by Ann Clement
She had never made him feel inadequate in any way. To the contrary, she’d restored his self-esteem as a man. She was a marvelous lover. And she was his friend.
How could she go to someone else? Somehow, it never even occurred to him that Lettie might be so conniving. By God, she had covered her tracks well. He could not think of anyone who might be her lover. Of course, it just proved his lack of foresight. He would have never suspected Burdett if he had not walked in on him and Sarah by accident.
Percy stared, unseeing, while anguish weighed him down even more. In three short months, Lettie had singed him with a permanent mark. He could never wander around Wycombe Oaks without seeing her inside its crumbling walls, animated with the idea of restoring his castle. He would never look at the old oak without thinking about their first kiss. And the orangery. Damn it, he could not go about his life demolishing every part of the house that contained memories, good or bad. He might just as well become a hermit in some remote corner of the woods.
Even the very room where he was now, his library, was no longer just his. He would always see her here, sitting on the sofa at the opposite end, near the back window, facing his desk, her feet tucked under, the inseparable notebook in her lap. Every time from now on, whenever he sat at his desk, he would see that indentation in the cushion that marked her little lair within his own. It was going to remind him that happiness and love were nothing but empty words, phantoms not worth chasing if one wanted to live in peace. It would make him see himself for what he really was—an incomplete man who could not make any woman happy. Wasn’t the guilt of being the cause, even unknowingly, of the death of an unborn, innocent child enough torture already?
How was he going to live with himself after what just happened?
Losing Lettie would be far more difficult than losing Sarah. In truth, he had lost Sarah years before she died. And Sarah had never been his friend.
When he walked in on her and Burdett, he had been assailed by surprise, discomfort, anger, humiliation and, yes, some pain too, but not by that overpowering agony that held him now by the throat while he was still trying to absorb what just transpired. He had no longer loved Sarah after years of cold indifference, the only feeling she had never tired of showing him. He had been furious about her betrayal, but the fury had not reached so deep inside him as Lettie’s words this morning.
The budding hope that happiness was within his reach was dead. He must be even more deficient than he thought.
By the summer of Ethel’s house party, he and Sarah had lived almost like two strangers under the same roof. For a long time after her death, he could not get rid of the feeling that it had been his fault. He had never recognized how much Sarah needed him. He had allowed her to retreat inside her impenetrable cocoon. If he had tried harder, perhaps she would have been happier. Perhaps she would have not resorted to an affair with Burdett, hoping to find with their guest what she could not find with her husband.
He did not murder her with his own hands, but the responsibility for her death weighed him down like a millstone suspended from his neck. He was the cause of her death. She had written so in that note. Somehow, he had helped her transform from a vivacious, lovely girl—a girl who fell in love with him, just as he did with her, the moment they saw each other—into a disillusioned, unhappy woman who preferred to take her own life rather than continue on with him. And he certainly felt a millstone’s weight in his heartless chest whenever he thought of the child she had chosen to kill along with herself.
No, Lettie was entirely wrong about it. Sarah could not lie about being pregnant.
In his mind, Percy had eventually excused his inability to make Sarah happy. He had shifted the blame to her. She had barricaded herself behind coldness and indifference that greeted him every time they spoke with each other. But how could she not if he had failed to give her what she wanted most–children? He understood—too late—that she had resorted to an affair for that one thing only. No wonder she fell in love with Burdett in the end.
Ironically, at the time, Percy had been very glad Burdett agreed to stay at Bromsholme. At least Burdett would drive Sarah to Pythe Park every day, making sure she joined other guests. Naïvely, he had even congratulated himself for coming up with such a stratagem. Sarah had seemed relaxed and had smiled for the first time in years.
Had Lettie pretended her passion? Could she?
Sarah at least never did. She bore their physical contact like a dutiful wife who found the demands of the marital bed distasteful, but necessary. She had never reciprocated anything he did to her, and he had soon learned that the less he did, the happier he left her afterwards.
In the blackest moments, he had even considered visiting a brothel during one of his solitary visits to London, but he had shed that idea as soon as it crossed his mind. What would he prove to himself? That he was capable, after all, of satisfying a woman? A whore would pretend anything for the money. Besides, he could not bring himself to bed some stranger. He had vowed to love one woman.
Percy clenched his fists and grimaced. Damn it, he was steeped in self-pity again. He had been there before and for long enough to know that it was a blind alley leading nowhere. It would not offer him the cure for his failed marriage, and especially not for the underlying cause. He looked around the silent library. Except for the chair laying on its back in front of the fireplace, nothing had changed.
And everything had changed.
He had to go out. The house felt suffocating in its solid quietude, so supportive of and yet so indifferent to the passions of those who inhabited it.
The hallway was mercifully empty. He walked briskly to the stables and saddled his horse himself. He would find his new Bromsholme steward, Farley, and immerse himself in his duties. He would not think about the turn his life had taken. Until later.
A life of lonely, sleepless, torturous nights loomed ahead of him.
But the ghosts, once released from the cupboard, resisted being locked away so soon again.
The sight of Sarah’s naked figure straddling Burdett’s body in a wild race to fulfillment—her head thrown back and hands splayed on his thighs, his hands cupping her buttocks—forced itself into Percy’s mind again.
He had stood in the doorway, unable to move or say anything, for an eternity-long fraction of a second before the two of them noticed his presence. And then, without moving off her lover, Sarah had reached for the water carafe on her nightstand and thrown it at him. The sound of the glass breaking against the wall, as he had somehow avoided the direct hit, mixed with her shouting, shrill with fury.
“Get out! I hate you! I always have!”
All this time, she had made no attempt to move, but Burdett had lifted her off him, rolled from the bed and scoured the floor for his discarded clothing.
“Sorry, old chap,” he had murmured, fumbling with the buttons of his breeches.
Meanwhile, Sarah, now clutching a sheet to her bosom, had grabbed a candlestick and heaved it at him. It had crashed the picture behind him, missing his head narrowly as he had ducked at the last moment and finally had woken up from the stupor of surprise.
“Tomorrow at dawn,” he had said to the half-dressed Burdett. “Your second?”
“My valet,” Burdett had mumbled, his chin raised as he worked on his collar. “Yours?”
“Tom Wilkinson,” he had replied. “Your choice?”
“Pistols.”
“Very well. Now leave. You no longer have the hospitality of this house.” Percy had walked to the door leading to the corridor and opened it to the accompaniment of Sarah’s gasps of indignation.
“I am well aware of it, Hanbury,” Burdett rejoined, hastily stuffing something into his coat pocket as he took the hint and headed for the door. “I shall say my good-byes at Pythe Park and spend the night at the inn. Good-bye, darling,” he added, turning to cast Sarah a glance. “Do not worr
y about anything.”
He ran down the stairs while Sarah, still naked and covered only with that clutched bedsheet, rushed toward the door and began to pound Percy’s chest with her free fist.
“Get out, you…you, half man!” she screeched, following him as he tried to exit the room, then slammed the door behind him.
For a moment, Percy hadn’t known what to do with himself. The enormity of what had just transpired had only begun to feel real. But standing outside Sarah’s room would not help. He had moved toward the stairs. As he had turned on the landing, Burdett’s kneeling figure intruded on his sight. What was he doing on the floor by the commode?
Burdett had jerked his head and glanced at him over his shoulder, alarmed, his hand stuck in the coat pocket.
“You have trouble finding the door?” Percy had growled.
“Something fell out of my pocket,” Burdett had growled back, scrambling to his feet and almost running for the door.
And then he was gone.
Sarah had locked herself in her room for the rest of the day, ignoring Percy’s very existence. There was no point in forcing her to confront him. She would have to do that sooner or later. Assuming, of course, that he survived Burdett’s bullet on the morrow. And if he did not, well, then it did not matter.
He couldn’t know he would never see her alive again.
When he had finally broken down the door to her room the next afternoon, the rigor mortis had already set in.
She had seemed grotesque through the tears welling in his eyes. He had cursed his clumsy fingers for their ineptitude in untying the scarf she used. Once he managed, with the help of her hysterical maid, to lay her on the bed, he had propped the pillows under her head to justify the angle of her chin. Then had replaced the chair she used, to at least quell the suspicions about the nature of her death.
The image of Sarah, lying calm and cold on the same bed where only a day earlier she had been consumed by passion and life, would stay with him forever. Her eyes were closed, her long, black hair spread on the bedcovers. Even though her face was slightly purple, all Percy could see was the laughing girl he married. Now a flower nipped in full bloom. The ribbon on her neck had been creased where the scarf pressed it below her jaw. He pulled on it to smooth the crease and found a locket stuffed inside her bodice. It held Burdett’s miniature.
A folded piece of paper with his name on it, propped against the book on the nightstand, caught his attention. He opened it with shaky fingers. It was filled with Sarah’s small, round handwriting.
Yesterday I promised myself never to suffer your presence again for as long as I lived. I prayed all night that Tony would return for me. Your return this morning means I cannot live any longer. I could never forgive your killing the only man I have ever loved. You may think you avenged your honor, but you are no less than a murderer to me! You murdered my dearest Tony, and I will not let you rejoice in front of me. I am going to be true to my word and never again face you. And know this: you have taken more than my life alone, for with me dies Tony’s child I carry. God had mercy on us all by taking from you the ability to have children. He will see to it that you are punished for your murders. Adieu! I’d rather suffer for eternity than suffer another moment with you.
Numbly, he had put her note in his pocket and stared at the body again, the venomous words replaying in his mind. Then he sat down heavily on the side of the bed and extended his hand to touch her.
By God, once he had loved her more than life itself. How had it come to this? And she was with child! Had Burdett known? And, if Burdett could anticipate the outcome of the cowardly decision he had made last night, would he have made a different one? Did he care enough?
Percy had known the answer all too well after he and Wilkinson spent an hour waiting for the cad that morning.
The twisted cruelty of what had happened and the deep, soul-wrenching pain of knowing that nothing could be undone had burned like a red-hot poker stuck into his belly. Percy’s shoulders had begun to shake with sobs until his entire body convulsed. He had turned on the bed, stretched along Sarah’s stiff form, put his arms around her for the last time, and had given in to his emotions.
After a while, he had become aware of the audience of servants crowding around the door and watching him.
That had been more than two years ago.
Lettie’s unanticipated and unwanted arrival this summer turned into a miraculous thaw after a long and harsh winter. He thought he had laid the nightmare to rest at last.
He had merely made room for another one.
Cool September wind gently lapped at his face. Percy turned into the lane leading to the home-farm buildings. Perhaps Farley was in his office. There were probably many inconsequential problems on Farley’s hands with which to fill the time. Dull, stupid things, all requiring immediate and undivided attention. Perfect to keep Percy occupied, away from the disaster of his marriage and his life.
His hopes were answered. Though surprised by the unexpected visit, Farley managed to bring up on no notice at all a host of more or less unimportant issues for his employer to weigh in on.
Alas, none of these tedious things succeeded in calming Percy’s mind. The steward and he rode out to check on the progress of a barn’s construction and to inspect another in apparent danger of collapsing, but the hours spent on that task were no remedy at all. No matter how much Percy wanted not to think about what had transpired in the library that morning, his stubborn brain would not cooperate.
As the day progressed and the shock of Lettie’s announcement wore off, doubts began to assail him with a growing urgency. A question he had tried hard to avoid finally elbowed its way to the forefront of his thoughts and overshadowed everything else.
What if Lettie was right?
Could she be right?
It was impossible to focus on anything Farley was saying. Percy even caught himself asking his steward the same question twice because he simply had not heard the answer.
What if Lettie was right? What if Sarah had lied?
Or, he feverishly rephrased the latter question, so what if Sarah lied? Did it even matter any longer?
Percy suddenly saw with perfect clarity that for the past two years, he had desperately wanted to believe Sarah because that was the only way in which he could explain the disaster that was their marriage. And having an explanation had somehow dulled the unbearable guilt that had turned his life into a nightmare after her death. Having an explanation had allowed him to come to terms with the discovery of his own defect.
He had never spoken to anyone about Sarah’s note. Lettie was the first one to hear the whole story from him. And there was no denying her logic—and his naïveté.
How misplaced was his trust in Sarah’s word after she had deliberately deceived him. Since her death, he had blamed himself for what happened, but now he tried to see the whole thing the way Lettie did.
By God, how many people had assumed that he had killed Sarah in a jealous fit? Who had told Lettie so? Was he the only one blind here? He should have anticipated, even if nothing had happened between Burdett and his wife, that many would easily jump to the worst conclusions. After all, he had prepared a perfect foundation for gossip—Mr. Anthony Burdett escorting Lady Hanbury, day in and day out for over a month, while Sir Percival busied himself with running his estates, his nose in the books or out somewhere in the hedgerows, but never anywhere near his wife and her companion. Had Ethel’s guests and his neighbors seen him as a ridiculous, absentminded husband waiting to be cuckolded at the first opportunity? Had they known what he would have never known if he had not opened the door to Sarah’s bedchamber that day?
Was he now, instead of blaming Sarah, blaming Lettie for what Sarah did?
He heard the words beams, roof and rotten clapboards and realized that Farley was talking about the almost-collapsed barn.
B
ut he could not think about any barn now, even if it were on fire.
There could hardly be two women more opposite to one another than his first and second wives. Sarah, always unhappy, secretive and preferring seclusion to his company, had excluded him from her life to such a degree that he had hardly known anything about her.
Lettie, on the other hand, had never shunned him and had spent hours drawing or reading in the library while he attended to his correspondence or other tasks. He had been lately spending more and more time in the orangery too, reading there while she painted. He had never set his foot in the orangery for more than a few minutes at a time when Sarah was alive.
Unlike Lettie, who had thrown all her talent and energy into the restoration of Wycombe Oaks and accompanied him thither almost daily, Sarah had never gone with him anywhere unless they had been invited by one of the neighbors.
And then there were the modeling sessions. And except for the last ten days he had spent in London, Lettie had slept in his bed each and every night since that first one over two months ago. She was the first person to greet him in the morning and the last one to bid him good-night. And every night, she was his passionate lover. There was nothing of Sarah’s passive, irritated submission in Lettie’s eagerness for him.
Moreover, he could think of no one with whom she might be involved. There was nothing to substantiate his accusation except his stubborn justification of Sarah’s behavior, simply because when he looked in the mirror, he wanted to see not a cuckolded idiot but a suffering saint.
He was worse than an idiot. He was a willing perpetrator of self-deception, and by doing so had hurt terribly the person who was dearest to him in the entire world. So what if Sarah lied? It made no difference where Lettie was concerned. How could he doubt his beloved Lettie when he should have long ago questioned Sarah’s veracity? Two plus two was always four, no matter how one tried to come up with a different result.