Grahame, Lucia

by The Painted Lady

  I could not speak. I could not believe my ears. I knew I was scarcely entitled to such kindness, but even so—to think that there existed another human being who comprehended my weaknesses and temptations and could yet have such faith in me made me feel faint.

  “The fault was not Anthony’s. It was entirely mine,” I said at last in a low voice, although I still could not imagine any honorable means by which I might have extricated myself from Poncet’s pincers.

  “Nonsense. I don’t condemn you for marrying Tony no matter what your reasons were. He can be very… persuasive. And the pressures upon you must have been overwhelming. Besides, he worshipped you, he wanted to lay the world at your feet, and seemed to demand so little in return. I expect you felt you would be doing him a favor and imagined that he could be satisfied with something less than love.”

  I could only blink my astonishment.

  “But he, on the other hand, has everything to answer for. He had choices which you had not—that is the meaning of great wealth, it gives one infinite choices. And power over others. He understood the dangers—he was born to the knowledge that the best of women may be compelled to marry for the most sordid reasons having nothing to do with love. He had trained himself to some degree to use his wealth in a slightly more responsible way than merely to indulge his whims and his appetites. And then all that self-discipline collapsed. He wanted you, he had the power to buy you—ergo, he did.”

  This was more than I could absorb.

  “You are correct,” I said at last, “in surmising that your cousin has discovered there was far more truth in your warnings to him than in the vows I made when I married him.”

  “Well, it is as I suspected,” Lord Marsden said with a sigh. “I was certain that nothing else could have reduced Tony to the state he was in when I ran into him in Victoria Station. However, he seems to have recovered his amour propre rather quickly. I must warn you, Fleur,” he continued, “blameless as I may hold you, he will never forgive you. It is not in his nature. But one day he will come to his senses enough to acknowledge the not-so-shining part that he played. And that will be a very bleak day for Sir Anthony Camwell, for if he cannot forgive you, how can he forgive himself?”

  Perhaps my husband was vulnerable on this score. I remembered the night he had come to my room and confessed his sense of guilt at having pressed his suit too soon.

  “And that sad day will come, I guarantee it,” continued the viscount. “But it seems, at present, to be rather a long way off. And in the meantime, I’m certain that my young cousin is cheerfully occupied in finding ways to make your life a misery to you and to remind you of how unworthy you are to bear his name.”

  “Something like that,” I admitted. “You are very kind,” I added. His kindness had finally vanquished the tremors in my hands. I took a deep breath and poured myself some tea. “I fear I have not behaved well, either,” I confessed, “I think perhaps I have been far more unkind than…”

  Than what? Than my husband deserved? He had shown me no mercy. Surely he did not deserve any.

  “… than I need have been,” I concluded limply.

  “Unlike your strong-willed husband,” resumed Lord Marsden, “I have no illusions about my abilities to solve every dilemma. Yours I find particularly poignant because it was so predictable and yet I did nothing to avert it.” He brooded for a moment or two. “It’s a very painful thing to witness—two people, both so dear to me, who have succeeded in bringing only the keenest unhappiness to each other. What is to be done?”

  “Yes, what is to be done,” I mused, making it a comment upon the hopelessness of the situation rather than a question.

  “Of course, there is only one truly civilized solution,” declared the man of the world. It seemed that he had given the matter a great deal of thought. “A divorce would, of course, be unthinkable, and a legal separation would cause nearly as great a scandal; but I know that if Tony is brought to reason, you will be able to work out some polite arrangement that will keep you apart as much as possible, while preserving the social niceties.”

  I shuddered, almost imperceptibly.

  “You don’t approve,” observed the viscount.

  “It seems so… cold,” I confessed, staring at the carpet.

  “It does, doesn’t it. But surely it can’t be any worse than what I suspect you are enduring at present.” He hesitated. “You need not go on like this, Fleur,” he said at last. “I can put an end to it.”

  I lifted my eyes. My cheeks were hot.

  “You can?” I whispered. “How?”

  “I have told you that Tony’s day of reckoning will come. He knows only too well that nothing good ever comes from squirming away from unpleasant truths. In the end, he will be compelled to face up to his own responsibility. When he has done so, his mood may not be charitable, but it will no longer be retaliatory. If he is left to himself, that may take weeks or even months. But if I were to intercede, if I were to put it to him bluntly, he would be forced to examine his conscience—sooner perhaps than he would like, but he is far too honest to turn away from what he must know is the truth.”

  I considered this carefully. If it were true, it would lay all my worst fears to rest, it would disarm my husband’s threats, and free me from his dominion.

  I heard my husband’s voice. How will you use your liberty? and crimsoned, remembering the answer I had given him.

  I pushed the thought away and considered, instead, Lord Marsden’s great influence with my husband. I had never inquired as to its roots, but now I saw the reason for it. With such a heartless mother and, presumably, a weakling for a father—my husband had never spoken of the man, no doubt he was ashamed—how hungrily any child would have turned toward the aura of thoughtful, calm, worldly wisdom that Lord Marsden radiated.

  “Well,” I said carefully, “if I may reserve the right to accept your offer of help in the future, I should like to do so. But that is all. For the moment, I must ask you not to intercede on my behalf. I am very grateful to you, of course— immensely grateful. But for the present, I would prefer that you say nothing of this to Anthony.”

  “Certainly not, my dear, if that is your wish,” said Lord Marsden, looking rather surprised. “But I can’t imagine why you would refuse. I assure you, Fleur, Tony is not so unjust that he would blame you for confiding in me.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just that… well, Anthony is not close to many people. I know that you love him, and I believe you are one of the very few who are truly dear to him—the dearest of all, I think. How could I jeopardize that by putting you in a position where you might even appear to be taking my side, now that we are so divided? You say he would not blame me for confiding in you, and perhaps that is true. But he might well feel subtly injured by you, in spite of himself, and that would be a pity. I really believe, Neville, that the wisest and kindest thing you can do for both of us is simply to continue to be the loving, trusted, and unquestionably loyal friend to him that you have always been. No one who knows you can avoid being influenced by your goodness—Anthony least of all. You have no reason to worry about me. Your compassion and your generosity have done more to raise my spirits than I can say.” And I will try to be more deserving of them, I vowed silently.

  Lord Marsden gave me a long, searching look as he rose to his feet to leave.

  “I think perhaps you have a warmer heart than you give yourself credit for,” he said at last.

  I held out my hand. He took it, bowed slightly, and left me feeling both comforted and troubled by his visit. In the end, I went outside to walk off my turmoil in Hyde Park.

  By the time I had taken myself back to Grosvenor Square, I was resolved to curb my tongue and to extend toward my husband some of the same generosity with which Lord Marsden had showered me.

  But how speedily do the best of intentions crumble under the smallest provocations!

  When my husband returned late in the afternoon, he quickly undermined his cousin
’s salutary effect on my temper. He found me in my sitting room, where I had once again taken sanctuary, and wordlessly handed me an envelope. My first observation was that it had been opened; my second, that it bore Marguerite’s return address. Nothing could have made me feel more violated; for a moment I bit back speech, out of fear of the rage that might otherwise spew from my lips.

  At last I remarked calmly, “I never dreamed that you would stoop to open my letters. That’s a new low—even for you.”

  “Perhaps you ought to turn the envelope,” was my husband’s equally calm rejoinder.

  I did.

  It was addressed to Sir Anthony Camwell, Bt, and Lady Camwell, at Charingworth, and had been dispatched thence to Grosvenor Square.

  My husband, still standing over me, said nothing more. Perhaps he was expecting an apology, but an apology would have been absurd. Had not he himself boasted that I had no idea what he was capable of—how could I possibly be faulted for having assumed the worst?

  I drew out the letter and read it. It was very brief— merely an invitation to the first night of Marguerite’s new play, which was to open in Paris at the end of the week. The tone was cheerfully impersonal.

  I was nearly overcome with emotion at my faithful friend’s instantaneous response to the veiled appeal of my recent letter to her. I laid down the invitation carefully, without looking up. I did not want to let my husband catch my expression.

  “Would you care to go?” he asked.

  I composed my face and lifted my head.

  “Do my wishes matter to you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” he conceded with a smile, and added, “I have decided to accept the invitation.”

  “For both of us?” I asked, trying not to reveal my eagerness.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Aside from the fact that I have always enjoyed Madame Sorrel’s performances, I am curious to discover what has inspired this unusual invitation, and there is not much likelihood of that, I think, if I don’t bring you along.”

  It was true—the invitation was very much out of the ordinary. Marguerite, although she thought very highly of herself, was completely lacking in the kind of vanity that assumes one’s friends must be eager to witness one’s every triumph.

  “Perhaps it is a particularly fine play,” I suggested.

  My husband’s lips curved. He picked up the invitation and pointed to the play’s title. L’Embuscade. The Ambush. It could only be yet another of those broad farces in which Marguerite invariably shone.

  “That must be it,” he agreed, with an expression which clearly told me that he found my explanation wanting.

  He strolled off toward the doorway.

  “Anthony,” I called softly just as he reached it.

  He turned.

  “I am sorry,” I told him with difficulty, “that I accused you of opening my letters.”

  His response was not encouraging.

  “So am I,” he said impassively, and left me to ponder his meaning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We dined out a good deal that week and entertained a little as well. Although we did not go so far as to wave white flags at each other and negotiate an armistice, there was a notable cessation of hostilities.

  Perhaps I resisted the temptation to provoke my husband merely because I did not want to give him any excuse to deprive me of the têtê à têtê with Marguerite for which I so desperately longed.

  Or perhaps I had been softened by the knowledge that, no matter how deeply I might have affronted their own high notions of honorable and decent behavior, I still had friends. I knew now that neither Neville nor Marguerite would abandon me to my husband’s untender mercies. This was a great comfort, for his apparent interest in the trip to Paris still gave me moments of alarm. What seemed inconceivable in the light of day, or when he was smiling at me in company across a gleaming, candlelit table, seemed perfectly and horribly possible in the dark.

  He treated me now, in public, with an air of remote, amused indulgence. He was never unkind; he was never affectionate. He appeared to enjoy the attention and admiration that I—or, at any rate, my striking new wardrobe-— attracted wherever we went. But enjoyment, I came to realize, is not quite the same thing as happiness. When we were alone, he maintained a much chillier distance.

  In Paris we stayed once again at the regally appointed Hotel Continental on the Rue de Castiglione. But my husband had booked a larger suite than the one we had shared at the start of our honeymoon; this time, we lay in separate bedrooms.

  Marguerite and Théo called upon us the morning following our arrival. Marguerite was so charming to my husband that I almost feared she had taken his side. Théo, who was looking very well, was even worse. He behaved with so much bonhomie that I was sure my husband must suspect it of being false. Yet my husband repaid him in kind, and soon —as if they had known each other all their lives—they were having a spirited argument about Puvis de Chavannes, whose paintings my husband admired considerably more than Théo did. They moved on to discuss their mutual enthusiasm for the works of Henri Rousseau.

  The delightful visit was so brief that I barely had time to recover from my dumbstruck surprise before our guests departed. My fears that my friend had gone over to my enemy’s camp were routed when, as she stepped forward to give me a final hug, Marguerite pressed a tightly folded bit of paper into my palm. I slipped it into my sleeve and returned her embrace with far more emotion than the occasion seemed to call for.

  Perhaps my husband had recognized that indeed something was afoot, for after Marguerite and Théo’s departure, he appeared suddenly reluctant to leave me alone. But as soon as we returned to our suite after luncheon, I declared myself to be very tired and in need of a nap.

  “How I wish I were less fatigued. I was so looking forward to wandering about Paris. You won’t go out and leave me here alone, will you, Anthony?” I added plaintively, for I wished to make certain that he would not slip out and meet with Poncet while I was feigning sleep.

  “Certainly not,” he assured me to my relief. “I would not dream of leaving you alone.”

  Unfortunately, this uxorious concern would soon prove to be my undoing.

  Once I was safely sequestered behind the door of my bedroom, I drew Marguerite’s note from its hiding place.

  “Darling Fleur,” she had written, “Do not come to the theater tonight. Your upstanding husband must come alone —for I would be highly insulted if both of you were to absent yourselves! You, however, are to plead a severe headache or any convincing ailment that is temporarily debilitating but unlikely to kill you!

  “I have the impression from your letter that your husband has decided to occupy the moral high ground with respect to you, but I have discovered a few things that should speedily dislodge him from a position he has no right to adopt! Do not be distressed, I beg you, to learn that I have heard these things from Madame Germaine Mansard, nee Poncet. She turned up as the scene painter on a production for which Théo did the playbill. We have become very good friends! Believe me, Fleur, she is a young woman of fine character and has the greatest sympathy for you. She will come to your room tonight at a quarter to nine to deliver what I hope may be a useful weapon against your husband.

  “Forgive me, darling. I know how all this must pain you, but warfare is never pleasant, is it? And you will discover that your husband has no business accusing you of violating his trust!”

  She was correct about one thing: I did not like the idea of once again looking into the limpid eyes of Germaine Mansard—née Poncet—eyes which had already seen too much, no matter how stoutly they might refuse to pass judgment. But I was in no position to refuse any weapon that might fall into my hands, and, to be honest, I was also ravaged by a perverse curiosity about what Madame Mansard might reveal.

  When, after several hours, I still had not emerged from my bedroom, my husband finally came to rouse me. I sat up in bed and passed my hand over my forehead.

  “I can’t im
agine what is wrong with me,” I murmured faintly.

  “You don’t feel well?” he inquired.

  “Not at all. The Channel crossing was so trying. And then that endless train ride. But I had hoped to feel better once we were settled here. It’s unthinkable that I should miss Marguerite’s first night after having traveled so far to see it!”

  “Unthinkable, yes,” he agreed, looking at me with an odd smile.

  I sank back into the pillows. It was not difficult to look convincingly piteous: All I had to do was to contemplate the possibility that he might absolutely insist upon my going with him to the theater.

  Fortunately, he was not yet so hardened a cynic that my performance failed to move him. As he surveyed me, his face grew increasingly troubled, and finally he repeated, with evident anxiety, the question which now seemed to prey most heavily upon his mind.

  “Are you quite certain that you are not with child?”

  His drawn look and his low tone told me, beyond any doubt, of the abhorrence with which he regarded this possibility.

  At this realization, all my good resolutions failed me.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said sharply, momentarily forsaking the kidskin gloves.

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Well,” I pointed out, “it would be practically a miracle, wouldn’t it?”

  His face darkened. And then he began to laugh.

  “What a way you have of expressing yourself,” he remarked. “You really have no heart at all, have you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Have I offended your sense of propriety?”

  He sighed. “Oh no, Fleur,” he said, looking down at the floor and shaking his head with amusement. “That is not what I was thinking at all.” He lifted his gaze. “Perhaps you ought to rest a while longer. You may feel stronger by evening.”

  Some time during the evening, however, I began to feel a good deal worse, for—after agreeing that I appeared far too frail to get up from my bed; after arranging to have a tureen of soup sent up to me from the kitchens; and after descending to the hotel dining room to take his own meal—my husband returned, commented that I looked more peaked then ever, berated himself for having left my side, and declared that he could not even think of doing so for a second time.