by Joan Smith
“She’s waking up.”
“If that’s the case, she isn’t liking what she sees. She wants to be rid of me.”
“Are you talking about divorce? Has she asked you for one?”
“Yes, but I told her that is out of the question,” he said with no doubt and no hesitation.
“If she’s become the heartless monster you seem to think, why don’t you give her one?” Kay asked sagely, hoping for some praise of Belle that she might relay. “If you don’t like your wife and you don’t want a divorce, what do you want?”
“I want her. I never said I didn’t like her.”
“Tell her, then.”
“I’ve told her every way I know how. What can I do? You’re a woman, Kay. Tell me.”
“Since you’re asking, I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d take her to Belwood. It was a big mistake to ever stay in London when you two were little better than strangers. You can’t get acquainted in that place, even if you live together. There’s too much else going on. You need a bit of privacy.”
“I’ve been trying to lure her home to Belwood for ages."
“And she wants to go. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Time is on our side, Ollie. She’s stuck here, with Arnold gone off on her, the old stick. She can’t leave till I lend her my carriage, and I’ll make sure it’s busy or hors de combat till tomorrow. There’s the ball tonight, a nice romantic affair for you to woo her at. A pity you burned my books, and you might try that again.”
He smiled a little ashamedly. “I’ll see they’re replaced, along with the crystal goblet. But really I needed some release, and they were so close to hand.”
“Lucky it was only books and a glass.”
“Do you think she means to attend the ball? She didn’t come down to lunch.”
“She’ll come. With that beautiful white gown hanging in her closet, she must be anxious to show it off. She’s perked up her style a bit, by the way.”
“Belle was always stylish.”
“I didn’t mean to deride her,” Kay said swiftly, concluding that Oliver didn’t know the difference between a slightly dowdy gown and too dashing bonnet worn on the other occasion she had met Belle and the more elegant ensembles sported now. The bonnet, she recalled, Belle had explained as a gift from her husband.
“She has excellent taste,” he added.
“Yes, a perfect paragon. I should have known more than to utter a word against her, and you of course can say what you will against her. Heartless and all the rest. Now go away and quit pestering me, Ollie. I have a dozen things to see to. Pierre was complaining of the migraine when he was making the omelette this morning, and it is crucial that he be kept in spirits, with tonight’s dinner to prepare. I must see that La Travalli isn’t down there flirting with him. She’s taken to the kitchen today, and it’s a good place for her too, except for Pierre. They converse, incidentally. In some strange tongue that is not quite French nor Italian either. Half in half. Why didn’t we think of trying French with her? Go and do something with yourself. Go for a long ride or walk and give your mind a rest. Your fists too. I’ll see that Belle comes to the ball.”
“I’ve been a beast and a boor, and most humbly beg your pardon.”
“You haven’t been a bore, anyway. That is the unforgivable sin at one of my parties.”
“You’re my favorite hostess.” He kissed her old raddled cheek, and she blushed like a schoolgirl.
“Get on with you, pest,” she scolded, and he left. He intended going for a ride, but met Ed Delford and Ryan Sloane going for a game of billiards and was invited to join them. Their wives were taking an afternoon off to prepare for the ball. He knew these couples to be friends of Belle, and with a view to some future doings with them, accepted their offer to join them. The whole debacle of the Henderson affair had been well bruited about by this time, but this uxorious pair of husbands were all in favor of a man sticking up for his wife, and congratulated Avondale heartily. He really did not wish to discuss it, but they had received commands from the top that they were to hint him to a more proper course, and persisted. Their approval softened him, and he admitted at last that it had angered him a little to see Henderson always tagging after her.
“I guess it would,” Delford took it up warmly. “But then there are always men like him dangling after a fellow’s wife. Do you remember that damned Jackson used to be always after Belle in London, Avondale? I daresay you had to give him a taste of the home-brewed as well.”
The only Jackson Oliver could call to mind was an elderly gentleman of ostensibly impeccable background, a friend of Lady Hasborough, his cousin. He had taken Belle about a bit, but he couldn’t believe it was Matthew Jackson spoke of, and disliked to admit such ignorance of his own wife’s doings as to inquire whom it was that Delford referred to. He made some mumbling comment that was taken for assent, and lined up his ball.
“And Fischer,” Ryan Sloane went on. “I gave him the heave-to for you, Avondale. Daresay Belle told you. Was tagging after us the day we went to Bartholomew Fair. Rum place to go, but the ladies wanted to see it, you know. My wife, and Delford’s too for that matter, are not city ladies, and wanted to see the tourist sights. Have to do the pretty with the ladies. They’ll grow out of it in a year or so, but for the treacle moon, you know, you have to squire ‘em about a bit.”
Oliver didn’t even know Belle had been to Bartholomew Fair, or had wanted to go. She hadn’t told him. Probably thought he’d laugh at her, and so he would have too.
“Lord yes,” Delford took it up. “Do you mind, Ryan, your Beth was in the sulks for a week, and it turned out what was eating her was that you’d promised to take her to Astley’s to see the horses, and hadn’t done it.”
“We nearly had a rift over it,” Ryan continued. “She got as silent as a jug on me. Took to flouncing past me with her shoulders in the air and a face on her like a martyr. I had to coax it out of her, and all it was was that I’d forgotten I’d promised to take her to Astley’s. Took her and she turned sweet as honey. Lord, what little ninnies they are,” he said, but in a fond way, smiling.
“What you have to watch out for is the silent treatment,” Delford stated, and behind Avondale’s back the two happily married men exchanged a mutual wink. The whole had to be made an innocent discussion. Avondale would not welcome advice, but a discussion of wives in general might pass. Delford went on with the game, seeming to pay attention to his cue and his shot, but as he played he kept talking. “When they clam up on you, it’s a danger signal. What you’ve got to do is get them talking, about anything, and worm it out of them. It’ll all come flooding out, on a burst of tears likely as not, but at least you get to know what’s eating them. You may say what you will about women never being silent, I’d rather have them talking. A silent woman is a dangerous thing. She’s sitting there tallying up points against you. You can see it in her eyes. Thing to do is keep at them till it comes out. They want to tell you. They’re dying to throw your faults in your face, and it don’t take a whole lot of urging.”
“That’s true,” Ryan agreed. Oliver had become a mere listener to this conversation, but an interested one. “And we ain’t that different ourselves, are we? Mean to say, if they’re ashamed to admit they're in the boughs because you forgot to take them someplace, or forgot to bring ‘em home a bunch of flowers or whatnot, well, we’re often a little shy of saying what’s bothering us too. I turned huffy myself with Beth when she danced twice at a ball with that jackdaw of a Withers—you remember him, Delford. She said he danced like a sprite, damned caper merchant. I gave her the merry devil when we got home, pretending I thought it didn’t look well for a married lady to be so particular. She made short shrift of that excuse, rattled off all the other married ladies that had done the same thing, but she ain’t slow. She twigged to it I was jealous, and was in alt with me.”
“Yes, we’re probably as bad as them, or worse,” Delford continued the lesson. “But it all comes out in tal
king. Just keep up the chatter and you won’t go far wrong. Daresay if you’d told Belle,” he said, turning to Oliver, “that you didn’t like Henderson dangling after her, she’d have slipped him the clue, and saved the little tiff. Old Dempster will spread it around town. Still, it don’t matter much. Her sort is always rattling off about something or other.”
“I did tell her,” Oliver admitted, having become so engrossed in the talk that he forgot to be discreet.
“Suppose you told her you didn’t like the looks of it,” Ryan suggested. “Same as me and the caper merchant.”
He could not recall his precise words, but certainly that had been the gist of it—what he tried to make her think. Oliver looked at these two men. He had never thought either of them particularly clever, but how wise they were, compared to himself. They had seen the problem, recognized it, taken action to prevent a breakup in their marriages, while he had stood idly by and watched Belle turn from a happy lover to a mute stranger, without lifting a finger to change it. Had done the same thing himself, in fact. Never told her what was bothering him—had let her think his barbs were caused by her occasional and very slight solecisms, instead of her indifference. Had raised an eyebrow at her suit or bonnet, when it was the fact of her going riding out with some other party that was really annoying him.
It occurred to Ryan after some moments of silence that he was not going to receive any reply to his question. “Think I’ve had about enough of this game,” he said, and laid down his cue.
“Can’t stop now. The game ain’t over,” Delford charged.
It was not officially over, but it was pretty effectively arrested by the third member’s standing and staring out of the window with a ruminating frown on his face, while the other two waited for him to take his turn.
“Think we’ll call it a game,” Ryan said, speaking loudly to Oliver.
“Yes,” he answered unthinkingly, and watched as the other two left.
“Well, do you think it did any good?” Ryan asked of Delford after they were down the hall.
“It’s set him to thinking anyway,” Ed replied, and they both went off to report to their wives their results.
Chapter Thirteen
Lady Hathaway had foreseen from the earliest stages that her party would not be one of her greater successes; she was rapidly coming to wish she had never gone forward with it at all after Raffles’ taking ill. It should have been an omen to her. But no, she had forged on, assembling a host of mismatched persons with so little in common that one half the group never spoke to the other, and if Marion Ponsonby had said so much as good day to anyone, it was all she had said. No, that wasn’t true. She had said thank you when Oliver had got her a glass of wine the other evening. Two phrases in as many days. She would be setting herself up as a conversationalist, no doubt.
Then there was La Travalli, who would never be still. She continued roaming the house at will, and someone had even reported seeing her in the village. How had she got there? Whose horses and carriage had she helped herself to? And what had she picked up without expense in the shops, to have the bills turn up next week at Ashbourne? The creature had also taken to rolling her eyes at Mr. Higgins, the M.P. who was rapidly rising in the world, and said to be on the verge of an engagement to a highly placed and wealthy lady of fashion. Much good it would do him, and herself, if he fell into a misalliance with an Italian singer while here, at her party.
These were only tentative ills, of course. There had already been enough off-color happenings to keep the ton buzzing for a week. One of her guests, and her late husband’s cousin too, actually beaten up and required to sneak out the side door home to avoid being murdered. The Avondales squabbling and shouting at each other, and Oliver still fixing for a fight if anyone looked at him the wrong way. Belle laid out on her bed refusing food and probably preparing to go into another decline. Then the ball, which was not to be a ball after all but only a rout! In her distracted state she was not capable of all the formalities of a ball.
She had had the unwisdom to invite a dozen local couples to dinner before the rout, thus intimating it was to be a ball, for she did not invite guests to a dinner party before a rout. Pierre’s migraine had progressed to the flu, and he was in his room sneezing his head off. The whole house would take it from him.
Never mind that—who was to prepare dinner for her regular guests plus the two dozen couples invited locally? The female servants were no more able to execute the French dishes for which he had assembled ingredients than they were able to fly. They shook their silly heads to see brandy in the kitchen, and what had he wanted with three quarts of clotted cream? The famous Hathaway ragout would be dumped on her guests’ plates as English stew, and if the roast mutton wasn’t dry and the potatoes wet it was the best she could hope for. At least it was not a dull affair. One way or the other, it would be talked of.
But her present chore was to see to her guest, Avondale’s wife, and coerce her into attending the ball. She would not want to do it—who should blame her—but it was necessary that she go. How else was Ollie to get her back? To force a guest to do something went sadly against the pluck with the hostess, but it was all of a piece with the rest of this wretched party. She went upstairs and tapped at Belle’s door to see whether she was even physically capable of coming downstairs. She found her sitting by the window, smiling wistfully, and staring out into the front yard, where the Delfords and Sloanes were playing croquet and ruining the lawn.
“Feeling better?” Kay asked hopefully, greatly relieved to see her up, and not bawling either.
“Feeling mortified to the bone,” Belle answered. “What a bother I’ve been to you, Kay. I think the best thing is for me to go home, right away. Is it possible for me to borrow your carriage?”
“Certainly you may, but not today, I fear. What should happen but the front wheel has come off? I have the wheeler working on it this very day, and it should be fixed by tomorrow, but I’m afraid for today you must stay with me.” And may the good Lord forgive me for lying, she added silently to herself.
“Oh—then I must be here for the ball. I had hoped—but of course I need not attend it. I can stay in my room."
“It is not really a ball. Only a little rout party. I hope you will come down.”
Belle sat nibbling her lower lip, and the hostess thought that with a little judicious nudging she might be talked around. She arose and went to where Belle’s lovely white crepe hung on the back of the door. “You will not want to leave without showing this lovely thing to the guests. What a fine piece of work! You have a French modiste, have you?” It was not really quite so fine a gown as this high praise implied, but every low trick was being used to achieve the desired end.
“No, a local woman does my gowns. About the party—it is just a little rout, you say?”
“Yes, just a few neighbors dropping in. Why don’t you come down to dinner?—and if you find the party too much for you, you can always slip upstairs early. I wouldn’t satisfy Lizzie Dempster to let her run back to the city and say you didn’t dare to come down.”
“What story might she not be running back to London with if I do attend and Oliver takes into his head to make another scene?”
“Have no fear on that score, my dear. I have taken that fellow to account, and he is as humble as may be.” More lies! But she would do it. She would nag his ears off.
“Well, I suppose it will be very dull sitting up here all alone,” Belle said, thinking aloud. If Oliver would behave, she would not dislike to attend the party. She had done very little in a social way all winter, and had been looking forward to this dance.
Kay did not immediately follow up this hopeful lead, for she suddenly noticed Belle was staring at her hands, rubbing them together. Glancing to see more closely what she did, she saw that on her left hand she wore her wedding ring. She had not had it on when she came, nor at any other time since coming, but she had it on now. She had been smiling at the window, with her wedding ring
on. It was the most hopeful sign yet, and she was highly tempted to run down the stairs that minute and tell Oliver. But first it must be clearly established that Belle was to attend dinner and the dance.
“It will be dull, then too if you mean to go to London as you mentioned, you might as well get used to Oliver’s being around.”
“Oh yes, I definitely plan to go to London.” Easthill had been bad enough with Arnold to take her around here and there. He had failed her sadly, and she would not go home and sink into a housekeeper for Papa and a married spinster.
“Good! Dinner at seven-thirty. I’ve put it back half an hour. See you there.” She dashed from the room before Belle could change her mind. She was humming as she hastened down the hallway to her own room to change, still humming when she entered and saw the Signora Travalli stretched out on her bed asleep.
“Silly old cow,” she muttered, shaking her awake and pushing her out the door. “Go on and put some clothes on. Time to eat. You will like that. Eat—mangiare—pasta!”
A volley of strange syllables were returned to her, and the signora went off to pester someone else.
* * * *
There was wine served in the green saloon before dinner. Oliver had been one of the first there, and had been drawn into conversation with some local squires and gentlemen by his cousin, as the rest of the city people clustered by themselves, ignoring the provincials. The bugbear of the hostess, of course. As hard to mix as oil and water. The locals were on their high ropes if you didn’t ask them to these dos, and on their high ropes again if you asked them and they were made to feel like outsiders. Next time she’d not ask them.
Belle was one of the last to enter. She hadn’t got her foot inside the door till Lady Dempster was at her side. How odd they looked together—like an angel and a witch. Why must Lizzie always rig herself out like a carrion crow? She didn’t have a stitch in her closet that wasn’t black. No amount of looking could determine whether Belle still wore the gold band. There was something on her finger, but she had a little pearl ring she had been wearing earlier, and it might be that.