Fortune's Mistress

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  “You are looking rather pulled, my love,” her husband told her as he seated himself at her side and gently took her hand in his. “Is anything amiss? I hope you are not unwell?”

  She shook her head and summoned a smile. “Not in the least, William—merely a bit distracted today.”

  “I see you have had a letter,” he remarked.

  She glanced at the table where the missive sat. In her perplexity, she had folded it into small squares and unfolded it again, so that it was now as crumpled as an autumn leaf. Without a word, she handed it to her husband. As he perused it, she beckoned the children to her, kissed each on the tops of their curly heads, and sent them away to the nursery.

  Lord Blakensly, when he had finished his perusal, said nothing, merely replaced the letter on the table and took his wife into his arms. She leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed.

  “It does not seem right,” she murmured, “that I should have so much, and my dear Marianne must scratch to find a bit of happiness.”

  Nor was it right, Lord Blakensly reflected. He knew several among the members of his club who had debauched their way through their youths. They were now accepted in the best of homes. Men could repair their reputations in this world. Women, unfortunately, could not.

  “Your sister sounds quite content in her letter,” he said. “But you, of course, know her well enough to read beyond mere words.”

  “That is just it!” Olivia pulled herself from him and paced to the window. “Gardens and eccentric herb women and orphaned kittens, indeed! Oh, how she struggles to sound content for my sake. She is all alone,” she fretted, “facing a first childbirth among strangers. How I wish I could go to her.”

  “I wish indeed you might,” returned her husband, “and you know well I should not forbid it, Olivia, were it not for your own delicate condition.”

  She turned away from him and continued to look out onto the street, clutching her arms about her in a way which made her look like a forlorn little sparrow. This was not his gay Olivia at all.

  Blakensly poured himself a brandy, feeling altogether helpless in the face of his wife’s wretchedness. Even though she had borne their two elder children with apparent ease and in excellent health, he did not think she was having quite such an easy time with this one. She looked quite pinched about the eyes, frailer than he ever remembered, and he blamed it on her sister.

  “What possessed her to go so far away from me?” Olivia whispered. “Why did I not do more to stop her?”

  He came behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I believe your sister knows her own mind. You did what you could to persuade her otherwise, and to no avail.”

  “If only she had confided her difficulty to Cheswick. I am persuaded he would never have let her go away in that mad fashion.”

  “Come now. You know quite well he must have done so— there could have been no other choice for him, given his marriage.” He rocked her in his arms a moment. “Calm yourself, Olivia. Your sister has merely written to tell you she is well and happy.”

  “Of course, she must reassure me as to her circumstances. What she tells me is unexceptionable.” Olivia shook her head disconsolately, “But it was ever her nature to keep me at a distance, wrapped in cotton wool, so naturally I conjure up all sorts of unpleasant pictures of what she does not tell me. If only I knew for certain she were truly well, I could rest much easier.”

  “Do not work yourself into a sick headache,” he said, kissing her temple. “Remember, you must obey your husband, and I forbid you to be unwell.”

  She leaned into his arms and rested her head upon his shoulder. “If only I might know,” she whispered.

  * * * *

  Later that evening, Lord Blakensly found his way to his club. Unlike many of his companions, he repaired there rather less often after his marriage than before it. Olivia had retired early, however, and, distracted as he was by his wife’s concerns, he found himself poor company. He needed to think what to do. He pitied his sister-in-law, but he could not allow her plight to distress his wife so powerfully.

  He settled himself in a deep leather chair and asked the attendant to bring him some brandy. There were few others about; doubtless his fellow members were occupying themselves in a more entertaining manner this early in the evening. He picked up a paper and glanced at the account of yesterday’s debate in the House of Lords. His own name was mentioned briefly, he noted with a faint rush of pride. He must remember to show the item to Olivia.

  “Good evening, Blakensly.”

  He glanced up and frowned. Monte Cheswick also found refuge in the club tonight. He had quite forgot the young man was a member, and it rankled to see the other’s smiling face, oblivious to all the harm he had wrought.

  “Cheswick,” he returned tersely. He turned once again to the paper.

  Cheswick stood awkwardly a moment, then drew a chair beside him, and sat down. “Forgive me for intruding on you, but I must tell you how much I admired your speech last week. It expressed my sentiments exactly.”

  Blakensly nodded, but said nothing. Cheswick looked disconcerted, but forged on, “I must ask you something. I do not know quite how to phrase it ... but you must tell me. Have I done aught to offend you?”

  Cheswick’s earnest face awaited his answer, but it was a moment before Blakensly offered one. “You do not, perhaps, know,” he said quietly, “that Marianne Gardiner is my wife’s sister.”

  Cheswick sat back in his chair, looking as if he had been struck. Taking pity, Blakensly poured a measure of brandy and offered it to the young man before him. Cheswick took the glass, but did not drink.

  “No,” he said softly. “I did not know.” The sound of a clock ticking underscored the silence which fell between them.

  “I don’t believe I ever had an idea of Marianne’s family,” Cheswick went on in a hollow voice. “I had heard she was of our circle, or had been at one time, but I never asked ... I merely took.”

  “You are not the first man to have entered such an arrangement before his marriage,” Lord Blakensly murmured. “It is something our sex takes entirely too much for granted, I am afraid. Indeed, I think I should have spent the rest of my life behind the blinders of tradition, had I not fallen in love with Olivia. Had I not heard her sister’s story from one who loved her.”

  “Marianne—have you heard anything of her?” Cheswick asked wretchedly.

  “My wife has had a letter.” Cheswick looked at him expectantly. “I understand she seems . . . well.”

  “There is something more, isn’t there? I know she is not in London, for I tried to call and they told me at her house she has been gone these three months.”

  “It is true. She is no longer in London.”

  Cheswick frowned as he swirled the brandy in his glass. “So, to whom has she gone now?”

  “It is not,” he said tersely,” a matter of whom.” Blakensly deliberated a moment. In his heart, he felt that, though he had made no promise to keep her sister’s whereabouts secret, his wife’s word bound him as well. He knew, however, that Olivia regretted her pledge, and that Cheswick’s ignorance of the situation, the news of his paying marriage calls about London with his new wife, wounded her.

  “First, I must ask you as a gentleman to act with prudence in regard to this matter.”

  Cheswick leaned forward. “You have my word.”

  Blakensly glanced at the foyer. Other members were beginning to arrive. “Then come, let us find someplace where we may be more private.”

  * * * *

  Sir Frederick Stratford reclined on a sofa facing a comfortable fire in a quiet room at his club. It was a good thing he had kept up his dues, he reflected, for it was impossible to return to his rooms, where a variety of bad-tempered creditors awaited him. The club offered solace in the form of meals, brandy, and the occasional card game, until he could raise enough funds to seek refuge back on the Continent. True, his luck had been abysmal lately, but that was a sure sign i
t was about to turn.

  Just then he heard the door open, and frowned as it closed again and he heard a voice say, “This shall do well enough, I imagine.”

  Two pairs of footsteps crossed the room in the direction of the window. With any luck, the intruders did not mean to stay, and he would not have to trouble himself to either reveal himself or move from his comfortable position.

  “What is it, Blakensly?”

  He recognized the speaker’s voice immediately as young Monte Cheswick. And the other was apparently Lord Blakensly. What could this pair discuss that was of a private nature? Stratford smiled and shifted his position slightly that he might better hear. Knowledge was power.

  “My wife is considerably distressed, and though she has pledged herself to secrecy, I think it my duty to inform you that her sister is carrying your child.”

  “Marianne is— ?” Cheswick’s voice sounded like the dull click of an unloaded gun.

  “Yes. My wife is ... in a delicate way herself, and I believe it would relieve her mind to know that this matter has been brought to your attention. I trust you will do all in your power to see that Marianne and the child are provided for.”

  Little wheels began to turn in Stratford’s mind. It was a very good thing the British were so squeamish about these matters, he mused. He had found it otherwise on his visits to the Continent, but at home, such secrets were so much easier to turn to his benefit.

  “Of course, of course . . .” Cheswick said hurriedly. “To think, I had not the least clue. Where is Marianne?”

  There was a pause and a rustle of paper.

  “Here is her direction. I shall trust you to be circumspect.”

  “Cornwall!” Cheswick released a low sigh. “I had thought I might be able to visit, to at least see for myself— “

  “I believe it would be best for all concerned,” Blakensly interrupted, not unkindly, “if you did not. There is little to be accomplished by doing such a thing. Send her assistance by one whom you can trust, and fix your attention on your own concerns.”

  There was silence for a moment, then one set of footsteps crossed the room, and the door could be heard to open and close. Stratford smiled. Luck, it seemed, had returned even sooner than he imagined it would. Where there was scandal, there was money. And Marianne. He should like very much to repay her for her haughtiness— as if she thought she were too good for the likes of him. He would have her at his mercy before long, like a pretty butterfly firmly fixed in a spider’s web.

  He pulled himself up quietly and observed that Cheswick was standing motionless, looking out the window onto the street, his sunken posture the very vision of nauseous remorse. Stratford cleared his throat, and Cheswick spun about.

  “You must forgive me, my dear Cheswick,” he smiled. “I had been dozing over there and did not realize I was privy to a confidential conversation.”

  Color flooded the younger man’s countenance. “Of all the—you might have said something to make yourself known,” he cried hotly.

  “Do not fret, my friend,” Stratford said smoothly. “Your little secret will be safe with me. Indeed, I am every bit as distressed as you to hear this news. Do not forget, I am also a devotee of our dear Miss Gardiner. Trust me, I should not for anything repeat a single word of what I have just heard.”

  “For that much, I thank you,” Cheswick spat.

  Anger was good, Stratford reflected. It made fools of even the wise, and young Cheswick could hardly be counted among that number. “What do you intend to do?” he asked.

  Cheswick said nothing, but turned once again to the window.

  “What a predicament,” Stratford went on quietly. “Something must be done for our poor Marianne. And yet . . . and yet there is your wife, is there not?”

  “Yes,” Cheswick said evenly. “There is my wife.”

  “I understand she keeps you on a rather short lead, or have I heard amiss?”

  Cheswick turned on his heel and regarded him with narrowed eyes.

  “I do not mean to offend you, my friend. I merely acknowledge your difficulty.”

  “Yes, my difficulty.”

  Stratford extricated a delicate snuffbox, took a pinch, and sneezed into his handkerchief. “I think, however, I may be able to help you out. Unlike you, I may come and go as I please. It would not be difficult for me to serve as—how would you say?— a go-between. I could pay her a visit, ascertain what she might need, and perhaps set your mind at rest.”

  Cheswick appeared to deliberate, then nodded. “In spite of my short lead, as you so aptly phrase it, I do have some resources. I will do all within my power for Marianne.”

  Crossing to a table, he availed himself of writing materials and scribbled a few lines. “This empowers my man of business to put £500 at your disposal. That should be sufficient for the present.”

  “Yes,” Stratford concurred, taking the paper from him and placing it in his waistcoat pocket, “for the present. Now will you join me in a glass of brandy? You look in need of a restorative. My dear friend,” he said, looking at the other narrowly, “I hope your pallor does not suggest you fancy yourself in love with the woman.”

  Cheswick shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Merely nostalgic for a remembered happiness.”

  “That is well,” Stratford told him. “You must be honest with yourself. Marianne Gardiner is a beautiful woman and a pleasant companion, but she is, after all, a whore.”

  The older gentleman took a step backward as Cheswick’s hands clenched into fists. “It is for your own good that I tell you this: the brat could as well be mine, or that of some half-dozen others. Come now, you could not expect faithfulness in a woman of that stamp?”

  Cheswick did not answer. Stratford made as if to put his arm about the younger man’s shoulder, but his gesture met with icy rejection. “Do not give this matter another thought,” Stratford said. “I shall add my contribution to yours. And, if necessary, I shall let you know when more funds are needed. Other than that, you need not be bothered with this matter again.”

  Chapter Ten

  Marianne sat before a blazing fire, Jane and Becky nestled on either side of her, and the kittens, sleeping for once, in a basket at her feet. The fair weather had finally forsaken them, but though the wind whistled round the corners of Rosewood Cottage, all was snug within.

  “... x, y, and zed,” Jane pronounced slowly from the little book before her.

  “Very good,” Marianne smiled. “You and Becky must practice during the week to come, and then I will show you how all of these letters are put together into words and stories.”

  Jane sighed and looked up at her soulfully. “Must we be waitin’ till next time for a story?”

  Marianne smiled. “I have sent for some story books,” she explained, “but they have not arrived yet. Perhaps, however, I can remember one from my nursery days.”

  “A story right out of your own head?” Jane asked, her eyes wide.

  “Yes, right out of my own head— we will hope it does not suffer in the translation.”

  How quickly these two had taken to her, trusted her— rather like the kittens, she realized, Dr. Venables had begun by bringing them by with him when he had finished his daily calls, then, when they had grown comfortable enough, encouraged them to find their way to the cottage on their own. Becky was still very quiet, speaking in a whispered undertone, if at all. Jane, however, made up for her little sister’s silence, chatting companionably like an old friend. At odd moments, Marianne could still discern the remnants of the child’s initial watchfulness, but she gave it little thought. Perhaps in this life, such caution was a good thing, for who knew when it might provide a necessary lens to view a wicked world?

  Before beginning her story, Marianne poured out another cup of chocolate for the children, just as Annie entered. “You’ve more callers, ma’am,” the maid told her with a frown, “though these last may not be so welcome as the first.”

  Raising her eyebrows, Marianne
glanced past Annie to see two grimy faces peeking past her skirts. Charlie and George, was it? She had glimpsed them once, but had heard innumerable tales of their naughtiness. She hoped their visit did not portend a parade of hedgehogs through her parlor, or a polecat in the barn. From her side came Jane’s whispered pronouncement, “Wicked boys! Please, Missus, dinna let them spoil our story.”

  Marianne sympathized, remembering the antipathy of little girls for those of the opposite gender, but, watching the boys gaze longingly at the well-laden tea tray, she found she had not the heart to turn them away.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “You may come in, but we are just about to have a story, so you must sit very still and listen quietly, if you are to stay.”

  The boys exchanged a glance and seated themselves on the floor near the kittens. George advanced a tentative hand to pet one of them, but Jane immediately hissed, “Dinna touch ‘em,” and he withdrew it. Marianne bit her tongue to keep from smiling. Apparently, Jane commanded respect.

  As the girls snuggled closer, Marianne took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there lived a princess.”

  “Was she beautiful?” Jane asked.

  “Why yes, of course. She was so beautiful that songs were written about her, and artists begged for the honor of painting her portrait.”

  “But our princess in London been’t beautiful, you know,” Jane informed her. “Dr. Venables showed a picture of her to me ‘n’ Becky, and she looks like a sad cow, right enow.”

  Marianne could hardly deny the truth of this assessment, but thought it best to make no comment. “Well,” she went on quickly, “this princess was very beautiful. She had rich red hair, and green eyes that turned up at the corners, just like a kitten’s.”

  Beside her, Becky, who was endowed with just such hair and eyes, giggled. Progress. “One day, she was walking through the woods picking flowers, when she came upon a handsome young man.”

  “And he was good and kind,” Jane pronounced.

  “Why, how do you know?” Marianne asked.

  “Handsome young men are always good and kind,” the child averred.