Her Convenient Husband's Return

by Eleanor Webster

  Beth stood, too restless to be contained within the easy chair. She paced the seven steps to the window. She thought of Ren. He and Edmund had been inseparable as children—although he had spent little enough time here since. Her heart hurt for him, but she also felt anger. Why had he turned so resolutely against Graham Hill? How had London’s lure become so strong for the boy she used to know?

  She remembered the four of them scrambling across the countryside. Well, Jamie and Edmund would scramble. She would often sit while Ren painted. She’d hear the movement of his brush strokes across the canvas, mixed with myriad woodland sounds; water, birds, bees, leaves... And Ren would describe everything: puffy clouds resembling sheep before shearing, streams dancing with the tinkling of harpsichords and tiny snowdrops hidden under the bushes like shy maidens.

  Yet now Ren was at the big house with a mother he did not like.

  Alone.

  He no longer painted. He no longer liked the country. If gossip was true, his life in London was dissolute.

  ‘Arnold said you needed to speak to me.’

  She startled at Jamie’s voice, wheeling from the window.

  ‘Yes. I need to tell—’

  ‘I know about Edmund,’ he said.

  ‘You do?’ She exhaled, both relieved that she need not tell him and guilty that she had not been the one to do so.

  ‘Lady Graham’s maid told the whole staff. Should not have enlisted. Tried to talk sense into him.’

  She heard the wheeze of cushioning as her brother threw himself heavily into his chair.

  ‘He never was the same after Mirabelle died,’ she said.

  ‘Still had the land.’

  Beth permitted herself a sad half-smile. For Jamie, the land, the scientific pursuit of hardy crops and livestock would always be sufficient. There was an invulnerability about him that she envied.

  ‘So Ren is Lord Graham now,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Yes.’

  He made a grumbling sound. ‘I hope he intends to take his responsibilities seriously. No more capering about. He’ll have to spend more time here.’

  ‘I guess—’ she said jerkily.

  His words startled her. She had not thought of this and felt that quick mix of emotion too tangled to properly discern: a jumble of breathless disorientation; anticipation and apprehension.

  ‘He may not want to,’ she said.

  ‘Must. His responsibility now,’ Jamie said. ‘Wonder what he knows about seeds?’

  ‘Not much. London isn’t big on seeds.’ She gave a half-smile that felt more like a stifled sob.

  ‘Guess I could teach him.’

  Beth nodded. The young boy she had known would have needed no convincing. He had loved the estate from its every aspect. He’d loved the tenants, the fields, the animals.

  But the man—her husband—did not.

  * * *

  The morning of the memorial dawned clear. Beth could feel the sun’s warmth through the window pane. She was glad it was sunny. Edmund had liked the sun.

  She’d visited Graham Hill the previous day, but neither Ren nor his mother had been available, so she had returned with the nebulous feeling that she ought to do something more.

  That was the thing about this marriage: it had brought them no closer. There had been no return of their former friendship, no occasional visits, no notes from London, laughter or pleasant strolls.

  With Mirabelle’s death, she’d taken on more duties on the Graham estate but with a confused uncertainty, unsure if she was a family member helping out or a neighbour overstepping.

  Now she wondered if she should go to Graham Hill prior to the service? Or merely join Ren at the church? Likely he’d prefer to ignore her or have her sit like a stranger. But the tenants would not.

  Fortunately, the arrival of a curt missive from Graham Hill settled this dilemma. Jamie read the abrupt note which stated only that the Graham carriage would collect them so that she could attend the service with her husband.

  ‘Indeed, that is only logical. It would be foolish to bring out both carriages to go to the same location,’ he concluded in his blunt sensible manner as though practicality was the only issue at stake.

  Husband. It had been so much easier to cope with a husband when he remained unseen in London. Then she had been able to think of that quick ceremony as a dream or an episode from a past life with little impact on her present. Indeed, he had felt less absent miles away than now when she knew they were within half a mile of each other, shared a common grief, but were as remote as two islands separated by an ocean.

  Of course, his instant removal the day of the marriage service had hurt. She remembered listening to the fast trot of his fashionable curricle down the drive at Allington with a confused mix of pain, relief, embarrassment.

  But truthfully, relief had overshadowed all other emotion. Allington had not been sold. Her father’s gambling debt to the Duke had been paid. She was safe from Ayrebourne. Indeed, she’d not been in that unpleasant man’s presence since she had politely declined his proposal, although she still felt an uneasy prickle of goose pimples when she remembered that interview.

  Even now, close to two years later, the tightness returned to her stomach whenever she remembered the day. The chill cold silence of the library had felt so absolute. She’d wished that she had ordered a fire lit. She’d felt so enclosed, so isolated alone with this man.

  ‘You have an answer for me?’ he’d asked, taking her hand in his.

  His fingers had been cold—not a dry, crisp cold, but clammy.

  She’d said the right things, the pretty phrases of refusal. Of course, she hadn’t been able to see his expression, but she’d felt his anger. His hand had tightened on her own, his fingers digging into her flesh so that for days after it had felt bruised.

  ‘You are refusing?’

  ‘Yes, with gratitude for—for the honour, of course.’

  ‘And this other suitor? He will be able to pay off your father’s debts. They are substantial.’

  ‘Yes,’ she’d said.

  For a moment, Ayrebourne had made no reply. Then he’d leaned closer. She’d heard his movement, the rustle of his clothes and felt a slow, growing dread, as though time had been oddly slowed or elongated. With careful movements, he’d lifted his hand and touched her face with one single finger. ‘A shame.’

  Nauseous distaste had risen, like bile, into her throat. Twisting fear had made her tongue dry and swell, becoming bulbous as if grown too big for her mouth.

  She had not been able to make a response and had remained still as though paralysed. Very slowly, his finger had traced her cheek, a slow, slithering touch. Then he’d pressed close to her ear, so that she could feel his warm moist breath and the damp touch of his lips.

  ‘But we are still neighbours so likely I will see you from time to time. In fact, I will make sure of it.’

  His lips had touched again the tip of her ear.

  ‘I would enjoy that,’ he’d said.

  * * *

  ‘Shall I be helping you with your hair this morning—ma’am—my lady?’

  Beth jumped at her maid’s words. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gracious, you’re white as a ghost. Are you well?’ Allie entered, bringing with her the sweet smell of hot chocolate.

  Beth nodded. ‘Yes, I was just thinking—unpleasant thoughts. But I am glad of the distraction.’

  ‘And your hair?’

  ‘Best see what you can do.’

  Usually Beth paid little attention to her appearance, but today she’d make an effort. It would show respect. Besides, she didn’t want to give Lady Graham reason to criticise. Lady Graham had never approved of the marriage. Who would want a blind country miss as one’s son’s wife—even a second son?

  She startled, the movement so abrupt that Allie made a tskin
g, chastising noise.

  ‘He’s going to be Lord Graham,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Of course, Beth had known that since she’d first heard of Edmund’s death and yet it seemed as though she only now recognised its full import. It changed everything. She could not believe that she had not recognised this earlier. Ren was no longer just the family black sheep. He was Lord Graham. He had duties, social responsibilities, a seat in the House of Lords.

  Most importantly, he’d need an heir.

  That single thought thundered through her. She clasped her hands so tightly together she could feel her nails sharp against the skin.

  She’d known, since childhood, she would not—must not—have children.

  Her thoughts circled and bounced. They would have to get an annulment. That was the only option. But was it possible? Would they qualify? Good Lord, ‘qualify’? It sounded as though she was seeking entrance into an exclusive club or scientific society. Or would they have to get a divorce? And what were the rules about divorce?

  When should she talk to Ren about this? His brother’s funeral hardly seemed suitable. Was there a good time? A protocol for the dissolution of marriage? Would he agree?

  Ally made another tut-tutting sound behind her. ‘Please stay still, my lady. You are that wriggly! Worse than a dog with fleas, if I may say so. I’m thinking I’ll trim your fringe, too, while I’m about it and really you don’t want to be wriggly when I do that or goodness knows how we’ll end up.’

  ‘Yes,’ Beth said, dully.

  She made her breathing slow, as she used to do whenever she became lost or panicked. Their farce of a marriage would be annulled. But tomorrow was soon enough to worry. Today, she would show respect and support. She would bid farewell to Edmund.

  After finishing Beth’s hair, Allie helped Beth put on her black bombazine. The cool, stiff cloth brushed over her skin, sliding into place. It was the same dress she’d worn while mourning Edmund’s wife Mirabelle. That had hurt also, but not like this. This loss of a childhood friend hurt in a gut-wrenching way.

  Beth had intended to wait for the carriage in the front room, but didn’t. It felt too enclosed and she found herself drawn outside. Without sight, an empty room could be a chill place, bereft of sound or movement. In the outer world, the air stirred. She could discern the comforting and familiar sounds of life, the distant jangle of cow bells or the mewling of the stable cat.

  The rattle of carriage wheels caught her attention and she stepped forward as soon the noise eased, wheels and hooves silenced. The door opened and Ren got out. She knew it was him. It was in the firmness of his step. It was in his smell, that mix of scents: cologne, hay, soap. Even more striking, it was her reaction to him, a feeling which was both of comfort and discomfort.

  ‘You were in the stable,’ she said.

  ‘And you are still eerily accurate.’

  He took her hand, helping her into the carriage. It was a common enough courtesy and yet her reaction was not usual. Her breathing quickened but she felt, conversely, as though she had insufficient air.

  She sank into the cushioning, so much more comfortable than that in her own more economic vehicle. He sat beside her. She could feel his body’s warmth, but also the tension, as though his every nerve and muscle was as tight as the strings on the violin Mirabelle used to play.

  Impulsively, she reached for his hand. She wanted to touch him as she used to do, to break through the darkness which was her world and to communicate the feelings which could not be put into words. He jolted at her touch. Disconcerted, she withdrew her hand, clasping her fingers together as though to ensure restraint.

  The silence was broken as Jamie entered also, his movements slow and heavy. The cushioning creaked as he sat opposite.

  The carriage door closed.

  ‘You’re here,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Your observation is also eerily accurate,’ Ren said, but with that snide note to his voice he never used to have.

  ‘Hope you’re planning to spend some time here, now you’re Lord Graham.’

  Ren became, if possible, more rigid. She felt the stiffening of his limbs and straightened back. ‘Shall we focus on my dead brother and not my itinerary?’ he said.

  The silence was almost physical now, a heavy weight as the carriage moved. It closed in on them, the quiet punctuated only by the rattling of wheels and the creaking of springs.

  She swallowed, aware of a stinging in her eyes and a terrible sadness—for Edmund and also that his three best friends should sit so wordlessly.

  ‘Thank you for collecting us,’ she said at last when she could bear the stillness no more.

  ‘The villagers would not want us to arrive separately,’ he said.

  ‘We would not wish to risk upsetting them.’ She spoke tightly.

  His words hurt. She was not certain why. She did not need him to think of her as a wife. She knew he did not. She knew she did not want that. Yet, conversely, she needed him to think of her, to acknowledge her, to recognise that it was only right that she and Jamie and Ren bid farewell to Edmund together. They had been a band, a group, a fellowship.

  ‘Your mother is not coming?’ she asked.

  ‘She is more bound by custom than yourself. Besides, she has been unable to rise since our arrival.’

  ‘That was four days ago.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She has been in bed since then?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have been alone in the big house? With no one to talk to?’

  ‘Mrs Bridges loves to discuss the menus.’ He spoke in crisp tight syllables, like twigs snapping.

  She was cruel, that woman. Selfish. Lady Graham, not the cook.

  Without conscious thought, Beth reached again for him, taking his hand within her own. She felt its size and breadth. She felt the small calluses. This time he did not jolt away. Instead, with a soft sigh, he allowed his grip to fold into hers.

  * * *

  Ren wanted only to leave, to spring astride the nearest horse and ride and ride and ride until everyone and everything were but tiny pinpoints, minutiae on a distant horizon.

  The carriage halted in front of the country church. The building was as familiar as his own face, its walls a patchwork of slate-grey stone criss-crossed with verdant moss. His glance was drawn to the graveyard, a place he and Edmund had tiptoed past, scaring each other with wonderful stories of disturbed ancestors, ghosts, spooks and clanking chains.

  Now Edmund would join their number.

  Ren looked also to the grassy enclosure with its clutter of uneven tombstones, clustered about the family mausoleum.

  Edmund’s family.

  * * *

  The church was full. The villagers had placed vases of yellow daffodils at the end of every pew. Their blossoms formed bright dabs of colour against the darkness of the polished wood. Sunlight flickered through the stained-glass windows, splashing rainbows across the slate floor. Particles of dust danced lazily, flecks suspended and golden within the light. The atmosphere was heavy with hushed whispers, perfume, flowers and the shuffle of people trying too hard to be quiet.

  Ren went to the Graham family pew where he’d sat as a child. The organ played. He could feel its vibration through the wooden seat. Beth loved that feeling. She used to say that she didn’t even miss her sight when she could both hear and feel each note.

  The villagers looked at him, covert glances from across the aisle. He wondered how many of the farmers and tenants knew or suspected his questionable paternity? Did they despise him? Hate him? Pity him? Did he even have a right to mourn?

  His gaze slid to Beth. Black suited her, the dark cloth dramatic against her pale skin and golden hair. Not that she would know, or even care. Beside her, Jamie sat solid and silent.

  Ren did not know if their
presence comforted or hurt. They reminded him of a time before loss, a time of childhood happiness, a time when his identify, his belonging had been without question.

  His mother’s secret had shattered everything. Even his art no longer brought joy. Indeed, his talent was nothing but a lasting reminder of the cheap portrait painter who had seduced his mother and sired a bastard.

  The vicar stood. He cleared his throat, the quiet noise effectively silencing the congregation’s muted whispering. He had changed little from the days when they’d attended as children, though he was perhaps balder. The long tassels of his moustache drooped lower, framing the beginnings of a double chin. Thank God for the moustache. It kept sentiment at bay.

  The organ swelled, off key and yet moving.

  They’d been here for their wedding. No spectators, of course. Just Beth and Jamie and the vicar with his moustache.

  Ren swallowed. He could not wait to be gone from here. He wanted to escape to London with its distractions of women, wine and gambling.

  In London, he was a real person—not a pleasant or a nice person—but real none the less. Here he was a pretender, acting a part.

  In London, he could forget about Graham Hill and a life that was no longer his.

  Slaughtered in a single truth.

  * * *

  Finally, as with all things, the service ended. Everyone rose simultaneously like obedient puppets.

  Beth stood also, touching his arm, the gesture caring. Except he did not deserve her care. Or want it.

  ‘Best get this done with,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t need to stand with me at the door, you know.’

  She tensed. He felt her body stiffen and her jaw tighten, thrusting forward. ‘I do,’ she said.

  He shrugged. He would not debate the issue in the middle of the church. ‘Fine.’

  They stood at the church entrance beside the vicar. Ren felt both the fresh breeze, combined with the warm, stuffy, perfume-laden air from the church’s interior. It felt thick with its long centuries of candle wax and humanity.

  The tenants came in a straggling line. They gave their condolences, paid their respects with bobbing curtsies and bows. Strange how he recognised each face, but knew also a shocked confusion at the changes wrought by time.