by Jane Feather
“And you know why I did that.” He sounded impatient. “I now am a married man and I would not consider it appropriate to invite an ex-mistress under my roof when my wife is present.”
“Oh, but if I weren’t here . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I refuse to have this conversation, Petra. Go to bed. I’m going to read in the library for a while.” He walked out, closing the door behind him with a firm click.
Petra felt angry tears welling and blinked them away fiercely. Not only had Guy dismissed her own righteous anger but had actually taken offense himself. Maybe he hadn’t known Clothilde would find her way into his marriage, but he could at the very least acknowledge how uncomfortable that made his wife feel.
She turned out the lamps and got into bed, then got out again and relit Guy’s bedside lamp, turning the wick down low. She wasn’t going to let him accuse her of being petty as well as ridiculous. Oh. She thumped the pillow, threw it on its other side and thumped it again before flinging herself down and closing her eyes.
She heard Guy come back sometime later as she lay sleepless in the dim lamplight. She closed her eyes and listened as he moved around the room, discarded his dressing gown, turned out the lamp and slid carefully into bed beside her. He lay still for a moment, then said softly into the darkness, “I know you’re awake.” He pushed out an arm, sliding it beneath her and rolling her against his body. “I am so sorry. I was so angry with Clothilde myself that somehow it got transferred to you. You had every right to be angry and upset.”
She nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder. “I know I shouldn’t let her upset me, but she tries to and I don’t seem to be proof against it.”
“Don’t you trust me, Petra?”
“I trust you absolutely,” she declared, pressing her lips to the side of his neck.
“Then let’s get some sleep. This will all be over by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank the Lord for that, sir,” she murmured, feeling his skin ripple with silent laughter.
* * *
The following morning an early hunt took many of the guests, both men and women, out following the hounds just after the sun came up. Petra excused herself from the hunt, as she was not an avid horsewoman, unlike Diana and Fenella, and spent the morning ensuring that all the arrangements were in order for the guests’ various departures. The enormous hunt breakfast with its copious supplies of wine and whisky was a cheerful farewell and finally she and Guy waved off the last of the guests on their way to the London train from Bristol.
“I feel as if I’ve run a marathon,” Petra said, turning back to the welcome silence of the now empty hall.
“In a way you have,” Guy said. “I’ve never hosted a weekend of that kind before. I confess I hadn’t realized how exhausting it was going to be.”
“You’ve never hosted one before?” Petra was astonished.
“I’ve never had a hostess before,” he pointed out. “A man needs a wife, an accomplished wife, I might add, to manage such an event.”
“Mmm. A mistress won’t do, I suppose.”
“No,” he agreed. “But there are many other events where they can be useful.” He laughed, seeing her expression. “My love, if you insist on provocation, you must expect to have it answered.”
Petra sighed. “I suppose so.” She flopped into a deep armchair in the drawing room. “Will you ring for tea?”
Guy did so before saying, “What’s this about going to Weston on Wednesday?”
“Oh.” Petra considered for a minute. “I hadn’t planned on doing so until I heard myself say it. But yes, I am going for the day. I love it there and it’s been over a year since I walked along the sands. It was always one of Joth’s and my favorite days out when we were children.” She hesitated a moment, before saying, “I need some time to myself, Guy. I have a lot to think about . . . priorities,” she added with a vague gesture.
“Two heads wouldn’t be better for that?”
Petra shook her head and said again, “I need to spend some time with myself.”
“Perhaps we could both benefit from the time without distraction to work on what we consider important,” Guy responded, his tone now cool and impersonal.
Petra was saved from a response by the arrival of the parlor maid with the tea tray.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I’ll drive you to Weston in the motor?” Guy said on Wednesday morning at the breakfast table as Petra cracked the shell on top of her boiled egg. “What time do you want to leave?”
“Oh, I don’t need to be driven,” she said quickly, sprinkling salt onto the egg. “You have things to do this morning. Besides, I’d like to drive myself in the gig. It’s only a few miles.”
There was a moment’s silence before he said, “As you wish. But you must take a groom with you.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” she stated, determined not to give in on this issue. “I am quite capable of driving a gig alone. I’ll leave it with the pony in the stable at the Ship Inn. They know me there.”
Guy wondered if it was worth a fight. It was one he would win, because his servants would not disobey his direct orders, but he suspected it would be a Pyrrhic victory.
“May I ask then that you be home by midafternoon?”
“Yes, but why?”
“Because I will be concerned for your safety,” he said simply. “The lanes are narrow and there’ll be more traffic later in the afternoon. Wednesday is market day in Kingston.”
Petra scraped the last of the egg white from its shell. “I will be home by four o’clock.” She reached for the butter dish and spread butter liberally onto her toast. “Good enough, sir?” She raised an ironic eyebrow.
“Good enough.”
Petra took the reins of the gig an hour later, shook them encouragingly, clicked her tongue, and the pony between the traces started off down the driveway. It was another beautiful late autumn morning, the oak trees along the drive richly burnished in gold and red and for the first time in days, it seemed, she drew a deep breath of relaxation, feeling the tension run away. The lanes were quiet and the main road into Weston had little traffic. Wednesday was market day and the traffic would have been heaviest earlier in the morning. It would be bad again late afternoon, as Guy had pointed out, as customers and stall holders made their way home, but Petra had every intention of keeping her promise about being home by four o’clock.
She guided the gig into the stable yard of the Ship Inn on the town’s sea front and jumped down, handing the reins to a stable hand, who hurried to take them. “I’ll be back later this afternoon. See that the pony’s fed and watered,” she instructed before making her way into the inn.
“Good morning, miss. What can I get you?” The innkeeper behind the counter in the saloon bar greeted his customer cheerfully as he polished the stained counter with his apron. “It’s Miss Rutherford, isn’t it? Haven’t seen you hereabouts in a year or more.”
“It’s Lady Ashton now, Mr. Jackman,” Petra told him with a smile. “And I’d like coffee, please.”
She sat down at a table in the mullion-paned window overlooking the promenade above the beach.
“Well, I never did,” the innkeeper said. “Wait till I tell the missus. She usually knows all the gossip hereabouts.” He poured coffee. “Fancy a nice bit o’ fruitcake with this? Our Matty bakes a right good ’un.”
“Yes, thank you.” For some reason Petra associated the sea air with food, candy floss and toffee apples, cockles and whelks soaked in vinegar, and, of course, fish and chips. They were all part of the ritual experience of a day at the seaside.
Refreshed after coffee and cake, she left the inn and walked across the road to the broad promenade that ran along the seawall for the length of the expanse of what at high tide was golden sandy beach below. But the tide was out now and the dark rippled sand gave way to mud flats that stretched across the bay to the open sea. The beach here was notorious for its extreme tides, at low tide damp
sand and mud seemed to extend to the horizon, stranded boats leaning sideways in the mud. It was a good time to collect the cockles and whelks at the edge of the flats and Petra watched the local folk bent to the ground as they walked, filling their buckets with shellfish as greedy seagulls circled above, looking for an opportunity to raid a bucket or snatch a cockle from an unwary hand. Fearless and threatening, they were considered as bad as rats by the local people with their constant ferocious hunting and continuous screaming.
She strolled along the promenade, the gulls shrieking and swooping overhead, still filled with that deep relaxation, the wonderful feeling of being alone, responsible for nothing and no one, only herself. And now she had the time to think clearly about how to reconcile her own powerful support for universal suffrage with Guy’s equally powerful opposition. After much thought she had decided that her husband was entitled to feel let down that she had not warned him that she would be taking her public support for her cause onto his own ground. And she was resolved that in future she would always inform him of any civil actions the Union was going to take. But what would that do to her marriage?
How was it possible to feel such deep love for a man who held views diametrically opposed to her own? No, stronger than that, views that she now found abhorrent. Views that denigrated her as a person in his world. Guy would deny that, of course, but Petra knew she was right.
She had reached the end of the promenade and turned back toward the pier and the pavilion. Her mind was clear but the answer remained a conundrum. Thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket she walked the length of the pier, absently noting the stalls that were open, that the puppet show was still performing a vigorous Punch and Judy, and the theatre at the end of the pier was showing a variety show every day until the end of November.
The smell of frying mingled with the pungent aroma of vinegar made her realize that she was hungry and it had to be lunchtime. The smell wafted from a small kiosk located at the beginning of the pier, just where it met the promenade. She increased her speed, walking quickly toward the scent, thinking now only of the delights of vinegar-soaked fried cod and thick chips wrapped in newspaper.
There was a queue, which was usual, and Petra took her place at the back, looking around at the beach just below. Some children were playing with buckets and spades in the damp rippled sand, others exploring the rock pools left high and dry by the receding tide, their shrill voices rising in competition with the screaming gulls. The cluster of shellfish pickers were still at their gathering. The queue moved forward and she moved with it, still watching the scene on the beach. It would be too cold to swim even if the tide were in, but the beach would look completely different, water lapping golden sand instead of the expanse of damp dark sand and black mud with its green and brown patches of seaweed and toppled, stranded boats. In winter, she knew, the sky would be gray and black, seeming to join seamlessly with the dark wet sand and the dark brown mud, but today the sky was clear and brilliant blue, the sun pouring yellow light onto the scene.
She had reached the head of the queue without realizing it until the person behind nudged her elbow. “Oh . . . sorry,” she apologized quickly. “Cod and chips, please. Salt and vinegar.”
She waited, salivating, as the man in his blue-striped apron dropped a piece of battered cod into the steaming fryer. He fished it out, dumped it on a sheet of newspaper on the counter, ladled a huge quantity of crisp chips on top and liberally doused the whole in vinegar with a hefty shake of salt. “There y’are, miss.” He folded the newspaper over to form a packet and handed it to Petra. “Sixpence halfpenny.”
She took the hot, greasy parcel and tossed sixpence halfpenny onto the counter, turning away with a word of thanks, climbing down the few steps that led to the beach. She found a rock resting up against the seawall and sat down, inhaling the fragrance of her lunch mingled with the salt tang of the sea air.
“Well, I can’t imagine what Lord Ashton would say if he could see you now,” a familiar voice said from above her.
Petra felt a cold anger at the invasion of her privacy. Of all the people to disturb her peace on this day, this woman was the worst. She twisted to look up and behind her. Clothilde Delmont stood on the wall looking down at her. “What are you doing here?” Petra demanded making no attempt at politeness.
“You said you’d be here today,” Clothilde said, surveying the steps down to the beach warily.
“How did you get here?” Petra asked, looking around. “Is Lord Harrington with you?”
“No. His carriage brought me.” She looked around with an air of disdain. “This place is the height of vulgarity. I can’t believe Guy would patronize it. Is he here?”
“No, he’s at home.” Petra broke off a piece of fish from the newspaper and popped it into her mouth, licking her fingers before selecting a fat chip. “If you want to talk to me you’ll have to come down here. I’m eating my lunch.”
“How disgusting,” Clothilde declared, cautiously stepping down to the beach. She was as always the picture of elegance in a dark blue suit, a pale blue ruffle–necked blouse beneath. Her high-heeled yellow kid shoes made no concessions to the terrain and the heels sank into the sand.
A bright-eyed seagull perched on the seawall, watching the newspaper in Petra’s hands, his clawed feet gripping the wall, his fierce beak opening and closing as he shrieked at her.
“I should take the shoes off, if I were you,” Petra suggested through a mouthful of fish. She wore flat, open-toed sandals herself, with a colorful patchwork skirt and ruffle-edged green waisted jacket. Perfectly appropriate clothing for an autumn day at the beach. She was beginning to enjoy this tête-à-tête, if it could be called that. Lady Delmont was at a disadvantage for the first time since Petra had laid eyes on her, and for once she was not intimidated by the other woman’s elegance. It was so out of place.
“Shoo it away,” Clothilde demanded, flapping a hand at the seagull with a shudder. “Dreadful creatures.” The gull merely rose on its toes, opened its large wingspan and shook its wings, emitting a shriek.
“It’ll only come back,” Petra said unhelpfully but with absolute truth. “Did you want to talk to me?” She stood up from her rock. Clothilde towered over her at the best of times, and remaining seated merely made it worse. “Let’s walk along the beach a little, the sand’s firmer where it’s damp.” She moved farther onto the beach toward the faint silver glimmer of sea on the horizon. After a moment Clothilde followed her, picking her way delicately. The seagull flew low over Petra’s head and in a moment was joined by two others angrily squabbling.
Petra continued to eat from her soggy newspaper, relishing each vinegary mouthful. “Well, go on, Lady Delmont, I’m listening,” she prompted.
Clothilde grabbed at her wide-brimmed hat as a breeze swept in from the sea. “You will not keep him, you know that,” she stated. “He finds you amusing at the moment. It’s the way he is with all his affaires de coeur but he always come back to me in the end.”
“I don’t believe he’s ever married one of his lovers before,” Petra pointed out mildly.
“Oh, you tricked him, but it means nothing to him, you’ll see that soon enough. I wouldn’t marry him if he begged me. He’s not capable of being faithful and neither am I, which is why we will always come back to each other. I know him as you cannot possibly, you’re no match for Guy, Petra, and he’ll realize it soon enough. And when he does he’ll—”
“Have a chip,” Petra interrupted, thrusting the newspaper parcel toward Clothilde. “They’re very good and might sweeten your temper.”
“You’re a fool and a . . .”
The abrupt movement of the newspaper into the open brought a flurry of wings and a loud shrieking which broke into whatever she’d been about to say. The two huge white birds screaming like banshees hurled themselves down between the two women. For a moment Petra could see nothing but feathers and beady eyes as she flailed her hands against the terrifying melee of dagge
r-sharp claws and open beaks in her face. One minute she was holding out the remnants of her fish and chip parcel to Clothilde and the next it was snatched from her hand.
Clothilde gave an unearthly scream, flapping her arms wildly, blinded by their wingspan as the two birds fought over their prize inches from her nose. Still screaming almost as loudly as the seagulls, arms still windmilling, she turned and took off without thought across the beach, her head down, not looking where she was going in her panic as other gulls joined the fray, swooping down on her, their wings batting violently just above her head.
Petra ducked and weaved as the birds fought above her and saw that Clothilde, shoeless now, was running hell for leather toward the waterline. She saw that the original pair of fighting gulls had been joined by three or four others, all fighting for scraps from the now shredded newspaper, circling above the terrified woman, darting and weaving, seeming to be encouraged in their attack by her frantically waving arms. Petra could only imagine how frightened Clothilde must be, she was fairly shaken herself, but the other woman’s predicament was worse than her own had been. It took her another bemused moment to realize where Clothilde was heading and cupped her hands around her mouth, bellowing, “Clothilde, stop. Turn around.”
The other woman took no notice, even if she’d heard, and Petra was uncertain about that. Kicking off her sandals Petra did the only thing she could think of and raced after Clothilde, still shouting at her to stop.
The gatherers along the sand’s edge stopped at the commotion, looking around them. When they saw what was happening they too began to shout at the fleeing figure. Almost everyone on the beach but Clothilde Delmont knew the dangers of the mud flats.
Petra reached the edge of the rippled sand where the mud began. Clothilde’s shoes lay discarded on the sand, at least she’d had the sense to get rid of them, but sweet heaven, what was she to do now? It was a desperate question and the answer equally so. Still shouting at Clothilde to stop running, she gathered up her patchwork skirt, and gingerly took a step forward, feeling the mud seep around her toes. As she took another step she heard another voice, calling behind her.