Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  She nodded, and he could not help but stare at the ostrich feather swaying atop her cap. Yes, Lady Russell was a fine woman—well-bred and sensible—but he could not help think that she would have benefited from a more astute lady’s maid.

  “It is precisely because she is out that I have called.”

  He raised an eyebrow (very slightly, so that the skin above it crinkled not at all). “Indeed!”

  “I recognize,” she continued, “the singular nature of my request, and yet it would have been more unseemly to stay silent in this matter.”

  “Matter? What matter?”

  Lady Russell sighed. “Do you know where Lady Elliot has gone this morning, Sir Walter?”

  “On a walk, I suppose. Or perhaps to visit the tenants.”

  Lady Russell merely pursed her lips.

  “Are you suggesting, Lady Russell, that my wife is involved in some kind of impropriety?”

  She blushed, and he was sorry to say that Lady Russell had none of his wife’s talent for blushing prettily. “No, certainly not! Lady Elliot’s behavior is always above reproach!” She paused. “It is not an impropriety, Sir Walter, so much as a kind of innocence that may expose her to ridicule.”

  “Innocence, Lady Russell?” He gulped. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Lady Elliot’s attentions to the poor of the neighborhood, particularly their children…”

  “Ah.” He shook his head. “I am well aware of these visits, and though she might sometimes be too generous with them, I do not believe she has acted improperly. Indeed, I have noticed that the children are less likely to look like ragamuffins after she has visited. If Lady Elliot can bring some beauty to the neighborhood, well, I do not mind the expense of it. Such improvements are, I would say, a good cause.”

  “I quite agree. It is not so much her concern for the poor, but rather those who influence her views on the matter, that make me anxious.” Lady Russell cleared her throat. “You are, I believe, acquainted with the vicar at Monkford, Mr. Grant?”

  The ugly vicar!

  Anger was not normally a part of Sir Walter’s emotional lexicon. Annoyance, yes. That niggling throb of his temple, the slightest tightening of his lips, a quickening of his breath—such reactions to the little disappointments of life were natural, involuntary. But cheeks burning, jaw trembling, eyes narrowed to mere slits? These responses were very unkind to the countenance. And yet how else might he react in the face of this revelation?

  Lady Russell must have seen something of his inner turmoil, for she brought a handkerchief to her lips and averted her eyes, as if she might blank out her own features to balance out his sudden show of feeling.

  “We are bowing acquaintances,” Sir Walter managed after a long pause. “He is, I believe, an old schoolfellow of Lady Elliot’s brother. But we have not been in company with him for many years.”

  Indeed, since the wedding, he had not seen the man except in passing. Sir Walter had made sure of this. No invitations to dine, no accepting invitations anywhere near Monkford, no trips with the younger Mr. Stevenson to travel about the countryside to see friends. No, no, no. It was not jealousy that motivated him. No! It was mere common sense.

  “It seems,” said Lady Russell, eyes still averted, “that she encountered Mr. Grant on the road one afternoon; he was giving food to a group of gypsy children.”

  “Gypsies? On my land!”

  “No, Sir Walter, but near enough. I was with Lady Elliot at the time—”

  “And you did not speak to me earlier?” he demanded, glaring. Lady Russell met his gaze without blinking; they both knew who ought to have been the one to share such news with him.

  “When was this?” he said, trying for a nonchalance he did not feel.

  “This past autumn, not long after”—she gave a delicate little cough—“the incident.”

  Sir Walter closed his eyes, as if that might keep the memory away. And yet still he saw the child, blue and strangled. The next Sir Walter Elliot, born dead. He had not wanted to see the body; he had told the midwife not to show it to him. But then he had heard his wife sobbing in the next room, and without thought, without realizing what he would see when he entered, he had gone to her.

  “You must love me,” she had cried when he knelt by her side, “despite everything, you truly must love me!”

  And yes, he truly must have loved her—for what else could have brought him into that room, stinking with death? Where was his dear Lady Elliot with her milky white skin? This creature in bed—blotchy complexion, sweaty brow, arms wrapped tightly around the corpse of their child—this was not Lady Elliot!

  He had sworn, when his own mother had passed, that he would never again allow himself to be in such close proximity to death. Four years old, and his own mother’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, or as tightly as she could manage given her illness. Her breath was so foul that he retched, but she was insensible to everything except holding him, as if she might live so long as they touched. He squirmed and struggled, trying to escape, and once managed to slide off the sickbed, but his father grabbed him by the arm and nudged him back into her embrace, one heavy hand holding him in place while his mother caressed his golden curls with her spindly fingers.

  “My beautiful boy!” she whispered. “Give me one last kiss, my dear, beautiful boy!”

  “Be a good lad,” said his father through his own tears, “and give her a kiss.”

  But no, he could not, he would not! Even as his mother pulled him closer, he turned his head away, trying desperately to dodge her dry, peeling lips. It was in that moment that he caught sight of their reflection in the large gilded mirror next to her bed: she was Death, reaching for him, ready to suck the life from his rosy cheeks. With a piercing scream, he scratched at her face until she gasped and fell back against her pillow. He raced from the room, not daring to look back, and the next time he saw her, she lay motionless on her bed, dressed in her shroud, two pale scratch marks lining her nearly translucent cheeks.

  So yes, he must have loved his Lady Elliot to kneel at her side while she held Death in her arms. And to think, she returned that great love by bringing Grant back into their lives!

  “She and Mr. Grant visit the gypsy encampment upwards of three times a week,” said Lady Russell quietly. “I have some reason to believe she is there now.”

  “Together? They visit these gypsies together?”

  “Yes, though I must say I am glad for that small favor. If he is responsible for exposing her to such unhealthy sorts, I may at least be glad that he accompanies her to provide some protection.”

  “Protection!”

  “Yes, well, Lady Elliot once suggested to me that the two of us go alone when Mr. Grant was not able to go with her. I insisted that she not visit those people without someone who might keep her from harm. Perhaps I ought to have spoken to you before now, but I hoped she might follow my advice and tell you herself.”

  “Do you mean to say she will not listen to you?” asked Sir Walter with some surprise. His wife seemed willing to do almost anything Lady Russell asked of her.

  “She is such a good friend to me, and so wise,” he had heard his wife say often enough.

  Lady Russell sighed. “She says she cannot be persuaded on this point, that these children—there are a good number of them among the gypsies, many of them ill—require her aid. In any case, Sir Henry and I will soon leave for Bath. I will have no influence on her from afar.”

  The drawing room door opened then, admitting Lady Elliot, flanked by their two daughters. The oldest shared her mother’s name but her father’s good looks, whereas the younger—well, she was only two. There was some hope, he supposed, that Anne Elliot might improve with time.

  “Lady Russell!”

  Lady Elliot smiled at her friend with such warmth that Sir Walter felt some of his unhappiness dissipate. True, the smile emphasized the wrinkles beginning to form at the corners of her lips, but he discovered he could trick himself out of see
ing such imperfections. There were some days when he nearly forgot to examine her, even when she stood before him. This usually happened when she laughed, the rich sound saturating his senses so that his eyes seemed hardly able to function at all.

  “I had not thought you were coming today, my friend! I have only just returned from an outing.”

  Yes, an outing. Sir Walter studied her then, examined her in a way he had not in many years, or perhaps never. Oh, he looked often enough to see if she had freckles (still none, thank God) or lines (a few), to see if she wore the latest fashions (generally), or whether her gowns were too snug (perhaps this time, she might bear him a healthy son). But he never bothered to look beyond that; he had never before seen that odd tilt to her chin or the half smile on her lips, as if she knew something he did not.

  Lady Elliot held his gaze, and he had a disquieting thought: she knew what Lady Russell had come to tell him.

  “Perhaps,” she said to her daughters, “you may persuade Lady Russell to walk with you in the garden.”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Anne, racing across the room and throwing herself at Lady Russell, so that the dear lady nearly toppled backward. “Please, Lady Russell!”

  “Comport yourself, young lady!” cried Sir Walter, wagging a finger at Anne. She glanced up at him, her face barely visible behind all the folds of Lady Russell’s skirts. Her eyes—so big and bright—frightened him; it appeared as if there was an entire world hidden behind that elfish little countenance.

  He looked to his wife, hoping she might chastise the girl, but she offered only that gentle smile he had once believed was for him alone. Then his daughters had been born, and he had seen the smile numerous times, generally when they made some small blunder. How had a smile of affection become one of resignation?

  “Dear Anne,” said Lady Russell fondly, bending down to pat her on the head. “I do not mind her exuberance, not at this age, Sir Walter. She will learn soon enough how to be a proper young lady.”

  “You see that I have learned to be proper already,” said Elizabeth, slipping her hand from her mother’s so that she might perform a delicate curtsey for the room.

  “Very good!” said Sir Walter, who would never grow tired of his older child’s charms. Ah, to see such beauty and dignity reproduced in childlike form! If only she could have been a son.

  “Perhaps, my dears,” said Lady Russell, taking both girls by the hand, “you might show me the newest flowers in the garden while your dear mama and papa discuss certain matters that are of no interest to us.”

  Lady Elliot glanced between her friend and her husband. “Ah. It is just as I thought.”

  There was no anger in her voice, no expression of disgust on her countenance, as she looked at her friend. Just that same gentle smile, as if Lady Russell, too, had misbehaved in some minor and predictable fashion.

  Sir Walter hardly knew how to respond to his wife’s nonchalance. When left alone with her a few moments later, he found himself unable to begin.

  “You and Lady Russell are concerned,” she said when he let the silence stretch for minutes.

  “Yes! That is it exactly!”

  She sat beside him then, taking his hand in her own, and he wondered at the softness of her skin. To look at that hand, to see the veins beginning to show through the skin and the small, hard callous on the ring finger, one might have supposed the pads of her fingers had grown dry and rough. But no; they felt as soft as they had the first time he had touched them.

  “You have been using the hand cream I suggested,” he said to her.

  “My lady’s maid will not allow me to forget it.”

  “Good girl,” he said. “I only wish you were half so considerate of my wishes.”

  It was a biting remark, and though the laughter disappeared from her eyes, the gentle smile again settled onto her lips. “I know, sir, how much you value your reputation; I hope you know that I would do nothing to harm it.”

  “Then why do you consort with that ugly vicar?” he blurted.

  “Mr. Grant?”

  Only after she spoke his name, her smile faltering, did he realize just how little he cared about the gypsies. There were always these dirty people about, and truth be told, he himself had sometimes sent small presents to these folk when they passed through, mostly at the suggestion of his agent Mr. Shepard, to keep them from harassing his tenants and the tradesmen who used the roads to reach Kellynch.

  “Lady Russell tells me it is he who has inspired this sudden interest in the gypsy children.”

  “Do you suppose, sir, that I needed any other inspiration than the one God provided November last?”

  He could say nothing in response to such a question, spoken with more hurt than he had ever heard in her voice.

  “You cannot know how I felt,” she whispered, “when our son…And when I heard about a poor woman who had suffered a similar fate, what could I do but go to her? She has other children, this woman, and they are hungry. How could I not act, Sir Walter?”

  He could think of many reasons not to act, and yet all he could think to say was, “And so it was not Grant’s idea, not really?”

  “May I ask why it is that Mr. Grant provokes such apprehension? By your own very high standards, he is not a man to be feared.”

  “Who said I was afraid of the man? Why should I be?”

  “Indeed, you have no reason to fear him.” She met his gaze. “He possesses an ill-favored visage, a family without distinction, and a mind too complex to be easily understood. He consorts with people regardless of their rank; he prefers reading to dinner parties; and he has no pride, absolutely none at all. Why should anyone be afraid of such a person, much less Sir Walter Elliot?”

  Had she been any other woman, he might have suspected sarcasm, but there was no cruel, mocking smile on her lips. Her mouth remained curved in that familiar, gentle arc.

  “You understand me completely,” he said.

  “Yes, completely.”

  “I have no cause to fear him.”

  “None at all.”

  “I hardly know why you would suggest such a notion!”

  She shook her head. “It is only that you raised his name.”

  “Ah, well, Lady Russell…she seems concerned. She does not wish you to expose yourself to ridicule.”

  “It would be a pity indeed if I were to connect myself with a foolish, intemperate, unworthy man.”

  “Indeed!” He spoke with more enthusiasm than he felt, for though she appeared to be agreeing with everything he said, he could not banish the idea that something was still off kilter. “So we are of one mind: you will no longer associate yourself with Mr. Grant and these gypsies.”

  She looked down at her hand, still intertwined with his.

  “It is hardly the best use of your time, my dear.” Sir Walter gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I fear you have fallen behind on your correspondence with Lady Dalrymple.”

  “Oh, but I wrote her just yesterday.”

  “Ah, well! Very good. I suppose our daughters keep you busy.”

  “Most certainly, and yet, their nursery maid is very competent. You were wise to employ her.”

  Indeed, he was. She was said to be near fifty, yet had hardly a wrinkle on her face. He found that those who knew how to care for themselves were the very best at caring for others.

  “Well then, your household duties—”

  “Please,” interrupted his wife, her eyes shining, “please, do not forbid me, Sir Walter. There is nothing improper, nothing untoward, in these visits. They give me some purpose, some conversation.”

  “Whatever can you mean, my dear? Does not Kellynch give you purpose? Do you not converse often enough with Lady Russell? I hardly think she would be glad to hear you prefer the company of gypsies.” Or Mr. Grant, but he found himself unable to make this accusation. For an accusation, it would be. It was not that he doubted her fidelity; he merely doubted her heart.

  She held his gaze for a long moment. “You
are, of course, my husband; I will abide by your wishes.”

  He smiled.

  “Of course,” she continued, “I will need to inform Lady Dalrymple that her donation to Mr. Grant’s cause is no longer required. Excuse me, sir, so that I may amend my previous letter.”

  He gripped her hand, keeping her from rising. “Lady Dalrymple?”

  “Yes, Sir Walter. She once told me of her interest in philanthropy; it seems there are just as many beggars in Ireland as there are in England. Lady Dalrymple has often expressed concern over meeting such people on her husband’s lands. When I wrote her of Mr. Grant’s reforms here—how his efforts to find honest work for these people had lessened the dangers of encountering them on the roads—she seemed eager to learn more.”

  “If Lady Dalrymple wishes to donate to this cause, then…” His stomach sank, but what else could he say? It would never do to contradict the Dalrymples! When he had gone against the viscount’s advice and married Miss Stevenson, there had been—well, not a breach, per se, but a certain coolness of manner toward him. The very fine letters his wife wrote, however, had softened the blow, and he had hope that, should the Dalrymples decide to visit Bath again, he might find a warmer welcome with them.

  “Then I, too, will contribute.”

  “Oh, I am so glad!” She talked then, for several long minutes, about Mr. Grant’s work—not just with these gypsies, but with the more permanent poor of the neighborhood, too. Each word was filled with such admiration, such enthusiasm, that he hardly knew how to respond.

  Lady Russell soon reentered the drawing room, having sent the girls back to the nursery, and looked between husband and wife with obvious trepidation.

  “Have I interrupted?” she asked, glancing at Lady Elliot.

  “Not at all,” said his wife, smiling. “Sir Walter has just agreed to support Mr. Grant’s work with the poor.”

  Lady Russell’s mouth fell open in a most unbecoming way. “Has he indeed?”

  “Perhaps now I may persuade you, Lady Russell, to accompany me on my next visit?”