“‘Last night all that changed, and all anyone can talk of is how he sneaked into the home of the fur merchant James Mannering last night and carried off his beautiful wife, Helen, who is now in his keeping. Everyone expects Mannering to challenge Armstrong to a duel, but perhaps he will not, since he is a craven sort and much older than the one who put a cuckold’s horns upon him. If it came to swords, Armstrong would surely win, but with pistols the case might be more even.’”
How could he? How could he? How could the same man who wrote such thoughtful, amusing letters show so little respect for her, or even for himself? He wanted to rise in the army, but wouldn’t this tarnish his reputation in the sight of his superiors? Nothing could possibly excuse so infamous a course. And, oh, God, what if there had been a duel, and with pistols, and he’d been wounded or even killed? Elizabeth wanted to kill him herself, just then. But she could not bear the thought that someone else might have done it, months ago, and made her a widow again, all unknowing.
“I hope I have not shocked you too greatly.” Lady Dryden’s voice dripped with false kindness. “But I do always think a wife should know of such matters.”
At least when you are the one fortunate enough to inform her, Elizabeth thought. “Why should I believe a word you say?” she ground out. She wouldn’t put it past Lady Dryden to lie. After all, she had never been a friend to Elizabeth or anyone else named Armstrong.
The older woman smiled. “I’ve never pretended to be your dearest friend, but I would never lie about something that could be disproven so easily. You may read the letter yourself, if you like. I assure you I didn’t invent Cousin Kitty or spend hours writing a fake letter from Canada.”
Put that way it did seem absurd. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to read it.”
Lady Dryden refolded the letter and tucked it back into her reticule. “As you wish. What will you say to him about it, when next you write?”
“That can be none of your concern, ma’am.”
Lady Dryden only laughed. “If I were you, I would remind him—”
Of what Elizabeth never learned, for Molly burst through the door and ran into the room. “Oh, ma’am,” she said, panting for breath, “Metcalf sent me to say the old mistress has fainted and she—she isn’t breathing right.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Lady Dryden.
Elizabeth glared at her. “Please leave at once. If you wish to be of use, send for Mr. Elting.”
Lady Dryden arose with great dignity. Elizabeth didn’t stay to see her out, instead taking the stairs to her mother-in-law’s room at a run. She found the lady crumpled on the floor by her chair, unconscious but laboring for each breath. Metcalf stood wringing her hands while her assistant, Jane, knelt at Mrs. Armstrong’s side.
After a single wild moment’s panic, Elizabeth began issuing orders. “Metcalf! Hurry to the stables and send Joseph for Mr. Elting.” By no means was she going to rely on Lady Dryden to summon the apothecary. “Molly, Jane, help me get her into bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the servants chorused. Metcalf left the room at a run. Elizabeth listened to make sure the elderly maid didn’t fall on the stairs even as she moved aside a chair and a table to clear a path for Jane and Molly.
Elizabeth tried everything she knew to awaken her mother-in-law. She used smelling salts, she called Mrs. Armstrong’s name, she loosened her clothing. Nothing helped, and soon her breathing slowed and took on a rattle.
Mr. Elting hurried in just after Mrs. Armstrong’s final breath, as Elizabeth closed her eyes for the last time. “I’m afraid you’re too late,” she murmured. Another death. Surely she’d seen more than her share since coming to Selyhaugh.
He drew closer and checked for a pulse or breath, then stepped back with a sober nod. “What happened?” he asked.
She blinked back tears. “I think it was an apoplexy. Metcalf said she fainted and fell from her chair.”
He pursed his lips, considering her. “You do understand,” he said after a moment, “that there was nothing you, or I, or anyone else could have done. You’ve been a good daughter to her these past two years. If she couldn’t know it, all her old friends saw it and honored you for it.”
Elizabeth blinked harder and bit her lip. Between her grief for her mother-in-law and her fury at her husband’s perfidy, she hardly understood what she felt. But she did know she wasn’t ready for anyone’s sympathy.
Fortunately Mr. Elting took his cue from her and soon left her alone, promising to speak to the vicar about burial arrangements.
* * *
Elizabeth found much to keep her occupied until nightfall, but then she could no longer put it off. She must write to Jack and tell him his mother was gone.
Had it happened even a day before, it would have been so much easier. She was fond of her mother-in-law, and she had almost loved Jack, who wrote such fascinating letters and had parted from her with such a warm and thorough kiss.
Now as she stared at the expanse of blank page before her, all she could see was her husband with another man’s wife brazenly in his keeping while she, Elizabeth, dutifully cared for his mother and his lands. Why, he might be bedding the woman at this very moment! He led a life of joy and adventure, leaving her to death and—and sheep.
Some part of her knew she was being unreasonable. He could not know his mother had died today, and therefore he ought to be mourning. But, try as she might, Elizabeth couldn’t make herself produce the letter she would’ve written before she knew.
She took a deep breath, dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote.
My dear husband,
I regret to inform you of your mother’s death today. It was a sudden apoplexy. We did what we could, and Mr. Elting was called, but she was beyond our assistance. It happened very quickly, and I believe she did not suffer. To her last day, despite her condition, she spoke of you with unvarying fondness.
I remain, etc.,
Elizabeth Armstrong
She could say no more.
* * *
For the first few months after Mrs. Armstrong’s burial, Elizabeth was freed from unwanted society by the strictures of deep mourning. But as winter turned to spring and her friends began to invite her to dinners and card parties again, she refused and issued no invitations of her own. Gradually everyone but Eugenia Ilderton and Augusta Rafferty left her alone, and even their calls grew far less frequent.
Elizabeth didn’t mind. Half of her mixing in Selyhaugh society had been for the sake of being a good soldier’s wife, and now that she knew how bad a husband her particular soldier was, it hardly seemed worth the effort. Thanks to Lady Dryden, everyone must know Jack cared nothing for his marriage vows, lacking the decency to even be discreet about his affairs. She didn’t want to go where she would only be mocked.
Instead she devoted herself to her sheep and her horses. Jack might be a dreadful husband, but she would not shirk her responsibilities as mistress of his lands. If Westerby Grange wasn’t the most profitable farm of its size in all Northumberland, nay, in all the north of England, it wouldn’t be through any lack of effort on her part.
As the months went by, she received several of the usual friendly, amusing letters from Jack, written before he could have possibly got word of his mother’s death. Part of her wanted to burn them unread, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to toss them on the fire. Instead, she read them once each before folding them and putting them out of sight—not in the pretty marquetry box where she’d treasured his letters before, but in an old hatbox in the back corner of her wardrobe.
She did not write him again. At last, in June, she received his reply to her cold note.
My dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for sending such prompt word about Mama. I hope you are well. I am, and I keep busy, for we are all but certain now it will be war with America. I cannot write more now, but I await your next letter.
Yours most affectionately,
Jack
She almost unbent at his
obvious bewilderment. How startled he must have been to receive her coldly worded notification, and now he must go to war! But then she remembered he had stolen another man’s wife and taken her under his protection, and that even before, he’d flirted and danced his way through Montreal as though he had no wife back in England.
In the end she left the letter unanswered until she heard, over a month later, that the Americans had indeed declared war. No longer able to justify delaying, she wrote again.
My dear husband,
We just received word of the Americans’ declaration of war. I hope you will keep safe. I enclose an account of the estate and the prices the yearlings brought at auction.
I remain, etc.
Elizabeth Armstrong
Perhaps she would regret her coldness if anything happened to Jack, but she was still too angry at him to make peace. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him why, not with a whole ocean separating them.
News of the war began to trickle in. She learned of the capture of Detroit and rejoiced that the outnumbered British had won it almost bloodlessly through guile. The last thing she wanted was for any harm to come to Jack. She wanted him to come home, healthy and whole, so she could tell him what she thought of him.
A few months later Sir Richard’s carriage rolled into the Grange stable yard again. Elizabeth met him at the door, her heart in her throat. He had sent no word of his coming, and with his old army connections he often knew more and sooner about what was going on with England’s armies than the papers did.
He looked grave, and Elizabeth swayed, gripping the doorframe to steady herself.
His dark eyes widened. “Don’t faint! It isn’t what you think. Jack is wounded, but I have no reason to think him in danger.”
He steered her to the parlor and made her sit down. There he told her of the Battle of Queenston Heights, how Jack’s commander, Sir Isaac Brock, had fallen in battle, and how Jack had then taken command. He had promptly led a bold counterattack on the invading American force. His actions assured a British victory before he was wounded himself with a bullet in his side and a badly broken leg when his mortally wounded horse had fallen atop him.
“How dreadful,” Elizabeth said faintly. “Are you certain there is no danger?”
“There isn’t any such thing as certainty even without a war, is there? But my correspondent assures me the surgeons have no fears for him. I tell you, this is wonderful news!” His eyes brightened, and he brought a hand down on his thigh with an emphatic slap. “Your husband is a hero, my dear, and if he isn’t made a major-general now, there is no justice left. I must write my friends and see what else can be done for him.”
Evidently Sir Richard still had influence, for Elizabeth soon got word that Jack had not only been promoted, he’d been knighted just like his uncle before him, and she had to accustom herself to being addressed as Lady Armstrong. Lady Dryden had a knack for saying it with a sneer that forced Elizabeth to hide a wince every time they met at church.
Unfortunately, Jack’s wounds, though not life-threatening, proved severe enough to necessitate a long convalescence. Rather than taking command in the field, he languished at York and then in Montreal. Again Elizabeth almost wrote him a letter of forgiveness, until Lady Dryden shared more gossip from her Canadian cousin, namely that Sir John Armstrong, the oh so handsome wounded hero, was being nursed with particular and scandalous devotion by a certain beautiful and notorious widow. Elizabeth hardened her heart and kept her letters to brief accounts of the estate’s finances. He replied in kind, saying only that he had been ill in addition to his injuries but was recovering well, and that he had no commissions for her, since he had everything he needed in Montreal. He left off signing his letters Yours most affectionately, Jack, in favor of a chill, businesslike Believe me, &c., John Armstrong. She tried to tell herself she didn’t mind. After all, their marriage had never been anything but a business arrangement.
Sir Richard lived to see Bonaparte’s downfall and peace with France, but not peace with America nor his nephew’s return home. He died in August 1814, leaving Jack his London house and much of his personal fortune. Elizabeth was too little in the habit of showing any friendliness to her husband to write a lengthy letter of condolence, but she did assure him of her sincere grief for his uncle and her determination to leave their new fortune untouched until he returned or wrote her of his intent for it.
She never received his reply, for peace came first. She began to calculate how long it would take him to sail home and to make her plans for the confrontation that must surely come.
Chapter Seven
February 1815
When the Antigone reached England, Jack, as a matter of course, called promptly at Horse Guards the morning after he arrived in London. The plans he had made for defending Canada and perhaps attacking America in the bargain had been rendered obsolete by peace, but he wanted active service if they had any to offer him. Now that his leg no longer pained him with the slightest exertion, he ached to prove himself worthy of the major-general’s rank and knightly honor that had been conferred upon him after Queenston Heights.
He was promptly and courteously received by Sir Henry Torrens, the current Military Secretary, but as he had feared, the army had no employment for him. Sir Henry all but assured him the next time there was a vacancy for an officer of his rank in Canada, the command would be his. But since he didn’t foresee such a need in the next year or two, he urged Jack to go home and see to his house, lands and family, which he surely must have missed during so long an absence.
When, less than an hour after walking in, Jack stepped out into a cold winter’s morning, he finally allowed himself a sigh. His last hope of delaying his return to Selyhaugh and Elizabeth was gone. Having no other choice, he returned to his hotel and turned his mind to his home and his marriage.
He wished he understood what had gone wrong. While he and Elizabeth had not made a love match, it had given every early promise of being a civil and friendly one. He had enjoyed her letters for the comfortable assurance they gave that all was well at home. While Elizabeth was a somewhat awkward writer, there was a wry humor that came through the stilted sentences and made him grow fonder of her. So he had exerted himself to write back as amusingly as he could, to make as much as possible out of the occasional moments of drama that had enlivened the often dull world of a regiment in an isolated frontier post in what had then been an uneasy peace.
But then that letter announcing his mother’s death had come. Such a dreadful, inexplicably cold little missive! After Jack had got over his initial hurt, he had concluded she had been too busy to write more, or that she was one of those types who when faced with death didn’t know what to say and said too little for fear of saying too much. She had kept her grief over Giles contained, though Jack could tell that wound had been deep. So he’d written his own brief letter—though he’d hoped his was warmer than hers—and awaited the resumption of their usual friendly correspondence.
It had never come. Her next letter had arrived months after the war began, and had only contained the briefest good wishes for his safety during the conflict. She might have written exactly the same words to the merest acquaintance. She’d enclosed an account of the horses and sheep, as dry as a clerk’s ledger. Jack had taken the hint and responded in kind, and the pattern of their correspondence was set from there.
Jack had once considered asking Elizabeth if anything had gone amiss—if she’d heard some dreadful story about him—but what could it possibly be? There was no way Elizabeth could have found out about Bella Liddicott, either their affair in 1799 or their one night in London five years ago, just after his marriage, while he waited to sail back to Canada. He wasn’t proud of that night, and he’d often guiltily wished they had never crossed paths again.
But other than Bella, he had no indiscretions that should seem unforgivable. He hadn’t been entirely chaste since his marriage, but how many men away from their wives for several years were? He
certainly couldn’t imagine any gentleman of his acquaintance keeping faith to an unconsummated marriage. And how could she have even learned of the Mannering scandal, or of his liaisons with Hannah Mackenzie or Sarah Boyd? She had no acquaintances in Canada.
He must stay in London for a few days yet, he consoled himself. He needed to visit his banker, not to mention a tailor, since he hardly owned any clothing that wasn’t a uniform.
Perhaps while here he might select a gift for Elizabeth, something to help him win his way back into her good graces. They were married. That could not be undone, and if he were ever to have heirs, she must be the one to bear them. What would best please her and purchase her forgiveness from whichever of his failings had come to her notice? Jewels? A fine, fashionable shawl of the kind she’d be unlikely to find outside London?
He had risen in the world since they had married, between his promotion, his knighthood and the small fortune Uncle Richard, dead these six months, had left him. His lady wife ought to be well dressed. However, he didn’t know her taste. One couldn’t assume all women liked the same things—if he’d learned nothing else from his mistresses and lovers over the years, they’d taught him that—so perhaps it would be wiser to bring Elizabeth to London and let her do her own shopping.
Still, he didn’t want to face her empty-handed. Elizabeth liked to read, he remembered that much, and he’d noticed half the tiny library she’d brought with her to the Grange was composed of books of travels. That was it. He’d visit a bookshop, choose something new she’d likely enjoy and supplement it with a necklace or a ring to prove he wasn’t cheap.
An Infamous Marriage Page 7