The Forgotten Marriage

by Ellen Fitzgerald

  “And so do I.” He bit the words off as he actually glared at her. He added, “ Tis very steep this path. Would you mind if we were to return to the town. I feel myself rather weary. I should like to leave for home.”

  “Of course,” she said hastily. “You must not tire your leg, certainly.”

  “Come, then.” He offered his arm.

  Alicia stepped back. “I think I will walk behind you. I fear that my extra weight must put an undue strain upon your leg.”

  “As you choose,” he returned shortly. Wheeling about, he started down the hill.

  Behind him, Alicia shivered. It seemed to her that the bright landscape had suddenly darkened, but that, of course, was only her imagination. The sun was just as golden and the sky was just as blue. In the distance, there was a scattering of little clouds. However, she would not have been surprised had they suddenly swelled into thunderheads. Certainly Lucian’s mood had changed that swiftly—and what had been the impetus? As she followed him. she went back over their conversation. They had been discussing her father’s gambling. Was it that he did not approve of gambling? No, in Brussels, she recalled, he himself had gambled and won. Furthermore, he had seemed fond of her father, even though he agreed with Timothy that it was a shame that he had, in effect, gambled his son’s birthright away. Yet, when a shamefaced Timothy had told him that they were unable to provide her with a dowry, Lucian had guessed the reason and laughed it away, saying tenderly that to claim her as his bride would be riches aplenty. Alicia swallowed a lump in her throat only to have it replaced by another. If he could only . . . But remembering her favorite analogy, she doubted that one met many beggars on horseback.

  Lucian could remember nothing about Brussels, did not want to remember anything about it, and undoubtedly felt himself saddled with a wife who had married him for his money.

  And who had put that suspicion into his mind? Barbara, of course!

  Alicia swallowed a bitter little laugh. Lucian had suggested that there was a ghost at the abbey—and he had been right. Barbara, having applied for that position, was filling it with considerable success. And she did not confine her haunting to its precincts alone.

  10

  “I do keep forgetting that you have these storied stones for your very own. You are indeed fortunate, and 'tis my opinion that when the weather allows it, you must give a garden party and let us all wander through these ruins at will. In the spring, I should say . . . May, perhaps. The gardens will be lovely in May.”

  Lady Hewes and Alicia were walking through the shattered cloister. Due to a north wind, both ladies were wrapped in cashmere shawls over a gown of green kerseymere in Lady Hewes’ case and one of brown merino cloth that Alicia had fashioned from an older garment discovered in the attic, her own supply of gowns being inadequate for the cooler weather. Autumn-brightened leaves blown there by a recent windstorm were crunched under their feet, and overhead a lemon-colored sun was intermittently covered by gray-tinged clouds.

  Gazing up at them, Alicia said musingly, “I wonder where I will be in the spring?”

  Lady Hewes gave her an exasperated look. “I, my dear, am no prognosticator, but I am reasonably convinced that you will be here or there.” She turned around and pointed to the house. Turning back, she said, “Where else would you be?”

  “I fear—” Alicia began.

  “Let me have no more of your absurd cavils, my dearest Lady Morley, but I am not going to call you Lady Morley

  anymore. You are Alicia and I am Tilda, do you not agree? Well?”

  “I should like that,” Alicia said rather shyly.

  “Then, ’tis done, Alicia. And as I was saying, you live to borrow trouble. Lucian may not acknowledge it, and I know ’twas unfortunate what happened on your castle walk two Sundays ago, but I would lay a monkey and not be the loser if I told you that he is not as miserable as you prefer to imagine.”

  Alicia came to an abrupt stop and favored her companion with an indignant brown glance. “I do not prefer to imagine that he is miserable,” she emphasized. “I have told you—”

  “You have told me that he spends a great deal of time closeted in the library or riding about the estate or walking, now that his leg is so much improved, and I tell you that if he stays away from you during the day, he does take his evening meals with you, is that not a fact?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But that he does not act the loving husband must be blamed as much on his infirmity as on my miserable cousin Barbara. There is much that I would like to forget, goodness knows, but to have it wiped out of my mind would be most confusing, particularly were I to find myself in an entirely different situation than what I had expected and wed to a stranger! Be understanding, my dearest Alicia, as you have been, and I beg you’ll not reach for the moon—just wish upon it.”

  Alicia sighed. “Oh, Lady—Tilda, you do make me feel ashamed. I know I ought not to be so impatient.”

  “If you were not, you’d not be human, and there’s a great deal about you that is not in the least human but must, rather, border on the angelic. In spite of all my lecturing, you must know that I would go utterly mad were I in your place, but you must not. I know I do sound scatterbrained, but enough! Will you promise to do as I have suggested at my ball on Friday?” She visited a compelling stare on Alicia’s face.

  “Friday? Is your ball only two days off, then?” Alicia asked amazedly.

  “It seems far too soon for me. The household’s in a pother. ’Twas to escape my harried housekeeper and my tearful maids that I fled to you, and of course, because I wanted to see you. Oh, look!” Tilda suddenly pointed. “I keep forgetting that you have that lovely tower with most of the roof intact? Have you ever gone up to the top?”

  “Yes, I have.One can see a great deal of the countryside. Would you like to come?”

  “No, I think not. I am not enamored of heights, and are not the stairs rickety?”

  “No, they are of stone.”

  “Oh, of course, they would be, with a brother climbing them two or three times a day. Think how grand it must have been when the bells still hung there.”

  “I often do,” Alicia said, following her glance. “I do not wonder that some people believe that these ruins and others similar to them are haunted. Think of the anguish of those monks, driven out of here while anvils knocked down the walls and mallets shattered the stained-glass windows. They must have thought ’twas the work of devils and the people who perpetrated it must have feared they were committing a mortal sin—such memories live on even if there are no ghosts.”

  “True, and how like you to sympathize with them.” Tilda suddenly put her arms around Alicia. “My dear, do you know that I am well ori the way to loving you, and believe me, I do want the best for you.”

  “Oh, you are kind,” Alicia said shyly. “I—I am so very grateful for your friendship.”

  Tilda blushed. “I have a confession to make. In the beginning I cultivated you because of Barbara. I have always disliked her greatly and I wanted to champion you merely, I blush to admit it, because I wanted to get even with her. I could not bear to see her annex poor Lucian after the horrid way in which she had treated him, but then I came to know and like you for yourself alone. You are such a dear and I can certainly understand why Lucian fell in love with you. I cannot see, however, why he does not recognize your true worth now. You have already done wonders with the house—it is more than a collection of ill-assorted pieces of beautiful furniture. Through some mysterious legerdemain, you have made it livable, and that Lucian cannot or will not see it I put it to his guilty conscience over his so-called betrayal of my undeserving cousin. I would tell him so, but he’d not believe me, knowing as he does that Barbara and I are enemies. Two things I do beg: do not lose patience with him—he must come to his senses one day—and please forgive me for my original and underhanded motives.” Tilda looked both hopeful and ashamed.

  “But I guessed you had something of the sort in mind.” A
licia smiled.

  “Did you? You always manage to surprise me, my dear, and quite frankly I do not understand—Barbara or no Barbara— why, in spite of what I have just told you, Lucian cannot see you for what you are. Still, I do not think him as unhappy as you seem to imagine. I just have a notion that he is not yet aware of the prize he has in his possession.”

  “That is a most cryptic observation,” Alicia teased.

  “I mean it to be comforting, and see if I am not right. I must go now. Oh, I can hardly wait until Friday night. I wish I had planned my ball for this evening. I do expect great things of it, you know.”

  “What things?”

  Tilda’s glance was enigmatic. “Well, ’twill serve as a further introduction to such members of the ton as I have been able to capture for the night . . . But I will let you see for yourself, my dearest.”

  Alicia was thinking of Tilda’s words as she sat at her dressing table on the night in question, with Effie arranging her hair. She had half-expected that Lucian would, at the last moment, refuse to accompany her, but he had not. Could that be significant? She exhaled a short little breath. She could not be sure and was tired of searching for meaning in everything he did or did not do. Furthermore, she was tired of always feeling as if she must make herself as scarce as possible for fear of treading on his foot or, rather, his mood. In the beginning, she had hoped . . . But she did not want to dwell upon her past hopes either. She would concentrate, instead, on the ball. She did love to dance and . . . She exhaled another breath, an inadvertent sigh, as she remembered the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, when she had danced every set with Lucian, looking so brave and so handsome in his scarlet uniform. She remembered the careful way he had held her, remembered the ecstatic look in his eyes . . . but, she recalled reluctantly, there had been another ball after that, and another Lucian, staring at her as if she were a stranger. And he still regarded her that way! And this evening . . . Inadvertently she fingered the heavy gold brocade of her gown and then had an anxious look at Effie.

  “Do you think that he will guess—” she began.

  “Oh, milady,” the girl interrupted, “I am sure he’ll not guess ’twas cut down from that old gown we found in the trunk. The color’s most becomin’ to you. But ’tis a pity you’d not take one o’ them necklaces we found. I could still run up an’ ’unt for it.”

  “No,” Alicia said firmly. She touched the delicate gold necklace with three cameos that Effie had just clasped about her neck. “This belonged to my mother, as you know, and it, at least, is not paste.” She rose and glanced in the mirror that hung over the fireplace. Stepping backward, she could see her full-length reflection, and not for the first time she sent thoughts of gratitude winging to Brussels and the little French maid who had taught her to sew.

  The girl, Eugenie, had been employed in the hotel where she, her father, and her brother had stayed before moving to the house Sir Anthony had purchased after a fortunate night at the tables. She had come to clean the room one morning and found ten-year-old Alicia struggling to mend a tear in her gown. Gently she had taken it from the child’s plump little fingers.

  “You do . . . so.” She had spoken in a mere whisper, her habitual way of speaking. She had walked softly too, and she had a habit of suddenly looking over her shoulder as if she feared someone was walking behind her. One morning she had turned swiftly, a scream welling up in her throat because Papa had entered hastily, slamming the door behind him. Eugenie had dropped the sewing basket, and the spools had spread their bright threads on the dingy carpet.

  In her mind’s eye, Alicia could still see them, could still hear Papa questioning Eugenie gently, see his arm encircling her thin shoulders, and a few minutes later, she had learned that the hotel maid who in her spare time served as her unofficial sewing instructor was the Comtesse Eugenie de Montfort, who had escaped the Terror in Paris by hiding in a farm cart full of produce piled on top of her, the only one of a family composed of two sisters, a brother, and her parents who had not gone to the guillotine. However, the suffering she had endured and the privations she had experienced had undermined her delicate constitution to the point that she was already ill with consumption when they met her. Papa had insisted that she come with them when they moved to their house, and consequently she had been able to die in relative comfort some two years later. In that time, Eugenie had passed on to Alicia her expertise with a needle, taught to her in the convent where she had been sent to finish her schooling. Consequently, it was to Eugenie that she really owed this golden gown with its puffed sleeves and round neck cut just above the swell of her bosom, the whole of it fashioned from the skirt of the gown in the attic. Eugenie would have approved, Alicia thought.

  “There is much virtue in scraps,” she had told Alicia. “And you, ma fille, are the little artiste avec ses doigts." She had patted Alicia’s fingers. “But one day you will marry a man tres riche and will not need those so-clever fingers save to paint your lovely pictures.”

  With a little shock, Alicia realized that Eugenie’s prophecy had, in common with that of Miss James, her governess, been half-realized. She had married a rich man, but after all, she needed her “clever fingers,” and she thought with a touch of pride, they had served her well. She need not be anxious, not in the least, and if Lucian did not choose to dance with her, no doubt there would be other gentlemen present who would!

  Alicia’s defiance had, however, vanished by the time she descended the stairs to the great hall and found Lucian waiting at the bottom, looking breathtakingly handsome in his well-cut evening clothes, which, in accordance with the dicta of Beau Brummell, were black. Despite the fact that she had not asked him to provide her with garments for this occasion or for any other occasion, inadvertently she did owe this gown to him! And, for the first time, she wondered uncomfortably who its original possessor had been. Could it possibly be a treasured heirloom? She would soon know. Drawing herself up and regretting as always the lack of inches that made her a delicate rather than an impressive figure, she said with a touch of defiance in her tone, “Good evening, Lucian.”

  “Good evening, Alicia,” he said punctiliously. He added, “That is a lovely gown. Its color is most flattering. It is a recent purchase?”

  Alicia swallowed nervously and said, “I made it, Lucian.” She paused and then added, “I found an old gown in one of the trunks when I was looking for material to refinish the chairs. It had a wide skirt and—”

  His brows drew together. “Surely you need not have done that! Why did you not go to a mantua maker?”

  “There was no necessity,” she said evenly. “I enjoy sewing. And my mother’s necklace goes well with it.” She handed him her cloak. “Should we not be on our way?”

  “Yes, but ...” He drew a deep breath and continued, “I never suggested that you go about in made-over garments.”

  “Even when they are of a color you have called flattering?” she questioned. “I thought so myself when I saw the gown. I feared only that you might not want me to cut it up, but it had lain there in the trunk for many years.”

  “I pray you’ll not give it another thought, please,” he said coldly. “When your wardrobe needs replenishing, I beg you will come to me. There are many experienced mantua makers in Richmond.”

  To her surprise, she found that he was actually angry and, she guessed, also embarrassed. It was an attitude that heartened her, since it suggested that he held himself to blame for her reluctance to approach him on the matter of her wardrobe. It might also be a straw to show which way the wind was blowing ... or, again, it might not. It had been easy enough to read the mind of the Lucian she had married, mainly because he had never seen the need to conceal his thoughts from her. This Lucian, however, was a different matter, and when would she ever be able to stop thinking that she had married two men?

  “Come,” Lucian said, scattering her thoughts, “we must go.” He draped her cloak about her and in another few minutes they were in their post-chaise
and on the way to the ball.

  In his comer of the vehicle, Lucian kept his eyes on the night sky as seen at intervals through the interlocking branches of the tall trees edging the road. Usually the sight of the sky had a soothing effect on him. He could remember when, resting in his tent in Spain or Portugal, he would look through the flap up into the dark canopy overhead trying to trace the constellations. He could see Orion from here, but the sight failed to soothe him.

  The stars that formed the constellation glittered like diamonds, the diamonds that should have been adorning his wife’s throat on this, the occasion of her introduction to

  Richmond society. His mother’s jewelry lay in a vault in London. It had been intended as a bridal present for Barbara. And must he needs get it out for the likes of Alicia? He expelled a hissing breath. The gold necklace with the three cameos that she was wearing did compliment her gown, but compared to the gems that would be worn by other females at the ball, it would seen no more than a bit of trumpery. And her gown ... he had to admit that it was becoming. She had, in fact, looked very pretty this evening. Her hair was no longer the dull “color of faded straw” that had been one of Barbara’s contemptuous descriptions. He remembered it had been apt at the time. However, tonight her locks had been beautifully arranged and they had looked extremely lustrous. There was a glow about her skin as well. Indeed, if one admired brown-eyed blondes, she was very well-looking and, in her way, beautiful. Still, she could not compete with Barbara, and she was so small! He had never admired small women. There was a pain in his heart as he thought of Barbara’s tall, slim Figure and her crown of red-gold hair. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were darker than her hair. Nature had been very kind to Barbara . . . But why was he torturing himself by thinking about her? It was useless.