetry (as well as lust), shared with her each new metaphor (or euphemism) that came into his befuddled brain.
Elspeth was equally intoxicated. As his hands strayed to her waist and then slowly upward, she could feel her body tensing with a wild mixture of painful delight. Her mind accepted his murmur of orbs of snow and ivory hills without really attending. His touch on her breasts even through the light gown sent an incredible feeling of excitement through her.
Was this what it was, then, that had made her father's Fanny cry out as she had? Why, it wasn't pain at all, but an urgency so great she could scarcely contain the crazy desire to moan. But the memory of her father with Fanny brought with it a warning bell in her head. What she was doing wasn't right, and though at the time that didn't particularly seem to matter, Elspeth fought for some sanity. She was lying on his blue superfine coat, and she forced herself to concentrate on the button that dug into her back.
Firmly she pushed him from her, eyes wide and misty. “Francis, I'm sorry. I can't. I shouldn't.” Elspeth drew herself, shakily, to a sitting position.
Francis silently ground his teeth and struggled to his knees. “No, yes, well, I suppose you're right. Here, let me help you up.” He stood over her for a moment before offering his hand. Francis had seen the desire in her eyes, and he wasn't quite ready to believe he'd been defeated. But when he had her on her feet and attempted to kiss her again, she turned her face away.
"Please, Francis,
no.” She straightened out her skirts with a meticulous care that annoyed Francis, but hardly managed to calm her. When they arrived back at the house, she bid him goodnight.
Chapter Eleven
A messenger arrived at Ashfield the next afternoon. Elspeth had not yet decided what to do about Francis; that is, whether or not she would see him again. She very definitely wanted to, but she knew what would eventually happen if she did. So she was sitting in the Summer Parlor at the back of the house, trying to justify her desire, when Selsey appeared at the door to announce in a rather quavering voice that the messenger had been instructed to deliver his message directly to her. Elspeth paled but allowed no other sign of her alarm to show.
"Please show him in here."
"He's come all the way from Brussels, milady."
"I suspected as much. We'll give him refreshment as soon as I've spoken to him, Selsey.” When the old man turned to leave, she added softly, “I'll let you know as soon as possible, Selsey."
"Thank you, milady."
The messenger was hardly more than a boy. He entered the room with a nervous look behind him, as though he feared being trapped in the elegant, unfamiliar surroundings. Elspeth swallowed hard before rising to face him with a smile meant to put him at his ease. “I'm Lady Greywell. You have a message for me."
"Yes, milady.” He reached into a worn leather pouch slung over his shoulder. What he withdrew was a single sheet of paper, with a plain blob of sealing wax.
If the message had been from Greywell himself, he would have used his seal to close it. Elspeth received the sheet of paper with trembling fingers. The handwriting was not familiar to her. She was too agitated to search out a letter opener, but carefully broke the seal so as not to tear the paper and lose any portion of the message it contained. Her eyes blurred momentarily before coming to focus on the short message:
Lord Greywell's Dilemma Page 16
