I protested. There was no need for him to stay with me: Both my maid, Marie, and Stanford, his valet, had accompanied us to Paris; the hotel had a large and attentive staff. For neither of us to appear at the opening we had come so far to celebrate, when only one of us was disabled, would be such a disappointment to Marguerite.
My husband dismissed all my objections. He had given Marie and Stanford the evening off; nothing could be more impersonal than the services of a hotel staff; he would be a heartless churl to abandon me when I was so ill—even Marguerite must agree.
“But why deprive yourself?” I asked. “It serves no purpose. All I want is rest.”
“And I intend to see that your rest is not disturbed,” he said. “However, you will be comforted to know that I shall stay very close at hand, should you require anything at all.”
He closed the door and left me.
Thus thwarted, I tried to anticipate the events that lay ahead and decided that I did not want to face them in only the nightclothes I was wearing or, at best, a dressing gown. As noiselessly as possible—and trusting that my husband would keep his word not to disturb me—I put on the dress I had removed earlier. From the sitting room, I could hear the occasional faint but crisp rustle of my husband’s newspaper.
At precisely a quarter to nine, I heard a rap at the outer door, followed by more rustling—as he presumably folded his newspaper and laid it down. I opened my door a crack. I hoped that as soon as she saw my husband, Madame Mansard might have the presence of mind to pretend that she had come to the wrong room.
And she did.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, monsieur,” I heard her say breathlessly. “What floor is this? I seem to have knocked at the wrong door.”
“Oh, I don’t think you are mistaken, mademoiselle,” was my husband’s cordial response. “You are the nurse Lady Camwell sent for, are you not?”
I held my breath.
“Do come in and sit down,” he continued disingenuously. “Her ladyship is sleeping now.”
Oh, the gall of the man! I bit my lip.
Madame Mansard seemed to hesitate.
“I am on my way out,” concluded my husband. “You are very late, you know. I have already missed the curtain, and I’ll be lucky to catch much of the second act.” He sounded piqued, as if she were to blame.
Madame Mansard stepped into the trap, and without making his exit, my husband closed the door.
That was when I left the wings and walked onto the stage of this private drama. Madame Mansard shot me an uncertain look.
“I am afraid that my husband has no intention of going anywhere,” I told her. “And therefore you and I can have no business with each other, after all. I am very sorry to have—”
“On the contrary,” interjected my husband firmly, “I suspect that we three have a great deal to talk about.” He turned to me. “Perhaps we should begin by discussing why you have gone to such lengths to arrange this rendezvous behind my back. I think it is high time to sit down and lay our cards on the table.”
But it was Madame Mansard who took control of the situation.
“But, of course,” she said with perfect aplomb. Then she turned to me. “May I put my coat in your bedchamber, Lady Camwell?” she asked.
I led her quickly to my bedroom, before my husband could stop us, and closed the door.
“Well, what shall we do?” she asked, removing her hat. “We had better be quick, I don’t think he will let us remain alone together for very long.”
“Does he know you?” I asked.
“He has never seen me before in his life.”
“Then you must leave,” I said. “There is no reason for you to become any further entangled in this sorry business. It was very kind of you to come here, but there is really nothing to be done, under the circumstances.”
“But what about you? I understand, from Madame Sorrel, that Sir Anthony has not treated you well at all in recent weeks. His suspicions are already very high—if I should leave now, without satisfying his curiosity, might it not provoke him against you further?”
“I hardly think so. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“I find I am rather tempted to take him up on his offer,” continued Madame Mansard thoughtfully. She began stripping off her gloves. “I would love to confront him with his sins. He seems awfully sure of himself. I wouldn’t mind knocking him down a bit. And I really don’t believe it could make things more unpleasant for you. Quite the contrary. But it is up to you, of course. The risk is yours.”
I considered this. There was something peculiarly intriguing about the notion of making my husband turn on the spit for at least a little while. I had occupied that unhappy position far too long.
My husband opened the door.
He looked excruciatingly uncomfortable.
“I beg your pardon,” he announced to Madame Mansard, “but I am afraid I cannot permit you to say anything further to Lady Camwell that you do not say to me as well.”
Madame Mansard and I exchanged glances.
“Well, if you really don’t mind,” I told her, “this may be rather interesting.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she assured me. “I expect it will give me great pleasure.”
She removed her coat, displaying a worn and paint-splattered dress. I liked it. I liked her.
With my husband at our heels like a sheepdog, we returned to the sitting room.
“Who the devil are you?” asked my husband ungraciously, as soon as Madame Mansard had taken her seat.
“I beg your pardon,” retorted our visitor coldly. “I have not come here to be interrogated by you. I am here to give Lady Camwell some information, which she has very generously agreed to let me share with you, as well. Although none of it will be a revelation to you.”
My husband frowned faintly as if he were trying to assess a most puzzling situation.
Madame Mansard turned to me. “May I speak frankly, Lady Camwell?”
“Oh, please do,” I said. “Be as frank as you like.”
“Lady Camwell,” she then proceeded, “I understand that, as a result of having discovered a secret in your past, your husband has adopted an attitude of… extreme disapproval. Would that be correct?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “Would you agree, Anthony?”
“Oh, I’m just here to listen,” he demurred lazily.
He had erased the frown from his face and now reclined in his armchair, with his fingertips pressed piously together.
“Do go on, please, madame,” I said.
“Yes, well, I wished only to bring to your attention, Lady Camwell, the sad fact that your husband’s morals and behavior—his utter disregard for you and for the vows he made to you, long, long before he learned your unhappy secret—are far more condemning than anything you may have done.”
This was what I was here for, and yet, as she spoke, I felt the unpleasant fiery shiver that comes when one begins to realize that one has been deceived. My husband, too, now looked very altered. He had straightened in his chair and was staring at his accuser keenly. His ordinarily pale face was suffused with color.
“I am afraid that I have learned a great deal about the baronet’s lamentable habits from my father,” continued Madame Mansard. “My father, with whom I am no longer on any terms at all, loves nothing more than to unearth—”
My husband leaned forward abruptly.
“I know who you are,” he said softly. “You are Germaine Poncet.”
“I was born Germaine Poncet,” was her calm reply. “But that is no longer my name. As I was saying, Lady Camwell, my father likes nothing better than to collect any scandalous information he can about the weaknesses and appetites of the very people who have made him rich. Often he is able to profit from these—as he did in your case—but I believe he truly enjoys them for their own sake. What he gleaned about your husband, for example, did not lend itself to blackmail, but it gave my father endless hours of amusement to think how muc
h money he was able to extort from you, Lady Camwell, so that you might retain your husband’s regard, while your husband was betraying you with every courtesan in London—or at any rate, all those who were blessed with black hair and small waists.”
My husband got up from his chair suddenly and went to the window. I would have liked to leave the room altogether, but I could not move. Yes, in the heat of his anger, he had said something about having mistresses, and yes, he had certainly implied that it had started long before he learned my bitter secret, but later… had he not assured me—that night when he had accused me of faithlessness while proclaiming his own fidelity—that none of it was so? I took a labored breath.
Now I realized that, in spite of all the evidence to suggest it, I had never truly believed that he had been with other women since he had married me. I had discounted his claims as something he had invented to taunt me; I had attributed even his erotic sophistication and his curious acquaintance with Madame Rullier to the experiences of bachelorhood.
“Lady Camwell,” I dimly heard Madame Mansard saying with real concern, “I hope I am not distressing you.” I strove to bleach all expression from my face. “Not at all.”
My husband turned from the long window. His own face wore its customary look of imperturbability. His gaze did not waver from mine; it was mine that glided on, back to Madame Mansard, while he lounged against the window hangings with an air of arrogant disregard.
“I don’t know, Lady Camwell, how much you wish to know. Your husband has had a series of mistresses—he never keeps any of them for long. He is said to be very good to them; no one has ever spoken ill of him in that respect. But he really did conduct himself disgracefully—”
“Disgracefully? Are those the morals your father taught you?” interrupted my husband with faint scorn.
“It is what my conscience tells me,” retorted Madame Mansard. “Perhaps you would do well to listen to your own more often. Cast your mind back to that villa in St. John’s Wood? Was not that a disgrace?”
“I’m afraid I am not certain of which one you are speaking. There have been several.”
“The one where the three sisters lived.”
A fond expression stole over my husband’s face.
“Oh, that one! What delightful young ladies they were. I used to call them the Three Graces. But I cannot think of anything, with respect to them, that I would term ‘disgraceful.’ Certainly not.”
“And those notorious billiard games at Mrs. Hawkes’s house? The players were very agile, to say the least, and the rules altered beyond belief!”
“Ah yes. The billiard games,” murmured my husband. His lips seemed to be fighting a smile, and he had a faraway look in his eyes.
“Is that the worst of it?” I asked quickly, when I had managed to steady my breath.
“Oh, it’s merely typical. No worse or better than the rest. Of course, there is the matter of the money he squandered on these women. There was one who had her nipples pierced to signify her devotion to him—”
“That was her idea, not mine,” said my husband. “I forbade it, in fact, but she had a mind of her own—it was one of her greatest charms. And I will admit that, once the deed was done, I found the results utterly bewitching.”
“And gave her those gold rings set with diamonds to wear in them—”
“That’s right, I did,” reflected my husband cheerfully. “I had forgotten about the diamonds. The rubies, although not as costly, were so much more becoming. They were my favorites.”
“—while you left your wife to languish alone in the country, dressed in rags,” pressed his relentless prosecutor.
My husband whitened as if he had been struck.
“I think I have learned as much as I wish to know,” I interposed hastily. “There is only one other thing, a small thing, really. When did it start? Or have these always been his habits?”
“They were once—before he began courting you,” said Madame Mansard. “After that—and even after the honeymoon, for a week or two—he led an exemplary life. But it appears to have been one of those sad cases of the leopard who cannot change his spots.”
The leopard, having recovered himself, still leaned against the window, now looking as if he had been richly entertained.
“Thank you, madame,” I whispered through stiff lips.
“Well then, if there is nothing more to be said on the subject, I will leave you,” announced Poncet’s daughter, getting to her feet.
I pulled myself to mine.
“Thank you so much,” I said, forcing myself to show greater warmth as I followed her into my bedroom, where she collected her things. “It was kind and generous of you to offer me your help. If there is anything I can ever do for you—”
“I hate what my father did to you,” she said bluntly. “And he’s no better—” She jerked her chin in the direction of the room we had left. “But what a cool one! How can these men be such hypocrites!”
Unfortunately, as soon as she had gone, my facade began to crumble. My throat felt knotted, my eyes burned.
“Well, I can’t imagine what the point of that was,” declared my husband airily, once I had closed the door on the astonishing visitor. “A very admirable young woman. Who would have dreamed that that worm-eaten old tree could have produced such wholesome fruit? But it’s not as if she told you anything I had not already told you myself.”
“Yes, what a pity. I was rather hoping there might be something about your mother or a sheep.”
“No such luck, I’m afraid. Even my tastes aren’t that wide-ranging.”
“And you never did tell me everything!” I cried stupidly. “Billiards, for God’s sake! I’ve never seen you go near a billiard table!”
He started to laugh.
“Once I would have dearly loved to teach you my way of playing billiards,” he said. “But, sad to say, you have never displayed the smallest enthusiasm for such pastimes.” I opened my mouth to protest that he had never broached the subject with me, but I closed it again when he added, in withering tones, “Until recently, of course.” He threw me a meaningful smile, but it faded quickly as he demanded, “Whatever are you doing now?”
“I’m going out. This room is an inferno.”
“Let me open the windows. You can’t possibly think of going outside. The air is very damp, and I believe it has begun to rain.”
“Oh, what do I care!” I cried, throwing my coat over my shoulders.
“Then I will go with you,” said my husband.
“What is the point of that?”
“You do not look well,” he replied, “and I don’t think much of your walking about alone at this hour—not in the state you appear to be in.”
“Oh, do what you will,” I said. “But if you must follow me about like a gaoler, at least be good enough not to talk.”
He took his umbrella, and we made our exit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I walked blindly along the Jardin des Tuileries to the Place de la Concorde, where I turned toward the river. A fine rain was falling, like a balm to my blazing cheeks. I did not take shelter under my husband’s umbrella, nor did he press himself upon me; at length he closed the umbrella. The soft, vaporous rain now fell upon his uncovered head —for in his haste to follow me, he’d left his hat behind—as he continued to walk silently beside me.
I could not unravel my tangled emotions. The help I had been secretly hoping for from Poncet’s daughter—some scandal so far beyond mere adultery that I could petition for a divorce—had not been forthcoming; surely that was the reason for my misery. But would my turmoil have been less if she bad told of some truly depraved act, such as I had spoken of to my husband after she had left us. No. In truth, i was relieved that at least she’d had nothing of quite that turpitude to relate.
But that meant, of course, that I was still bound to him. My husband had taken the slight little weapon Madame Mansard had handed me, and he had snapped it across his knee. Far from be
ing embarrassed or chagrined enough by her account of his misdeeds to recognize the hypocrisy of punishing me for mine, he had relished each charming memory as it was rekindled.
And I, too vain and self-absorbed to have dreamed that he had flung himself into such pursuits, was unhappier than ever.
I thought again of his threat to have me painted. Now I acknowledged at last what I had always known—that he possessed far too much pride to do any such thing. Perhaps he had developed that hauteur in defense against his mother’s representation that to marry a Camwell, a mere baronet, had been for her, the daughter of a marquess, an act of enormous condescension. Certainly I knew of no qualities that particularly distinguished the Camwell family, other than its old name and its great wealth. I had concluded long ago that my husband’s deceased father must have been a virtual half-wit to have married so cold and unloving a woman as the present Lady Whitstone.
Perhaps my husband had come to the same conclusion about his parents’ marriage. Perhaps this was why he had managed to blind himself to his own wife’s lovelessness and why he had reacted so violently when the truth could no longer be denied.
But if he had been as blind as he had appeared, then he had been idling away the hours in those mysterious villas and enjoying those infamous games of billiards with his ruby-breasted mistresses even while he yet believed that I had married him for love.
And he—whose fundamental honesty I had never doubted—had lied to me.
These bitter thoughts carried me down the Quai des Tuileries, along the lovely, silent river where Frederick had drowned. A few tears scalded my cheeks, but they were cooled by the sweet, small rain that still blew softly down. I walked farther—along the Quai du Louvre, past that immense and dazzling palace where my husband’s courtship had begun, past the Pont des Arts and on to the Pont-Neuf.
There I stopped and ensconced myself upon the stony bench within one of the bridge’s graceful, curving bays, where lovers linger to whisper and kiss when the nights are warm and the weather fair. Turning to rest my arms upon the parapet, I stared up the river toward the Île de la Cité, where the forbidding walls of the Conciergerie, that severe medieval castle, press so heavily upon the island’s edge.
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