Tender Torment

by Meadowes, Alicia

  “Oh but it is true! Your future husband plotted the murder of his brother so that he might become the earl. And he killed my husband so there would be no one in his way to prevent him from enjoying the fruits of his villainy.”

  “No! No!” Arabella wailed. She jumped up, holding her hands over her ears. “You lie!” she screamed and ran sobbing from the room.

  At that point, Justin came up to his mother carrying two glasses of champagne. He handed one to her and bowed. All eyes in the room were on the disgraced pair, but Justin comported himself as if nothing were amiss.

  “I believe you requested champagne, madam.” He handed a glass to her, and raising his own, he toasted, “To you, my dear. Your victory is quite complete.” He knew she had won and he accepted it fatalistically.

  Lady Marian drank down the glass of champagne. Then she nodded to those in her immediate vicinity and left on the arm of her son, who gallantly escorted her through the staring guests and out of the Stanton residence.

  “Needless to say, the wedding was called off and Justin was branded a monstrous villain,” Harding concluded. “He returned to India shortly thereafter. Although no one truly believed the charge of murder, a shadow of evil attached itself to Justin that has followed him ever since.”

  Edward Harding’s revelations about the deaths of Justin’s brother Robert and Ellis Huxley acted as an agent to stir into motion the conflict between Marisa’s desires to stay with Justin and to part from him. Her womanly instincts to succor and comfort the man to whom she had pledged herself for life warred against a newly discoverd yearning toward independence.

  Had she not given her lord all he deserved of her humanity? He had used her badly and did she not have some right to strive toward the possession of her own soul in peace and harmony? Yet, did any woman, once married, have that right?

  Perhaps she was crediting herself with too much importance anyway. She had every reason to believe his lordship wished himself well rid of her.

  And where was he, she wondered as January drew to a close. They would be married a year in February. Would he remember? And did she really care?

  Marisa could not sort out her feelings concerning the earl. At times she felt she would go mad trying to understand herself.

  It was the discovery of the pressed rose in her husband’s volume of The Lusiads that resolved her dilemma. There it lay between the pages of verse lamenting the death of Inez de Castro. It was the same passage she had read so long ago in London when she first discovered her husband’s interest in Camoes. Only now the lines were underlined:

  Her cheeks’ fresh roses ravisht from the root.

  Both red and white.

  It was the white rose she had fastened to Justin’s lapel the night of their ball, its fragile petals transparent as tissue paper, but carefully preserved. And inscribed in the margin were lines in the bold script of her husband’s writing:

  The marble heart was pierced by

  A white rose and there

  Such tender torment abides—

  A sob escaped Marisa’s lips as the significance of her discovery made itself felt in her mind and heart. Justin had saved the rose she had so spontaneously bestowed on him that night. Not only saved it, but cherished it in one of his treasured volumes. The words inscribed pierced her heart with such tender pity that she broke down and cried and felt herself cleansed. She would stay to try again, if Justin so desired it.

  16

  The test of that decision was thrust on Marisa two days later when the earl returned from his recent mission to the Beira region. He had gone to inspect the conditions of his men and to personally question two French officers captured in a recent skirmish along the eastern frontier where Portuguese guerillas were harrying French outposts and patrols. The information obtained from the prisoners was extremely valuable. There was every possibility that the French would be sending in General Massena, the wily French Fox who had won so many outstanding victories for France, to lead the opposition against England’s Wellington and the Portuguese coalition.

  The earl came upon the household while it was still at breakfast. Immediately the easy conviviality shared by the Hardings and Marisa was frozen into a stilted exchange of pleasantries as all parties tried to behave with a nonchalance that none actually felt. Making their weak excuses and claiming various duties, the Hardings departed to leave Marisa and Justin to establish communication without the embarrassment of nervous onlookers.

  The unhappy couple regarded each other through the extreme discomfort of confusion and misapprehension. Each mistakenly believed the other to wish himself free of the entanglements of matrimonial obligation. Yet each in his deepest heart did not want that final separation that would permanently sever the bonds between them.

  For Marisa’s part, she was ready to try to achieve a lasting relationship with the earl. Not only did she feel that it was her duty, she still yearned to bring happiness to this troubled man who had been hurt so deeply in the past. She could no longer be sure it was love that prompted her—at least not romantic love—but neither could she deny that this dark, tormented man had engaged her heart.

  The earl’s feelings at this juncture were both stronger and more confused than Marisa’s. He was certain that he did not desire a separation from this woman who daily was becoming more important to him than he had wanted. Because of this, he feared the need he felt growing out of all proportion to his ability to control it. Marisa could enslave him, if she but knew it. He was in agony.

  For both of them, these thoughts were not clearly articulated, and they groped through a fog of inner conflict compounded by unreasonable fears of rejection that neither could bear to sustain.

  “You are looking very well, Marisa,” the earl ventured at last. “I hope I find your health much improved.”

  “Thank you… Justin. I am much better. Dr. Lomas comes to remove the splint next week, I believe.”

  Lord Straeford was heartened by his wife’s apparent willingness to converse with him. “That is good news indeed. You must be heartily sick of that encumbrance by now.”

  “It is surprising, but I have managed to get about quite well despite the clumsiness of it. Not that I don’t wish to be rid of it. I just mean, I hobble about rather well… considering… Oh bother, you know what I mean,” she claimed, flustered.

  “I know… I understand….”

  They stared at each other awkwardly.

  “Did you accomplish all your military objectives?” Marisa questioned nervously, seeking a topic for conversation.

  “Yes, I did. But you must not question me too closely on that score, my dear.”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” Marisa claimed, becoming more flustered. “I do not mean to pry into secret matters. Please do forgive me.”

  “But there is nothing to forgive, child. Do not look so alarmed. Your question was perfectly natural.”

  “It is only that there is such disquiet these days. I hear rumors that the British army may withdraw and quit Portugal altogether.”

  “Never believe it,” Straeford claimed emphatically.

  “Major Harding says the Duke of Wellington is much criticized by the governments both here and at home for not engaging the enemy.”

  “The duke will fight only when he chooses and will not be stampeded into hasty action no matter what the pressures are from political factions. He is a man of singular self-possession.”

  “You sound convinced of his good judgment.”

  “I am absolutely certain the duke will lead us through to victory over the French. And now, my dear, let us turn our minds to matters that touch us more personally.”

  “Of course, my lord, whatever you say.” Marisa felt her pulse quicken with apprehension. He was going to send her away.

  The earl, however, did not speak. Instead he rose from the table and paced the room a few times, unable to make himself say the words that might send her away from him.

  “Marisa,” he began at last, “there is a
packet leaving for England next week… I… shall I… that is… it is possible to reserve space for you… if you wish it.” His voice had gradually lowered, so that his last words were barely audible.

  He is not sure he wants me to go, Marisa realized with surprise. Maybe he really wants me to stay. “Next week seems such sudden notice, Justin. I’m not sure which day the splint is to be removed, and I might need some time to… adjust. I mean… perhaps we should wait a little longer… unless you think it would be best…” Her voice, too, had lowered to a whisper.

  She is not sure she wants to go, Justin thought, not realizing he was echoing Marisa. Maybe she really wants to stay. “That sounds very wise to me, my dear. We must be certain you are well enough to travel… if you should so decide. We shall just put off any decision for the present, shall we?”

  “Yes, let us wait and see.”

  Golden sunlight streaming through the tall library windows created a false sense of early spring although it was still February. Marisa opened the library doors and stood on the threshold to stare at a scene she had never expected to witness.

  The earl was leaning over a chair, dangling a piece of string before the bewhiskered nose of a tiny calico kitten. So absorbed was he in tantalizing the sprightly creature who swatted at the string with lightning-quick movements that he did not hear the door open. It was only as the kitten darted behind the settee and Straeford turned that he beheld his wife in all her amazement. Hastily rising to his feet and brushing off his coat to cover his chagrin at thus being discovered, he muttered an incoherent greeting.

  Marisa, who thought to ease his discomfort, hobbled forward leaning awkwardly on her crutch and called softly to the kitten, who was now inspecting the satin ruffles at her hem.

  “Wherever did you find this precious creature?” she queried with an eager smile.

  The earl secretly rejoiced in his wife’s friendly demeanor. He still could not believe that the distant apathy with which she was wont to regard him following her accident had really dissolved.

  “One of my men…” Justin stopped midsentence to rush to Marisa and scoop her up in his arms. Just as he was answering her question, Marisa; who had leaned toward the kitten, lost her balance as the crutch slipped beneath her, almost causing her to fall.

  “Can’t have you breaking any more bones,” he claimed hoarsely as he placed her carefully on the settee. He was white about the lips, as the memory of that terrible fall for one hideous moment flashed vividly before his eyes.

  For a few tense seconds neither Justin nor Marisa spoke. They had not been so close to each other for so long that it threw them into some confusion. Justin was still leaning over Marisa when the two looked at each other and their eyes locked in a hold neither could break. To overcome the unbearable tension, they both began to speak simultaneously and stopped suddenly. Then Marisa’s lips curved in a smile of sweet friendship, and Justin, warmed by the glow of her natural goodwill, smiled too. It was little enough, to be sure, but it was a further move toward the harmony they both desired more than they knew.

  As if prompted by the spirit of mischief, the kitten, appearing from nowhere, pounced onto Marisa’s lap and began to play with the lace at her bodice.

  “Oh you precious lamb,” Marisa cried happily, catching the tiny creature to her face and nuzzling her nose in its fur. Her unaffected gesture touched a chord of memory from Justin’s childhood.

  “May I suggest a name for your new-found friend, my dear?”

  “Am I to understand that she is mine?”

  “But of course. I brought her here for you.”

  “Then I think you should name her.”

  “What would you say to Emily?”

  “Emily? Such a ladylike name for such a naughty little minx. But I do believe you have struck the perfect note for her. She shall never live up to that prim-miss of a name. Do you have some reason for choosing to call her Emily?”

  “I once owned a cat by that name. She was just such a minx as you so aptly call this one.”

  “Then Emily it is. I do thank you most kindly, sir, for my new little companion. I shall keep her in a basket in my room.”

  The earl regarded his wife speculatively, a wicked gleam lighting his eyes. “Perhaps you will allow me to visit her there sometimes.”

  Again their eyes locked in a long gaze. This time a perceptibly rosy hue flushed Marisa’s cheeks and she looked away. The countess had never looked so adorable to the earl as she did at that moment.

  Justin knew he had gained an advantage with the introduction of Emily, but he knew also that regaining Marisa’s confidence, if ever he possessed it, would be a slow and arduous task. He had stumbled onto good fortune with the kitten, but now he must make his way back to his wife carefully and skillfully. They had yet to openly confront the events of that terrible morning when Marisa had overheard the earl in conversation with Harding. He shuddered inwardly, wondering how he would ever bring himself to speak of that morning and beg Marisa’s forgiveness as he so desperately needed to do.

  Upon removal of the splint from Marisa’s leg, Lord Straeford found countless ways of keeping himself in his wife’s company. He was the constant cavalier who wooed his lady as never he had during their betrothal days. He read Portuguese history with Marisa and assisted her in translating the Camões epic. As the weather improved, he escorted her on brief sightseeing excursions to Lisbon’s most famous historic sights. They traveled to Belem where Vasco da Gama made his long vigil prior to his momentous explorations. They toured the Geronimos abbey and studied the Manueline architecture, planning ventures to Alcobaga and Batalha should the future permit.

  Slowly there arose between them a comfortable relationship that they had never enjoyed before. Each was finding delight in the other that neither had dreamed possible.

  On the night of their first anniversary, Marisa and Justin planned a celebration party with the Hardings that would take them to the notorious Cafe Bruxa Negra in the antique Alfama district to hear native singers whom some called fadistas. The fado, or fate, theme was peculiarly Portuguese in style. The music evolved from the national characteristic of the Portuguese which placed heavy emphasis on fate or destiny in the affairs of mankind. The Portuguese seemed to have a deep strain of melancholy in their natures, Marisa observed, and it was reflected in the native music.

  On the night of their expedition into Alfama, the Hardings and Straefords found it necessary to leave their coach and proceed on foot through a labyrinth of twisting narrow streets until they came to a shadowy doorway fitfully lighted by torches burning from brackets set in the stone walls.

  Marisa and Ann pulled the hoods of their black dominoes down over their heads and clung excitedly to their husbands’ arm as they followed a dark-skinned waiter in leather breeches and a black cape. He led them through murky shadows past tables lighted by glowing red candles to a section secluded by a lattice of woven ropes which was reserved for their party. They were served a light golden wine blended with herbs. The indefinable flavor of the wine suited the atmosphere of exotic and forbidden pleasure.

  “Wherever did you learn of this shockingly wicked taverna, Edward?” Ann whispered confidentially to her husband.

  “You will have to question Justin on that score, m’dear,” Harding replied, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

  “I have my sources,” the earl claimed evasively, entering into the spirit of play.

  “That sounds slightly sinister,” Marisa added her part. “I can’t believe my high-stickler of a husband trafficks with any but the most respectable elements of Portuguese society.”

  “Oh ho,” Harding taunted gaily, “now that’s what I call a testimony of wifely faith. You would do well to follow Lady Straeford’s lead, dear Ann.”

  “But I trust you utterly, Edward dear. I know you would not cut a caper. I simply wonder that you or the earl would know of the existence of a hole-in-the-corner place such as this.”

  “You do not like it here?�
� Justin queried, deliberately seeking to rattle the easily flustered Mrs. Harding. It amazed the earl to realize that he actually found this woman, whom he once labeled a fool, to be the charming person his altered vision now proclaimed her to be.

  “It looks positively evil—all the dark shadows and mysterious people lurking about. I adore it!” Ann whispered confidingly. “It’s bang-up to the nines!”

  All four broke into merry laughter and continued in their friendly raillery until their attention was captured by the senhora singing on a small stage at the center of the room. Dozens of candles lighted up her red satin dress glittering with spangles and fake jewels, but there was nothing fake about the alluring saudade melodies that poured freely from her sultry throat and the throbbing of the guitar accompaniment that wove a haunting mood of melancholy magic. The music was a dark poetry that echoed sad enchantments through the corridors of the mind. As they listened, Justin reached for Marisa’s hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her fingertips lingeringly. She looked at him with eyes glistening, the Hardings momentarily forgotten. It was a gesture she would never forget.

  The party grew very quiet and sentimental that night, an awareness of an unspoken communication having been shared through the hypnotic music of the fadistas.

  It would have been a perfect evening had not the small party come under the observation of one whose heart bore a long-standing grudge of resentment toward the Earl of Straeford.

  Isabella Costanza, who had sworn an oath of vengeance that ill-starred day Lord Straeford so arrogantly cast her off before the British army left Spain, had at last been presented with the object of her hatred. The dark fate which the Portuguese believed so inevitably intertwined in men’s affairs had contrived to bring the earl within Isabella’s sphere once more. She could still hear Dubois screaming his futile vengeance at Straeford’s back as the arrogant Englishman rode away, leaving her and the Frenchman to grapple with their broken pride in that foolish arena where they had enacted that charade of honor. “Fight, coward!” Dubois had demanded in vain, and their mutual humiliation had lain in the dark recesses of their minds, festering, seeking a channel for expression that had at last been revealed. Isabella would do the Straefords a lasting harm and set the wheels in motion on the very night that Marisa and Justin had awakened to each other as lovers. She watched his group until they left the cafe and sent a spy to follow them on their return home.