by Diane Gaston
Her brows knit and she pursed her lips. He waited for her response. It did not come.
He leaned down and kissed her on the head. ‘See, there is nothing to dislike in her. Do try, Mother. Introduce her to the servants tomorrow. Be gracious. Take her with you when you make morning calls, when you wish to go to entertainments Aunt Dorrie and Aunt Pip will not attend. She will be useful to you in that way, will she not?’
His mother met his entreating gaze. She gave a grim smile and patted his hand. ‘I will try to be civil.’
He kissed her again, on the cheek this time. ‘There’s my girl,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to rest now.’
But dinner was no more comfortable than it had been in Bath. As soon as he was able, Guy excused himself and left the house, intent on a visit to White’s in search of a good card game and to get wind of where the most money was to be won.
Chapter Seven
All too soon days in London became routine. Emily smoothly assumed the management of the household. Her mother-in-law did not fancy the tedium of such mundane tasks as approving menus, overseeing expenditures and dealing with servant problems. The Dowager much preferred spending her time in more social pursuits, to which Emily was often expected to accompany her. Their visits were always very cordial, but such afternoons and evenings did nothing to raise Emily’s spirits.
In one low moment, Emily had written to her brother at his rooms in the Albany, to inform him she was in town and to beg him to call on her. She had not heard from him. It was nonsensical to believe that Robert, of all people, could banish the blue-devils that so often plagued her, but she still longed for his companionship.
She did not seek companionship from her husband. He absented himself each evening, presumably to pursue his love affair with diamonds, spades, hearts and clubs. On the rare occasions he escorted his mother and wife to evening parties, he always left promptly after delivering them home, disappearing into the night like a stone thrown into an inky pond. Emily typically woke when he returned in the wee hours of morning, still listening carefully to the sound of his footsteps to tell her if he had won or lost. It became increasingly difficult to tell.
She dared not think what other nightly pursuits he might engage in, but it stood to reason he frequented the same gaming hells her father knew, places where one’s fortune rose and fell upon the roll of dice or the turning of a card, and where there would be female company offering celebration for the wins and consolation for the losses.
The loudest sounds Emily heard from her husband’s room were the clink of coins when dawn barely peeked into the windows. When her father had returned from his late-night gaming, he, like as not, would stumble in, mumbling to himself or yelling for a footman to assist him on the stairs. At least her husband avoided getting so foxed he could not walk. His footsteps were always steady.
Any day now Emily expected to see sure signs of a losing streak. Creditors should appear at the door. Her husband’s even temper would then crackle like Vauxhall fireworks, and he would take to hiding in his rooms. How familiar that would be. Soon they would dash off to a country house party, or, perhaps, back to Bath. Anywhere the payment of gambling debts might be avoided.
There were no such signs, however. No creditors hounding them. No outbursts of temper. In fact, her husband was always painstakingly agreeable. Nor were there signs of great winnings. No lavish spending, no extravagant entertaining, no gifts purchased that shortly thereafter must be returned.
It was all so difficult to understand.
This night was to be one of the exceptional evenings when her husband would escort his mother and herself to a musicale and card party. Lady Keating was quite as mad for card playing as her son, and it well suited her to have her daughter-in-law as her whist partner. With Emily as her partner, she seldom lost.
Her mother-in-law had chattered all the week about the new gown she was to wear that evening. Emily had accompanied her when she’d ordered the dress from the mantua maker. She had been unable to convince Lady Keating to economise.
Emily did not know the exact nature of their present finances. Her husband always approved whatever household expense she brought to his attention, but she had a horror of the debt that would certainly come. She refused to spend any of her husband’s money on herself, preferring to mend her old dresses rather than purchase new ones. It turned out Hester had a talent with the needle and an ability to slightly alter a garment so it appeared a bit less like one from two Seasons ago.
When it was time to depart for the musicale, Emily descended the staircase wearing a pale lavender gown she’d worn often, but with new lace trim. She carried her black cloak over her arm.
Guy waited in the hall, rocking on his heels, looking splendid in his snow-white knee breeches and dark black coat. She wished he were not so handsome. She wished he would not take her breath away at times like this.
As always, the smile he gave her seemed tinged with regret. ‘Ah, you are ready, I see.’
At least he had not called her my dear.
‘Yes.’ She half-wished she had fished for a compliment. Even false flattery might feel more pleasing than none at all.
His mother arrived at the top of the stair, and both Emily and her husband were saved the awkwardness of having nothing to say to each other.
Lady Keating put on her gloves as she descended. ‘Guy, I hope you have a carriage ready. We are late.’
‘It is waiting,’ he replied.
He assisted his mother into her cloak. Bleasby, who had been standing aside, stepped forward to assist Emily.
‘Thank you, Bleasby,’ she said.
He bowed in his dignified, if arthritic way. Though apparently recovered from his recent illness, he’d slowed down considerably. He ought to be pensioned off, set up in a nice snug cottage on the family estate, perhaps.
‘Shall we go, my dear,’ her husband said, waiting by the door.
Bleasby limped over to open it, and Emily hurried to follow her husband and mother-in-law out to the waiting carriage.
They rode the short distance to the townhouse on Hanover Square, and were announced into a room where the chairs were lined in rows. The musicians were set up at the front of the room: a piano, viola, cello and two violins. Lady Keating exuded good spirits, greeting her friends, remarking on the lovely arrangements of flowers throughout the room. Emily stood quietly at her husband’s side. The musicians began to tune their instruments, and Lady Keating rushed to find seats. Guy followed his mother through the line of chairs. Emily trailed behind him.
Soon strains of Haydn and Mozart filled the air. Emily closed her eyes and let the beautiful music wash over her. She almost felt as if she were floating on the melodies played by the strings, rising and falling with the notes, like a feather tossed on the wind.
The programme concluded with one of her favourites, ‘Quasi una fantasia,’ a Beethoven sonata, once scandalous, now so fashionable its sheet music could be found in all the best parlours. The piano sound began peacefully, threading itself into and around her heart. It continued, growing, surging, like a storm about to erupt, a storm of emotion, pure and raw. She gave herself over to it, let it whip at her like a gale, until she felt the emotion clutch at her, taking her breath away.
When the ending came, she sat stunned, unable to move. Those around her rustled to get out of their seats.
‘Are you feeling unwell, my dear?’ her husband asked, placing his hand on her arm.
She glanced at him in some surprise, having forgotten even his presence during the turmoil of the music. ‘No, I…I was merely listening.’
He let his hand remain for a moment, staring at her.
‘I am quite well,’ she said, embarrassed that her reaction to the music might show.
‘Come, Guy,’ her mother-in-law broke in. ‘The card party is about to begin.’
There were several rooms set up with card tables. They wandered through them, looking for a place to sit. Being one of the last to m
ake their way out of the music room, most guests had already chosen partners.
‘See, we are late,’ Lady Keating fussed. ‘We shall not find anywhere to sit.’
A silver-haired gentleman approached her. ‘Good evening, Verna, dear. What a pleasure.’
Lady Keating burst into smiles. ‘Sir Reginald! I have not seen you in an age!’ The gentleman took her hand and lavishly kissed it. She giggled like a girl, and turned to her son. ‘Guy, do you recall Sir Reginald? He was one of your father’s particular friends. My son, sir!’
‘Ah, yes, Keating.’ Sir Reginald shook Guy’s hand. ‘Spitting image of your father, I declare.’
Too much like the father, Emily thought, recalling her brother’s assertion that the deceased Lord Keating had been every bit as bad a gambler as their father.
Guy presented Emily to Sir Reginald, and she shook his hand graciously.
‘Come, let us make a foursome!’ the gentleman said, ushering them to an empty table in the corner. ‘Verna, be my partner, will you? A pleasure. A pleasure.’
Lady Keating pulled back. ‘I want my daughter-in-law to be my partner,’ she said, avoiding the use of Emily’s name as did her son.
‘No, no,’ Sir Reginald cried. ‘Not done. Not done at all. We cannot have two gentleman playing against two ladies.’
‘But I like to be her partner,’ Lady Keating persisted. ‘We always win.’
Sir Reginald dramatically clutched at his heart. ‘You wound me.’
Lady Keating giggled again.
‘If you wish,’ the gentleman continued, ‘you may partner your son, and I will hook up with his lady. I assure you any son of old Justus will be a formidable opponent of mine.’
Lady Keating wrinkled her brow, considering this.
‘I will be happy to partner you, Mother,’ Guy said.
She acquiesced and they settled down to play.
Only a few hands showed Emily that Sir Reginald was a skilled player, and her husband as well, but then she’d expected him to be. She and Sir Reginald easily won the first game. Guy and his mother took the second, but only due to Honours points. Lady Keating, the weakest at the table, seemed also to be the sole person who cared about the outcome.
Until the third game. Guy had intensified his attention to the cards, as any true gamester would do. Winning was always an object. Emily understood this perfectly. The gamester in her rose to the challenge.
‘By jove, you are quite a player,’ Sir Reginald declared to her as the last round of the third game was played. They’d won again, but it had been very close. ‘I swear you would give any gentleman of my acquaintance a run for his money.’
Emily glanced at her husband, who was gathering up the cards. Perhaps if she played cards at those places he went at night, she would beat him as she’d done her father. If Sir Reginald were correct, she might even win the kind of fortune for which her husband married her. What she wouldn’t give to win enough to tell them all to go to the devil.
Guy dealt the next hand and Emily stared at her cards. Her heart beat faster. If she could easily win at these tonnish card parties, why not with serious gamesters? Did not her father always say fortunes could be won at cards? But she would not give her winnings to her husband to gamble away. She would keep them for herself.
Could independence be purchased if the fortune won was large enough? Such a feat would require even more secrets than her husband kept from her, she’d wager.
Emily nearly trembled with the boldness of the plan forming itself in her head. Trying very hard to hide her growing excitement, she carefully restrained her card play to allow her mother-in-law the final win.
Supper was announced and they all retired to another room. Guy solicitously filled her plate, but she ate with very little appetite.
Her husband made the effort to converse with her. ‘Do you enjoy whist, my dear?’
What ought she to say? That she thought it might be her salvation? ‘Well enough,’ she said.
He soon abandoned engaging her in conversation, getting drawn in to his mother and Sir Reginald’s talk of old times.
After they’d finished their repast and wandered into the parlour, now free of card tables, Emily glanced across the room and saw a young man standing stiff in his form-fitting evening attire.
Her brother. So he was in town, the wretch. He had not bothered to answer her letter. Without a word to her husband, whose ear was bent to listen to Sir Reginald, she hurried across the room.
Her brother, seeing her approach, glanced to each side as if seeking an escape.
‘Robert,’ Emily said, almost out of breath. ‘I am so glad to see you. Why did you not respond to my letter? I asked you to call on me.’
He flinched. ‘Very busy, Emily. Meant to call. Really.’
Her brother much resembled her in colouring, but he presented a flashy appearance, fancying himself among the dandy set. This evening his collar points nearly touched his ears and his neckcloth was a labyrinth of intricate knotting.
She grabbed his arm, and he gave a quiet shriek at having his coatsleeve wrinkled. She led him aside, to a more private spot. ‘Robert, I would very much like for you to call upon me. I insist upon it.’
He tried to pull away, but she gripped the fabric of his coat in her fingers. ‘Have a care. My coat, Emily.’
She merely glared at him and squeezed more tightly.
‘Let go,’ he pleaded. ‘Won’t run. Promise.’
In addition to dress, Robert also affected what he considered a dandyish way to speak. In phrases. The habit annoyed Emily to distraction.
She released him, but stood in his way, blocking any sudden impulse he might have to run.
He eyed her sheepishly, patting his carefully curled hair and fingering his neckcloth. ‘Must wish you happy, I suppose. Married Keating. Good fellow.’
‘You ought to have warned me about him being a gamester,’ she whispered.
His eyes widened. ‘But he ain’t a gamester. I mean…never was.’
‘You’ve gammoned me, but no need to discuss that now,’ she said.
He released a relieved breath, as if he’d escaped some dire catastrophe, like her pulling the chain of his watch and ripping his fob pocket.
‘But you must call upon me, Robert. Tomorrow, if you can.’
‘Tomorrow?’ His voice rose uncertainly. ‘Might be busy.’
‘Tomorrow,’ she insisted. ‘Promise me.’
He shuffled his feet. ‘Don’t get in a pet. Will do it.’
Only then did she step back. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to leave him, but hesitated. When she swung back to him, he flinched again. ‘You promise?’ was all she said.
‘Yes. Yes,’ he grumbled.
Emily crossed the room to where her husband and mother-in-law stood. Two other ladies, friends of Lady Keating, had joined them with Sir Reginald. They had probably not even noticed her absence.
Guy spent the next morning in the library puzzling out how much of his winnings to reserve for debts, how much for daily expenses, how much to risk at the tables that evening. It was a daily balancing act that seemed more like constructing a house of cards than safeguarding the future. One careless step and the whole would tumble down around him.
As he’d hoped, he managed to gain ground by coming to London. He’d barely ventured from White’s, where play was deep the year round, but still kept his ears open for more lucrative settings. He’d not always won. There were some nights his losses were deep, but slowly he’d gained enough reserves to play for higher stakes. He should do so soon.
He glanced at the figures he’d written on the paper in front of him. Not bad, but the icy, insinuating fear of losing everything was constant. So was the intoxication of winning. He’d felt that same intoxication even at the tame card party with his mother and Emily.
Emily was a good player, as Sir Reginald had said. For that one hand Guy had been locked in combat with her to win—the game of cards, that is. He’d enjoyed sharing t
hat excitement with her, though, typically, he could not tell if she cared to win or not. She had the perfect face for cards, giving nothing away.
He gave a grunt of frustration.
He placed a packet of his winnings in his pocket and returned the rest to the desk drawer to lock away. He was off to the bank and to the post, to send another sum back to Annerley.
He walked past the front drawing room. Emily was seated by the window, peeking through the curtains.
His wife.
She looked pretty with the sun illuminating her features and shooting gold through her brown hair. Had he ever told her she was pretty?
She’d looked pretty the previous evening in the lavender dress she’d worn several times before. She’d done something new with it. He did not know what. He ought to have told her she looked well in it, but his mother arrived in what was obviously an expensive new dress. Emily should have had a new dress to wear. He ought to have given her money for a dress.
He might tell her now, how pretty she looked by the window, her face aglow. Maybe she would smile. He longed to see her smile as she had the morning after they’d made love, before all went wrong between them.
She glanced to the doorway. For a moment, her expression was almost animated, but had he imagined that? When she saw him, the veil dropped over her eyes.
He forgot his intended compliment in his disappointment. He tried to smile. ‘Good morning, my dear. Or is it afternoon by now?’
‘A bit after,’ she said, her voice without expression.
He paused, but then decided to enter the room. She clearly was not eager for his company. ‘My mother and aunts are not with you?’ he asked, then kicked himself. This was nothing like what he’d intended to say.
With perfect equanimity she responded, ‘They prefer the small sitting room. There are fewer draughts, Miss Nuthall says.’
He smiled again, more genuinely. ‘Yes, she would say that, wouldn’t she?’ He picked up a chair and moved it close to where she sat. ‘You are not cold by the window, my dear?’