by Joan Smith
“Goodnight, Lady Dempster,” Kay replied, smiling unconcernedly as she proceeded along to her room. LaTravalli wandered around a corner, causing some worry as to where she had been, but as she bore in her pudgy white fingers a large ham sandwich, Kay assumed she had only been availing herself of the pantry. “Get to bed, baggage,” she said, and the singer babbled a string of foreign talk at her.
At least there was no stir from Arnold Henderson’s room, and as she did not enter, she had no reason to know he was trembling at his doorway, contemplating the wisdom of leaving on the instant. His fear of Avondale was so great that even when innocent, he imagined he was the cause of the duke’s wrath.
Avondale entered his room, slammed the door, kicked the dresser a good boot, then looked fearfully towards Belle’s door, but of course there was no reaction from that iceberg. She’d be sound asleep by now. Oh lord, and what if she found out he’d fed her another string of lies? Why had he done it? The truth was hardly worse. She had put the notion of a duel into his head, and he’d snatched at it, a straw for a drowning man. She’d never come back if she discovered he’d been lying again.
And how was he to get his hands on a thousand pounds for Honey? If Belle found that out, she’d know damned well it wasn’t just escape money to flee the country from a duel. It wouldn’t half explain a thousand pounds. And why had that bitch of a Honey come to his room anyway when he’d said he’d take care of it tomorrow? Couldn’t she trust him, and all the times he’d bailed that disreputable pair out of hawk?
There was some horrid fate dogging his steps. Just when it was beginning to seem Belle might come back, for that woman to land in, uninvited. George in another of his endless scrapes—the family name muddied with his criminal carryings-on. It had been the worst idea in the world to stay at this party. He should have gone on to London when he had learned Belle was there, and gone back to Easthill later. Tackled her in the peace and quiet of the country, with no unwelcome people around to interrupt them.
His valet entered and asked if he would like to be prepared for bed. “I’m not going to bed,” he replied woodenly. “I’m going to stay up all night and get drunk. Bring me a bottle of claret—no, make it brandy. It’s quicker.”
“Yes, your grace.” No interest, not the least concern shown for his master’s welfare. The whole world was peopled with unfeeling creatures.
In no time at all he had drunk himself into a fine stupor, and fallen asleep on a chair.
Chapter Ten
Belle’s first thought upon opening her eyes in the morning was that she couldn’t face the crowd downstairs. Then she remembered Oliver’s calling goodnight to Lady Dempster, and it gave her courage. He didn’t care what anyone thought, and suddenly she didn’t either. Anyone who was interested had already heard enough to know there was trouble brewing. That was hardly news in the Avondale marriage.
She had thought about Oliver’s latest story for an hour before sleeping, and had no idea whether it was true or not. He may have been going to Honey for exactly the reason she initially suspected, and if he had been, maybe it was partly her fault. He had come to her first, his wife. Yes, and he had come back fast enough too when she caught him, so he did care what she thought. If he was a philanderer, she had never tried to cure him. He called her inhuman, and she must have appeared so to him. Trying so hard to hide her human jealousy, she had become inhuman. Caring too much what the likes of Lady Dempster thought of her. What did she think of Lady Dempster—a nosy old biddy who listened at keyholes, or at private conversations that didn’t concern her in any case. Oliver had the right idea. Throw it back in her face.
Some lightheadedness came over her. She laughed as Marie did her hair, and could hardly wait to get downstairs. She might even be pert to Mrs. Traveller, ask her if she had finally settled down and had a good night’s sleep.
There was a tableful of people there when she reached the breakfast parlor, and she smiled on them all, glancing around to see if any of the participants of the evening’s farce were present. They all were—Lady Dempster, who had arisen early on purpose so as not to miss anything, Mrs. Traveller, Oliver, looking like death on legs. She gave each of the three a special nod, and Lady Dempster said, “You seem mighty chipper this morning, duchess.”
“I had a good sleep,” she answered. “I hope the little racket in my room didn’t keep you awake too late, ma’am.”
It would have been difficult to know who at the table was the more surprised at her cheerfulness. Oliver was looking at her as though she had two heads, Lady Dempster blinked twice and dropped her lorgnette, Kay frowned in confusion, and only Mrs. Traveller went on eating unconcernedly.
“What is everyone doing today?” Belle went on to ask, still in a bright tone. “I see Mr. Henderson isn’t up yet. What a sleepyhead!” Let Oliver make what he would of that statement.
“He’s up and left already,” Lady Dempster informed her. “He was up with the roosters, and went off before eight o’clock, with no more than a cup of coffee.”
“My, you’ve been up a long time, and after having your sleep disturbed last night too,” Belle said, smiling pertly. “I daresay he is only gone off to see Dr. Hutchison again.”
Oliver frowned heavily at the mention of the name of Henderson, but was too deeply dyed in sin himself to object verbally.
“What are you planning to do, Oliver?” Belle asked.
“I have to run into the village, but will be back within an hour. I am at your disposal after that.” His expression was unreadable. What was she up to? He usually had to scheme and twist her arm to get her to do anything with him. Today, when he must be away from her for a while, she suddenly asked, and in public, what he was doing.
“I can’t sit around an hour waiting for you. What are you doing, Marnie?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Delford.
“We are going back to Winchester Cathedral. I want to take some rubbings of the brasses. Would you like to come with us?”
Belle considered this. “No, you won’t want an unescorted lady tagging along, crowding you in the carriage. Perhaps Kay will be kind enough to lend me Juno again? I feel like some exercise.”
“You’re entirely welcome, Belle,” Kay told her. “Consider her your own while you are here. I don’t find time to ride when I am entertaining.”
“Wait till I get back,” Oliver said. “I won’t be gone above an hour. I’d like to go for a ride too.”
“Why don’t we ride to the village together?” Belle suggested.
He stared at her, furious. “I have to take Mrs. Traveller to the inn. We are going in my carriage.” As you very well know, shrew, he added silently.
“Come with us,” Mrs. Traveller said, and laughed, while the remainder of the company looked at its food in conscious embarrassment.
“She would prefer to ride,” Avondale said, in the tone of a command.
“I think I am being hinted away. What will Lady Dempster think of us?” Belle asked playfully.
For once, Lady Dempster was too astonished to give vent to her thoughts. Oliver arose from the table, saying, “I’ll be back very shortly, Belle. We’ll ride then.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be here,” she warned him. “If nothing more amusing turns up, we’ll ride.”
“Wait for me,” he said, then went to draw Mrs. Traveller’s chair for her.
To set the cap on that peculiar meal, Mrs. Traveller stopped at Belle’s seat and shook her hand. “I don’t believe we ever met, duchess. I can’t think why we weren’t introduced. I’m sure we would have got along famously. Everyone telling me you were so stiff, but I can see it’s no such a thing.” Honey thought she spoke in a quiet tone, but her voice was naturally loud, and it was overheard by some.
“What has my husband been telling you about me, Mrs. Traveller?” Belle asked. “You mustn’t believe everything he says, you know. He is only human, and prevaricates a little now and then.”
“I can see he does, the rascal. But you don’t
have to explain Avondale to me, my dear. I have known him ten years longer than you have yourself, I daresay.”
“Yes, I know you two are old and dear friends,” Belle answered, and felt she could keep up her pose no longer if more were said on the matter.
“Come along, Mrs. Traveller,” Avondale said, and took her arm.
“All right, Avondale, I’m coming. You ain’t my husband, you know. You don’t have to get bossy.” They walked together from the room, with Mrs. Traveller complimenting Oliver on his charming wife, and Oliver wanting, at that particular moment, to crack their heads together.
The others began to leave the table, the Delfords and Sloanes, but Kay and Lady Dempster sat on with Belle. Each was determined to outsit the other, Lady Dempster to get quizzing Belle, and Kay to prevent it. At last it was Lady Dempster, who thought she would be better amused following Avondale and Mrs. Traveller to the inn, and she went to get her carriage readied.
“What came over you?” Kay asked bluntly.
“An attack of common sense,” Belle replied.
“About time, if you don’t mind my saying so. I suppose Oliver sneaked back into your room after I left?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He means to, my dear, and if you’re wise, you’ll let him. He had nothing to do with Mrs. Traveller’s coming. It was all her own idea, and it’s unfortunate she chose such a time, but there’s no vice in her. She’s a fool married to a scoundrel, and there’s the mischief in it. It has nothing to do with Ollie but that he helps them out occasionally.”
“So he said.”
“It was the truth. Well, just such things as this. She has run up a little bill at the inn, and without a penny in her pockets. What can he do but pay for her? Family, after all. He no more wants her here than I do, but when your own family come begging, you let them in.”
Belle assumed Oliver had told no one but herself about the duel, and kept quiet about it, turning the conversation to some well-deserved compliments on Juno.
“She’s the sweetest goer I ever had. Your husband picked her out for me. Will you wait for him to come back before going for your ride?”
“I feel like riding now.”
“By the time you get changed into your habit, he’ll be here. Don’t be too hard on him, Belle. He’s bending over backward to try to please you. Getting the fire laid in the study, and digging out those dull old books—Cowper and Voltaire. That’s the trouble right there, as different as night and day, you two.”
“What?” Belle asked, in some quite natural confusion.
“Cowper and Voltaire—what you like to read and what he likes. It sounds as if he’s cynical, but his remembering what you were reading and digging it out of the library shows he’s sentimental too. Or do I mean sensitive? By the way, did he burn the books, or what?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The books he got to take into the study the night you came. They’re gone, and the charred remains in the grate. To say nothing of a perfectly good wine goblet smashed. I’ll send him a bill, the wretch.”
It took some remembering and imagination to make any sense of this conversation, but Belle finally got at some semblance of the truth. She knew well enough her husband’s habit of tossing things about in a pique. A new bonnet he had bought her was once consigned to the flames, because she laughed at it, and said it made her look like a lady of pleasure.
She was flattered that Oliver had been working so hard to win her back. This planning and arranging was different from buying her things she didn’t want. He was trying to please her, and how it had all backfired in his face! She could just imagine his curse as he pitched those two books into the fire, unseen by her. He had always been very impatient with things, she remembered. Usually polite with people, and especially herself, but that violence had always been there, excited by a pen that didn’t write, or a drawer that didn’t close. She was touched that he had remembered what they had been reading at Crockett. Maybe he hadn’t been bored there—really had enjoyed it.
Kay observed the softer smile on her companion’s face, and attempted a little peacemaking, made more difficult of course by not knowing the precise nature of the rift between them. Oliver had been a perfect oyster on the subject, and she had never had a chance to discover it of Belle.
“He’s a goose, of course. Men all are. My Alfred—you never knew him, Belle. He was a great ninny, and I not much better when we first got married. The two of us keeping all our troubles to ourselves, instead of talking them out, yet we both wanted the same things. I was trying to please him, and he in his stupid way was trying to please me too—or show off to me what a dashing buck he was anyway, which amounts to the same thing, I suppose. Our marriage came within Ame’s ace of falling apart in our first season in London. I think it would have been wiser if you two had gone to Belwood after your wedding. There’s too much mischief afoot in the city for newlyweds that haven’t learned how to get along with each other yet. It takes a while. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. We had only a month,” Belle answered pensively.
“A month is nothing. Give it a year.” She looked sharply at Belle as she proffered this suggestion, and read no argument there.
She was about to pour fresh coffee and continue with her lecture, but unfortunately they were joined by Signora Travalli, and rational discourse was at an end.
Belle went upstairs to change into her habit, slowly, so that she would not be ready a great deal before Oliver returned from the village. When she came back down, another guest had come to the party, but it was an invited guest this time. Mr. Jeremy Lucas had been invited for the whole do, but had had a horse running at the Doncaster Race meet and had arrived only today in time for the ball to take place in the evening. He was only slightly known to Belle, but when she came down to wait for Oliver, she too sat with him in the green saloon with Kay, chatting a little, though her mind was partially occupied with digesting the advice Kay had given her.
A month really was a very short time to have devoted to trying to make her marriage work. She had devoted years to learning the pianoforte and a dozen less-important accomplishments. Why should she think she could become a proficient wife in a month? She hardly listened as the other two talked.
“How is the party going?” Mr. Lucas asked.
“Wretched!” was the unvarnished reply. “Stamford Raffles couldn’t come, so I got an Italian singer to come instead, and she doesn’t speak a word of English. No one told me that. She is roaming the halls like a ghost, going into any room that takes her fancy. And when she finally gets started singing, there’s no getting her stopped. Then who should turn up last night uninvited but Mrs. Traveller—George Traveller’s wife, you know. Her husband was to meet her at the inn in the village, and didn’t show up. Just like him, of course, and she without a penny in her pockets, so she ended up here.”
“I know why her husband didn’t show up, anyway,” Mr. Lucas said. “He was at the races in Doncaster. Was holding the bets for a bunch of the fellows up from London.”
“Oh dear!” Kay’s hand flew to her mouth. She thought George would pick Honey up at the inn that morning, and foresaw her return to Ashbourne. She assumed the whitening around Belle’s gills was for the same reason, but Belle was thinking something quite different. ‘He’s hiding out in London. The duel was fought at Hounslow Heath.’ Hiding out! He was no more hiding out and had no more killed a man in a duel than she had herself. It was more lies to deceive her.
“I think I’ll go for that ride now,” Belle said, arising. This too was taken as pique at Mrs. Traveller’s probable return, and with another guest to inhibit advice, Kay had no option but to let Belle go, and to warn Ollie when he got back to get rid of Mrs. Traveller somehow. Send her off to Doncaster in his own carriage if necessary. She had come in a hired rig from the inn.
Belle went to the stables and first thought she would ride in solitude back to the same place she had gone with Oliver,
through the forest and the fields to the river. A good gallop would get rid of some of her excess of emotions. Then she remembered Arnold, and decided to try Oliver’s jealousy a little with her own highly unsatisfactory flirt. About the only point presently in Arnold’s favor was that Oliver was still jealous of him.
She turned to the road and went down it toward the village at a good pace. She had gone nearly the three miles before she saw Arnold’s carriage, and she hailed it. He stopped and said in a shamefaced way that he hadn’t thought she would like to go back to Dr. Hutchison’s again, and he had gone early so he would be free to do something with her later if she liked. She knew he was shamming, but didn’t know quite why he kept looking over his shoulder behind him, back toward the village.
“Your husband was there with that woman,” he told her, when she asked what he was looking for. “Really, he’s the strangest man, Belle. I think you should be rid of him. I said ‘Good morning’ and he nearly bit my head off. ‘What’s good about it?’ he said. I was only trying to be civil. And he was giving her money too. They came out of the bank together. Now, I know he said he was going to settle up her account at the inn, but he was giving her bills— plenty of them.”
This would have engendered no anger, or at least no surprise, had she not learned from Mr. Lucas that George Traveller had been in no duel, required no large sum to flee the country. The money was obviously being given to Honey to reimburse her for her fruitless trip from London. Probably to allow her to go somewhere to meet him on the sly while George was safely away at the races. To Belwood, for all she knew. Nothing seemed beyond him.
And how happy she was that he had been caught red-handed again. She had seen him go to the woman’s room, Arnold had seen him pay her off, and Mr. Lucas’ untimely arrival had revealed that he lied about the duel. He was a very unfortunate libertine. It would hardly have gone worse for him if someone had sat down and planned it. Caught out at every turn. There would be some pitching about of objects and kicking of furniture as a result of all this bad luck.