Then Thea asked the question she had been longing to ask since awakening: “Where is my husband this morning, ma’am?”
“Gone to a tailor, child, and then to Whitehall, with Nevil. They’ll be speaking of Spain all afternoon, and I doubt we’ll see them before dinner or, quite frankly, after that either. You know what men are when they come to talking. I should have thought Douglas would have left you a note or a card; mighty cavalier treatment of so new a bride, I must say, and I’ve half a mind to tell him so.”
“Oh please don’t,” Thea pleaded. She had begun to climb out of her bed and was stopped now, undignified; one leg was on the floor; her hands were outstretched. “Please, no. We had, I don’t know, a misunderstanding, I don’t know what; I keep thinking, if I am just patient—but, if you scold him, Lady Ocott, Aunt Susan—oh please, don’t.” To her horror Thea felt her face crumple up, and tears slid down her cheeks. “I do love him, I do, really, and I want to be a good wife to him,” she heard herself say. “If only I knew what he wanted, but I don’t; I don’t know what I did wrong, and I do love him....”
Lady Ocott dropped down on the bed beside her weeping guest and gathered her into her arms. “Of course you do, lamb,” she clucked distractedly. “Of course you do, and you shall. Whatever it is, my lamb, it shall all come right. Trust me.” She rocked from side to side, stroking Thea’s bright hair with one jeweled hand. “You trust me. Now, that’s quite enough crying for now. First we shall see if you can wear anything of mine, and then I shall take you to New Bond Street. I know nothing better for a marital spat than a shopping trip; you would not believe the number of bonnets I bought the first year Ocott and I were married.”
Chapter Eight
Lady Ocott retired to her room to search through her closets for something suitable to lend her new niece-in-law. Thea sipped at her cup of warm, rich chocolate, leafed through the current number of the Gazette, and indulged herself with the remarkable luxury of another warm, scented bath. It felt unreal to her, this warmth and comfort, after the weeks of worry and dirt and aching tiredness and danger. By the time Lady Ocott returned with a small retinue composed of Lewis, her private maid, and the upstairs maid who had been promoted to wait on Lady Matlin, Thea was again dressed in Lady Ocott’s silken negligee and sat idly fussing with her short, pale hair before a pier glass.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” she said fretfully. “The Sisters cut it short so that the veil wouldn’t bunch up over it.”
“Your ve—well, never mind, lamb. Someday I don’t doubt I shall hear all of the story. As for your hair, a short crop is quite fashionable. It needs only a little trimming and some pommade to bring you straight into fashion. Now, stand up. Lewis? Did you bring the pins? We are going to have to do some tailoring, I can see.”
The next hour was filled with pins, basting, and Lady Ocott’s preoccupied flutters. Thea thought in passing of the fittings for her wedding dress in Silvy’s room at the convent, and the memory of Silvy was a tiny private sorrow she did not share with the others. There was no time for reminiscing; Silvy would not want her to be sad. When Lady Ocott stood back at last and announced that they had done their best, Thea was quite recovered.
“Lewis, fetch my pelisse please, and tell Platt to have the chariot brought round. Come along, my dear. Already it is so late, and I had thought to pay a morning visit on Lady Melbourne today, quite shocking in me to omit it, but it is far more important to see you decently dressed. I hope we can have something ready for you for this evening. Lewis?” She raised an eyebrow at her dresser, hurrying in with the swansdown-trimmed pelisse.
“I think we can have the blue lace taken up in time for dinner, M’Lady,” Lewis agreed.
Satisfied, Lady Ocott swept Thea downstairs and out to where her carriage awaited them.
Dizzied by the sights and sounds, her first awareness of the bustling, crowded, noisome life of London, Thea kept her face turned to the street as they drove toward New Bond Street. Lady Ocott wisely permitted Thea to gawk as much as she pleased while they sat in the carriage. Once on the street, however, she demanded that Thea exhibit a ladylike indifference to the scene around them. Her martial air considerably at war with her cheerful beribboned person, Lady Ocott managed their shopping tour like a general: first this modiste, then that one, a brief visit to the shoemaker, and then to see two elderly milliners in an odd little shop on an odd little street. One modiste was actually bullied into promising three dresses, one a simple evening gown and the others day dresses, to be delivered by the following morning. At other houses Lady Ocott examined fabrics, discussed the current style, and solicited Thea’s opinions, which she occasionally even attended to.
“Ma’am? Lady Oc—Aunt Susan,” Thea murmured urgently once. “I haven’t any money, I can’t even begin to think what this will cost, and....”
“My dearest child, we’ve barely begun. Tomorrow we look for gloves and pelisses and spencers, negligées and shifts and stockings and a habit; you do ride, don’t you, my lamb? Good. Today was only the barest necessaries, to make sure you would not go barefoot while we really set to work. As for the money, my dear, Douglas is quite well to do; hadn’t he told you? He told me quite expressly this morning that I was to rig you up suitably, which I take to mean in a style which will show you off to best advantage. You do have a nice little figure, my love.”
“Do I?” Thea asked wistfully.
“Of course you do, lamb. I warrant that Douglas is well aware of it, but if you have had some sort of tiff, then it is all the better that he see you becomingly gowned. He’ll fall in love with you all over again, I vow.”
If only he would for a first time, Thea thought. Aloud she said, “It’s very generous of him, ma’am.”
“Oh, generous! You make it sound quite crushingly dull, lamb. Generosity is a cardinal virtue in a husband, let me tell you. Well, I am not going to pry into what the matter is between you and Douglas; you’ll work it out yourselves, I am sure. Now, tell me: did you truly like the opal satin?”
Thea stopped thinking about money. It felt odd at first; from the time of her father’s death the subject had never been too far from her thoughts, even at the convent. During the trip to Spain and the months that had preceded it, she and Silvy had pinched every penny; on the journey back to England she and Matlin had lived on the cheapest bread, made what they could of stale ends and scraps. She assured Lady Ocott now that she truly loved the opal satin and the striped muslin and the white jaconet they had chosen.
“Well, that’s a mercy, anyhow,” she said comfortably.
It was past five o’clock when the chariot returned them to Hill Street. A liveried coachman handed them down to the street, and as Platt opened the door for them, he began to unload a pile of bandboxes from the chariot. In the hallway Matlin and Lord Ocott stood in evening dress. Lady Ocott immediately fluttered to her husband and received a brief kiss as salutation.
“Nevil, you’re not deserting us for dinner? Wretch, and going to your stupid club, I don’t doubt.” His wife pouted.
“For once you read me wrong, my dear. Douglas and I have been invited to dine at Castlereagh’s tonight. Most advantageous,” he added with a meaningful glance in Matlin’s direction.
Thea was already staring at her husband. She had seen him desperately ill; convalescent in clean but threadbare clothes; dirty and rag-tag as a peasant travelling by her side. Now, dressed in well-fitting black coat and immaculate knee breeches, his linen white and his cravat perfectly tied, he was the handsomest, most formidable stranger she had ever seen. She was trembling; it took a moment to realize that Lord Ocott had spoken to her.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I merely asked you to forgive me for taking your husband away from you on your first evening with us, my dear. I must say, you look charming.”
Thea smiled shyly. “You’re kind to say so, sir. I’m clean again, at least, and out of those horrid black rags. I must look better than I did.” She t
urned to her husband. “I hope you enjoy your dinner, Matlin.”
He cleared his throat uneasily. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Of course not. I’m still a little tired; your aunt has taken me all over the city today and bought such a lot of things! I feel horridly extravagant. Aunt Susan, sir? If you’ll forgive me,” she smiled at the Ocotts, “I think I will go upstairs now.” She sketched a curtsy and left them; she was a small, dignified figure in Lady Ocott’s made-over gown.
If he was made uncomfortable by his wife’s exit Matlin hid it well. “Sir, I believe I’ll wait for you outside. Aunt Susan?” He kissed her proffered cheek perfunctorily and left.
“Really, Nevil, how could you? Their first night home and you drag Douglas off to play politics! And when they’ve had a quarrel, too!”
“How was I to know they’d quarreled? It’s the boy’s future I’m thinking of: Canning likes him, said to bring him along. Good God, Sue, there will be other evenings, after all. Little Dorothy didn’t seem so put out; she’ll have to get used to it to make a politician’s wife, won’t she?”
Lady Ocott smiled ruefully. “She certainly will. In the event, I will murder you myself if you let that boy be anywhere but in this house tomorrow night for dinner. I think—yes, let us make up a party to see the play afterward. I think it will do Douglas good to see the girl dressed to the nines; poor thing, I suspect she was quite taken aback to see him in all his splendor, and she in my hand-me-downs.”
Lord Ocott dutifully promised his nephew’s attendance and his own for the next evening. Then, protesting that he could not keep his party waiting further, he left his wife and doorstep and joined Matlin for the short walk to Castlereagh’s.
o0o
Thea was uncertainly gratified by the theatre plan. The next morning Lady Ocott’s hairdresser called and spent half an hour snipping delicately at her curls and as long teaching Ellen, Thea’s new maid, how to style and pommade them. The first dresses, including the evening dress of soft ivory sarcenet, arrived and, with them boxes containing dancing shoes, walking shoes, and sandals. By the time Lady Ocott, Ellen, and Lewis had done fussing with her hair, settling the folds of the new evening dress in the most becoming manner, and draping a deep blue shawl across her elbows, Thea had a strong sense of unreality about the whole affair. The slender young woman with the stylishly cropped hair was dressed in a simple, startlingly décolleté gown with delicate blue ’broidery, and had white kid slippers on her feet, lace mittens on her hands, and a narrow necklet of pearls about her throat; she had to be someone else.
“My dear life, you look perfect.” Lady Ocott swept her away from the mirror and down the stairs to join the men.
“My dear. My dears,” Lord Ocott corrected himself with an expansive gesture which included both of them. “How lovely you are! And you, Thea, what a change from the tatterdemalion figure you cut a few days ago, I must say. I warrant you feel the better for it, don’t you? Hey, Douglas?” He turned to include Matlin in his smiles. “Sukey, you must have stood the mantua makers on Bond Street on their ears to achieve such a toilette in two days.”
Lady Ocott smiled upon her husband fondly, took his arm and urged Thea forward as she did so. Blushing slightly at her host’s compliments, Thea came face to face with her husband and found that he was staring at her. “Do you like my dress?” she asked seriously. Matlin appeared to recall himself at the sound of her voice. His eyes flickered over her again, a long look from head to toe, and he said unsmilingly, “It’s very handsome. But surely you wish a shawl or something, child? It must be....” His eyes lingered for a moment on the traceries of blue thread at Thea’s neckline. “You must be chilly.” Thea turned a furious crimson.
“Chilly? Douglas Matlin, you’re about in your head! It is the mildest evening we’ve had in days,” Lady Ocott scoffed. “To pull a shawl about her shoulders would quite hide that lovely embroidery, it would be a crime! I swear, those months in a Spanish dungeon have deprived you of your taste.”
“Dungeons are likely to leave their mark, ma’am.” Matlin bowed curtly. He tried again, a little more gently. “The ’broidery is pretty, Thea. Forgive my tactlessness; I was never well versed in ladies’ fashion.”
After a long moment Lady Ocott said brightly, “Well, I think dinner must be ready, and we don’t want to be late to the theatre for Thea’s first play, do we?” With iron grace she herded her small party into the dining room.
The rest of the evening was as awkward. To Thea it seemed that every time Matlin looked at her it was with the same air of faint disapproval, that every remark either of them made demanded endless explanations or apologies. With an air of hectic enjoyment Thea concentrated on the insipid goings-on on stage; during the interval when Matlin and Lord Ocott went to stretch their legs, smoke cheroots, and send for refreshments for their ladies, Thea steeled herself to smile and to talk with the alarming press of people who seemed to wish to be introduced to her. Lady Ocott made introductions with a smooth, smiling blandness which Thea suspected hid a quite enormous enjoyment: whenever she pronounced the words “Lady Matlin, my nephew’s wife” her eyes lit shrewdly. She was happily aware of the stir they were causing.
Gradually, as Thea grew accustomed to it, her smile grew less forced and her manner easier. It was pleasant to be so obviously admired, the focus of attention, to be offered a polite handshake by people whose names she had read in outdated issues of the Gazette and Belle Assemblee; Lady Cowper and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, Lord Granville Leveson-Gower; and Sir George Boucher, the last an old school-friend of Matlin’s. A frail, pretty woman waved languidly to Lady Ocott from across the theatre: “Bessborough’s daughter, William Lamb’s wife Caro,” Lady Ocott whispered with satisfaction. “A sad flibbertigibbet but a trendsetter. You are starting very nicely, lamb.” Thea began to think that she was indeed.
Then Matlin returned, shouldering his way past the crowd with a lackey at his heels who was bearing cups of fruit punch, and everything seemed suddenly awkward again.
“I cannot think what has come over that boy,” Lady Ocott murmured fretfully to Thea. “He used to be the most polished companion. Perhaps it’s just the time he spent away or only weariness. Did you see the look he gave poor Sir George?”
Thea nodded and turned her attention back to the stage.
o0o
They stayed for the farce and a set of ill-performed musical airs, then they made their way slowly from the theatre. When Lady Ocott suggested they might compound Thea’s informal debut by continuing on to a party she knew of, both Thea and Matlin declined.
“It’s been very exciting, ma’am, but I’m still getting used to these hours, and I would be yawning into some poor gentleman’s face now. Everyone has been so kind to me.”
“Nonsense, why should they be anything else?” Lord Ocott scoffed genially. “Well, we’ll let her rest tonight, my dear. I don’t doubt you’ll be in demand thereafter, eh, Dorothea?”
Matlin said nothing. He had once or twice roused himself to be pleasant, to meet Thea’s obvious enthusiasm with good humor, to encourage her enjoyment, but all during the long evening he had felt himself sinking lower and lower into some sort of cloud. Thea, watching him covertly, recalled him in his fever, when he had gone into periods of deep, stuporous sleep. She was concerned enough so that, when the party reached the house and Lady Ocott professed herself ready to retire, she asked Matlin in an undertone if he were quite well.
“Well? Good God, yes, of course. What would make you think—”
“You seem....” Thea stopped, uncertain of how to explain his manner. Matlin looked down at her. As Lady Ocott disappeared at the top of the stairs and Lord Ocott began to follow after her, he came to a decision, took Thea’s hand, and led her into the library. He closed the door behind them.
Thea watched him nervously, expectantly. Warily, Matlin thought. It was harder to begin than he had thought it would be, and he had expected that it would be very hard indeed. Since t
he night they had arrived in London he had kept his distance, and tried to plot the best approach to the subject of annulment. Somehow, although he had verged upon it several times, Matlin had not told his uncle of the state of things between him and his wife, and when he had once murmured something awkward about offering Dorothea her freedom Lord Ocott had turned to him irritably. “Freedom? What sort of mad start is that? You’ve only just wed the girl, for God’s sake. A scandal won’t do your career any good.”
He was alone, without advice, to face his wife.
“Are you happy, Thea?” He asked when he could not stand the silence any more.
Thea looked up at him uncomprehendingly. Was this what he was leading up to? An inquiry into her health and contentment? I will never understand him, she thought irritably, while she assured him that she was, indeed, very happy. “Your aunt has been kindness itself to me, as I’m sure you know.” Self-consciously Thea gestured at her dress; unfortunately this drew Matlin’s eye to the low, embroidered neckline.
“Are you certain you aren’t chilly?” he asked nervously.
Thea shook her head. The room filled to bursting with silence.
“Did you enjoy the play?” Matlin asked at last.
Thea assured him gratefully that she had. “It was silly, all those people getting so woefully tangled up when anyone could see that the heroine was really the lost daughter all the while, but—yes, I enjoyed it. Everyone was so kind.”
“Yes. I saw that.”
Something in his voice flattened Thea’s enthusiasm. “Matlin, is there a reason why people would not have been kind to me?”
“No, of course not. Good God, child, after all you’ve been through, you deserve every bit of enjoyment....” He faltered. “I just, somehow, did not think my aunt would be introducing you around as soon as this.”
“Ought she not to have done?” Thea blinked.
“No, no, of course not. Only I thought that when we reached England—damn, what a coil.” He turned and paced toward the empty fireplace.
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