by Jane Feather
“You’ve shown remarkable self-restraint. I’m sorry to have subjected you to such a fusty group.”
“It’s not their fustiness I object to,” she responded, opening the jewel box on her dressing table.
Guy let the statement lie. He reached over her shoulder and closed the lid of the jewel box. “I’d like you to wear the rubies this evening.”
She looked up at him. “Any special reason?”
“Not exactly. I’ll fetch them. They’re in the safe.” He went back into the bedroom.
Petra frowned at herself in the dressing mirror. Wearing the rubies would be a statement, a statement of her position as a Granville, the wife of Baron Ashton. She was certain that that was what Guy intended to demonstrate. The stones were a stamp, a brand that assigned her place in the world. It wouldn’t occur to any of the guests at Ashton Court that evening that their hostess, resplendent in the family gems, was a passionate suffragist intent on disrupting the social order as they understood it. But if Guy hoped that dressing his wife in the outward manifestation of her social place would weaken her passionate ideals he was very much mistaken.
Guy came back with the casket that contained the rubies nestled in velvet. He fastened the necklace and helped her with the bracelet, but when he handed her the silver-and-ruby fillet for her hair, Petra shook her head. “No, that’s too formal, Guy. It’s not as if we’re going to one of the queen’s drawing rooms. I prefer a more casual style for my hair, particularly when we’re dining at home.” Dottie had arranged the rich chestnut mass twisted in a loose knot on her nape, artfully stray tendrils drifting over her forehead and about her ears.
“As you wish.” He shrugged and placed the ornament back in the casket. “It looks very pretty. By the way, I thought we might get up some foursomes for bridge after dinner.”
“That should keep people occupied,” Petra agreed. “At least those who don’t want to play billiards.” She stood up, smoothing the skirts of her turquoise damask dress as Dottie draped an Indian silk shawl over her elbows. She took one last look at her reflection in the long mirror. The rubies dominated the image, blood red, deep fires glowing in their depths. They were as gorgeous as they were intimidating, dangerous almost. But that was fanciful. “Shall we go down?”
Guy offered his arm. He was acutely aware of how fragile the present truce was. Occasionally Petra’s customary warmth and bubbling good humor would show itself, but not for long. In its place was a somewhat chill composure as she performed her hostly duties to perfection. But once the weekend was done and there was no longer a need for the pretense there would have to be a real reckoning, however bloody it turned out to be.
“Tomorrow will be less of a trial,” he said as they went downstairs. “Some of our neighbors are amusing and in general not particularly interested in politics.”
“As long as the status quo remains,” Petra responded.
Guy set his lips and made no response.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Petra awoke to the sound of church bells from the village church situated on the grounds of Ashton Court just inside the gates at the end of the driveway. She stretched and yawned in her warm nest beneath the covers, listening to the peeling bells summoning the faithful. She felt peaceful, rested, filled with a sense of well-being as if she’d had a night filled with delightful dreams. She hadn’t felt like this since the invasion of Westminster and even that memory couldn’t pierce her present delicious sleepiness.
Guy leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “Matins at eleven.”
“Everyone?” Instinctively she reached her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. For the moment the distance between them disappeared and all was as it should be.
“Most probably.” He moved his mouth to hers, flinging one leg across her thighs as he came over her. He pushed up her nightgown with one hand, sliding his hand between her thighs, smiling against her mouth as he felt her warm, moist readiness. Still cocooned in the aftermath of sleep, he joined his body with hers, moving lazily inside her. Petra responded with a soft murmur of contentment, inhaling the sleep warmth of his skin, feeling her body respond of its own accord to this deliciously indolent union.
For long moments afterward they lay wrapped together in the warmth until Guy groaned and rolled away from her, kicking aside the covers. He stood up and stretched as Petra gazed at his naked body, relishing the ripple of muscle beneath the taut skin, the long, powerful thighs and the smooth planes of his back and belly. He moved to pick up his dressing gown from the end of the bed and shrugged into it, turning back to the bed as he did so.
“That is one very lascivious look, madam,” he observed.
“I can’t help it. That is one very lascivious sight,” she returned, pulling the pillows up behind her head as she reached for the bell to ring for Dottie and her morning tea.
Guy laughed and went into the bathroom. Petra listened to the sound of bathwater running and contemplated the day ahead. The luncheon was an open house affair, invitations issued to all the neighboring gentry, and guests would begin to arrive from church at the conclusion of the eleven o’clock matins.
“Good morning, my lady.” Dottie greeted her with a tea tray and a bright smile. “It’s another lovely day, quite warm for the time of year.” She set the tray down and went to open the curtains, letting in golden morning sunshine. “What will you wear to church?”
“Oh, something plainish,” Petra said, reaching for her teacup. “The pink shantung dress and jacket with the black trimming, I think, and the black felt hat with the pink ribbon.”
Dressed accordingly an hour later she went downstairs to breakfast with her houseguests. Guy had already breakfasted and was closeted in the library with the prime minister and the chancellor of the exchequer for the last political discussion of the weekend. But just before eleven o’clock the entire house party gathered in the hall to walk together to the church for the Sunday morning ritual.
The Ashton boxed pew was not large enough for the entire party but the prime minister, the chancellor and their wives were all accommodated with Lord and Lady Ashton. Petra kept her eyes open with difficulty during a long and tedious sermon and it was with relief that she walked out of the church with her husband to greet the rector at the door. After a few minutes’ conversation they walked back to the house and Petra hurried upstairs to change her church attire for an afternoon dress, reflecting that the rules of dress in the country were more arduous than in town. In London she rarely changed her daytime dress until the evening.
She was in the drawing room talking with a group of newly arrived luncheon guests when Babbit announced, “Lord Harrington and Lady Delmont.”
Petra spun around to face the drawing room doors. It had not occurred to her for one instant that she would be receiving Clothilde Delmont at Ashton Court, but now she realized she should not be surprised. She knew she was staying with Lord Harrington and his lordship, as a near neighbor, of course would be automatically included in the open house invitation.
She stayed where she was by the fireplace watching as Guy left the people he was talking to and went to greet the new arrivals. Why hadn’t he warned her? Why had he invited his former mistress in the first place? He didn’t have to include Harrington and his guests. Of course, he’d invited the woman to his own engagement party, she thought with a surge of anger. How dared he do this to her again?
She watched as Guy took Clothilde’s hand. It looked as if he was going to brush it with a conventional kiss but Clothilde leaned in and presented her cheek, giving him no option but to give her the kiss that indicated a close friendship at the very least. Plastering a smile on her lips, Petra walked across the room, aware of a slight buzz around her. Of course, most of the guests would know of the erstwhile relationship between their host and Lady Delmont.
“Lady Delmont. Welcome to Ashton Court.” She held out her hand, the smile still on her lips.
Clothilde’s gloved fingers barely brushed
Petra’s hand. “Lady Ashton. How kind of you to invite me.”
Petra wondered if the smile would set on her face. She had the feeling it was probably more of a grimace. She glanced at her husband, who stood as composed as always, exchanging small talk with Lord Harrington. He met her glance, however, and there was something in his dark eyes that she couldn’t interpret. Was it a warning? She gestured to a footman with a tray of glasses. “Sherry, Lady Delmont?” Then she turned and walked away, back to the group she had been with earlier.
Lunch was served on small tables in the conservatory, warmed by the sun pouring through the glass roof. Petra had decided against a seating plan. She wanted to encourage informality and allowing her guests to choose their luncheon partners was a good way to do that. She and Guy, of course, would not sit together. Clothilde maneuvered herself next to Guy and engaged him in conversation that to Petra’s jaundiced eye seemed deliberately to exclude anyone else at their table.
She was, however, aware of Guy’s eyes on her much of the time although once again she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He maintained a cool courtesy and as far as she could tell managed to conduct a conversation with Clothilde while also engaging other members of the party at his table. He would not be impolite, she knew, but nevertheless she felt her own anger rise as she cast surreptitious glances in their direction. It was obvious to the blindest person that there was a special relationship between Guy Granville and Clothilde Delmont. She touched his arm too often in emphasis, fluttered her extremely long dark eyelashes, and laughed prettily when he spoke. For a moment Petra could find it in her to feel sorry for Guy as he tried to deflect the woman while maintaining a courteous façade. But then she thought that he must have been expecting this, he’d invited her after all. And whatever excuse he thought he had for doing so, nothing would ease her angry disappointment.
At the end of the meal, the guests wandered away from the tables, some into the garden, others into the salon, others to the billiard room or the smoking room. Petra saw Clothilde in the garden, her hand resting possessively on Guy’s arm as he attempted to pour cognac for the prime minister, who stood in the same conversational group by an ornamental pond where a marble fish spouted a fountain of water. Petra walked over to them.
“It’s such a lovely mild afternoon. Would anyone like to play croquet? The croquet lawn is set up.” She indicated the smooth, velvety green lawn with its hoops just beyond a low ornamental hedge.
“Oh, I detest that game,” Clothilde declared, “hitting a ball through hoops, so childish.”
“Not the way I play it,” Petra said. “I’ve always found it a viciously competitive game. My brother and I and our friends used to spend hours knocking each other’s balls out of play. It frequently ended in tears.”
“I find country life so boring,” Clothilde said with a derisive smile. “What on earth do you find to do here, except for silly lawn games?”
“Oh, there’s always the seaside,” Petra said cheerfully, picking up the gauntlet with savage pleasure. Clothilde was standing very close to the edge of the pond. One surreptitious push and . . .
She continued in the same cheerful tone. “Weston-super-Mare is only a few miles away. There’s plenty to amuse one there.”
“The seaside?” Clothilde looked incredulous. “Only children enjoy the seaside.”
“Not necessarily,” Petra returned. “I happen to love it. In fact, I’m going myself to spend the day there later this week, probably on Wednesday,” she heard herself say, although she hadn’t fixed on a day until this minute. She glanced at Guy. It was the first he’d heard of this plan and his eyebrow twitched a query.
“I find the sea air very relaxing, it helps to clear my mind, chase away the cobwebs,” she continued brightly.
Guy could hear the brittle edge to her voice and read the anger in her hazel eyes. “Sea air can be bracing,” he observed with a bland smile, at the same time moving his arm away from Clothilde’s hand.
“The puppet show on the pier is always wonderful,” Petra continued in the same tone. “And the theatre at the end of the pier often has wonderful music hall performances. I doubt you’d appreciate them, though, Lady Delmont. I’m sure you’d consider the humor beneath you.” Her voice was sharp with contempt. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see how many croquet players I can gather.”
With another smile, she moved away, congratulating herself on having had the last word. It was a small satisfaction but in the circumstances she would take what she could get. Guy had said almost nothing during her exchange with Clothilde, his expression giving nothing away. If she’d expected any overt indication of her husband’s support, she was disappointed. She wondered what he would have said had she actually given in to the urge to give Clothilde that tiny little push.
She glanced back and saw that Guy and Clothilde had moved away from the group by the pond and were deep in conversation, or rather Clothilde was talking with an intimate dip of her head as if imparting some seriously private news. Her anger flared and it was only with great difficulty that she managed to keep herself from interrupting the tête-à-tête.
* * *
“It must be so difficult for you, mon cher,” Clothilde said, her lavender eyes liquid with sympathy. “To have to stand aside as your wife takes part in such vulgarity. Believe me, Guy, I know how such a public embarrassment must distress you. What could she have been thinking, to drag your name through the mud for such a ridiculous reason. Women don’t need to vote, they assert their power behind the throne, as the saying goes. Why, a clever woman can make a man do anything she wishes him to do.”
“That’s true of you is it, my dear?” he inquired silkily, a strange smile on his lips.
Clothilde missed the tone and the smile. “Well, of course it is,” she said, looking up at him from beneath long, black lashes. “But I would never cause you such hideous embarrassment. Politics are so unfeminine and I know how much you appreciate delicacy in a woman. I do hope you have no regrets.” She touched his arm in a gesture of sympathy.
“Regrets about what, my dear?” he inquired in the same silky tone.
“Oh, I think you know,” she said with an arch smile. “I must say I was surprised that you would consider such a social nonentity as a wife, but maybe little Petra has some unseen tricks up her sleeve.” She gave a tinkling little laugh as if at some absurdity.
“So you consider an interest in politics to be unfeminine, Clothilde?” he inquired, still smiling.
“Of course it is. Such mundane, boring matters have nothing to do with the real business of women. We play our own games, mon cher, and men enjoy them.”
“As your playthings?” Guy inquired, his eyes dark slates.
“Oh, not exactly.” Clothilde’s laugh trilled again. “As our playmates, I think you would say. It is a partnership. We give you what you want and cause you no discomfort and in return you take care of our needs and desires. A perfect arrangement, don’t you agree?”
“Symbiosis, indeed,” Guy said. “If you’ll excuse me . . .” He offered a small bow and walked off across the lawn in the direction of his wife’s voice coming from the croquet lawn. He stood for a few minutes watching over the low hedge as she played, partnering her brother against two other pairs of guests. Petra enjoyed competitive games of the croquet variety, but manipulation, games of deceit, she wouldn’t know where to begin, he thought, smiling unconsciously as she hit her own and then her brother’s ball to strike the central finishing post and immediately danced a little jig of triumph.
Had he once enjoyed Clothilde’s manipulations? Had he once appreciated her subtle deceits as she managed her life and those in it according to her own wishes? He had always known what she was up to, but it had amused him and now he couldn’t for the life of him think why. There was something so fresh and clean about his wife’s way of living her life. She believed in universal suffrage and she would fight for it. She hadn’t warned him in advance, and for that he was entitled t
o his annoyance, but for her convictions. . . ? Maybe not.
* * *
Blithely unaware of her husband’s self-reflections, Petra nursed her anger at his apparent complicity in the presence of his erstwhile mistress, but there was no opportunity to express any of her feelings, even after the luncheon guests had left. The house was still full of the weekend guests who must be entertained. But finally the interminable evening came to an end. Dottie had gone to her own bed and Petra sat in her dressing robe on the end of the bed and waited for Guy to come upstairs.
Guy couldn’t help but be aware of his wife’s suppressed anger whenever they were in the same room during the evening. She was icily polite to him, while maintaining her hostess charm with their guests. He steeled himself as he went upstairs to join her after seeing the last of his male guests to the foot of the stairs on their way to bed.
“All right, let’s hear it,” he said as he came in, his hands raised, palm forward in a gesture of defense.
“I don’t understand, why would you invite her . . . after the last time.”
“I didn’t,” he returned. “I had no idea she was staying with Harrington. It was unspoken that the open house invitation would include any guests under his roof. You know that as well as I do, Petra.”
“You didn’t know she was here?” Petra asked, incredulous.
“No, how should I have?”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “Well, I did, and she certainly knew you were here.”
“How can you know that?”
“I saw her on Bristol station the day Joth and I arrived. Don’t tell me it was pure coincidence that Lord Harrington was in the country. He’s known for hating it. He hardly ever leaves London except during hunting season.”
“Which is now,” Guy pointed out mildly.
Petra was silent for a moment. Then she said, “You really didn’t know?”
“Of course I didn’t. Do you think I would have sent Harrington an invitation if I had known?”
“I don’t know. You invited her to our engagement party.”