by Joan Smith
“It was more than a little flirting with Mrs. Traveller, I think.”
“It wasn’t even that. I hardly saw her while we were married. I mean during that month you were with me.”
“Oh, Oliver, you’re a congenital liar. Do you never learn? I saw your hat and stick at her house. Lady Hasborough took me to meet her, and your things were there, in the hallway, but the two of you had left word not to be disturbed. She knew you would be there; that’s why she took me, and I knew you would be there too, or I would never have gone with her. Everyone knew about you two.”
“There wasn’t a thing to know! I had nothing to do with Honey. It was just before our marriage I got George that job. I saw him a few times—maybe she was along once or twice. I don’t even remember. I’m not lying.”
“Are your hat and stick lying? I saw them with my own eyes. And I didn’t see George’s there. I gave you that gold-tipped cane myself. You always used it. It was yours, and it was there, at her house.”
“Yes, unlike you I used and treasured the gift you gave me, though I have no medical degree and am not really qualified to carry the gold-knobbed cane of a physician. But I never told you how inappropriate it was, because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. That you liked it and gave it to me was enough. Ironic that it should be the cause of your suspecting me. And is that why you left a day early then?” he asked, straining to remember so long ago, and join up dates and events.
“The straw that broke the camel’s back. I couldn’t have stuck it much longer in any case.”
“You might in common decency have waited and asked me about it. There is a very simple explanation.”
“At least three, I should think.”
“We’ll skip the first two and get down to the truth. They had the bailiffs in the house that day, in the act of reclaiming their furniture. George was at work. I had just got him the job a while before and went to ensure the men George was on salary, and would soon be in a position to pay for his things. Honey told the butler to keep everyone out, as she was naturally not eager for the whole town to see whom she was entertaining, and I don’t mean myself. It was but poor entertainment, I can tell you, to turn off the bailiffs. I wasn’t there for more than half an hour. I don’t know how Lady Hasborough came to hear of it, but apparently she did, and decided to play a trick at my expense. But you should have waited till I got home and explained. You didn’t have to go dashing off that day. You weren’t supposed to leave till the next morning. How do you think I felt, to get home and find you gone? Not even the courtesy of a message left with the servants, or a thing to tell me what happened. And then never to write and tell me your plans, but to learn of it from Sangster. There was no excuse for that, Belle. You may say I treated you like an animal, but I would never have done that to you."
“No, you would have sent me ten diamond necklaces and a box of money. I’m not rich enough to carry things through in your high style.” Yet she did feel guilty about that one thing.
“You’re rich enough to write a letter. It doesn’t cost much. Just a little time and consideration. And those things you keep disparaging cost me more than money. Time and consideration went into them too. You may not have liked them, but at least I was trying.”
“I didn’t marry a bank account. That’s not what I wanted.”
“I was trying, Belle. I did something. What did you do but walk away, as if I were an old hat that didn’t suit you? Talk about my treating you like a horse.”
“Worse than a horse.”
“No one would treat a dog the way I was treated. We keep hearing about your fine feelings. What about mine? I have feelings too. Did you ever consider them?”
“If you had any feelings, you didn’t show them.”
“That sounds mighty strange, coming from you. And men, you know, are not expected to parade their sorrow before the world. I tried to make you happy by giving you nice things—things that appeared nice to me. Is that a crime, to want to give someone you love pretty things? I thought you married me for what I could give you. What else should I think? You certainly didn’t seem to want me.”
“Why should you think that? I didn’t marry you because you were rich.”
“Partly for that reason, I think. You were impressed, when I met you, with my things. If you are honest you will admit you were always marveling at my horses and carriages, and my house when first you saw it. I came to think it was the major reason. Well, it was hardly surprising. It is the way things are done in my circle.”
“They are not done so in my circle, and I think it is a pretty poor way.”
“It is a wretched way, but there are other circles, other ways. I can change, Belle. I’m not atrophied in my habits. I can be anything you care to make me. I wasn’t happy either the way we went on, but you should have told me.”
“You never told me you were unhappy.”
“You must have seen it. How could anyone be happy under such circumstances?”
“I saw you were different as a husband than as a fiancé. I supposed the romance was over and we had got down to the hard, unpalatable facts of marriage.”
“Why the hell did you keep all this bottled up, festering and growing out of proportion?”
“Who was I to tell it to? The walls? You were never there.”
“I saw you dozens of times.”
“Yes, you saw me, your wife, probably two dozen times that month. Occasionally at breakfast. Quite often at dinner, at someone or other’s house. Why, we even went together once, didn’t we? Of course, we picked up Lady Hasborough and Mr. Fischer. I remember it quite well now, and I came home alone with Mr. Fischer, because you wanted to go on to Brook’s club and gamble for a few hours.”
“We were together at Crockett. You could have told me then.”
“I didn’t want to spoil it. It was the only good time we ever had together.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. I don’t want it to be like that again. Belle, come home with me. We’ll go to Belwood. There’s no reason we must go to London at all. Please.”
“I’ve thought about that. I don’t want to live in a pretty country vacuum, not all the time. London is part of your natural world, and I want it to be part of mine. There is plenty I like in London. If we can’t live as we want to there, then we’re not really living—not naturally as we want to, I mean. Other people shouldn’t be able to change us. Oh, you know what I mean.”
“I can be happy with you anywhere. I don’t need London, but I need you. We can spend some time there, if you like.”
“You don’t need me. You wouldn’t have waited nearly a year if you did, and even then you were careful to tell me you hadn’t arranged this meeting. It was purely accidental. If we hadn’t both happened to turn up here at the same time, you would have gone on to London and never given me a thought.”
“You’ll never believe me after the tangle of lies I’ve been spinning, but I meant to go to Easthill the very next day to see you. In fact I very nearly went there before coming here, but thought five o’clock a poor time to arrive. Then to walk down the garden path and see you flirting with that scarecrow of a Henderson. And you can be sure I wouldn’t have waited any year if I’d been aware of his existence! I thought you were at home with your father, safely tending a garden and getting lonesome. Lonesome enough to come back.”
She sniffed a sniff that said, “That will teach you,” and his old rage was all reactivated. “And you have some explaining to do too. All very well to throw Honey Traveller in my face, but what about Mr. Henderson? Just what was going on between you two?”
“What should be going on between a decent married lady and an unexceptionable gentleman of very good character?”
“That’s what I’d like to hear. What was going on that put the notion of divorce into your head? I don’t think it was only an eagerness to be rid of my unwanted presents that led you to consider it.”
“No, it was the desire for you to be able to settle dow
n and lead a more normal life than our legal separation allowed. To remarry and have a son and heir.”
“You had it all figured out, I see. Very thoughtful of you, but as usual my feelings didn’t enter into it.”
“It was you I was thinking of. I thought you would like it. You were unhappy in London, I knew it, but you didn’t do anything about it. You didn’t try to change it. I thought you would be happy for a divorce."
“Dammit, Belle, you sound as though you hadn’t a thing to say about anything. It was your marriage too. You could have changed it.”
“You were older, more experienced. I looked to you—”
“I can hardly deny I was older, but you were not a child. I didn’t think of you as a baby I must lead by the hand. You were my partner, both of us were responsible for the mess we made of it.”
“It is a mess, and we must be out of it. Don’t bother prating to me of your feelings, Oliver. Your feelings are nothing but pride. I know you have that, and a great dislike of what people will think, but I think your sense of duty might overcome your aversion to being a subject of scandal for a few weeks.”
“Another layer of ice to be melted away. Did I really build up all that in one short month? I should be patented, an instant ice-making machine. But I don’t think I am quite so cold as you. I didn’t take up with anyone else. I didn’t argue myself into thinking that it would be better for you, meaning me, to have the marriage over and done with. Off with the old and on with the new. Well, I’m not giving you a divorce, Belle.”
“No, because you don’t really care a fig for me. If you really wanted me to be happy, you’d do whatever I wanted. And if I wanted a divorce, and Arnold Henderson, you’d let me have them both. Even if you hated it, you’d do it, to make me happy. But you care more for your stubborn pride than you really care about my happiness.”
They had been standing through all their discussion, but Avondale suddenly sat down, because he felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. He looked at Belle, a long, silent, measuring look.
Get her talking, Delford had advised, and he had got her talking finally. But there had been no flood of tears. He’d found out what was wrong, all right, what was bothering her, and it was no missed trip or any trifling detail. It was a whole way of life. He had been blind from the day of his wedding. Too blind for too long, and now it was come to this. He had lost her to Arnold Henderson, a damned whelp that wasn’t worthy to carry Belle’s boots. Every feeling revolted against divorce, every instinct urged him to hold onto her by some thread, however tenuous, but he had to think of her too, not just himself. She was right. Goddammit, she was right. If he loved her he’d let her go. And he loved her.
“All right. We’ll get a divorce,” he said, in a voice empty of feeling.
She looked at him, surprised—more than surprised, amazed. So amazed that she didn’t seem to believe him. She couldn’t give him credit for even one unselfish act. He stood up, slowly, like an old man. “I’ll have my man get in touch with Sangster. I’ll try to arrange it as quickly and quietly as possible.” And still she went on looking at him, saying nothing.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” he shouted harshly.
“I didn’t think you’d do it.”
“Neither did I. I surprised us both. Goodbye, Belle,” he said, and turned toward the door.
Lady Dempster moved as quickly as she could, but with a crick in her back from stooping so low to the keyhole, she got no farther than a step down the hallway before he came out. She let on she was advancing rather than retreating.
“Too late, you missed it,” Avondale growled.
She gave a tinny laugh and put a foot into the room. Avondale saw Belle still standing transfixed. “Leave her alone,” he said to Lady Dempster, and stood guarding the door till she had gone, then he walked away after her without looking back. He went into the library and out the French doors into the garden, but nothing was kicked or thrown about. He was beyond that. He sat still on a stone bench, like one of the statues, thinking for three quarters of an hour. Then it began to sprinkle, and he arose and went inside.
Belle stood on in the middle of the empty room, looking lost for a long minute. She turned as one in a trance and walked upstairs to throw herself onto her bed and heave a few convulsive sobs. Kay watched her go up, but was afraid to speak to her, she looked so remote.
It was nearly dark in her room. Marie had left only one taper burning. In its dim light Belle reached under her pillow and extracted her wedding ring. She slipped it on her finger and gazed at it, the symbol of her marriage. She couldn’t believe it was over. Oliver had said he’d never divorce her. How had he come to change his mind? How had she been stupid enough to let him? Not only let him, but egg him on to it with every trick she knew. Just to see how far she could push him, maybe—to see him stand and say no, no, no, I’ll never let you go. That was it. Oliver didn’t want a divorce, and neither did she, but they would have one if something wasn’t done. Oliver had done about as much as a human being could do to prevent it.
Really, he had tried harder than herself to make the marriage work from the beginning. What he had said was true; she never had let him know how she felt, had bent over backward to hide it. Had not told him the things a wife should tell her husband. She was as proud as he, possibly even prouder.
She shouldn’t have been so afraid of him, that he’d laugh at her, find her gauche and childish. He hadn’t thought of her as a child, but she’d acted like one. And had gone on acting like one tonight, not accepting any share of the blame, not still telling him that she had been hurt and unsure, and most of all not telling him she wanted to go back. She wanted him to make her go—that was what she wanted. To be forced back like an unruly child—but Oliver refused to let her go on being a child, so she’d have to grow up. A tap sounded on the door, and immediately it opened. Kay’s pouched cheeks peeked around the corner, then she slipped in.
Before she said anything, Belle spoke. “He wants a divorce,” she said in a high, breathless voice. And she was still being a child—lying, not taking any blame. “We’re getting a divorce,” she altered the statement.
“He has never agreed to a divorce!” Kay said, startled.
“Yes, he has.”
“You’ve talked him into it, you mean.”
“I just mentioned it once.”
“More than once—you mentioned it before tonight, Belle.”
“Yes, I mentioned it before, but I didn’t mean it.”
“Why on earth did you mention it, then? Oh really, Belle, you should be shaken.”
“I know,” she said, and tears spurted into her eyes. Any desire to shake her was eliminated at seeing the poor girl in a heap of misery on the bed. “Never mind. I’ll speak to him. I’ll tell him.”
“No—I must tell him myself,” Belle said, her head coming up, as she wiped the tears from her face.
In the dim glow Kay saw quite clearly the gold band on her left hand. “I’ll send him up, shall I?”
“Yes, if you please,” Belle said.
Kay ran down the stairs so fast she nearly tripped over her skirt. She darted from room to room looking for Oliver, but she did not think to look in the garden. She was seized with the awful thought that he had left, had set out for London or Belwood without saying goodbye to her. In the mood a divorce would precipitate, he might do any foolish thing. With some remnant of reason, she thought of the stables—she could discover there if he had left, if his carriage was gone. She turned to look for a footman to send off there, and saw Oliver coming down the hall from the library.
He looked white and dazed, like Belle. “We’re getting a divorce,” he said.
Her relief at finding him still here was followed quickly by anger, as such anxieties usually are. “It would serve you right,” she snapped.
“Kay, don’t you care?” he asked, hurt. “I said we’re getting divorced.”
“I ain’t deaf. I heard you. Besides, I’ve been talki
ng to Belle.”
“She must be happy about it, at least.”
“Marvelously happy!” she replied ironically. “Tears of joy running down her face. You should both have a shillelagh across your backs. Go on up and see her.”
“There’s nothing more to say. It’s all settled.”
“She has something she wants to say to you.”
“She asked to see me?”
“Yes, she’s waiting for you in her room.”
“All right. I’ll go,” he said, and walked off slowly.
Chapter Fifteen
It had taken some little while for Lady Hathaway to find Oliver, long enough for Belle to imagine he wasn’t coming, and to work herself into a fine lather. When he came he walked into the room without knocking, such mundane matters as tapping at a door quite beyond him. He found her leaning against her propped pillows, crying into her hands. He had never seen Belle cry before, and to know that it was his fault, that he had done this to the person he loved best in the world, grieved him.
“I’m sorry, Belle,” he said, his voice unsteady.
She looked up as he advanced into the room, but no words came out of her choking throat.
“It—it will soon be over,” he went on in soothing tones, which caused her sobbing to increase noticeably. A feeling of helplessness washed over him. “Don’t cry, Belle. Please don’t cry,” he pleaded, and going to the bed he sat on its edge to try to comfort her with soothing pats on the shoulder.
“I’ll make it as easy for you as I can. Perhaps you needn’t appear in court at all,” he hazarded rashly. “I wish there were some other way . . .” She looked up hopefully, her sobs arrested, till he spoke on. “An annulment or something,” he finished up, but of course there was no other way. No annulment, no pretending it had never happened. A hiccough of a sob escaped her as she tried to recover her composure to talk to him.
“Oh, please don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you cry,” he said, and put his arms around her, to cradle her head against his breast. “I only wanted to make you happy, Belle. All my stupid behavior . . . I still want to make you happy. I have nothing you want but your freedom, and even that I can’t give without hurting you. The divorce will be hell, but we’ll face it together. Don’t worry your reputation will be ruined. It won’t. I’ll see to that—do whatever I can.”