by Anna Willman
In her youth a willowy beauty, the honorable Lady Legerwood had faded over the years into a delicate matron of some fifty odd years much addicted to ill health. She reclined now on a powder blue velvet chaise in her luxuriously appointed bed-sitting room. A charming lace cap framed her pretty face and set off the silvery gold of her curls. On the table beside her was arrayed an assortment of small glass bottles of various colors, each containing some form of harmless salts, powders, or lozenges, all prescribed by the good Doctor Bartley. She was sipping on a tisane brewed especially for her by Miss Emily Manning, her younger cousin who had served as her companion and general helpmate for the past nine years.
A cheerful invalid who usually bore her various imaginary ailments with quiet courage and even good humor, Lady Legerwood suffered today with an expression of pure despair upon her face.
“Are you certain she has not called?” she asked Emily fretfully, for perhaps the fifth time in the past hour. “You made certain that Fimber would send her straight to me when she came?”
“Yes, I did just as you asked me to,” Emily replied in her quiet, calm voice. “Though you know it was not necessary, for Fimber knows well enough that Lady Guinevere is always welcome. Please, Louisa dear, do not put yourself into such a fret.” As she spoke, she went and took a slender wooden spill from a flowered vase on the mantlepiece and lighting it from the fireplace below, used it to set fire to a lavender pastille that nestled in an elegant ceramic burner in the shape of a medieval castle. After a moment, a stream of white smoke curled gracefully out of the castle tower, filling the room with its sweet soothing scent.
“Ah, you do not understand, Emily.” Louisa inhaled deeply and shook her head. “No one knows what burdens I carry.”
She took another sip of the honey-laced tisane and relapsed into a gloomy silence, which continued until at last Fimber entered to announce in a rich baritone the arrival of Lady Guinevere Stanton.
Lady Guinevere hesitated at the door, frowning slightly, causing Louisa to fall back in great distress.
“Lord Carew has refused! Oh, I am undone,” she wailed.
“It is no such thing,” Guinevere said severely. “But I have much to tell you, and I think we must not bore dear Miss Manning with our foolish chatter.” She smiled at that worthy young lady as she said this, and Emily quickly made her excuses and left the room.
“Really, Louisa,” Guinevere said as she removed her hat and gloves and placed them on an enameled side table. “What is the point of my being discreet if you intend to shout your business to the world?”
“Oh, Emily is the kindest of souls,” Louisa said. “She would never betray me. But how could you frown so and put me in such a flutter? Oh, do sit down and tell me what has transpired.”
“You are safe,” Guinevere told her and settled comfortably into an arm chair situated next to her friend’s chaise lounge. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Lancelot does not intend to publish. And in any case, it seems that Ned noticed Edmund’s unfortunate eyebrows years ago.”
Louisa stared at her in consternation. “Can this be true? He has known all along?”
Guinevere nodded. “Since Edmund was a small boy. Apparently Ned informed Lancelot that he approved. He told him the Legerwood name would benefit from an infusion of Carew blood.”
“But Edmund is his heir, and he has not one drop of Legerwood blood!”
“I know. It is most peculiar. And yet, I have never found Ned attached to his family in the way that some men are. And since his Great Aunt Elspeth died last year, he is the last of the Legerwoods, is he not? She would have minded very much indeed to know that the Legerwood name was to be carried on by a Carew, but it seems that your husband does not. Indeed, you may rest easy, my dear.”
Louisa was silent for a moment and then she shook her head and sighed. “No, I think he must care a great deal. Indeed, this may explain something that has worried me for years. Oh, poor dear Ned! He has suffered in silence all these years. And never once a cross word to me.”
Guinevere leaned back in her chair and watched as tears made their slow way down her friend’s cheeks. She was a little reluctant to relay the second part of Lance’s message to Louisa. It was a matter of some delicacy and not one she was comfortable discussing.
Still, she had taken Louisa under her wing many years ago. More than a decade older than Louisa, Guinevere even now felt the same impulse that had caused her to befriend the young bride when she first came to town and to agree to become godmother to her son, Edmund. It was no more than a habit of feeling perhaps, but she could not shake her sense of responsibility towards her.
She heaved a sigh as big as Louisa’s and reached out to take her friend’s soft white hand in her own.
“Louisa, tell me what you are thinking.”
Louisa clutched at her friend’s hand and shook her head. “I cannot. Oh, don’t ask me, Gwen dear.”
“Then I shall have to guess. For Lancelot told me more.”
“I don’t understand. What could he tell you?”
“First tell me why you think Ned has been suffering these many years.”
Louisa became pale, and, removing her hand from the other’s grasp, reached for her handkerchief and twisted it between her fingers. “I…I don’t wish to seem to complain. Ned has been the best of husbands – always tirelessly thoughtful of my comfort. Kind, and generous, and good humored. A delightful companion always. Indeed, I have no reason to complain. But he d-doesn’t…” She stammered to a halt. “I cannot talk about this, Gwen. Really I can’t.”
“He doesn’t come to your bed at night.”
Louisa looked at her friend in astonishment. “How did you know?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“From the very beginning. At first I didn’t realize. No one had told me...what men and women…do. I thought we were happy, only I worried that we didn’t have a baby. I didn’t understand, you see. I thought babies just…came.” The tears continued to flow. “I must seem foolish, to you, but really Gwen, how are people to know these things if they are not told?”
“So you and Ned never did…what men and women do?”
“Just the once. When I realized I was increasing, Lancelot told me I must get Ned to come to me or he would know that the baby wasn’t his. That is the first time I actually understood about babies.”
“How did you manage it?”
“Lance told me I must get him to drink a good deal of wine and then coax him into my bed. He said even if we didn’t do anything, Ned would think we had, or at least that we might have, and accept the baby as his. And we did – at least we almost did. Enough I thought. Only now I realize that he knew all the time that we did not, and that must be why he never came to me again. He knew I was false to him and was repulsed by me.”
Guinevere had been doing some simple arithmetic in her head. “But, my dear, you had been married for almost ten years already. Why would he change his ways?”
Louisa blushed. “Well, I thought once he knew I didn’t mind…doing that, he would want to do it again. But he didn’t. And now I know why.”
“No, you do not.”
Guinevere hesitated. Louisa was still, at fifty-three, in many ways an innocent. But then, Louisa had married just out of the school room, and although at the time it was widely considered a brilliant match, clearly it had done little to bring her up to snuff. It occurred to Guinevere that, under the circumstances, perhaps the brief liaison with Lancelot had been good for Louisa.
“There are men,” Guinevere said, pausing occasionally to find just the right words, “who are different from others. Men whose passions are not inclined towards women. Instead they do what you and Lancelot did…with other men.”
Louisa stared at her, then shook her head. “How can that be? You are saying that two men can make a baby? Really, Gwen, this is too much. Why has no one told me of such a thing before?”
Before Guinevere could answer, she contin
ued. “No, no. It cannot be. For surely, if this were so, I would have noticed. Why have I never once seen a man increasing? No, Gwen, you must have it wrong. I mean to say, Lancelot has been making game of you. It was not kind in him, but you know his teasing ways.” She laughed then and added, “How diverting to be sure, for it is unlike you to be taken in so completely.”
“You misunderstand me, my dear. When two men…” Guinevere paused, hunting for words. “They don’t create babies. They take pleasure in the deed.”
Louisa blushed a becoming shade of pink. “Pleasure? Well, that is quite different. Yes, I recollect that it was rather nice. And it is true that gentlemen do like their comforts – wine and snuff and polished boots and such. I suppose it is all one to them.”
Guinevere nodded and held her tongue. Louisa was deep in thought and missed the gleam of laughter in her friend’s eyes.
“But how do they do it, Gwen?” Louisa asked at last. “I mean, what do they actually do? For I could not help but notice that men and women are not made quite the same. And try as I might, I cannot quite imagine how – ”
“That is not for us to consider,” Gwen said firmly, blushing now in her turn. “Really, Louisa, exactly how they do it is of no concern to you or me. It is enough to know that they do.”
“And you think my Ned is such a one.”
“That would explain the first ten years of your marriage as well as his failure to change,” Guinevere said. “And, well, Lancelot says that he is. And Lord Carew is one to know such things.”
“But Ned loves me!”
“Yes. I think he does.”
Louisa sat quietly for some minutes. Then she reached out to take her friend’s hand. “What should I do?”
Guinevere smiled. “You are still a beautiful woman, Louisa. If you have not taken a lover since Lancelot, I suggest you give up quacking yourself and find one now.”
CHAPTER THREE: In Which Guinevere Has a Secret Worry
The honorable Edmund Legerwood was a firm believer in the equality of the sexes. His cousin Agatha had convinced him from earliest childhood that females were (at least) as proficient as males in feats of physical prowess, in intellectual pursuits, and in all matters of practicality. Agatha could climb trees to the very highest branches, take a fence at a full gallop, shoot a rabbit on the run, wade the muddiest creeks, and catch the largest trout and clean them after. She knew her times tables before he did, and learned Latin by listening in on his sessions with his tutor. Her French was superior to his, and her comprehension of history nearly as good.
It was clear that society gave preference to males by providing them with tutors and then packing them off to school, while females were required to remain at home and learn the pianoforte and stitchery under the milder regimen of a governess. It was equally clear to Edmund that given a more strenuous tuition, women were fully capable of matching their male counterparts in every way.
As he was in the habit of asserting this unusual opinion both frequently and eloquently, it was a considerable surprise to everyone – friends and family alike – when Edmund became affianced to a young woman who was equally determined on a more conventional view of the sexes. Miss Elizabeth Westlake was of a mind that women were fragile and dependent creatures in constant need of male guidance, and, with a will of pure iron, she undertook to disabuse her betrothed of his radical opinions.
Indeed, she often turned to his own dear mama as a perfect instance in support of the traditional point of view. He countered with the observation that when she knew his mother better she would realize that Lady Legerwood invariably got her way.
Lady Guinevere, coming down the grand staircase in time to overhear this particular stage of their dispute, could not help but remark that they both were in the right of it.
Edmund gave his godmother a kiss on the cheek and remonstrated, “You mustn’t encourage Elizabeth, Godmama. She is a tigress in her cause.”
“She knows she is safe with you.”
“Why what do you mean?” Edmund asked as he escorted both ladies into the drawing room.
Lady Guinevere seated herself on the edge of a brocaded chair and smiled up at her godson. “A less honorable opponent would suggest that she take her own advice and submit to the wiser opinion of her intended husband.”
“And thereby lose his argument!” Edmund laughed. “No, Godmama, I must persuade her on the merit of my discourse or be persuaded by hers.” He directed his betrothed to a comfortable seat on a gold velvet sofa and settled in next to her.
Guinevere nodded. “As I said, Elizabeth knows she is safe with you.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Tell me my dear, does your sister share your opinons?”
“Alas, I have no sister. But my brother supports my arguments with an enthusiasm that I must admit is almost uncivil.”
Guinevere laughed at that. “I expect most men would join him in his incivility.”
“Yes, but Lady Guinevere,” Elizabeth said, her pretty face flushed with the excitement of a well fought argument, “Edmund might, if he chose, show them all how to agree with me with perfect civility. Indeed, if he were a truly honorable gentleman, he would cherish his intended wife and humor her foolishness rather than try to overset her safety by elevating her to the status of a man. Just so does his father cherish his mother and allow her to be a mere woman. The fact that she so often gets her way is simply proof of Sir Legerwood’s generosity and protection, do you not agree?”
“You children shall not draw me into your dispute,” Lady Guinevere said. “As I have told you, both arguments have merit, and in any case, it appears to me that you are having a splendid time and that a speedy conclusion to the debate would spoil all your fun. I tremble to consider that it might even prove the ruin of your engagement.”
“No fear of that,” Edmund said with a quick laugh. “Once I have persuaded her she is my equal, Elizabeth will quickly find any number of other topics for debate.”
“Once you have persuaded me we are equals, I am sure you will put me to work like a mule on a farm,” Elizabeth said. “No, no, my dear Edmund, I will not sit down with your accountant and go over the books nor instruct the steward on how to manage the estates. I am a woman, and shall concern myself only with the insignificant matters that belong in the woman’s realm.”
“And welcome to it,“ Edmund said. “That is a question of division of labor, not of equality. And who would say that the matters of hearth and home are less significant than the fripperies of the life of a gentleman of leisure? No, my darling, you will not convince me that the bearing and raising of our children is less important work than the few hours I spend each week attending to my manly duties.”
Lady Guinevere saw there was no help for them and rising, kissed them both and went on her way, smiling.
She thought, not for the first time, that there was more of Lancelot in her godson than his eyebrows. He had his mother’s chestnut curls, but those blue eyes, and the way his mouth curved when he laughed were all Lancelot. A charmer he was, to be sure.
Elizabeth was the fairer of the two, her hair a sparkling gold, and she had her own full share of humor and charm.
They were both such nice children, and so much in love. She thought of her own young days, when the erudite Mr. Charles Stanton had won her heart by insisting he found her nose irresistible. “Cleopatra” he had called her. Such delicious nonsense it was! She allowed herself a sigh for the lost passions of youth. Of course Charles remained her own dearest friend and she would always cherish him, but there was no denying the fact that the hot fire that had warmed their years together and brought them four healthy children (all now grown and living lives on their own), had recently dwindled into little more than a flickering taper. Probably she should follow her own advice and take a lover. That wayward thought was quickly dismissed with a rueful smile. Really it was too absurd! At her age! She shook her head. The sad fact was that she was married to the only man she had ever wanted.
As her barouche
took her home through the late afternoon bustle of London’s streets, her smile faded and her handsome face took on a more solemn expression. There was one more thing she had learned from her visit to Lancelot. Those letters! There was something in them that had disturbed her peace of mind. Something she had not shared with Louisa. Nor would she share it unless she could be certain that it was true. The question was, how to determine exactly what that truth was.
The carriage stopped in front of the elegant townhouse that was her home when she was in London. She alit with her customary agility and entered the front hall.
“Is he here?” she asked Chilton as he relieved her of her bonnet and cloak.
“I believe Mr. Stanton is in the library, my Lady,” the butler said with a slight bow. He was new to this position, replacing an old retainer who had retired at the age of 83 on a generous pension only after months of patient persuasion. Chilton, who had been the head footman in the household for some fifteen years previous to taking on this post, was taking to his new duties as if born to them.
Lady Guinevere smiled at him and went in to her husband, only vaguely conscious of the gratification this simple acknowledgement gave to her fiercely loyal servant. In truth, the warmth of her smile was as much an anticipation of her pleasure at the prospect of an evening to be spent in the company of her husband as it was a recognition of Chilton’s services. For though it was true that the fires of her marriage were banked low in recent months, they were not extinguished. Never extinguished! Guinevere lived secure in the knowledge that she loved and was loved by her husband.
Charles Stanton looked up as his wife entered, his eyes bright with a welcoming smile. “Have you accomplished your good errand, my dear?”
“Nothing that has to do with Lancelot ever seems to come to good,” she replied. “Charles, I am afraid I shall have need of your assistance. I shall need you to go to Somerset House tomorrow and search through the birth records there.”
Mr. Stanton stood up and took his wife’s hand. “You know well that you shall have any help that you require. We have nearly an hour before we must dress for dinner. Come sit down and tell me what your poor Lancelot is up to now.”