by Liz Carlyle
Miss Belmont? Who was Miss Belmont? Frederica nodded, just to keep the woman chattering.
Queenie clattered about with the coal scuttle for a moment. “O’ course, she had the last laugh, didn’t she?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Frederica answered, but Queenie was so caught up in her morning tasks she seemed not to notice.
“Aye, run orf to Gretna Green, didn’t she!” Queenie chuckled. “Never wanted neither Rutledge, for all their good looks and charm. No, wanted the poor curate, Miss Belmont did! And him without so much as a pot ter piss—” Abruptly, Queenie’s rump went down and her head snapped up, so fast her mobcap flew askew. “Oh, gawd!” Her voice was a horrified whisper. “There I go carrying tales, Naffles will say.” She snatched up the coal scuttle and bobbed a quick curtsey. “I’ll send Larkin ter make up the fire, miss.”
Then Queenie disappeared in a streak of black worsted, her wild blond curls bouncing along behind her. Deeply, Frederica sighed. The woman was being truthful; whatever he’d been about, Bentley could not possibly have been trying to seduce her. But it seemed somehow a small consolation. Her only hope was that the rest of this miserable day would disappear as swiftly as Queenie, but it wouldn’t. She already guessed as much. And she was to be proven right.
Sometime in the late afternoon, without being entirely sure how he’d got there, Bentley found himself standing on the hill above the village again, staring into the distance at Chalcote, St. Michael’s, and the churchyard, feeling trapped between his past and his present. It had been a glorious day. Even now, the afternoon sun was still warm on his shoulders, despite the clouds gathering on the horizon. Overhead, a hawk made a slow, lazy circle, his plumage dark against the sky. And yet Bentley could take little pleasure from it.
He had ridden halfway to Cheltenham this morning before realizing he was off on another fool’s errand. Cam was wrong. Frederica would not be appeased by some outward gesture, no matter how grand. A piece of jewelry would simply further enrage her, and, worse, it was apt to put out an eye when she hurled it back in his face. What she wanted, whether she knew it or not, was something far less token. He had not been entirely jesting when he’d made his remark at breakfast about slicing open a vein. That was what he was beginning to feel might be expected of him.
What a fool he’d been to think he could make a marriage work when he had so damned little to put into it. Besides the sex, of course. It had always been his saving grace, that well-honed skill between the sheets. Hadn’t many a woman told him so? Still, he was a bit ashamed of how frequently he lusted for Frederica. Sometimes he could not bear to lie with her, so acute was his need and so deep his disgust. He would not have used a well-paid whore the way he burned to use his own wife. He could not think when he’d last been faithful to a woman, but, by God, there was nothing left to wring out of him now, even if he wished to go elsewhere. And he didn’t. Damn all, he didn’t.
Ah, God, he was in trouble. And marriage, he feared, was not the half of it. He paced slowly along the ridgeline, leading his horse. What on earth would he do, he wondered, if Freddie left him in six months? Or in six years, come to that? His blood ran cold at the thought. He’d hated giving her an easy way out of this marriage, but he’d been desperate to have her. Besides, a man could not force his wife to live with him, could he? No, not unless he held the children hostage. The law permitted it, yes. But it was cruel.
Moreover, like some lovelorn fool, he’d already given his word that he would not force her. And now he was caught. She was like an addiction, his innocent little wife. Never mind that night in the damned garden. He had sensed the danger long ago. And he had confirmed it the moment his lips had touched hers last Boxing Day. It had been the strangest thing, that simple kiss. It had stirred in him some deep, dark yearning.
Shutting away the thought, Bentley lifted his gaze, squinting in the direction of Bellevue, its white stone walls glowing in the afternoon sun. He’d spent much of the day drinking ale and throwing dice in a wayside near Withington, so it must be nigh on three now. At Bellevue, Joan would be putting the children down for their naps, and Basil would be locked in his study. Gathering his reins, Bentley found his stirrup, hefted himself back into the saddle, and nudged his horse south. He was not interested in that long talk Joan kept mentioning, but perhaps—just perhaps—that long walk might do him some good. And it would delay his going home until he could think of what to say.
He arrived to find Joan in and glad to see him. While he sent his horse around to the stables, she went to fetch her cloak, and soon they were meandering through the gardens which surrounded the house, in the direction of the ornamental pond. They reached it in companionable silence, strolling along the edge until they arrived at the miniature Grecian temple which jutted out into the water. Much of Bellevue was, to his ordinary eye, frightfully elegant, but there was no denying its beauty. And the place had gardens—especially rose gardens—to die for. Usually, he could only fantasize about what he’d do with all those gardens if they were his. Today, however, the old daydream brought no pleasure.
“What’s wrong, Bentley?” Joan’s words cut into his consciousness. “Something is, I can tell.”
Only then did he realize he had stopped on the path and was staring blindly across the pond. Well, perhaps he’d come to talk after all. “Good God, Joan,” he murmured. “I seem to have bollixed up my whole bloody life. Where does one start?”
“At the beginning,” she said, steering him toward the little bridge which arched over the water and into the temple.
“Ah, the beginning!” he said bitterly. “You already know the beginning, Joan. You know where I went wrong, and you’re about the only person who does. Though I’ve always thought Cam suspects.”
Joan touched his hand. “Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “He doesn’t, and it wouldn’t matter now if he did.”
Bentley gave a bitter laugh. “If you think that, my dear, then you don’t understand human nature.”
But Joan persisted. “I disagree,” she said. “But just tell me what is wrong now.”
And so he told her everything, more or less, leaving out any details which might serve to embarrass his wife. He surprised himself by telling her how he and Frederica had come to be married, and of the devil’s bargain he’d had to make with her just to get her to the altar. He even told her of the inexplicably stupid thing he’d done this morning and of Frederica’s reaction to it.
Joan scowled at him. “You will be lucky if she does not go home to her family at once, Bentley,” she said darkly. “Were I in her situation, I would be considering it.”
He braced his hands on the stone balustrade and leaned out over the water’s surface, a mirror image of undulating blue and white sky. “No, you wouldn’t.” Bentley said it quite certainly.
Her deep green eyes lit with humor. “Is that why you once seized on the notion of marrying me, Bentley?” she murmured. “Because you thought me some milquetoast of a girl who would put up with your wicked ways?”
Bentley shrugged. “I wanted to marry you, Joan, because it never occurred to me that anyone else would have me,” he said quite honestly. “You were my best friend from childhood.”
“And yet I scarcely saw you once you went away to school,” she said, her voice teasing. “You never wrote and rarely visited. You never bothered to court me, Bentley, or even to hide your philandering ways.”
He laughed bitterly. “That never occurred to me, either,” he answered. “You were always there for me, Joan. I somehow thought you always would be. And when I came home to find that things might change—that you might marry Cam—I felt as though the only sure thing in my life was being cut out from under me. As though it was his way—or God’s way—of punishing me. For if you were his wife, then you could not be my…my anything.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Ah, but you had the last laugh on all of us, Joan,” he said ruefully. “Cam and I both got put in our pl
aces, did we not? And by old Basil. Who’d have thought! And Cam got Helene, whom I’m convinced he’d loved all along.”
Joan’s eyes lit with a smile. “I think you’re right.”
“But what of you, Joan? Are you happy with Basil? You look it, you know.”
“He suits me, Bentley, perfectly,” she agreed. “And I should have been miserable married to you—”
“I hear that a lot,” he interjected dryly.
Joan scowled at him. “—or to Cam,” she finished. “Cam always seemed too omnipotent to me, and you seemed, well, just too potent, I suppose.” At that, Bentley laughed quite honestly for the first time all day, but Joan was still speaking. “And now, dear cousin, may I tell you that secret?”
He threw one arm about her shoulder as they strolled around the circular temple. “I can guess it,” he said, gazing absently about. The birds, he saw, were trying to wedge a nest atop one of the Ionic columns. “You are with child again, are you not? I know you too well, Joan, to miss that softening of your face.”
She blushed. “Yes, there is that,” she admitted. “The baby is due in October, not too many weeks before yours, Bentley.”
“That will be nice, Joan,” he said quietly. “Perhaps, if Freddie doesn’t leave me, our children can be both friends and cousins as we were.”
At that, she looked a little sad. “Ah, it will be difficult,” she said quietly. “We are leaving, Bentley. We are going out to Australia. Basil has been offered a post at the seminary there. That is his dream, you know. He means to give up the living of St. Michael’s. We shan’t make it public until Cam can find another rector, but I do not think, Bentley, that we will be coming back.”
Bentley wheeled around to face her. “Oh, Joan, that is so far away,” he answered, setting his hands on her shoulders. “Are you quite sure—yes, I can see in your eyes that you are. Oh, I am sorry. The Chalcote of my boyhood will never be the same.”
Joan looked up at him with a knowing expression. “The Chalcote of your boyhood vanished long ago,” she said quietly. “For good or ill, nothing is as it once was. I think you know what I mean?”
Bentley let his hands slide away. “Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But I’d prefer to speak of something else.”
“Then go home,” Joan answered. “And start talking—really talking—to your wife.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the brow. “I should,” he said, his voice suddenly distant. “I can’t put it off much longer, can I? I wonder if she will even be there.”
“Most likely,” said Joan gently. “But you have much to atone for. And I think, too, Bentley, that you need a friend. I am glad to be that friend, you know. At any time. For any reason. Just like in the old days.”
“I know.” But the doubt was plain in his voice.
She squeezed his hand. “I mean it, Bentley,” she insisted. “I am in the vestry almost every morning now. You have only to pop in, you know, if you need to talk.”
He flashed her his crooked grin. “You do not worry, Joan, that St. Michael’s will come crashing down about our ears every time I enter?”
Joan just rolled her eyes at him. And then, intuitively, they linked arms and began the walk back to Bellevue.
But once his horse had been brought round, Bentley could not quite bring himself to go home. Instead, he took the long way back, making his way slowly through the village. At the foot of the hill, he paused in the middle of the lane, listening to the Rose and Crown’s sign as it screeched back and forth on its metal rings. The air had grown heavier, and now a stiff wind was blowing up from the Severn. There would be a storm, he thought, before morning. Surely no one would begin a long carriage trip under such conditions?
But perhaps that depended on how eager one was to get away. It would be just like Freddie to do something rash. He could already picture himself chasing her all the way back to Strath House, which was just what he’d do, too. But she might have been on the road for hours now. And so, still a little fearful of having to face an empty bed, Bentley dismounted and headed toward the taproom door. If a large traveling coach had been seen leaving Chalcote today, someone inside might make mention of it. Certainly someone might mention buying him a drink, which he could bloody well use.
Inside, the tavern was already filled with smoke, conversation, and the strains of a fiddle. A crowd had gathered about the hearth, three of them with musical instruments and all of them tapping their toes. Perched on a stool between them, a Welshman in a Royal Fusiliers uniform was singing a lusty ballad in a pure, rich baritone. Bentley flung himself down at one of the trestle tables near the kitchen, lit the first of many cheroots, and cast his eye about for someone to dice with. Play cards with. Fight with. Anything to save him from his thoughts.
But it did no good, for the thoughts came anyway. He no longer seemed able to shut them out. So he just sat there, miserable and sad.
Over time, the smoke and the crowd thickened beneath the low, timbered ceiling until the black beams were almost lost in the haze. Absently greeting those who passed his table, Bentley lost track of how long he sat there. He’d lost his taste for a drink, too. And no one seemed interested in cards or dice or any other sort of vice, for the Welshman held everyone in thrall.
Occasionally, he caught sight of Janie wandering through the crowd, setting down platters of food and tankards of ale. She kept cutting her glittery gaze in his direction, but there was no warmth in it. He was sorry she was angry, for he’d been fond of her. But he had more pressing problems than Janie’s pride, so Bentley just looked away.
Janie, however, had never taken inattention well. Sometime after dark, she came swishing past his table, a tray of dirty dishes held high. She cut him one last spiteful glance, then, at the last possible instant, her elbow clipped the back of his settle. A half-empty brandy glass bounced off his head, then clattered across his table. Dregs flew, and glass shattered. A half-eaten bowl of boiled cabbage upended on his boot. The fiddle died. Somewhere near the hearth, applause broke out.
Forcing his usual good-natured grin, Bentley jerked to his feet, bowed, and began wiping at the brandy which had soaked his lapels, all the while battling to keep his temper in check. With a sweet smile, Janie plucked a small towel from her apron, tossed it down, and sashayed away. Bentley peered down at his coat again. Ruined, he decided, dabbing at the wool with Janie’s towel. And now Kem was going to kill him, for it was the green one he’d fetched down from Savile Row. Worse, the stench of alcohol covered him.
Oh, hell and damnation. It really was time to go. The next thing to bounce off his skull would probably be a whole hare jugged in gravy. This was probably God’s way of telling him to take his arse home, get on his knees, and start begging his wife’s forgiveness for being such a thoughtless cad. If, of course, he could find her.
But it was Cam, in a manner of speaking, who found Freddie for him. After stabling his horse and giving her an extra measure of oats, Bentley let himself into the house through the kitchen. There, he swilled down a glass of milk, rummaged through the cupboards, oiled a squeaky hinge on the stillroom door, then, having run out of excuses, made his way down the passageway toward the stairs. He had passed but halfway along, however, when his brother’s voice boomed out. Bentley jerked to a halt. The study door was thrown wide. The family paragon sat at his desk with his shirtsleeves turned up, a branch of candles ablaze, and a half-dozen ledgers stacked at his elbow, the very picture of hard-nosed efficiency.
“You called?” asked Bentley, propping one shoulder on the doorframe.
Cam had risen and was stalking around his desk. The verbal thrashing he’d taken from Helene this morning had obviously worn off, leaving him in what looked like one of his grim, pious moods. “Where the devil have you been all day?”
Bentley forced a casual smile and looked Cam up and down. “Oh, here and there,” he finally responded. “Why? Did I need permission?”
“Your wife’s, perhaps!” snapped the earl. �
�I thought you meant to make amends! Instead, it looks as though you’ve frittered the day away and given no thought to her.”
Bentley let his gaze drop. One of Cam’s cuffs, he absently noted, was badly stained with ink. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said with a shrug, “but I’ve thought of little else.”
“You should have done your thinking upstairs.”
“Why is it, Cam,” returned Bentley, “that you are always full of advice when it isn’t needed and never around when someone could really use your help?”
He forced his gaze up, but Cam didn’t seem to have heard him. Instead, his face had taken on a darker hue, and his nostrils were flared, as if he smelled something disgusting. “Sometimes, Bentley, I can scarce fathom your stupidity,” he said on a second sniff. “Have you done nothing but drink all day?”
Bentley curled his lip. “Not precisely.”
“Not precisely—?” Cam’s tone was bitter. “Smells to me as if the bloody stuff’s leaching out your pores now. Your bride upstairs will doubtless be charmed.”
She was still there! Fleetingly, he closed his eyes, but when he opened them, Cam and his nostrils had stepped closer. “Damn it, Bentley,” he hissed. “You’re sotted as a pig, when you should be attending to your wife. What in God’s name is wrong with you? Can you explain that to me? Can you?”
What was wrong with him? Nothing. Everything. His life was a mess, and he didn’t know how to fix it. “Just bugger off, Cam!” he finally snarled, pushing away from the door. “I’ve had little enough to drink, damn you. Janie just got a bit miffed with me, and—”
Cam exploded. “Janie!” he roared. “Surely, Bentley, you jest? Surely you did not leave the mess you’d made here and leap straight back into bed with her again?”