Bething's Folly

by Barbara Metzger

  “What, modest, Lady Carleton? You, who could make a spectacle of yourself in front of an entire race meet? No, don’t turn away!” He grabbed her shoulders to make her face him, shaking her in his anger. “You have offered me every imaginable insult, but I have tried to ignore it. You have turned my friends and my servants against me; you have carried on with the most notorious rake in London; you have behaved like a hoyden in the parks; and you have denied me my rights by marriage! I have stood it all, Elizabeth, but no more! This was too much today. If you are going to behave like an irresponsible child, without any care for your good name, then I shall treat you like one!” With that he raised one leg to her dressing stool, tossed her across his knee, and began smacking her bottom. “How dare you”—whap!—“make a laughing-stock”—whap!—“of yourself’—whap!—“with those damn horses!” Whap!

  He released her and she fled to her dressing room door. When she realised he was not following her, she turned and glared back at him. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she would not cry until she had had her say:

  “Lord Carleton, I could not make myself a laughingstock with my horses; you have already done it with your ... your fillies. Furthermore, my Lord, my bedroom door has never been locked to you except for one hour while I bathed, and afterward, by accident. You would not listen to me then; you had better listen to me now, for my door will not be locked in the future, either. Only from now on I shall sleep with a pistol by my bed. I dare you to enter my bedroom again!”

  The dinner party was a great success. Everyone agreed that even if Elizabeth did not appear to be in perfect health, the excitement had restored her spirits. The Duke sat by her side at dinner, re-running the race for her, patting her hand in pride. Ferddie, on her other side, kept glancing at her nervously. Moving down the table, Margaret was enthusiastically debating a stable of her own with Hendricks and Rutley, and Sophie across from her. Lady Palmerson, neither impervious to his charm nor susceptible to his flattery, was enjoying le Comte’s dinner conversation cum-seduction. The Duchess was relieved to see her daughter-in-law looking so much better; maybe now that the pressure of the race was over Elizabeth and Alexander could reconcile whatever differences they had had. Carleton, at the opposite end of the long table, could hardly see his wife around the centrepiece—that damned Ardsley Cup, roses and all. He saw that she was sitting a little straighter than usual, though charming the Duke, as always, pretending that nothing had happened today beyond her horse’s victory. He had to admire her poise and acknowledge her courage. He himself was too numb from the storms of the emotions he had gone through that day to do more than nod and smile at the ladies beside him. He was only now admitting to himself how deeply he had wronged Elizabeth, how monstrously he had behaved, especially on this, her night of triumph. He stood and lifted his glass in the first toast after dinner.

  “On my engagement I toasted a horse; today the horse is honoured, yet I propose a toast to my wife. No one knows how much she had to sacrifice to make today’s race possible, how much of her own spirit and bravery went into the running of it. Ladies and gentlemen, to my wife.” It was no atonement, just all he could think of. Everyone stood and drank to Elizabeth’s health. A moment of hush followed this solemnity, then the Duke stood and also saluted Elizabeth, “Whose heart, at least, was with us at the racetrack.” Carleton almost choked. Ferddie jumped to his feet to drink to the horse, which was seconded many times, followed by toasts to the trainer, felicitations to Robert Carleton and Sophie Devenance, birthday congratulations to Wesley Northwell, cheers for Elizabeth and Carleton as hosts of a fine dinner. At last, all of the toasts having been made, the ladies prepared to withdraw. Carleton raised his hand.

  “We have forgotten someone very important. My friends, to the jockey!” He was answered by “Here, here,” “To the jockey,” “Fine race,” and a brilliant smile from Elizabeth.

  When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, it was to find the furniture pushed near to the piano, the other side cleared of rugs. When they had all found seats, Elizabeth stood by the piano to ask everyone’s attention.

  “I would like to thank you all very much for your kindness, and especially one very dear friend who has agreed to play for us tonight. My surprise, Lord Ferdinand Milbrooke.”

  Most of the company was mystified, never thinking of Ferddie as more than a good sport or a man of the Town. Carleton wondered how Elizabeth had ever managed this coup with Ferddie so shy about his music. The first piece was a brilliant Bach fugue, which finished to a standing ovation, and a schoolboy grin from Milbrooke. As pleased as punch, he announced he was going to play some waltzes; if anyone cared to dance, they should. He played as he had at Bething’s Folly, with love and sensitivity. No one could fail to recognise his mastery, especially when they could compare his renditions with those of the indifferent orchestras at most dances. There was something about the piano solo waltz, in a small room, with beloved people ... but no one rose. They were, of course, waiting for the hostess. Ferddie was oblivious; Elizabeth was growing disturbed. Carleton, who had been lost in the music and his memories of Ferddie’s last “concert,” suddenly recalled himself and rose to take his wife’s hand. He began to speak as he led her to the other side of the room.

  “This is for appearance sake only, my Lord,” she threw back at him. “Save the chit-chat for your ... your admirers.”

  “I deserve that, even if I have not many admirers here tonight. Please, Elizabeth—”

  “I would rather listen to the music, my Lord.”

  “Couldn’t we sit somewhere and talk during the next dance then?”

  “No, sir, I do not feel at all like sitting this evening, thanks to you. And I really do not think we have much to say.”

  Margaret and Hendricks joined them on the floor, then Robert and Sophie, so there was no chance for further conversation. Elizabeth next danced with the Duke, Carleton with Duchess Claire, the Count with Lady Palmerson, and so on around the company, some dancing, some just enjoying the music. There was little idle chatter but a great deal of good will, in most of those present, at any rate. When Ferddie was done, apologising that he knew so few songs well enough to play, he was duly applauded and congratulated and punch was served—out of the Ardsley Cup. Elizabeth was teased unmercifully about her partiality for the gangly monstrosity, and Ferddie for hiding his talent so long. The Duchess was quick to notice how tired Elizabeth appeared to be growing, so she developed a convenient headache, at which the entire party started to dissolve.

  The good-byes took a while, however, leaving Elizabeth obviously drained by the time Ferddie, the last guest, kissed her cheek.

  “I’ve invited Milbrooke to have a glass with me in the study,” Carleton told her, “but you go up. Shall I call for Bessie? No, well then, good night.”

  The Marquis and Ferddie settled in the comfortable chairs from the old bachelor rooms, loosening their neckcloths, propping their feet on the tables. Henrys poured out a decanter, poked at the fire and left.

  “You know, Ferddie, you’ve been damned good to Elizabeth and me; a lot of help in these scrapes. No, I mean it. You must be pretty fond of her to have played tonight, besides.”

  “Of course I am, you know that. She’s a fine girl—what are you getting at? If you are about to accuse me of romancing your wife, you are wasting your time, old boy. She wouldn’t know how to be unfaithful, and I certainly wouldn’t try to teach her.”

  “I know, Ferddie, though I once ... No, what I’m getting at is that I think I shall be going away. Would you look after her? I ... I intend to ask her if she wants a divorce.”

  “A divorce? Are you off your head? I’ll look after her, of course, but she won’t have me, you know, if that’s what you’re after. She really loves you, though Heaven alone knows why.”

  “I’ve treated her abominably, I know. It was a misunderstanding, but I have ruined it for good, now. I ... I struck her.”

  Milbrooke was on his feet inst
antly. “God, Carleton, if I could call a man out over his own wife, I’d do it. If you have hurt one hair of that girl’s head I’ll—”

  “I didn’t hit her head. I’m sure I hurt her feelings more than her posterior, but I don’t think she will ever forgive me.”

  “Well, you will never find out by sitting here. Damn, what a day it’s been. I’m off; about time I had an early night.” He set his glass down and left Carleton behind, watching the fire for a while, wondering if he could ever forgive himself. After a while he went upstairs, taking a candle from the hall table and one of the Ardlsey Cup roses from the vase which now held them.

  He scratched on Elizabeth’s door and, receiving no answer, pushed it open. There was still no response so he walked over to the bed, shielding the candle with his hand so as not to disturb her. She looked so small in the bed, so fragile, this champion jockey. He smiled, even when he saw the pistol on the covers next to her hand. He set the candle down on the night table while he emptied the chambers of the small, pearl-handled weapon. Elizabeth still had not stirred, so he laid the weapon down, put the rose on top of it and said, “Miss Bethingame, I am truly sorry if I have hurt you”—words from another time. He bent to kiss her gently, tenderly—and was shocked by how warm her lips were. He felt her cheeks, her hands. Lord, she was burning with fever!

  “Elizabeth? Elizabeth!”

  FIFTEEN

  The doctor was disgusted to be summoned from his warm bed in the middle of the night to attend a typical case of what he called “debutante’s disease.”

  “Why, anyone could just look at the lady and see she was exhausted. Too much gadding about, not enough rest. And not a proper diet, either, I’ll wager. Her body just started protesting, that’s all. Look at you, my Lord, you don’t look much better. You’re all a pack of fools, that’s what,” he grumbled on his way out. He did leave instructions for a tonic, nourishing broths and “Don’t let her out of bed for three days. I’ll be back tomorrow, in the daytime, thank you.”

  Carleton relayed the instructions to Mrs. Henrys, who was already busy in the kitchen. She sent him off with some cool lemonade, the best thing for fevers, she said. Bessie was not about to let the Marquis near her mistress, however, not even after he discharged her, with as much success as he had had with Jeremy.

  “What, and leave you to tend her? You’ve done enough as is!” Carleton countered with Bessie’s proven failure to look after Elizabeth properly, which only won him a “Ha! That’s how well you know Miss Bitsy!”

  They settled the squabble by dividing the remainder of the night, Bessie sitting up with Elizabeth first, bathing her forehead with damp cloths, offering her chilled drinks, while Carleton got what rest he could. He returned before dawn to relieve Bessie, who was too tired to argue more. Elizabeth was sleeping peacefully, much cooler to the touch. She stirred once, so he awkwardly lifted her to drink. She opened her eyes, but Carleton’s presence confused her.

  “Alexander? I won, didn’t I? The Pride ... we won?”

  “Yes, darling, you won. Now go back to sleep.” Her eyes were already shut when he lowered her to the pillows, a smile on her lips.

  At ten o’clock Mrs. Henrys came with broth for Elizabeth, announcing she’d serve the mistress herself; his Lordship’s breakfast was waiting downstairs, unless he wanted to be ill also. Then the Duchess arrived and insisted on sitting with her daughter-in-law until Bessie took over. Carleton got some rest, the doctor called again, Ferddie came by. Dozens of bouquets were delivered, to congratulate Elizabeth on her victory, then still more, wishing her a speedy recovery when news of her illness got around. The Duchess took some flowers home with her, before Carleton could throw them out. Carleton took dinner in Berkeley Square, assuring the Duke that Elizabeth was in no danger, that he and the Duchess might return to Carlyle the next day without anxiety. He promised to bring Elizabeth to the country as soon as the doctor said she could travel, for “a proper recovery.”

  Back at Grosvenor Square, Bessie told the Marquis that Elizabeth had eaten a good meal and was resting comfortably, with no signs of fever. Carleton refused the maid’s wish to sleep on a truckle bed near Elizabeth, so again they took turns in the chair. Carleton had nothing to occupy him for his watch—his wife never moved, except to snuggle deeper in the pillows—but his thoughts. As dawn came, lightening the room, he found pen and paper and began composing a letter.

  Dear Elizabeth, he wrote, I am convinced that my presence here will keep you from the peaceful rest the doctor insists you have, so I am going away for a few days. You must not exert yourself! Ferddie will stop by frequently to see if you need anything, and I’ll leave Jeremy, too. The Duke and Duchess have returned to Carlyle. They beg me to bring you to them when you feel able to travel. The Duchess carries messages to Lady Burke, who incidentally writes that Princess has had her foal—a colt—what a price you’ll get for him! Mr. Sebastian has already received inquiries about the stables; he is keeping lists for you, of course. He has also received the transfer of your prize money—£10,000!

  Elizabeth, I do not know if I have any right to your forgiveness, yet I humbly ask it. I have been so wrong, Elizabeth, I only pray it is not too late. If you can ever forgive me, I swear to make it up to you. I know I can make you happy if you allow me to try. If not I will get you a divorce somehow; or I’ll go to Carlyle, where you need never see me again. I shall return at the end of the week, hoping to find a second chance waiting for me; but either way, I remain—Yrs., Carleton.

  P. S. A groom arrived with a message from Jackson; he was starting home with the Pride and “she’s here Friday.” Those were Jackson’s exact words, the groom swears, whatever it means. Please let Jeremy or Ferddie handle it. Or put it off till Saturday when I shall be here.

  P. P. S. One thing I do not apologise for, darling, I still think you were shameless to ride in the Cup race, but I love you better for it.

  He folded the note to hand to Bessie, for delivery the next day. He gave his valet instructions to pass along, then went to sleep for a few hours. When he woke, he spoke to Bessie, ate and departed in the carriage. He had left explicit instructions with the servants and a message with Milbrooke. Only Henrys knew where he could be reached in case of emergency, which the doctor had assured him was highly unlikely.

  Elizabeth received the note Monday night. A tear trickled down her cheek, proving she was still foolishly weak, she told herself.

  By Tuesday morning she was thoroughly bored and healthy enough to demand real food. She badgered the doctor for permission to go downstairs, if she did not dress. Ferddie came by and played for her as she lay on the sofa.

  Wednesday she came down for meals and began to bother Milbrooke to take her for a drive.

  “Under no circumstances, Elizabeth; I gave my word to Carleton I’d keep you in the house till he returned, and I mean to do it, too. It won’t do you any good to scowl at me, either, because for once I agree with him.”

  On Thursday Elizabeth dressed, sent notes round to her friends that she was much recovered, and tried to convince Ferddie again, to no avail. Friday morning saw her eating a hearty breakfast, then visiting Mr. Sebastian in his office. He reluctantly handed over the bank draft she wanted—it was her money, after all—but he absolutely refused to accompany her to Tattersall’s that afternoon.

  “A horse auction? I should say not! His Lordship gave definite instructions that—”

  “Yes, I know.” She sent for Jeremy next.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, truly I am. But ’is Lordship made me give my word. Said it was for your benefit; besides ’e’d ’ave my skin. Don’t you go thinkin’ as any of my boys’ll take you, neither, ’cause they won’t; so you just forget about it ’til ’is Lordship gets back.”

  “But I have to go, Jeremy, I just have to.”

  “Yes’m, but the horses is out getting new shoes anyway, ’is Lordship’s instructions.”

  Her last hope, a slim one indeed, was the butler. “Henrys, would you
be so kind as to call me a carriage?”

  “No, madam.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Elizabeth went to her study to write a note to Ferddie; if he would not take her, perhaps he would at least go in her stead. She was walking up the hall to hand the letter to Henrys when she heard him at the door:

  “I am sorry, monsieur, Lady Carleton is not accepting callers. I will convey your regards. Good day, monsieur.”

  “Henrys, wait! Monsieur le Comte, how kind of you to come by! Would you by any chance be free this afternoon?”

  A great many of Elizabeth’s other acquaintances were also at Tattersall’s that afternoon, unfortunately, for a great many tales were soon circulating about young Lady Carleton again, who was too sick for callers but could attend the horse auctions with a disreputable French nobleman. More interesting yet, she went home with Rutley and Northwell midway through the proceedings. No one knew if she had made any purchases, although it was not unusual for serious buyers to give bids to the auctioneers in private beforehand. In Elizabeth’s case it was wise, for the interest of such a notable horsewoman could only improve a horse’s credentials, and price. The Count, however, purchased a fine pair of showy greys which he was not at all reluctant to discuss, both that afternoon and evening in the clubs.

  Ferddie was incensed when he’d heard of the escapade from Rutley. He drove immediately to Grosvenor Square, but Elizabeth was contrite. “Ferddie, I just had to go. I know I shouldn’t have, I know Carleton will be furious again, but I had to. Please don’t you be angry with me, too.”

  “Why did you have Northwell take you home? Did the Frenchman insult you?”

  “No, not exactly. Ferddie, it was my own foolishness, truly. I will not see him again, I promise. I shall even go straight up to bed and not stir until Carleton gets home, so don’t look so fierce, my dearest of good friends.”