by Mary Balogh
As the days passed, however, she found her feelings changing. It was true that love had never done her much good. It had brought her very little happiness. A few weeks of courtship and two days of marriage did not provide enough happiness for a lifetime. There had been years of pain and emptiness. Perhaps a marriage based on affection and respect would prove more durable. Perhaps there would not be the peak of delirious joy that she had known with Robert. But there would not be the depths of despair, either.
Elizabeth tried, coolly and rationally, to imagine what marriage to William Mainwaring would be like. He would always treat her with kindness and respect, she was sure. She would always feel at ease and cheerful in his company. They would live at Ferndale most of the year, probably. That would certainly suit her, as she felt a deep affection for the people of the neighborhood. They might also spend some time at his estates in the north. She had often thought that she would like to see Scotland.
She pictured life as it would be if she declined the proposal. She would stay with the Rowes until Cecily married, she supposed. That might be for one or two years longer, certainly not more. And then she would seek a position elsewhere as governess or companion. It was the life she had planned for herself and quietly accepted until a few weeks previously. Now the prospect filled her with a nameless terror. Marriage would take away something of the loneliness and uncertainty of the years ahead. She would have a husband's companionship and, probably, children.
It was that final thought around which the whole decision finally hinged. Elizabeth passionately wanted children of her own, and she was six and twenty already. She could have those children if she married William Mainwaring. But it was for Robert Denning's children that her body ached.
Elizabeth prepared carefully for the ball. Whatever her decision was to be, she wanted to feel confident of her attractions on that night. She had Miss Phillips make her a dress of cream silk with an overdress of matching lace. Gold ribbons encircled the high waist, and gold embroidery made the hemline glitter. Most drastic of all, she had her hair cut short around the crown of her head and longer at the neck. Hair that had been wavy when long and thick now clustered in soft curls around her face and down her neck.
"Anyone looking at you and Cecily now," Mr. Rowe remarked at dinner the evening after she had had it done, "would be hard-pressed to decide which is the young girl and which the lady companion."
"Upon my soul," his wife agreed, "it is a vastly becoming hairdo, my dear Miss Rossiter."
"You will cast me quite in the shade, Beth," Cecily added cheerfully, "now that you have got rid of that dreadful old-maidish hair knot. You are so beautiful, I am mortally jealous."
The Rowes were among the last to arrive at the anniversary ball. Cecily was immediately borne away by an excited Anne Claridge. Elizabeth soon saw the reason why. There were two strange young men present, both passably good-looking, as well as three strange young ladies and a few older adults. She assumed that they were the relatives that Lucy had talked about the week before. It did not take long for Lucy to introduce all the young people to her two friends, or for each of them to be led triumphant into the dance by the male cousins.
But Elizabeth did not devote all her attention to these young people. She had immediately looked around for William Mainwaring. He was dancing with Lady Worthing, who had already left the receiving line when the Rowes arrived. He was looking extraordinarily handsome in the black evening clothes that became him so well. He saw her and smiled in her direction, but good manners kept his attention on the conversation of his partner.
Elizabeth watched him covertly. He was indeed a matrimonial prize: handsome, rich, well-mannered. He could not, generally speaking, be called charming. His manner with everyone but her was still somewhat stiff and remote. But she felt that the people of the neighborhood liked him and accepted him as master of Ferndale. She waited cheerfully until he should ask her to dance.
He did not ask her until a half-hour later. But he clearly had not forgotten his purpose. He suggested that, instead of dancing, they step out into the garden. They went out through the French windows and down the steps of the terrace to the flower-bordered lawn below.
"I shall not keep you long," he said to her halfhearted protest. "No harm will come to Miss Rowe in the meanwhile, not with that young sprig of the squire's glowering at her every partner."
"Ferdie?" she said, laughing. "He spends his time quarreling with her when they are together, and giving off sparks of jealousy when she talks to someone else."
"Well, I am not really interested in the course of their love," he said, grinning down at her. "I am interested in you, Miss Elizabeth Rossiter. I always noticed that you were beautiful, but tonight you are dazzling. You cast all the other ladies into the shade. Do I dare to hope that you have made this special effort for my sake?"
"I hate to dash your spirits, sir," she said archly, "but in reality I had to bolster my courage to come here tonight, knowing that I must have been the subject of much gossip in the last few weeks. Hence the new gown and the new hairdo."
"Well, they are most becoming, Elizabeth," he said, "whatever the reason for the change."
They strolled across the lawn in companionable silence until they arrived at a rustic bench beneath an ancient oak tree. By unspoken assent, they both sat down. Mr. Mainwaring took the hand that she had removed from his arm.
"Well, Elizabeth," he began, "have you decided what my fate is to be? Will you marry me?"
"I have told myself repeatedly that I should not," she replied slowly. "I like you very much, William, and believe with all my heart that you would be a good husband. But would I be a good wife? That is the question. I cannot bring you a whole heart, sir, and I fear that the future will always be clouded by the experiences of the past."
"Life is always like that," he said gently. "We are what we are because of what has happened to us in the past. We cannot change that and we should not wish to. I love you as you are, Elizabeth. Perhaps I would not love you as well if you had not met and loved and lost Hetherington. Perhaps the experience has given you the air of maturity and serenity that I so admire in you. Give me your future, my dear. I do not ask for the past.".
"Oh," she said, "I so much want to say yes, William. But I fear that I am not being fair to you."
"Let me worry about that," he said fiercely, and he rose to his feet, bringing her with him. Immediately she was in his arms, her body pulled against his. He sought and found her mouth in the darkness and kissed her with growing passion. Elizabeth deliberately arched her body against his, twined her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss. She deliberately noticed the sensations created by his hard thighs pressed against hers, her breasts crushed against his coat, his hands splayed across her back and finally pressing downward on her hips, his mouth moving, closed, over her own, his breath on her cheek.
There was nothing at all unpleasant about any of it. She could even imagine, without distaste, allowing his love-making to go further. But she was aware that she viewed it all as a spectator, almost as if she were still sitting on the bench observing herself in close embrace with Mr. Main-waring. She felt no spark of passion, could force none into her reactions. She removed her arms from around his neck and pushed gently against his shoulders.
"I am sorry," he said, releasing her immediately. "Did I offend you?"
"No, not at all, William," she replied, "but I would not wish to be seen."
"Why not?" he asked, and she could see in the moonlight that he was grinning again. "You are soon to be my wife, are you not?"
She stared at him blankly. "William," she said, "you forget that I am married already and that all these people know it. Even if we do marry, it cannot be until after Robert has divorced me, and that may take a long time."
"I think not," he said cheerfully. "I shall leave tomorrow for Hetherington Manor. Robert is there, I believe. I shall tell him frankly that we wish to marry. Someone with his rank and influence can obtain a
speedy divorce, I am sure. And surely he cannot have the least objection. He seemed quite indifferent to you when he was here."
Elizabeth winced and turned away. He grasped her by the shoulders.
"I could cut my tongue out, Elizabeth. I am sorry," he said. "I am afraid tact is not my strong point. I swear, my dear, that I shall give you the peace and happiness that you have missed during these years. Only say that you wish to marry me. Please."
Elizabeth leaned back against his tall frame and closed her eyes. "Oh, yes," she said, surrendering to the longing within her, "make me forget, William. Make me love you."
His arms encircled her from behind. "I shall leave in the morning,"he said, "and be back in three days at the most, my dear. I shall have you free soon, never fear."
They returned soon to the ballroom, Elizabeth very much aware of the duties she had been shirking.
Chapter 13
The older generation was somewhat disturbed when they found out that Mr. Mainwaring had left Ferndale.
"He is a quiet sort of a man," Mrs. Rowe told her family and Elizabeth at dinner, "but not bad-natured, I believe. I did think at first that he was conceited, but recently I have been convinced that he is merely shy. What do you think, Mr. Rowe?"
"Indeed, my dear," he replied, "I have not considered the question at all. But now that you press me to do so, I would say I find him a gentlemanly man, a worthy neighbor."
"It seems most extraordinary that he should leave Ferndale without telling anyone," his wife continued. "I wonder where he can have gone and why. And I wonder if he plans to return soon."
"If I had only had an inkling of his going," Mr. Rowe returned, "I should have backed him into the nearest corner, my love, and forced answers from him. As it is, I am afraid I cannot enlighten you."
"Oh, how absurd you are, Mr. Rowe," his wife said crossly. "I am merely showing a neighborly interest in the man."
Elizabeth did not join in the conversation, or tell anyone what she knew of Mr. Mainwaring's journey. She did not want anyone to know of her secret betrothal until Hetherington had sent her the divorce papers. And for all William's optimism, she believed that that could take quite a while.
Cecily too showed no inclination to join in her mother's curious wonderings. She and the other young people of the area were too full of enthusiasm over the presence of the young visitors at Squire Worthing's. While her mother talked, Cecily's head was full of a certain auburn-haired giant who had paid her lavish and quite outrageous compliments the night before. He had also told her that he and his sisters and cousins were staying for a week, perhaps longer.
Elizabeth had expected the following days to drag by as she waited for William to return and tell her how Hetherington had reacted to their request. But she had little time to brood. The young people began a frantic round of activities: riding, walking, shopping, picnicking in the daytime, playing cards, charades, and other games during the evening. Elizabeth accompanied Cecily everywhere and, by popular request, was made the sole chaper-one at the daytime activities. This proved to be a dizzying task as the group often showed a tendency to break up into smaller groups that wandered off in different directions. How did one watch a couple visiting a traveling library, while four others had gone for ices, and a few more to a haberdasher's? She finally solved the problem by laying down the rule that no group of fewer than three persons could go off on its own. Once that rule was accepted, she felt that she could relax her vigilance somewhat.
In the evenings, too, Elizabeth was expected to accompany Cecily. The elder Rowes usually went to the same house, glad of the excuse for increased visiting, but they usually settled with the older adults, playing cards or just gossiping. It was again up to Elizabeth to oversee the activities of the younger set and settle the disputes that frequently arose.
One of the most heated arguments arose when Ferdie and the auburn giant, captains of the two teams for charades, were picking their team members. Ferdie took loud exception to the giant's choosing Cecily. But Elizabeth pointed out that Ferdie had had first pick and had chosen Anne Claridge ("because she's the best actress in the whole county," he explained, exasperated) and that the giant was therefore free to choose whomever he would. Ferdie sulked and Cecily flirted for the rest of the evening. Elizabeth was forced to scold her at home later, when they were alone.
"I do not know how you feel about Mr. Harry Worthing," she said, "but you did set your cap at him in a rather vulgar manner tonight, Cecily."
"Pooh," said her charge, "I was merely cross with Ferdie, Beth. Why must he always behave as if I belong to him? I have never even kissed him more than two or three times, and he has never made me a declaration. I cannot resist teasing him when he becomes so possessive." She blushed suddenly. "I was not so outrageous, was I, Beth?"
"I am afraid you were, love," her companion replied, "and that young man seems quite taken with you."
"I really did not mean to encourage him so," Cecily said in dismay. "It is exciting to have new company, but I really have not meant to set my cap at anyone."
"I know that, love," Elizabeth said. "But I do not wish anyone to gain the impression that you are fast."
By the fourth day after William's departure, Elizabeth was exhausted. She had a headache by dinnertime and a tickling in the back of her throat that seemed to threaten a cold. She begged to be excused from that evening's gathering at the vicarage.
"Well, of course, my dear Miss Rossiter," Mrs. Rowe said, all solicitous concern. "You must go to your bed immediately. I shall have some warm milk and laudanum sent up to you and a hot brick for your feet. Don't worry about a thing, my dear. I shall watch Cecily tonight. I knew when I saw you outside yesterday without a pelisse that you would catch a chill. I told Mr. Rowe so."
"And so you did, my love," her husband agreed. "But since it was almost too hot yesterday to wear a dress even, I do not believe the absence of a pelisse caused the cold. I should say that Miss Rossiter is probably hagged from chasing after a pack of young devils for several days."
"Papa!" Cecily complained.
Elizabeth retired to her room, the relief of having a quiet evening to herself already easing the headache. She undressed and sat in her nightgown close to the empty fireplace. She drank the warm milk that Mrs. Rowe had sent up, but set aside the laudanum. She never felt rested after a drug-induced sleep; she would avoid it if she could. She smiled too at the hot brick, wrapped in cloths, that the maid placed between her bedclothes. She would certainly not retire until that had cooled off thoroughly. The night was almost too warm to allow of bedclothes at all.
She took John's latest letter from a drawer beside her bed and sat down to read it again. They missed her. Louise had begged him to tell her that she was very welcome to come home again to stay. Louise was in good health. The tiredness and nausea that had troubled her in the early months had almost disappeared now. The baby was a bundle of mischief. That very morning he had toddled into the flower garden and picked a magnificent bouquet of blooms for his mama. The only trouble was that there was not a stem among the whole bouquet, only heads. John himself had had to leave his office before the gardener was pacified.
Elizabeth smiled. What a lovely family John had. And how envious she was. Would life with William be that cheerful, that full of minor crises? By this time next year would she be married to him, expecting his child, perhaps? Inevitably, her thoughts passed to Robert and the pleasure he had seemed to take in Louise's company and in Jeremy's. She caught herself before she could become too deeply engrossed in the if-onlys. She had decided, on the night of the anniversary ball after accepting William's proposal, that she would no longer allow herself to brood on the past. She had to put Robert finally out of her mind. She would probably never see him again. She must forget him. She could not be fair to William if she did not. She got up and put the letter back in the drawer.
There was a tap on the door.
"Come in," Elizabeth called. When she saw the maid, she smiled a
nd pointed to the empty glass on the hearth.
"You have a visitor, ma'am," the maid said. "The butler told him you were unwell, but he said it was important. He is in the drawing room."
"Oh." Elizabeth had been counting the days until William's return, but she was still taken by surprise. What would he have to say? What had Robert said? Would he have sent any message for her? A message of regret, perhaps, like the very last words he had spoken to her? Would he perhaps have sent her a letter?
She dressed in feverish haste, selecting the pale-green silk with the lace inset that she and Louise had altered and that she had brought back with her. She brushed her hair so that the short curls bounced into place, and descended quickly to the drawing room. She smiled brightly as she opened the double doors.
Hetherington's eyes were a particularly cold shade of blue this evening, her mind registered as they met hers from across the room. In fact, his whole face and manner were stiff and cold. The smile faded from her own lips.
"Oh," she said foolishly.
His eyes traveled slowly and insolently down her body. "I am sorry to disappoint you," he said. "I see that you have prepared yourself for your lover. You look extraordinarily beautiful, Elizabeth. It is a shame to waste such a dazzling appearance on me, is it not?"
"What are you doing here?" she asked, finding the business of moving her lips and tongue unusually difficult.
His eyebrows rose. "My closest friend paid me a visit two days ago," he said frostily, "to ask if he might marry my wife. Is it surprising that I am here?"
"Your wife!" she said contemptuously, crossing the room toward him. "Why do you persist in this farce, Robert? I am not your wife. We are strangers."
"Did I imagine that wedding service we attended together in a small church in Devon?" he asked. "Did I imagine that we consummated the marriage in a very thorough manner for two nights?"
Elizabeth blushed hotly. "Such things do not make a marriage," she said. "Soon after that time you wanted me no more. For six years you have not cared if I lived or was dead. Are you now planning to put an obstacle in the way of my marriage to William?"