by Wilma Counts
Back in the Paxton carriage, Sydney asked Geoffrey, “Well, what did you think as you sat there in the back?”
“I was quite proud of my big sister.”
“Oh, were you now?”
“But more than that, I heard Mrs. Newton say, ‘That little slip of a girl has a head on her shoulders.’ I think you won her over.”
On Saturday, Mr. Stevenson reported that the Davis and Newton men had shared tankards of ale the night before—an unprecedented event. On Sunday, they reported a simple agreement to divide the land with a stone wall and stile to allow access.
In the weeks and months following, Paxton people were as likely to seek advice and counsel from the countess as from the earl.
During school holidays, Sydney welcomed the fun and frivolity of Geoffrey and his friends, who readily accepted her company as they went riding, and they grudgingly tolerated that of the younger girls. In the evenings they all played card games, billiards, or charades. There were also picnics and family theatrics, as well as occasional assemblies in the village—and Windham’s annual Harvest Festival in September appealed to people of all ages.
When he was in residence, Henry readily took part in these activities. He occasionally urged her to accompany him on his trips and, often enough, she did so, though with mixed emotions about leaving her son behind. Henry, like the steward, began to voice his concerns about this or that business enterprise to his wife. She was pleased that he confided in her so much and that he seemed genuinely to seek—and respect—her opinions on such matters.
Henry was often away on his own, though. She accepted the fact that he had far-flung duties associated with the earldom and that he was an avid sportsman. Young men of his class were known to spend an inordinate amount of time and money on racing, hunting, or sailing. Given the circumstances of her marriage, Sydney was in no position to object to those outings. He certainly denied her nothing and was seeing to the needs of her family admirably.
So what if she was sometimes lonely?
Even when he was home, other than estate matters, the two of them shared few interests. Henry devoured the sporting news, but took little interest in whatever else the country’s journalists reported. Sydney, on the other hand, read the newspapers voraciously. She was keenly interested in the labor unrest in the Midlands—the continuing activities of the so-called Luddites and their opposition to new technologies. She noted the ongoing conflicts between the king’s Tories and the Whigs with whom his son and heir—now the Prince Regent—sided at the moment. She also followed the war in the Peninsula with sharp attention; she always scanned the casualty lists with apprehension. Twice she had noted Zachary’s name in special dispatches. He was a captain now.
Henry’s dabbling in political issues was superficial, born more of social obligation rather than sincere interest in what was good for the nation. As a peer, he was obliged to hold that seat in Parliament, but one needn’t get carried away. He had no interest in literature or history. Religion was a matter of form rather than substance.
To counter her persistent sense of loneliness, she threw herself into estate matters in the country. In the city, she had become acquainted with Lady Allyson Crossleigh, daughter of the Earl of Rutherford. Lady Allyson quickly involved her new friend in one of her charity projects: a home run by a pair of spinster sisters who offered protection and comfort to abused and abandoned women and children. The Fairfax sisters were located near Spitalfields, one of the less desirable areas of London.
When he learned of her first visit to the Fairfax sisters, Henry had been alarmed. “It is downright dangerous, even during the day. All those out-of-work silk weavers. I should not like it at all were you to go there at night.”
“We are careful to have adequate protection,” she assured him. “Besides a coachman, we have one or two strong footmen accompany us. And often a maid as well.”
“Don’t see why it’s necessary for you to go at all,” Henry grumbled.
“Someone needs to care for these people,” Sydney said.
“The poor are always with us. There’s nothing anyone can do about that. But if it makes you feel better …” His voice trailed off.
“It does,” she said, lifting her chin. And since he had not expressly forbidden her doing so, she continued her involvement with Lady Allyson and the Fairfax sisters.
All in all, she thought she and Henry muddled along quite well. She considered herself luckier than many of her contemporaries. Her husband drank and gambled far more than she would have liked, but, so far as she knew, he was faithful. And that was important to her. Yes, she did wonder now and then about all those trips hither and thither, but she trusted him. She had to, did she not?
Later, she would remember this as her “head in the sand” period and wonder how she could possibly have been so obtuse.
Her awakening came very abruptly during “the little season” in the autumn.
CHAPTER 9
Sportsman that he was, Henry usually spent the months from August to November on various hunting expeditions—for quail, grouse, deer. However, this year his usual hunting companions were unavailable, so he opted to take the family to town for the “Little Season,” which offered rounds of social activities during the autumn from September through November. Then the nation’s political bigwigs and social leaders would retire to their country estates through Christmas, returning to town for the opening of Parliament in January or February.
After a whole year away from London, Sydney actually looked forward to removing to town, renewing her friendship with Lady Allyson, and just being in the social and political hub of the nation.
Geoffrey had, of course, returned to school after the summer holidays, but the twins and Marybeth, along with their governess, accompanied Sydney, Henry, and the baby Jonathan to London. The Paxtons’ traveling party included four coaches and drivers, six footmen, and two maids—besides the butler, Roberts; his lordship’s valet, Brewster; and her ladyship’s maid, Maisie. Plus luggage. And the family pet, Brownie, the cocker spaniel.
Henry settled into the seat next to Sydney and said, “I must say, travel to London was a far simpler matter when I was a bachelor.” Their three sisters occupied the opposite seat at the moment. Baby Jonathan traveled in one of the other carriages so that his sleep would not be disturbed by the chatter of his young aunts.
“Oh, but think of all you missed,” Sydney said with false brightness. “Companionship, conversation.”
He snorted. “Noise, confusion, delay.”
Sydney patted his hand. “We do appreciate your sacrifice, my dear. Don’t we, girls?”
They chorused their concurrence.
“As you should,” he said with a smug grin. “And, Amy and Anne, not another word about the menagerie in the Tower.”
“But we are so looking forward to seeing a real elephant,” the irrepressible Amy said.
“You may see it only if I do not have to hear about it incessantly.”
Amy and Anne ignored him and went on babbling about seeing the menagerie and other sights of the city. “And shopping,” Anne added dreamily. Sydney looked forward to seeing her aunt Harriet and cousin Celia who would arrive within the week.
Several days later the girls did see the elephant and a tiger and some exotic birds housed in the Tower of London. Sydney, who had accompanied them while Aunt Harriet and Celia shopped, was more interested in seeing the rooms where Queen Elizabeth and Sir Thomas More had been held prisoners—and the spot where Anne Boleyn had lost her head. Marybeth pronounced the animals “pathetic” and wanted Sydney to rescue them as she had once rescued Brownie.
Both family life and social activities in the city settled into a comfortable routine. Then in early October, Lady Paxton’s careful complacency abruptly ended.
She and Henry, along with Aunt Harriet and Cousin Celia, attended a ball at which Lady Bessborough achieved every hostess’s dream: a veritable “crush.” Sydney, having danced three sets, chose to sit
the next one out. The room was hot, crowded, and noisy. Her partner delivered her to a chair near one of dozens of huge potted trees placed strategically about the ballroom. Sydney sat quietly watching the dancers. She saw Henry executing the steps of a country dance with that pretty Lady Ryesdale. Sydney had met her a few days earlier and learned her sad story of a husband who was confined to a mental facility. Lady Ryesdale did not go out much in society, but she was related to Lady Bessborough. Hence her presence here tonight.
Sydney suddenly became aware of a conversation behind her and behind yet another of those gigantic potted plants. She recognized the voices immediately. Faith Holmsley and the ubiquitous Elizabeth Kenmore. She shrank into the fronds of her own potted plant, not really wanting to spend the next half hour engaging in small talk with those two.
After three seasons, Faith Holmsley had finally managed to bring a certain viscount up to scratch and she was now the Viscountess Ellsworth. Elizabeth Kenmore had married a knight named Fullerton a year later, for it would never do, Sydney thought, for the acolyte to aim higher than her idol. She immediately chided herself for the pettiness of that thought. Their voices broke in.
“Can you believe that?” Faith asked with a gasp.
“Believe what? What did I miss?” Elizabeth whined.
“Paxton is dancing with Lady Ryesdale.”
“No!”
“They are usually much more circumspect. Too many trips to the punch bowl, I suspect.”
“Do you think his wife knows about them?” Elizabeth asked in a conspiratorial but still very audible voice.
“Good heavens, Liz, how could she not know?”
“Well, she was in the country all last season.”
“But that affair has been going on for—for years—long before that mismatched marriage of his. Everyone knows Paxton settled for Miss Waverly only because he could not have his Louisa.”
“I did not know that.”
“Really, my dear, you simply must keep up,” Faith said scornfully. “I suppose you also did not notice that Lady Ryesdale was significantly absent from society in the spring?”
“No, I did not. But so what?”
“Oh, Liz. You are such an innocent. And this is so delicious! The story is that Lady Ryesdale was in an interesting condition.”
“Oh, my goodness.”
There was no mirth in Faith’s laugh. “Isn’t it rich? Paxton’s wife and his mistress gave birth within weeks of each other. Both boys.”
The rest of the conversation was lost to Sydney, who sat in stunned silence, not daring to move lest they notice her and witness her utter humiliation. Was it true? Oh, dear God, could it be true? Inanely, it occurred to her that eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves. Her immediate reaction was anger—no, fury. How could he do this to her? How could he be so false to his own vows?
She waited until the other two left, then she found her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, feeling slightly nauseated. There, she gulped a glass of water and calmed herself enough to send a maid to locate her aunt.
Aunt Harriet arrived shortly. “What is it, my dear? Are you unwell?”
“I—I—yes. I wish to go home immediately.”
“I’ll go and get Henry for you.”
“No.” She spoke more sharply than she intended and now modified her tone. “No. Just tell him I have gone home and I shall send the carriage back for the rest of you.”
“I shall come with you. You are definitely looking unwell.”
Half an hour later Sydney and her aunt were safely returned to the Paxton townhouse. Sydney had not spoken on the way, afraid she might burst into tears.
Having disposed of their cloaks, Aunt Harriet followed her up to her sitting room and closed the door behind them.
“What is it, Sydney? You look as though you’ve received a terrible shock.”
“I—I—heard some—something very disturbing.” How much could she bring herself to divulge to this woman who was like the mother Sydney had missed for over a decade now?
“About Henry?”
Sydney stared at her, knowing full well this awful pain must show in her eyes.
Aunt Harriet cleared her throat. “I—uh—saw him dancing with Lady Ryesdale. It—it was not very wise of him.”
“Then it is true? And you knew? Everyone knows?” Sydney did not sob, but she could not stop the tears streaming down her face.
They had been standing in the middle of the room. Aunt Harriet put an arm around Sydney and steered her toward a couch. “Sit down, my dear, and I’ll ring for some tea.”
Sydney sat and buried her face in her hands. Now a sob did escape her. “I feel like such a fool.”
“You are not the one who has behaved foolishly here. Do not even think that. Now, tell me what happened.”
Sydney did so and was surprised that merely saying the words aloud was helping her gain control. She had barely finished when a footman delivered a tray with not only tea but also a decanter of sherry. Sydney kept her tear-stained face turned away and the discreet footman quickly left.
Sydney smiled tremulously. “Tea?”
“And a little something else. Sherry has marvelous medicinal properties.”
“If you say so,” she said dully. “Tell me, Aunt Harriet. You knew?”
Aunt Harriet poured both tea and sherry and handed Sydney the sherry glass first. Then she nodded. “I was in town last year, too, you know.”
“And you did not tell me? Why?”
“My dear girl. This simply is not a topic one brings up out of the blue. Often as not a wife already knows and chooses to overlook the matter. Calling her attention to it is hurtful.”
“But I did not know.” This came out in a soft wail. She drank from the sherry glass, then set it down. “And—and—is it true? There is a child? Henry has another son?”
“I think so. That is the rumor.”
Sydney twisted her hands in her lap and said bitterly, “And I suppose there are jokes and bets in the clubs.”
“That, I do not know.” Aunt Harriet leaned close to pat Sydney’s shoulder. “Now, my dear, the others will be returning very soon and you need to think about how you will handle this matter.”
Sydney’s first inclination was to pack her bags and return to the Hall with her son. But of course she could not allow her problems to spill over to other family members. Besides, running away was a coward’s solution—and, in the end, no solution at all.
However, she did take the coward’s way out that night in order to gain time to think. She pretended to be asleep when Henry looked in on her. He was gone from the house all the next day, so it was late in the evening before she could have a private word with him. Later, she wondered how she had made it through that day. But she had done so—even entertaining visitors in the afternoon, many of whom were solicitous—or merely curious—about her early departure from the ball. With Aunt Harriet’s knowing help and Celia’s unknowing help, she managed to fob off their questions.
That night Henry came to her room apparently totally ignorant of her real trauma of the previous night. Dressed in the familiar maroon robe, he seemed ready to assert his customary rights as a husband.
“We need to talk, Henry.”
She gestured for him to sit on the couch as she took a nearby chair.
“Oh? I hope the baby is all right.”
“He’s fine. We need to discuss you and Lady Ryesdale.”
She saw him go very still. Finally, he clasped his hands on his knees and said, “So. You know about Louisa.”
“Yes. How long, Henry?” She was surprised at her own calm demeanor.
“Six years.”
“So why—why did you agree to marry me three years ago?”
He sighed heavily. “For all the usual reasons. It seemed like a good idea. I thought we would get on well together—and we have. I needed an heir.”
“Well, now you have one.”
“Yes, I do. A fine one he is, too.”
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br /> “Rumor has it that Jonathan is not your only son.”
He looked embarrassed and gave her a sidelong glance. “You know about that, too?”
She nodded even as she felt a lead weight where her heart should be. She had hoped this was not true.
He relaxed on the couch, stretching one arm along its back. “Louisa and her son have nothing to do with us, Sydney. In fact, you and I should not be having this discussion.”
She sat up straighter in her chair. “You find infidelity meaningless? I do not.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I will not share my husband with another woman.”
“You dare to refuse me?”
“Only so long as you expect me to share your favors with another.”
She saw anger flash across his face. She had never seen him truly furious before. His eyes narrowed to a squint. “I could force you, you know. The law and society would be on my side.”
“Yes, you could. But I seriously doubt rape is part of your nature.” He stood and pulled his robe tightly about him. His tone dripped acid. “Try not to be crude, my dear. And do let me know when you come to your senses.”
CHAPTER 10
After seeing Henry and Sydney off on their wedding journey, Zachary returned to the Hall, but not to the ongoing party in the ballroom. He ordered Charlie to see that all was readied for them to leave at dawn, then he shut himself in the library with a full bottle of Scotch whiskey and drank himself into oblivion—or tried to.
He was beset by a profound sense of loss. “ ‘I look upon myself and curse my fate,’” he muttered. The quotation immediately conjured up an image of Sydney in the Bath park, smiling sadly. Would he ever again be able to read a Shakespearean sonnet without thinking of her?