Her Convenient Husband's Return

by Eleanor Webster

  Or perhaps this had nothing to do with her blindness, but everything to do with her—Beth.

  ‘A smudge or a strawberry stain?’ she asked, interrupting his reverie.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You are staring,’ she said, tapping her lips delicately with the napkin.

  ‘How do you always know? I might have been looking at the brook or a bird.’

  ‘There is no brook. At least not one nearby or I would have heard it and currently I can hear no birdsong.’

  He smiled. ‘No smudge or stain. I was merely thinking that a single strawberry seems to give you much joy.’

  She laughed. ‘But this is no ordinary strawberry. It is miraculous. You must concede that any strawberry which tastes this good so early in the season is not only fine but fabulous?’

  ‘Likely it was made ripe in a conservatory, which is scientific and not miraculous.’

  ‘Perhaps. But still fabulous.’

  ‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘This is—’ His gaze lingered on the open parkland and shimmering pond.

  ‘Fabulous?’

  ‘Different from my usual existence,’ he said.

  * * *

  They ate the luncheon in a companionable silence. Perhaps, Ren thought, that was the measure of friendship—the ability to spend time with another person without the need to fill in the quiet with words. He did not think he had ever had that with anyone else, certainly no other woman.

  Then again, his childhood had been spent worrying about the opinions of others, while in adulthood he had occupied himself proving that he did not care. Indeed, he had made a career of ensuring that the man in no way resembled the lonely, scrawny schoolboy with his palette of paints.

  ‘So,’ she said, after they had eaten a good portion of the food. ‘The scars on your face—are they from boxing or a duel?’

  ‘Neither.’

  Indeed, he’d thought them hardly noticeable. But then, she did not see as others saw.

  ‘Really? How did you get them?’

  ‘A sophisticated lady does not ask personal questions, you know.’

  ‘I have never pretended sophistication.’ She licked the tips of her fingers as though to emphasise the point.

  ‘At school,’ he said.

  ‘You got them at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An accident.’

  ‘Not that accidental,’ he said wryly.

  It had been in his first year when he had still painted. They’d surrounded him, poking him with sticks that were supposed to be paintbrushes and calling him ‘the painter’s bastard.’

  ‘Father said boys could be cruel, particularly to people who they perceive as intelligent or different. That is why he didn’t send Jamie.’

  Ren nodded. ‘Your father was wise.’

  Jamie would have been mincemeat within the week. Or maybe not. There had always been that singularity of purpose that might make Jamie impervious to schoolboy taunts.

  ‘They were unkind to you?’

  ‘Not for long.’

  She was silent and it seemed to him that she perceived more from his terse three words than he had wanted. He’d survived, thanks to physical growth, a natural ability with his fists and acuity with cards. He’d thrown out his paints and brushes and schooled himself to raise that one eyebrow at their chant. Then he’d hid in the stables and learned to box, striking a hay bale over and over again.

  And when he’d felt ready, he had struck the biggest bully of them all. He had heard the boy’s nose crack. He had seen the blood, clots of red splattered on to the mix of dirt and snow.

  Taking out his handkerchief, he had carefully cleaned his knuckles, raised one brow and turned, walking back into the school.

  ‘You do not wish to talk about it?’ Beth angled her face to him.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  She bent her head, pulling at a few tufts of grass and rubbing them between her fingers. ‘My father was like that. He’d get glum and silent. Mother used to be able to coax him out of his moods. Or sometimes he’d say he needed a break from the quiet of the country and come up here. He loved the museums. I remember he told me that there was a huge stuffed giraffe in one. He’d said if I was brave and wouldn’t be afraid of the travelling, he’d bring me.’

  ‘Did you come?’

  She shook her head. ‘Mother had her accident and he stayed home to look after her. Jamie would never go because he hated crowds, although I suppose he overcame that on at least one occasion.’

  ‘He hasn’t gambled since?’

  ‘No. I think you were right. It was desperation.’

  He glanced at her. The reminder of that surreal proposal and her suggested annulment caused a flickering tension.

  ‘So was London worth the coach ride?’ he asked into the quiet.

  Amusement flickered across her face. ‘It doesn’t seem as though I’ve missed too much. Although Allie assures me that one can purchase the most exquisite bonnets, some even topped with real fruit or some such nonsense. Likely the country suits me well enough, although it would be pleasant to hear a ballet or the opera.’

  The amusement was laced with a hint of wistfulness. He had forgotten how she’d liked music. He remembered her now in church, leaning forward in the pew with an absence of motion that was peculiar to her. She’d stretch her fingers along the pew’s wooden back to better ‘feel’ the music.

  ‘I suppose you have seldom heard an orchestra.’

  ‘Only small quartets when your mother or Mirabelle entertained. Now I must rely on Miss Plimco on the organ. She tries very hard.’

  ‘Goodness! As I recall, she was very trying and her enthusiasm was much greater than her ability.’

  ‘Yes, but there isn’t anyone else and I am glad enough for her. In winter we sometimes cannot even get to church.’

  ‘That must be lonely.’

  ‘A little,’ she said.

  Again he was struck by the solitary nature of her life with only Jamie for company, particularly now that Mirabelle and Edmund were gone.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said impulsively.

  ‘In the park?’

  ‘No, I mean London. For an additional night or two. You might as well, now that you have made the journey. The city offers so much: music, the opera, the ballet, plays. Things you’ve never seen.’

  Colour stained her cheeks. ‘Jamie—’

  ‘Will fare quite well without you. You know he will. One really is not overly important to Jamie unless one has leaves and roots.’

  ‘He also has a fondness for livestock,’ she quipped.

  ‘You’ll think about it?’

  ‘I—’ She gave a soft gasp, her lips opening, and he found himself watching their soft pinkness and the way she gently bit her bottom lip. ‘People would talk.’

  ‘You are my wife. Surely we could go out together.’

  Hi mistress Celeste would be irritated, but likely she’d be content enough with a trinket. He was becoming bored anyway. Of course, boredom was his constant companion, interrupted only by grief.

  Except—he straightened, an abrupt jerking motion. He hadn’t felt that usual ennui at all today. Or even yesterday. And the tight ball of pain that usually woke him at night had lessened a little...mellowed, he might say.

  ‘Why this sudden enthusiasm for my company? I thought you rather wished to encourage my departure?’

  ‘Perhaps this holiday lifestyle is starting to appeal.’

  ‘I cannot promise not to discuss the estate for ever. That was why I came and it wouldn’t feel right not to do so.’

  ‘I know.’ Leaning closer, he ran his fingers gently across her cheek. ‘But I cannot keep that land.’

  She nodded. He saw now that tears shimmered. ‘But giving it to the Duke?’

  H
er words brought back the memory of that first visit. He remembered the stuffed tiger, the cases of butterflies and the way the man’s pale eyes had followed Beth.

  As a child, he’d not have given the man as much as a stable cat.

  ‘I haven’t made a final decision,’ he said, almost surprised by his own words.

  She smiled, raising sightless eyes, still wet with tears. ‘Thank you!’

  His finger grazed her chin. She inhaled. He saw her frame contract with her exhalation and could hear the hammer of his own heart. In that moment, this woman, with her blonde hair and pale porcelain skin, made all else inconsequential.

  ‘Come to the opera tonight.’

  He saw her confusion; her brows pulled together and her lips parted slightly. Anxiety mixed with temptation flickered across her face. Then she grinned, her face suddenly alight with that vibrant love of life and experience, reminding him of the first time she’d ridden a horse or let him guide her across the brook at Allington.

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  * * *

  Beth sat on her bed, hands clasped tight. She felt like she had on her first full gallop—a wonderful mix of exhilaration, fear and excitement ballooning within.

  Except, should she be traipsing off to the opera like a child playing dress up? Her intent when she came to London had not been...this. She shivered, rubbing her arms.

  She remembered the morning of her wedding. She had worn a dress of soft silk with pearl beading about the high waist. Mirabelle had insisted that any wedding dress should have some adornment. The beads had felt so tiny and smooth.

  Jamie had walked her down the aisle. Miss Plimco had played the organ, enthusiastically discordant. The vicar had sniffed five times and she’d wanted to give him a handkerchief. She remembered being aware of inconsequential details: a buzzing fly, someone raking outside, a horse giving a low whinny.

  She’d felt a sense of disbelief, but also a sense of rightness. It felt good to know Ren had come back to them and she had been conscious of their fellowship.

  But she had not married a friend. Instead, she had found herself with a stranger—a shadowy, nebulous entity who lived a very different life in London. A man who bore no resemblance to the boy with whom she had once laughed and played, a sophisticated man with mistresses who drank too much, fought too much and gambled too much.

  And now, briefly, she had glimpsed the person she had once known. And it felt... Her mind groped for the words. It felt as though she was coming alive again, as though every smell and sound was more intense, more exciting, more exhilarating.

  Who was she fooling? She was not going to the opera to discuss the tenants, the village or the Duke. She was going because she wanted to spend time with Ren. She wanted to feel this confused, happy, giddy, teary, prickly somersaulting sensation.

  Except...she knew how it would end. Ren was not her childhood friend any more. Yes, perhaps her picnic with its sentimental claptrap had reminded him of childhood and evoked a fleeting shadow of the boy he had been.

  But a shadow was not real. Her friend had morphed into a man she did not know. He’d said as much himself.

  The door swung open as Allie burst into the room, already talking. ‘I heard you were going out. I am that excited! I really didn’t think I needed to pack your best dress, but I am so glad that I did! Indeed, my sainted mother always said as how a person should be ready for any eventuality and I am thankful now I listened. Indeed. I’ve been looking through the fashion magazines and if you’ll let me make just a few changes, I’ll have you looking quite the thing. As well, I think if we could give your hair a few curls, you know, it would look very well indeed. I am certain I could make you the height of fashion and ever so elegant.’

  ‘I was actually wondering if I should even go,’ Beth said.

  ‘What? Of course, you should. It would be rude to do otherwise. Besides, poor Arnold still has a sore leg so really it wouldn’t be right to leave London quite yet and if you are going to stay you might as well have some fun while you’re at it.’

  ‘I forgot about Arnold. How is he? What did the doctor say?’

  ‘That he was wasted in service and should join the Foreign Legion which seems an odd thing to say. I mean Arnold can’t even speak any language other than English and really, he doesn’t say that much even then. He’s more the strong silent type. Anyhow, we can’t possibly leave for Allington at this late time of the day.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Beth said. ‘But perhaps a quiet evening—’

  ‘You have evenings at Allington with nothing but quiet and well you know it. Right now you have a chance to hear real music which will be a might better than what Marsha Plimco’s efforts produce.’

  ‘Very well!’ Beth raised her hands in mock surrender. ‘You have convinced me.’

  ‘Good. Now the next thing is to do some work with your hair, which is looking somewhat of a haystack, if I may say so.’

  Beth feigned reluctance, but recognised an unusual interest in appearing her best. It was, she supposed, natural to wish to look presentable when entering the milieu of the rich and aristocratic. It had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with any desire to enhance her looks for Ren.

  Allie, of course, was thrilled to perfect Beth’s style, clapping her hands the second Beth agreed. ‘At last! I have been longing to style your hair for eons, but you were so stubborn.’

  ‘I find the cows do not mind.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘At home I am considerably more likely to run into a cow than a person and I find they seldom complain.’

  ‘Well, we are not in the country now and I doubt many cows attend the theatre. No, I will make you look wonderful.’

  ‘Like a princess in a fairy tale,’ Beth said, then frowned, reeling back her thoughts. It was all very well to feel like a princess, but she must remember that there would be no happy ending. This was one evening. She could not hope that curls or flounces would make Ren perceive her differently. She was the little blind girl he had married to save her from the big bad Duke. Now that her estate no longer owed money and was prosperous, she had, for all intents and purposes, been saved.

  Therefore, annulment was the only sensible course of action. Moreover, it was the only dutiful course of action. It was best for both Ren and for the tenants if he assumed his role as landlord.

  And in this role, he must have an heir. Ironically, her duty lay in convincing him to assume a role which would make the dissolution of their marriage the more imperative.

  So Allie could work on her curls, her dress, her ribbons and her flounces. She could make Beth look a princess for one night. But it was an act. Beth would enjoy this evening. She would listen to the music and enjoy that spark, that vibrancy that Ren engendered within her. She would store up memories to keep her warm in the cold years ahead.

  But she must remember that this was not a fairy tale. She could not remain Ren’s wife. She could not construct foolish palaces in her head.

  This was one magical night.

  Nothing more.

  Chapter Ten

  The moment they entered the opera house, Ren heard the lull in the conversation. It was a moment of silence, like the pause between waves lapping on the beach. The hush lasted for the barest moment, quickly followed by increased babble as though a thousand tongues wagged—which likely they did.

  ‘Are they talking about us?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Possibly.’

  He glanced at her. Her beauty struck him anew. It was ephemeral, but mixed also with a new sophistication.

  ‘Your hair has changed,’ he said.

  ‘I let Allie have her way for once.’

  ‘She is a girl of many talents.’

  They stepped further into the crowd. He allowed his gaze to flicker across the multi-coloured dresses, the gilt trim around the doors and wi
ndows, the painted cupids, the heavy sparkling chandeliers, the curious gazes and smiles, half-hidden behind feathered fans.

  He felt Beth stiffen, her fingers tightening on his arm as she pressed closer to him. She had paled. Indeed, she was so white that her forehead blended into her blonde hair and he could see that her breathing had quickened.

  ‘I’m sorry. I forgot,’ he said.

  He remembered how noises and the press of people could overwhelm her. It had happened so infrequently—a weakness she had both feared and despised. Once she had become faint at the village fête and once at a ball organised by his mother. Indeed, she so seldom allowed any aspect of her disability to impede her that he hadn’t considered how overwhelming the theatre must be.

  ‘Come,’ he said gently. ‘It is quieter in my box.’ He leaned into her so that she could hear his words over the noise.

  ‘I thought I could be like...a princess for a night.’

  ‘You are.’

  Ren,’ Beth whispered. ‘Ren... I—I can’t do this. I feel I must bolt or that I will be ill and people will talk about us and you.’

  ‘In that case it will be the most innocuous gossip they have had for eons, particularly with me as its subject,’ he said drily. ‘However, you can do this. I’m here. We will take ten steps up a short staircase. Then we will turn right into my box and it will be quiet and cooler.’

  ‘I—I can’t. I feel—’

  ‘You can. Remember, you have always said that bravery is not only action, but action in the face of fear.’

  ‘It is much easier to make such statements when safe in an armchair.’

  ‘You were astride Lil, as I recall.’

  She smiled, an infinitesimal upturn of her lips. Perspiration shone on her forehead. He should not have come up with this suggestion, but he had not wanted to spend another evening in his study. Or with Celeste. Or even drinking or gambling. None of these pursuits eased the pain. They only made him feel like an actor taking part in a bad play. Pretending.

  But he had wanted to see Beth’s face light up when she heard those first strands of music, like when she had touched her lips to that ripe strawberry. He felt if he could see her joy, it would make his world...better. Purer, somehow.