The Slightest Provocation

  “Please do come in,” he called now, in response to Anna’s rap on the door, precisely two hours after he and Mary had closeted themselves in his study.

  Mama and Papa had sometimes arranged their affairs in this manner (“I shall disturb you and your guest in an hour, Joshua.” “An hour and a half would be better, my dear.”). Watching a smiling Anna make her way to the table and begin repinning the papers, Mary allowed herself an instant’s pure envy.

  But only one, she reminded herself. You’re entitled to only one such moment for every visit with these good friends, so snugly and smugly sure of each other, their beliefs, and their roles in the universe’s scheme for humanity’s betterment. Anna doubtless spent part of every day in this “dreary study,” helping Richard keep his work in order so he could produce the twice-monthly newspaper he was so proud of.

  But Mary’s spite had already given way to bemused affection for a good friend’s more than good opinion of himself.

  Richard’s political convictions had outlasted his infatuation. By now he was a familiar presence in drawing rooms where the furniture was worn but the ideas glittered like fresh-minted coins. He’d first encountered Matthew Bakewell at one of these venues last year, and presented him to Mary soon after.

  And when he’d come into his fortune, he’d simply poured it into the Review, publishing the opinions of everyone he admired, treating his moral and artistic heroes to good food and excellent drink, and occasionally providing more substantial help as well. Even Mary had once contributed an essay, a rather dry thing on the Corn Laws under the name of Edward Elyot (she’d only shrugged this morning when Richard had wondered if Mr. Elyot might like to try something else).

  His life with Anna was amiable and exceedingly comfortable, his kitchen and wine cellar superb. His opinions were bracingly radical, but (Mary had to allow) in certain particulars comfortably static as well. Although Kit had professed to have no political sense whatsoever, he’d been most prescient when he’d told her years ago that historical events wouldn’t ever cause Richard to alter his hero worship of Bonaparte, the Scourge of Tyrants.

  (And yes, she thought now, some of the rulers Napoleon had deposed were tyrants. And no, some of them were not. It would be a neater world if one could have it all one way or the other. But then, it would be a neater world if she weren’t plagued with all these thoughts and memories.)

  “Would anyone care for some luncheon?”

  She blinked; Anna had opened the drapes to let in some midday sunshine.

  “Yes, thanks,” she heard herself saying. “I’m quite ravenous. And then what about that ride in the park you promised us?”

  Park Lane stretched away to the right of the Morrices’ barouche; Hyde Park lay in front of them. Mary kept her eyes straight ahead until their carriage entered the park.

  No, she told Anna and Richard, she wouldn’t be able to stay an extra day. “Thanks so much for inviting me, you darlings, but Jessica needs me; I shall have to depart quite early tomorrow.”

  Not that her sister wasn’t an excellent manager. “There was the period when her steward took advantage of her grief to rob her, but she’s got a good new man helping her now. Still, she needs companionship-of someone more her age than her daughter. Julia’s been there, and now it’s my turn to help her prepare for the Midsummer’s Eve party. There wasn’t one last year, of course, while she was mourning for Arthur, and also because things were so bad in the neighborhood. At least things are a little better now; nobody’s breaking any more knitting frames.”

  Richard cleared his throat. “Very little machine breaking these days. The actions of the last few years were actually quite successful; the men got better wages out of it. Good that they were so scrupulous about only disabling the frames that belonged to cheating owners-and that produced inferior stockings. Luddite machine breakers weren’t stupid; they weren’t out to destroy their own livelihoods.”

  He paused. “Though of late the recession in the textile industry has caused new hardships. Together with the bad harvest and worse weather.”

  Jessica had written about whole families living on oatmeal, and not much of that.

  “But I hear good things as well,” he continued. “Hampden clubs, Parliamentary reform societies springing up in the countryside. Luddite victories seem to have made the men confident of themselves and curious about what else can be changed, speaking more broadly. They’ve taken to reading Paine, Cobbett…” He paused.

  Mary took her cue. “They’re even reading Every-man’s Review, I expect. And perhaps a few women are reading it as well.”

  He nodded. “Bit of a rise in circulation; an honor to contribute to the spread of ideas. For there’s a sentiment growing, you see, that government should represent more than those that own the land. Shocking, ain’t it, that Manchester has not one MP to represent it, with all that industry? Of course, if our esteemed government chooses to label such thinking as anarchy… if they make it illegal to discuss these things in public meetings and then suspend habeas corpus so as to more easily arrest those who do speak out… and then last January, to ignore the men who petitioned for the reform of Parliament…”

  “Appalling to treat them that way,” Anna said. “Although one could also wish that someone would petition for Mary’s and my right to vote.”

  Richard shrugged. “You should read the report, written by a bunch of Parliamentary blowhards who call themselves the Committee of Secrecy-pompous asses equating free discussion with the ‘total overthrow of all our institutions,’ hyenas howling that the reformers are ‘undermining the people’s habits of decent and regular subordination.’ ”

  The report that Kit had found so alarming. In case Mary needed any further proof of how unsuited he and she were to each other.

  She sighed. “Perhaps I will try another essay,” she said, “about the hardships poverty-stricken wives and mothers are suffering in the country at a time like this. Poor things, to be so bereft in a place of such beauty.”

  “You’ll be happy to get back there,” Anna said.

  “I expect that I shall. I couldn’t live there all the time; I’m too fond of theater and lectures and painting exhibitions-not to speak of the brilliant society of people like you. Life does rather creep by in the country.”

  Though at least one wouldn’t have to wonder whom one might catch sight of, as one did driving past Park Lane.

  “But while I’m home-yes, I guess it is my home, really-I enjoy helping the Friendly Society, and Cathy Williams’s school for girls. I take tea with the vicar, accompany Jessica on her charitable errands, go on long, solitary tramps through the meadows. And then there’s my niece. I like being a favorite aunt and having her confidence. Betts will be eighteen now.” She paused. “No, not Betts. I’m told she wants to be called Elizabeth now.”

  “I envy her, whatever she calls herself,” Anna said. “For I should have loved to have you for an aunt when I was at that dreadful age-one day so fearful of growing up, the next so eager and impatient for it. Of course, you’ll be awfully busy helping your sister-with the estate, the charities, and the midsummer preparations. We look forward to seeing your entire family-and dear Matthew Bakewell as well-when we come down for the festivities. It’ll be an especial treat for us, you know, because we’ll be coming after a week spent dozing by the fire with Richard’s Yorkshire aunts.” Her tone was soothing. As was Richard’s, when he hastened to add that Mary must not forget the essay she’d promised him.

  Had she appeared to need so much soothing?

  Of course she hadn’t.

  She’d be busy and contented at Beechwood Knolls. Kit wouldn’t be a bother; he never came down to the country. The Calais encounter was already receding in her memory; the divorce proceedings, when they came, could mainly be left in the hands of the solicitors. And though she hadn’t quite known how to finish her letter to Matthew this morning, she was sure to think of just the right words by tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

/>   The lamplight in the library of the Park Lane house was too bright and the fire needed stirring.

  I could ring for assistance, Kit thought. But the real problem was the clamor of accusatory voices ringing in his ear. A late-night seduction at a remote inn-indeed and indubitably the worst strategy ever chosen for a lovers’ reunion, and what the devil could I have been thinking anyway?

  He pulled a plush pillow from beneath his head, tumbling it down over his eyes to screen out the glaring light. Too bad he couldn’t similarly muffle the cacophony in his head. But then, he was used to being hectored, lectured, and otherwise belittled, having grown up under the tutelage of the old Eighth Marquess of Rowen.

  Which didn’t mean that she should have sneered at him from behind spectacles that should have looked spinsterish but that he’d found oddly fetching. Needn’t have proclaimed herself so bloody certain that he was still the boy she’d run off with. The old, shallow, callow Kit, most ungoverned personage she’d ever met.

  He’d caught a pleasanter sound now, of someone stirring the fire. The light seeping under the pillow had grown mellower as well.

  The room set swiftly to rights, the butler suggested a light supper.

  “Thanks, no. My stomach… rather in a knot from traveling all day. A cup of tea, though-send Belcher in with it, won’t you? He can pull off my boots while he’s here.”

  The dowager marchioness wouldn’t think kindly of how he and his boots had been treating the settee he’d flung himself onto. And of course she’d soon know (for Thomas would tell her, Kit thought) about how he’d failed with Mary…

  Well, he hadn’t failed in all ways.

  If only they hadn’t fallen into argumentation. Had he really needed to regale her with all his most cherished plans when he’d barely got his buttons open?

  Such a promising beginning. When he’d lain on top of her, when he’d entered her. And afterward, her voice in its throaty lower register. I want you again. Soon.

  Then you bloody well shouldn’t have started in on lecturing me.

  The Channel had been choppy, his hours on the packet boat anything but soothing. He’d had a bad night in Dover and his bones ached from being banged about in the post chaise up to town. The words of their last confrontation still rang in his head, in nagging counterpoint to the recurrent cadence of hooves, traces, and springs.

  How many times between Dover and London?

  “I didn’t”-clippity-“think…”

  “No”-squeak and jingle-“you didn’t.”

  Unfair. He’d thought of nothing but her since several weeks ago, when he’d glimpsed her at the theater in Paris. In truth, he’d thought about her for all the nine years of their separation. Not every minute; he’d had orders to follow, duties to attend to. But her image, her voice…

  En route to Spain, he’d entertained himself far into the nights by imagining how awful and guilt stricken she’d feel when he met his heroic death in battle.

  And when he’d left off thinking about death-when he’d begun instead to live in the service of responsibility and obligation-he’d taken to wondering what she might think of the man he’d become.

  People sometimes spoke admiringly of him. Might she have heard any of that?

  Because he’d heard about her. Englishmen abroad knew each other’s business. Impressive, how she’d managed to please herself and still maintain a margin of respectability. All but the narrowest people seemed to accept her.

  All very well for them. The bargain Kit had finally struck with himself was to rage against her infidelities (as he called them-his affairs of course being only affairs) on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, while reserving the majority of the week (four days was the majority, was it not?) for a measure of toleration, and to congratulate himself on his liberality in this, late at night, with the baroness curled against his flank in satisfied slumber.

  A game. An abstraction. He hadn’t actually seen her yet, even while they’d both been resident in Paris. His duties had taken most of his attention, his responsibilities shifting to what one might call intelligence (though she’d likely call it delivering secret messages to Britain’s despotic allies). Call it what you would; it had been his job to help keep the information flowing. He’d enjoyed it, even while planning for his future.

  Military discipline had done him good, but he’d had enough of it and he wanted to come home. Obtaining the letter of introduction to Lord Sidmouth had been a good first step.

  And then he did see her.

  In the course of his work, as it happened, in the lobby of the Théâtre des Variétés. He’d been in evening dress, fading into the crowd, ready to retrieve a message from the bewhiskered gentleman, and-as invisibly as possible and at exactly eleven minutes after nine-to brush against the blond dandy in the black moire neckcloth, passing the folded piece of paper along to him.

  After which his time would be his own. The baroness was at home in the Faubourg St-Germain.

  The crowd in the lobby was beginning to thin. He’d already completed the first part of his assignment; it would be more difficult to do the second part discreetly.

  Or so he’d been thinking when she appeared. He’d almost taken her for an illusion, an apparition stirred into being by fleeting memory. If an apparition could be breathless and distracted, an illusion so patently annoyed at itself for being late.

  There’d been nothing apparitional about her hurried steps across the marble floor. The rose pink evening cape fluttering over pale ivory silk, pink-and-green-striped bandeau holding a sprig of lily of the valley in her hair, had all been wonderfully matter-of-fact and palpable. A light drizzle was falling outside; tiny drops of moisture clung to her curls like scattered sequins.

  Under their dusting of rouge and powder, her cheeks were less plump than he remembered; he thought he might have discerned a touch of weariness. But her peremptoriness was exactly what he would have expected. He’d found it hard to keep from smiling, harder still to wrest his eyes from the swirling cape, stop himself from trying to ascertain the changes time had wrought upon the body beneath it. He couldn’t see very much; he found he didn’t care. She was Mary still and Mary completely.

  Odd that it had happened in the line of duty. Though you could argue that it was only on duty that he hadn’t been free to avoid the theaters, restaurants, and parks that were always so irritatingly thronged with British tourists.

  She’d entered the lobby at eight minutes past nine and disappeared by the time he’d handed over his message. She must have run upstairs to join her companions. A few white blossoms, too small to shed their scent, lay scattered on the stairway carpet.

  He’d wanted to scoop them up in his fingers. Alas, he’d been obliged to maintain his invisibility. Which it seemed he’d done quite adequately. Well, she hadn’t seen him, had she? Which was just as well for the discharging of his duty. Shocking, to think of the disruption any display of recognition would have effected in the flow of critical information between England and the other forces of order and legitimacy in Europe.

  He’d continued to follow his orders. To leave the theater and to make a tour of some of Paris’s darkest and most circuitous alleys until absolutely certain he hadn’t been followed.

  After which he’d proceeded to the baroness’s apartments, to explain that he wouldn’t be visiting her anymore because he’d fallen back in love with his wife. She’d laughed, cried, slapped him, and informed him he was no gentleman to invent so crude and fantastical a story. If he’d tired of her, well, c’est la vie. But he shouldn’t insult her by telling fairy tales.

  Following her advice, he said very little when he resigned his commission the next day. Keeping the fairy tales to himself, it seemed, in the service of a bloody stupid romantic scenario of instant reconciliation at a remote country inn.

  Just see what that got you.

  His tea was cold. The fire had burnt down in the grate. His irritating, peremptory, irresistible wife wanted nothing to do with him, an
d could still spout radical claptrap like a Jacobin. Doubtless she thought him as inflexible and autocratic as the old Eighth Marquess, not to speak of wild and stupid… The most ungoverned personage…

  Which was neither true nor to the point.

  He blinked, pleasantly surprised to hear himself think that. Nice to know that his thoughts weren’t all self-belittling ones. That he had a few things to be proud of, chief among them having earned the respect of the common soldiers under his command. Not immediately, sad to say-but he wouldn’t think about that right now.

  Still, he’d been a good soldier, and now he’d like to be a good civilian. Work for the good of the public order, for everyone’s good, including hers. Was that really so terrible?

  Amazing, even now, how much he cared about her good opinion. Not that it would make much difference, when she had a lover who was willing to be sued as an adulterer, so keen was the man on releasing her from their marriage. She must be pretty keen on Bakewell herself.

  And it seems I’ve agreed to set the divorce engine in motion. Set informants on her, as a magistrate might upon the rebellious men in his district.

  Damn her for goading him into agreeing to it.

  For he could hardly have admitted to a measure of affection that she manifestly didn’t feel.

  Even if they could still make each other laugh. Finish each other’s sentences. Make each other respond in other wonderful ways as well. One time only. Damn.

  He ducked his head back under the pillow, hearing once more the sighs-hell, the screams-he’d drawn from her. Remembering what he’d intended they’d be doing next. Imagining things they’d never done that they might have tried…

  Instead of sniping at and insulting one another for an hour. Raking up old memories. Morrice. That half-wit of an actress. Apology evidently not a possibility; where would one even begin?

  Leave it alone. What did it matter? If they’d managed to apologize, they would have found themselves butting heads on… oh, trivial matters, like the proper way to govern the English nation.