by Jocelyn Kirk
The sight before Mr. Sparkman did not shock him but will shock you, my worthy friends. Mr. Stanfield was engrossed in a sexual adventure with a man. Stanfield was seated in a chair, and a young man was kneeling at his feet, servicing him.
Mr. Sparkman related these events to me exactly as I have related them to you. The sexual predilections of men and women do not shock or distress me; my attitude is live and let live. However, the observation clearly made by Mr. Sparkman gives us an unshakable hold over Mr. Stanfield. We will meet with him tomorrow to settle terms. He will grant you a divorce to keep his peccadillo private, you may be sure.
On another topic, I regretfully report that I have fallen in love, a circumstance I was quite sure would never again befall me. Mr. Sparkman is a strange, compelling individual—not only brilliant but highly creative. His earliest childhood desire was to become an artist, but he claims to have no talent. I saw a few of his works, and they show promise. He needs instruction, which I intend to give him, for he is going to accompany me to Caemre when this dreary business with Stanfield has been completed. Rest easy! We will remain in London until the divorce has been granted.
With much affection,
Georgina
Which declaration shocked me more: my husband’s dallying with a man, or Georgina’s falling in love with Sparkman? I stood very still, with the letter dangling from my hand and my other hand on my bosom to quell my quick intake of breath.
I was not as aghast at Mr. Stanfield’s sexual proclivities as Georgina might have believed. My London life had given me an insight into such matters. Still, it was shocking enough, and my hand quaked as I folded the letter and secured it in the pocket of my gown. Many previously unexplained circumstances of my marriage—my husband’s lack of desire to make love to me, his long absences in the evening—slipped through my disordered mind.
I carried Georgina’s letter upstairs and concealed it in my jewelry box. There was no need for Lila to know the details of Mr. Stanfield’s secret life. Better to acquaint as few persons as possible with such information.
Feeling now certain of the dissolution of my marriage, I busied myself over the next few days with assisting Deirdre in the instruction of the children. I had promised Percy a pony and riding lessons in the spring. Although he and Paulie were rapidly learning to read—they did not want intelligence—Percy’s first love was horses. We all joined in giving him as much time with the noble beasts as possible. John took him on the saddle of his road horse, and Lila gave him lessons in driving the pony cart. When the winter weather cleared away, I would purchase a small, gentle pony and give Percy riding lessons myself.
Paulie had little interest in horses. She liked fine dresses, flowers, and pretty baubles. Deirdre taught her to tat and sew, and she had produced a bit of simple lace. Both of the children now spoke well, from having the example of those of us who lived with them and taught them. Showered with love, they had no reason to misbehave, and every time I looked at them, I thanked Fate that I had learned of their existence and rescued them from poverty and despair.
The little cottage was crowded to the bursting point and constantly busy. Aleta, who loved music and played quite well, had taken on the project of teaching the children songs. Rehearsals filled the house with childish trilling every morning. Lila fussed about with cooking and unnecessary supervision of Mattie, and as like as not, Jesse McCrea and his brood of offspring would descend on us at some point to add to the chaos. John occasionally stopped and had tea with us, but I was allowing him no time alone with me. Until I was free, I could not encourage his suit.
With all of us busy and happy, the days flew. I was anxious for the next letter from Georgina, but it did not arrive until two weeks after the previous. My heart beat as I opened it—to find my hopes dashed.
Dearest Cassie,
I regret that I must impart unwelcome news. If you remember, Mr. Sparkman and I were appointed to meet with your husband the day after my previous letter to you was written. Sparkman called for me at my inn, and we arrived at the Stanfield townhouse a minute or two before the appointed hour. Imagine our surprise when the butler informed us that his master had gone to the country.
“Gone to the country?” cried I. “In January?”
The butler looked fish-eyed at us for a moment, and then begged us to step into the parlor. When we were seated, he hemmed and hawed a bit and then said, “Mr. Stanfield notified me of your intended visit. He instructed me to give you this clipping from the Times and tell you that the business you had with him is now moot.”
You can imagine, dear Cassie, with what eagerness we read the article. I enclose it for your perusal. As you will see, it contains news of Mr. Stanfield’s having left Bath and “retreated to his country house” as a result of two eyewitnesses informing the newspaper that “Mr. Stanfield was engaged in unnatural acts, as a result of which he will no doubt be excluded from London society.” Apparently, someone else learned of Stanfield’s activities and did not hesitate to inform the press. Perhaps Mademoiselle herself is the culprit; I do not know.
Cassie, please do not suspect us—Mr. Sparkman and myself—of any complicity in spreading this story. We had no wish to embarrass Mr. Stanfield but only to procure a divorce for you. No circumstance, even his refusal to seek a divorce, would have given us the right to expose him.
By the time this letter reaches you, I will have already set off on my journey home; so pray do not reply. I will call on you as soon as I have arrived home, and we can decide what steps to take next.
Georgina
I fell into a chair and stared, seeing nothing before me. Mr. Stanfield’s disgrace was my disgrace as well, and I could only hope the London press would not pursue me to the cottage. Such a tale—a wealthy bastion of respectability found out to be a libertine—is one the public loves. The press would fly with it for as long as it sold newspapers.
At the sound of visitors, I hastily shoved the letter and article into my pocket. Lila arrived from the kitchen, wiping her hands, and Mattie ushered the entire McCrea family into the parlor. Percy and Paulie, hearing the arrival of their playmates, rushed downstairs. In the noise and confusion, I slipped upstairs; I was greatly in need of quiet to recover my spirits.
Chapter Fourteen
Two days later, I received a strange assortment of missives: an express from my husband, an express from my father, and a letter from Rosamund. I gave Rosamund’s letter to Lila and tore open the express from Charles. I was not surprised at the contents.
Cassandra,
I have gone to Riverbend and have no intention of returning to London. Unscrupulous persons have spread lies about me, and the spiteful gossips of the ton have ensured that I no longer have a place in London society.
Let me be very clear: I have no intention of seeking a divorce. You must return to me and resume the duties of a wife. Surely you can comprehend that marriage to another woman is now out of my power. I must produce an heir for this estate; my mother will give me no peace until I do. You married me, Cassandra, and it is your duty to provide me with children.
I have contacted Sir Winslow and asked him to join his voice to mine. If you still refuse to acknowledge your husband’s authority, I am confident you will not ignore your father’s. You are my wife; your place is with me.
Charles
I growled and threw the letter into the fire. I tore open the express from my father, expecting a command to do my duty and return to my husband.
Cassandra,
My London correspondents have apprised me of the gossip surrounding your husband. He has contacted me and sworn the tale is not true. He asked me to persuade you to return to him, but rest assured I have no intention of attempting to influence you.
My purpose in sending this express letter is to apprise you and Lila of your brother Frederick’s engagement to Miss Gloria Wellborne. He asked me to write on his behalf. I believe she is the proper choice for him. I have given my consent, and her father has also.
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In another matter, I heard a strange tale regarding your sister Aleta. She was staying with a cousin in London to recover from a foolish infatuation with a pianoforte master and the dissolution of her engagement to Mr. Willett. The same correspondent in London learned from an acquaintance—and kindly wrote immediately to me—that she is not in London. No one seems to know where she is; do you have knowledge of her whereabouts? I fear she has gone to Gretna Green with the music teacher.
Your mother wonders what we did wrong to rear such wayward daughters. Sparing the switch, I told her, and that is her doing.
Sir Winslow Tenley, Esquire
Lila looked up, and her expression showed she was more satisfied with Rosamund’s letter than I was with Charles’s or my father’s.
“Rosamund appears to be happy with her life in Bath. She writes that Bart’s uncle has been most kind. They will remain in Bath through the winter.”
“I see,” I replied absently.
“Charles’s express brought no good news, I conjecture,” said Lila. “What did Father write?”
“Frederick is engaged,” I muttered. “Forgive me for not sounding pleased, but at the moment I have too much self-pity to rejoice in someone else’s bliss.”
Lila crossed the room and put her arms about me. “I am sorry, Cassie, that your happiness with John continues to be derailed. I suppose Mr. Stanfield once again demanded you return to him.”
“Yes.” I sighed, overcome with sadness. I stepped away from my sister and looked directly into her face. “Lila, you do not know all. He will never release me now.”
Lila led me to a sofa. Holding tight to her hands, I told her of Georgina and Mr. Sparkman’s discovery about Charles. I assured her that my friend and the detective had no part in spreading the story in London.
“Others discovered this peccadillo,” I said, “and now Charles is ruined in society.”
Lila’s quick mind ascertained the rest. “He will be unable to marry if he divorces you. Despite his wealth, no young woman would be able to gain her family’s permission to wed him. He is an outcast and will remain so.”
“I must go back to him,” I whispered. “John must give over all hope of our marriage. It would not be fair to him for me to remain here, a constant reminder of the happiness he might have had.”
Lila nodded and squeezed my hands. “It appears to be your only choice, Cassie, dear.”
“Lila, the children—will you and Mr. McCrea give them a home?”
“Of course we will.”
“Thank you. Sir Winslow’s payments will take all the financial burden from Mr. McCrea.”
“Yes, although I assure you, he would take the children without hesitation under any circumstances.”
I managed a smile. “You have found a good man, and that is one source of happiness I will take with me.”
Lila embraced me, and we held each other, hearing only the ticking of the clock, a sad noise that reminded me of life passing by. Then I rose, feeling a restless need to move about.
“I will write Charles and tell him I’ll come.”
Lila seized my hand as I began to move away. “Cassie, travel now will be difficult. Pray tell him you will arrive in the spring. That will at least give all of us some time to become inured to such a change. And I would not want you to miss my wedding. It is only two weeks away.”
“Yes, I will inform Charles to expect me in the spring, as you suggested. And I must speak to John and explain the situation.”
“John will not be meekly accepting, as I am sure you realize.”
“I do. But he must accept it.”
Three days passed before I had an opportunity to speak in private with John Carter. I had been walking along the cliff by the sea, taking advantage of the sunshine of a chilly, bright day, when he appeared on his road horse. He dismounted, and we walked together. I was silent as we walked, and I sensed his sidelong glances. After waiting a minute or two for me to speak, he asked me outright if something was troubling me.
I halted and faced him. “Yes. I was forced to make a difficult decision. You will not like it, but you must accept it.”
John stared at me. I found it difficult to meet his gaze, for the sea wind ruffled his dark hair and brightened his eyes, and my desire for him was no doubt naked on my face. He drew me into his arms.
“Please don’t,” I whispered. He slowly released me, and I stepped away from him.
“We must discuss the matter at hand. I need you to understand the reasons for my decision.”
“Let us go to my cottage, where we can speak in comfort.”
I nodded, and we walked on, sharing a tacit agreement to say nothing until we reached his home.
Once in the cottage, John quickly dispelled the chill with a leaping fire, while I boiled water for tea. We settled on opposite sides of the parlor. Although I longed to be in his arms, I knew my resolve depended on our staying aloof from each other.
I forced myself to speak so he would not find it necessary to prompt me. “I have heard from my husband,” I began with a trembling voice. “He has gone to his estate in Kent.”
John looked surprised. “In winter?”
I took a breath and commanded myself to continue. “He has been ousted from society in London and intends to remain in the country.”
“Ousted from society? Pray explain.”
“Yes, I will tell you everything.” I then related the entire story—how I had hoped Georgina and Sparkman’s discovery would lead to Charles’s having to divorce me, followed by the shocking news that someone else had already spread the sordid tale of my husband’s proclivities. John listened in silence.
“The result of all this,” I added, “is that Charles is even more determined to maintain his marriage to me. He declares that no other woman would have him. He insists I return to him.”
John did not take his eyes from my face. “And you are planning to do so?”
“Yes. I see no other choice for me.”
“I understand your thinking,” he replied, with a bitter tone in his voice. “I do not agree with it, but I can see that your inability to remarry would lead you to conclude that any husband is better than none.”
“John, that is unfair! My motivation is to set you free! I cannot marry you, so you must forget me and in time…perhaps another woman…”
The notion of John’s falling in love with someone else saddened me unbearably, and I buried my face in my hands, my head rocking back and forth. John crossed the room, squeezed into the armchair next to me, and took me in his arms. I pushed him away and struggled to my feet.
“I will not travel until the spring,” I stammered. “Perhaps Charles’s feelings will change by then. If not, then I must go.”
John’s narrowed eyes and clenched fists spoke his anger and frustration. “I will not let you do this, Cassie. You will not return to the misery of an unhappy marriage in order to set me free. It is unthinkable! How much greater would be my unhappiness knowing you were tied to a man you couldn’t love!”
His unselfish words touched my heart and commanded my lips. I could not prevent myself from whispering, “I love you, John.”
“I love you too. I cannot let you go back to him. Promise me you will not go.”
“I promise,” I replied. “It is not fair to you, but I promise.”
After that day, I spoke no more of my decision or lack thereof. I forced the entire problem out of my head. I wrote Charles to say I would join him in May, and although I had promised John I would not do so, how could I remain in Caemre? Giving myself a holiday of suffering, I focused on the activities and events in my family.
With Lila’s wedding fast approaching, I must digress into a description of her husband-to-be, Farmer Jesse McCrea. The first aspect of Mr. McCrea that caught my notice was his tendency to be very busy, exactly like Lila. The two of them were constantly doing and planning; crop rotations, market prices, horses, cattle, farming equipment, and such absorbed them entir
ely. Lila loved to run about and manage whatever needed (or didn’t need) management, so a farm was the perfect venue for her efforts and McCrea the perfect partner.
Jesse McCrea was a fair-haired, tall, slender man of about forty years of age. He was quite gentlemanly in his appearance and speech, and—I learned in time—extremely well read. Like Lila, he had an interest in everything, and his stately farmhouse had one room given over to a library. The hundreds of books he had collected over the years were well worn from being thoroughly read and then used as references. He had little interest in poetry and novels, but in books of information he was insatiable.
I happened to be alone with Jesse McCrea in the parlor one morning, a few days before the wedding. His latest interest was the law, and he was eagerly describing a tome he had recently acquired, when he stopped talking and stared for a moment.
“It has just occurred to me,” he stated, “that your sister Aleta might be unaware of the laws governing ownership of children.”
“What do you mean?”
He hemmed and hawed a bit, probably because he was uneasy discussing Aleta’s situation. I smiled and said, “You need not be afraid to speak with me about Aleta. I feel certain Lila has imparted the entire story.”
“Aye,” he replied, “she has, but it did not occur to me until this moment that according to the law, Aleta’s child will be the property of its father. If she continues her plan of giving the child away and Ivan Wellerton happened to discover the child’s existence, she could run afoul of the law.”
“Is that true?” I demanded, a cold shiver running down my back.
“It is indeed. As I’m sure you know, every husband owns the children born in a marriage. Although the law is a bit vague on child ownership in cases where the parents are unmarried, precedent indicates that his rights are nearly always held over hers.”
