Grahame, Lucia

by The Painted Lady

  “… and you can’t let the rough patches get the better of you,” Guy was saying.

  “Rough patches!” I said with a laugh, still thinking of the hardest stretch of that old life.

  Then I realized with a jolt that Guy was still, of course, speaking of my present marriage.

  “Why do you sound so bitter?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath, decided to tailor my answer to his question rather than to my private thoughts, and confessed what seemed now well on the way to becoming common knowledge rather than a dark secret.

  “I did not marry Anthony for love.”

  “You!” cried Guy. “Madame All-for-Love married for a baser reason!”

  “I felt I had no choice,” I murmured, crimson with embarrassment.

  “And he found you out!” pursued Guy. “And now you find that you are developing a certain tenderness for him!”

  “Well, perhaps it is something like that,” I admitted cautiously.

  “Well, then tell him so, for heaven’s sake, you silly creature. Very likely, he’ll be overjoyed. I’m sure you won’t have to humble yourself half as much as you think. Harry always had the upper hand with me, you know, until I refused to take it any longer. The happiest day of my life was the day he swallowed his pride and told me that he would follow me anywhere.”

  “I am so very glad for you, Guy. No one deserves happiness more than you.”

  “I would be even happier,” said Guy, “if I believed you would take my advice and go to work to mend your bridges instead of burning them beyond any hope of repair.”

  “I will confess, I have been considering it,” I admitted nervously.

  “Well, that’s better, then,” said Guy cheerfully. “Let me know what comes of it. Here is my address in Paris.”

  I took the precious bit of pasteboard and tucked it into my purse.

  “You know, Guy,” I said, “I am so sorry I failed to answer all those letters of yours so long ago. Someday I’ll tell you the reason. But not today. Today I will take a leaf from Frederick’s book: We have so little time that we ought to dwell on only happy subjects.”

  “Yes, that was Frederick to the hilt,” murmured Guy with a smile.

  Much too soon his train arrived.

  “Let me know how it goes with Camwell,” were his last words to me.

  My husband was nowhere to be seen when I returned home from my têtê à têtê with Guy.

  “Will you take tea upstairs or in the drawing room, my lady?” inquired Mrs. Phillips.

  “Oh, in the drawing room,” I said absently. “Where is Sir Anthony?”

  “He has gone out. It seems that young Percy Sparling has been shooting at our doves while the master was away, so he has gone off to have a word with Lord Sparling about it.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. How unfortunate to meet with nothing but trouble as soon as one crosses one’s own threshhold! But I was very glad the poor doves had so ready a champion. “Then I will have my tea upstairs, after all.”

  I drifted up the stairway to my sitting room. The brief encounter with Guy had left me hungering for more of the intimacy that only the truest of friendships can offer. I decided to write to Marguerite.

  I sat down at my writing table and had committed a few sentences to paper when there was a knock at the door. I supposed it would be Ellen with my afternoon tea. But it was not. It was my husband.

  “Is it all settled then, about the doves?” I asked. How I wished my voice did not betray my nerves!

  “Oh, it never is,” said my husband with a sigh. “I am afraid eternal vigilance is the price of having Sparlings for neighbors.”

  “What a trial that must be.”

  “It is, indeed. Lord Sparling is inclined to forgive his son’s trespasses. ‘Boys will be boys,’ is his litany—so long as it is his boy and not someone else’s!”

  This was true; in his role as local magistrate, Lord Sparling seldom forgave the trespasses of less exalted youths.

  “I swear, Fleur,” my husband was saying, “I would set mantraps throughout that copse if only there were no danger of catching something more innocent than that Sparling brat.”

  I considered the problem presented by Percy Sparling— how I wished I might have been able to present my husband with some neat solution to it. But nothing glimmered in my brain. All I could think of was what a sorry homecoming my husband had received. Well, at least the dogs must have slobbered over him enthusiastically.

  At this point Mrs. Phillips herself arrived with the tea tray.

  “Would you please send up a second cup, Mrs. Phillips?” I said quickly. And when she had left, “You will stay and have tea with me, Anthony, won’t you?”

  “If you wish,” said my husband after a pause, as if he were both bestowing a favor and accepting one.

  I thought he, too, seemed somewhat ill at ease. What had brought him to my room? Now that he had fallen silent on the subject of the doves, he seemed to have been struck dumb altogether. Perhaps he was waiting for the second teacup to be delivered, that he might then speak without fear of interruption. What was taking Mrs. Phillips so long?

  I began to babble rather inanely about my pleasure at seeing Guy once again. Perhaps it would have relieved any jealousy my husband might have felt had I told him about Harry and the history of my friendship with Guy, but to have done so, without having received Guy’s express permission, would have been to betray a confidence. And, in any case, why would my husband be jealous? He hated me; he wanted nothing more to do with me.

  Still, the more I chattered on, the more I began to feel that even if the friendship between Guy and me had not unsettled my husband at the outset, it must seem as suspect by now as it would have been had I assiduously avoided the subject. There was nothing for it now but to take the bull by the horns and confess to my husband that what had brought me to the station was my feeble hope of salvaging our marriage. Yet I must wait for that second, laggard teacup!

  At last Ellen arrived with the overdue bit of porcelain. I fairly snatched it from her hands, told her that we wanted nothing more, and, as the door closed behind her, filled the cup for my husband and handed it to him.

  “I would like to assure you, Anthony,” I said in words stilted by embarrassment and emotion, “in the event that you may have suspected otherwise, there is nothing more than friendship between Mr. Hazelton and me, nor could there ever be.”

  “Why have you felt it necessary to tell me that?” asked my husband. There was no warmth in his voice, but neither did he sound particularly hostile.

  “I was concerned that you may have been unpleasantly surprised by the sight of us.”

  “Not at all. To see such a smile on your face is always a surprise, but never an unpleasant one.” This he said in a most chillingly ironic tone. “Do you think I would be so small and mean as to resent the man who put it there?”

  Oh, that stung! How could I persuade him that yes, indeed, I had been overjoyed at the sight of Guy, but that the tremulous eagerness which had possessed me all day and had at last impelled me to set out for the station had been for him, and him alone.

  “Anthony,” I said, blushing, “there is so much I must say to you. Do you think—”

  But it was so difficult to find the words. I set down my cup, rose from my chair, and turned my back on him to look out across the lawns to the river, as if I might see the proper phrases floating past me downstream and reach out to pluck them from the water. How could I ask for what he had told me he could never give? Even the thought of begging for that impossible forgiveness brought tears to my eyes.

  “Do I think what?” said my husband softly. He had risen, too, and was standing behind me.

  “Oh,” I said with a little sob.

  His hands, the hands I longed for, dropped lightly to my shoulders. I gasped, wincing involuntarily with pain from that still fresh bruise I had momentarily forgotten. I jerked away and turned toward him. He saw the tears on my face.

 
“I beg your pardon,” he said coolly.

  He was moving toward the door.

  “Wait!” I said.

  At the doorway he turned.

  “No,” he said gently. “I’ve waited too long, Fleur.”

  And with that he was gone.

  The courage and hope with which Marguerite and Guy had infused me did not fare well under this latest blow. But what would my good angels have thought of me if I were to give up so easily, even in the face of that latest rejection?

  I contemplated the curious fluctuations in my husband’s manner.

  Could I discount the slim possibility that he was, in fact, as open to a reconciliation as I was? He had reached out to me, as I had to him, and it was no fault in either of us that the attempt had failed. Only an unlucky accident had deflected me from my purpose.

  The dinner table yet awaited us, with its bright flowers and its carefully orchestrated menu.

  But when I arrived in the dining room, the table, to my dismay, was set for only one. I swallowed my pride and asked the footman to send Mrs. Phillips to me.

  In the glare of the chandelier, it seemed to me that both Mrs. Phillips and the flowers had a crestfallen look.

  “Why does Sir Anthony not dine here?” I asked her.

  Her face became inscrutable.

  “He is in his study, my lady. He has a great deal of work to do tonight and asked to have his dinner sent to him there. He does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Did I imagine that little flicker of compassion in her face?

  “Work!” I said, forgetting myself. “What ‘work’ is it that cannot wait even an hour or two!”

  “I’m sure I do not know, my lady,” she replied in such an opaque way that I rather imagined she did know but that not even the threat of the rack could have persuaded her to reveal it.

  I pushed back my chair and started to rise. I had lost my appetite completely, and I could not bear the thought of sitting in that huge hall alone, staring down one delicacy after another until the interminable torture ended.

  Mrs. Phillips gazed with bleak eyes at the beautifully laid table.

  I sank back into the chair.

  “Well,” I said, “you may as well tell them to bring on the soup.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Although I could eat very little, I scrupulously sampled each painstakingly prepared dish: the saumon, sauce verte, the Châteaubriand aux pommes…. If anything could have tempted a sluggish appetite, it was these.

  I barely tasted them.

  My head was splitting when I left the table. However, I did not go to my bedroom. I went to the library, where I picked up one dismal book after another and stared at meaningless pages of type. I heard the clock strike ten… quarter past… half past… and then my eyes fell shut.

  “There you are,” said my husband. He sounded surprised.

  I pulled myself upright, too befogged and uncertain of myself to speak.

  “I’ve been wanting to have a word with you,” he said, “but it is already past eleven, and I thought you would be in bed by now. Is it too late?”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  I thought he seemed as ill at ease as he had been earlier in my sitting room. Again he appeared to be at a loss for words.

  “You will be pleased to know that I have lost the taste for my exercise in revenge,” he said finally. His voice was flat and dismissive; his eyes were hard and distant. As I stared at him, bewildered, he turned and disappeared into his study, whence he shortly returned with a check folded inside a sheet of notepaper which bore the address of Smalley & Brown, his London solicitors. The check was for a princely amount.

  “You may leave anytime,” he said. “I have instructed my solicitors to send you checks for this amount every quarter. You need only keep them informed of your whereabouts.”

  Even if words had come to me, I could not have spoken them. I was mute with shock.

  “I return to London tomorrow and shall stay there until you are gone from Charingworth.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp little stack of bank notes. “Here is something to help you on your way. How much time do you want to make arrangements to leave? Will two or three weeks suffice?”

  “Two weeks will be more than enough,” I managed faintly.

  “If the money I have arranged for you to receive proves to be inadequate to your needs, or if you wish to communicate with me for any other reason, I must ask you to do so through Smalley & Brown.”

  “Was it to tell me this that you came to my room today?” I said after another long silence.

  “Yes,” he said.

  He seemed reluctant to meet my eyes.

  I waited, longing for him to hold out one glimmer of hope. He said nothing more.

  “Then why did you put your hands on me?” I whispered at last.

  He turned back to me. The hard, distant gaze was gone; now I saw that gentler look which I’d glimpsed in his eyes when he’d left me at the station. I hadn’t known how to interpret it then; I soon learned that all it expressed was pity.

  “It was a… a reflex, if you will,” he said. “I felt sorry for you. You were trying so hard to be pleasant this afternoon—I could see what an effort it was for you. It made me realize what a scoundrel I’ve been to hold on to you for the sake of exacting my revenge. That’s over, Fleur,” he concluded. He sounded exhausted. “I want you to go.”

  After a while I said, with a coolness that rivaled his own, “I suppose you will want a divorce then.”

  He shrugged.

  “I have given you the justification you need,” he said. “Whether or not to use it is entirely up to you. For my part, I have no wish to marry again. My experience of marriage has done nothing to recommend the institution to me. Good night.”

  He turned quickly and left the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I took what little clothing I thought I would need, but I could not bring myself to take the diamond collar, which had been mysteriously restored to the case in my dressing room, nor any of my husband’s other gifts of jewelry, except for the broken chains of white brass.

  There was very little that I carried away from Charingworth—a few old dresses, some books and sketches, and my father’s last letter to me. I left a note for Mrs. Phillips with instructions to have my remaining possessions shipped to Marguerite’s house in Paris.

  Shortly before my departure, I took Andromeda out for a long ride. To her patient ears, I confided all my confusions and regrets. I knew it was foolish, but I didn’t care. She was steadfastly unjudgmental and offered me no useless advice. Finally my eyes blurred, so I slipped from her back and stood against her with my arms wrapped around her neck and tears sliding down my face, until she whinnied softly and bent her lovely head to nuzzle me.

  Watkins gave me a curious look when I returned. I supposed my eyes were still red. He knew I would be leaving that afternoon, for I had asked him to arrange for someone to drive me to the railway station. But he could not know— could he?—that I had been told never to return.

  I spent a little time in the stables, making my sad farewells to the other horses. I had become fond of all of them. Magnificent Perseus, my husband’s favorite, who held his head so proudly and moved with such flair and grace. Patient old Canute. Older even than Canute was Hadrian, who had long ago outlived his usefulness. He had been stiff and half blind for years, but was still cherished and indulged. My husband could have never sold him off or sent him to the knacker’s yard.

  And the others, so well trained and so lovingly cared for. In a burst of unjust and irrational self-pity, I wondered how much better I might have fared had I been one of my husband’s horses.

  After leaving the stables, I went to my room to change into my traveling clothes. That done, I took a sheet of notepaper from my desk and the check my husband had given me. His instructions had been to communicate with him only through Smalley & Brown, but I ignored this command.

  “Dear
Anthony,” I wrote. “I hope you will understand why I cannot accept this check from you. I shall be gone from Charingworth by the time you receive this, so I hope you will feel free to return as early as you like.

  “I am not able to take Marie with me, and, under the circumstances, I am sure that any reference I might give her would do more harm than good. But you will agree that it would be unjust to let her suffer because of a situation that is in no way her fault. She was an excellent maid to me in every respect. I know I can depend upon you to look out for her interests.

  “If you can give Andromeda a little special attention, that she may not feel suddenly abandoned, I would be very grateful. I truly regret whatever unhappiness I have caused you, and I wish you only the best. Believe me. Fleur.”

  I folded the note around the check and put them into an envelope, which I addressed to him at Grosvenor Square.

  There was a certain irony in the comfort I gleaned from knowing, beyond any doubt, that he would have concerned himself about Marie whether or not I had asked it of him. His earnest sense of responsibility, which I had once scorned as a lack of spontaneity, guaranteed that she would never suffer for my sins. I knew he would do everything in his power to find her a new situation as a lady’s maid, and that if he could not, he would keep her on at Charingworth.

  Shortly before I left the house, I had a very odd impulse. I went into my husband’s bedroom, where I had scarcely ever set foot. It was very different from his bedroom in London; I liked it better. It reminded me of him powerfully.

  It was chastely furnished, almost Spartan in its simplicity, but filled with a haunting, verdant sweetness, for the windows were open to the mild summer air, open to the birdsong soaring from the treetops, open to the flowers in the gardens below.