by Anna Willman
Charles waited. When she didn’t continue, he prompted her, “And…?”
Guinevere raised her lovely, narrow-set brown eyes and faced her husband straight on. “And once I met you, I never wanted anyone else. It is you or no one for me.”
Charles gave a little gasp and reddened. “I…I thought…”
“You thought you were a pebble I wanted to throw away,” Guinevere said. “My dear heart, you are the rock upon which I have built my whole life.”
“But I…”
Guinevere would not stop now that she had found her courage. “You said I was bored with you, but really, Charles, is it not the other way around? You have become tired of me, of listening to my tales, and assisting me in my tiresome good works. It is you who have become bored now that you no longer find me desirable.” She stopped then, suddenly frightened again, wishing the words unsaid, terrified of what he would say next.
He stared at her. The room clamored with his silence. It was true then. He did not deny it. She had thought – wished, really – that when he said he could not give her up he meant that he still loved her, but now she understood all too well that it must have been the proprieties he was speaking of. He would not accept the public scandal of a separation. A couple as closely connected as they had always been could not suddenly start to live apart without causing public speculation.
Guinevere fought to hold back her tears, failed, and raged inwardly as the large drops slowly spilled down her cheeks. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see, no longer wanting him to speak, to confirm what she now knew to be true, that he was tired of her, that their marriage was over.
But her tears seemed to release him from the silence that held him. “No longer find you desirable? But this is absurd!”
“This whole conversation is absurd,” she said, stumbling over the words. “Really Charles, forgive me. It was a mistake. Let us speak of it no more.”
“Now that would truly be an act of folly,” Charles said, “To leave things like this?” He stood up and came around the table to take her in his arms. “My darling, you could never bore me. I adore you. I only feared that you no longer loved me. I could feel you pulling away from me. And when I spoke to you the other day and you could not answer me, it seemed it must be so.”
Guinevere stayed stiff in his arms. “You must not say these things just because I am crying. I could not bear it if you were merely being…kind to me.”
“Guinevere, my Cleopatra, I love you.”
“Perhaps still a little, but you do not desire me as you once did. I thought it would be enough that you loved me, but if you are bored with me, truly, Charles, I don’t want…”
Charles ended this particular absurdity by the simple expedient of kissing his wife. There was nothing remotely “kind” or, for that matter “bored” about his kiss. Rather it spoke far more eloquently than words possibly could of passion and yearning and hunger long held in check.
When he had completed this task with a thoroughness that satisfied them both, they separated a little breathlessly and sat down at the table again to resume their conversation. Charles moved his plate to sit beside her. They each took a few bites, though neither one really tasted what they ate.
Charles spoke first. “It seems that we have misunderstood one another. I take it my dear, that when you were silent the other day, it was not because you could not refute my proposition, but from some other cause.”
“I was frozen with fear – and shame for neglecting you. I was terrified that I had lost you.” She hesitated and then asked, “And tonight when you did not answer?”
“I was stunned speechless to think that you could imagine that I would not always find you both fascinating and desirable.”
“But how could you think I was pulling away from you?”
“Were you not?”
“Not from you! Never from you, but…” She paused to think.
“But what, my darling Cleopatra?”
“It has not been easy, accepting this new phase of our life. I miss the passion of our early days. I miss the excitement of our arguments and the ardor of our reconciliations. I miss the years when we talked, not about other people, but about our own lives. I know that you said we were getting old. Of course we are, but sometimes I don’t feel old and don’t want to be quiet and calm and…well, just old.”
She paused and looked at him before continuing.
“And you know well how I am. It is ever so when I have troubles. I involve myself in the problems of others. I did not mean to neglect you, Charles, truly, I did not. Oh, Charles, I do love you, but I miss our younger life. I miss us.”
“I miss us, too,” Charles said. “Tell me when did you decide we were too old to continue to be us?”
“I never did, but you said it, Charles, just last summer. Remember? That time when you…turned away from me, and you said we were getting old. I knew it had finally happened, that you had tired of me at last.”
“Tired of you?”
“Despite what you have always said, my dear, I know I’ve never been a beauty. But when we married, I was young and had a…certain way about me. And when you didn’t want me anymore, well, I thought my being old as well as plain was too much.”
He put down his fork. “Good God, Gwen, I wasn’t talking about you! It was me. My body failing.”
“I don’t understand. Were you ill?”
“No, not ill. Incapable.” He blushed fiercely and lifting his thumb, made a gesture both coarse and at once understandable.
Guinevere could feel her face grow red, but her discomfort was eased a good deal by the recognition that that he was even more painfully embarrassed than she. She looked down at her plate and said softly, “It is because you no longer find me attractive.”
Charles pushed his chair back from the table, and turned to take her into his arms again, pulling her from her chair and onto his lap.
“No, my dear,” he said. “It is because my body is old and slow and no longer obeys me.” He paused, trying to find words. “To me, you are the most desirable woman in the world, and it seems that you grow more beautiful each year. If I cannot…If I am unable to, well, so to speak, rise to the occasion, it is because that is the way with old men’s bodies. With some of us at least. I thought you understood.”
“Can this be true?” Guinevere asked. She thought for a while and shook her head. “I never considered such a thing possible. How can it be that I did not know? No one told me!”
“It is true,” Charles said. She could hear his smile in his voice. “Believe me, dearest, it is only my body that falters. The spirit is willing.”
Guinevere sighed. Relief and joy combined to create giggles at first and then she fell into full gasps of laughter, so that she had to pull away from him to catch her breath.
“What is it?” He asked, with a growing smile.
“It seems Louisa is not the only woman in need of an education,” Guinevere gasped. “I thought myself well informed on such matters, but Lancelot has failed me here.”
“If he has experienced the same difficulty, it is not likely he would advertise it, to be sure.” And Charles’ laughter joined hers.
When they had laughed their fill, they got up from the table and retreated to the parlor to sit down together on a small sofa so that they could keep their arms entwined.
“I do not think we will eat buffet-style again,” Guinevere said. “We hardly ate a thing. Shall I ring for some tea?”
When Chilton had come and gone, they sat in silence for a while, relishing each other’s company, pondering the confusion of feelings they were experiencing. After a time, Guinevere asked, a little hesitantly, “Are there more lessons I need to learn? Is there something I can do to…assist you when you are having this difficulty?”
“Perhaps. If you are willing, I will come to your room tonight and we will see what we can contrive.”
“Oh, yes, please, my dear.” She leaned her head against his chest and
closed her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: In Which Lady Guinevere Presents a Bride
The next morning Charles and Guinevere took their closed carriage out into the country. Guinevere was on one of her errands of mercy and Charles was reluctant to be left behind. They talked as they rode, mostly of themselves as in days past, but also a little about other things – about the marriage of Edmund and Elizabeth, which made Charles shake his head in dismay, and about the Dowager and the impending delegation of ladies to Lancelot, which made him laugh and declare he almost felt sorry for the old rake.
When they returned to London late in the day, they refrained from such intimate conversation, for they had a passenger with them – an unmarried lady no longer in her first blush of youth, yet still not half the age of the elderly couple who now escorted her. This lady exhibited a high degree of trepidation excited by the purpose of their errand, not unmixed with equally generous doses of gratitude and hopefulness, so that Guinevere was forced to exert a good deal of energy to the task of soothing the lady’s nerves and encouraging her to regain her usual composure.
“For you know, my dear,” she said, “it is your steady temperament that I am relying upon to smooth your path. Nothing unnerves a gentleman more than an excess of sensibility in a lady, and with the exception of one unfortunate lapse, I have long regarded you as a model of respectability and decorum. Pray take some moments to recover your calm good sense.”
This little speech had the unfortunate consequence of causing the lady to burst into tears of remorse, “For I have been unjust to you. I thought you did not like me, and now you are rescuing me from a life of tedium and regret.”
“Nonsense!” Guinevere said, handing her a handkerchief. “You shall be doing me a great favor, and indeed all of London society will breathe a sigh of relief.”
Lancelot’s prospective bride gave a little sigh. “Indeed, I will be a good wife to him, if he will only have me. I shall be kind and dutiful and attentive.”
“Not too dutiful, I should hope,” Charles commented, making Guinevere laugh.
“But a good wife must obey her husband in all things,” the lady protested.
“Of course she must,” Guinevere agreed, carefully avoiding her husband’s quizzical gaze, “so long as he is being reasonable. But you must know, my dear, that Lord Carew is not at all respectable, and so you must rely on your own sense of what is fit and proper to guide you.”
“Well then, I shall obey him whenever it is possible to do so,” the lady said firmly, “for that is the respectable thing to do.” And she held Guinevere’s handkerchief to her nose and blew soundly into it.
The conversation continued in this vein, with the bride-to-be indulging in occasional outbursts of tears, interspersed with moments of speculative chatter that made Charles consider himself a very lucky man to have a wife who knew when to make conversation and when to hold her peace. He nevertheless enjoyed the ride tremendously, for whenever their guest said something particularly absurd, he had only to lift his eyes to meet Guinevere’s for a moment of shared hilarity.
The lady who provided the occasion for these delightful diversions, commented several times that Guinevere was fortunate to be wed to a gentleman of such an uncommonly merry disposition. Guinevere, struggling to maintain some pretense of decorum, agreed and refused to meet Charles’ teasing eyes again for fear of giving his game away. Instead she focused her attention on soothing the lady’s excited state of mind and preparing her for what might lie ahead.
This endeavor indeed proved entirely successful, for the lady was calm and her manner exactly what one would wish it to be when Guinevere escorted her to Marianne Digby’s home a few days later. The company of ladies would soon begin to arrive for their next convocation, so Marianne and Guinevere made the lady comfortable with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in a parlor situated next to the large drawing room. Then they settled themselves in the drawing room as the rest of the company trickled in, following their now familiar pattern, with the ladies arriving in small groups and a few newcomers adding to their numbers.
Guinevere was surprised to see Mrs. Westlake among the newcomers and gave a sad little sigh to see this confirmation of her worst fears about her godson’s marriage. Mrs. Westlake gave her a look that bespoke a mixture of defiance and anxiety, and then sat down in the chair next to hers.
When it was possible to speak unheard, Mrs. Westlake leaned over and whispered into Guinevere’s ear, “You see that your suspicions were correct, but my past indiscretions can no longer spoil my daughter’s life now that she is safely wed, and so I am here with the rest.”
Guinevere was taken aback, for she saw many pitfalls ahead that might still ruin poor Elizabeth’s happiness, but felt she could scarcely say so, and so merely nodded and said, “Not everyone here has fallen prey to Lancelot’s charm, so your secret will remain undisclosed unless you choose to divulge it.” She was about to urge Mrs. Westlake to refrain from doing so when she was interrupted by the entrance of a new group of ladies.
Louisa came in immediately behind them, and Guinevere thought she heard a small gasp of surprise from Mrs. Westlake. She turned to caution her, but Mrs. Westlake did not return her look and quickly embarked upon a discussion with the lady on her other side about Edmund Kean’s notoriously frightening performance at Drury Lane, which she declared was so realistic it had nearly caused her to fall into convulsions.
As this was old news – practically everyone, including his fellow actors, claimed to have been terrified by the great actor’s portrayal of the villainous Sir Giles – Guinevere understood that Mrs. Westlake wished to avoid further discussion and could only hope she would continue to practice discretion.
Marianne stood to call the ladies to order and the servants were dismissed. Guinevere, hoping to forestall any dangerous revelations from Mrs. Digby, spoke up to suggest that they dispense with the usual time of sharing and begin instead with a discussion of Lancelot’s bride. “For I have a candidate to present to you and have brought her here today for your consideration.”
This statement created a great stir of curiosity among the ladies. The Dowager’s voice rose shrill above the others. “Who is it? Bring her forth. Is she a lady?”
“She is someone well known to you all. A lady of impeccable breeding, respectable to a fault, a member of the ton. Unexceptionable in every way. She is not wealthy, but has a generous competence, enough to provide for Lancelot so long as we legally bind the money so that he cannot waste it in gambling. She is no beauty, but she is young – still in her thirties.”
“That will do as well. For an old man, firm skin is as good as beauty,” the Dowager pronounced.
Guinevere nodded. “So I thought. “
“But why would she agree to this marriage?” a plump matron asked.
“She is a spinster and not happy in her present circumstances. She will not be marrying Lancelot for his title, but for the greater independence permitted to married ladies. Lancelot will get his usual gratification from making a discontented woman happy. And she will find personal satisfaction in nursing him through his attacks of gout. I believe caring for people who are in ill health is what pleases her most.”
Guinevere glanced at Louisa, who was staring at her, dumbstruck. Guinevere nodded slightly. Louisa closed her eyes and shook her head in a wondering way.
“Where is she?” the Dowager demanded. “Bring her in. Let her to tell us herself that she will do this thing.”
Guinevere got to her feet and went to the parlor where Miss Emily Manning sat sipping her tea. “Come along, Miss Manning,” she said kindly, “The ladies are waiting.”
Miss Manning entered the room, an uneasy smile on her face. Her eyes flew towards Louisa, who sat very still watching her with a dazed look upon her face. Miss Manning crossed the room to stand in front of her cousin and said quietly, “If you do not like this, Louisa, you have only to say so.”
Louisa stood up and took her hand, saying,
“Do you truly want this, Emily?”
Emily held herself straight and spoke with her old familiar calmness. The anxious handwringing creature of late was nowhere evident. “Yes I do. It answers very well for me. It is a splendid opportunity if he will only agree.”
“He will,” Louisa said. She thought for a moment and added, “I wished to do something splendid for you. If this is what you want, then you have my blessing.” Then she leaned forward and said, so quietly that no one else could hear her, “But you must undertake not to poison Lord Carew, you know.”
Miss Manning flushed slightly, and whispered back, “No, indeed I won’t.”
Louisa stepped back and said aloud, “He is a cantankerous old rapscallion with the morals of a…a cat.”
This remark was met with by laughter from a good many of the ladies present, but Emily’s answer was spoken gravely, “So Lady Guinevere has told me.”
“But he will be kind to you,” Louisa said.
“And I will be good to him.”
With Louisa’s blessing secured, Miss Manning turned to face the rest of the ladies, answering their questions calmly, assuring them that she was quite capable of nursing him in his dotage, that she believed she had several receipts for poultices which she thought would surely ease his pain, and indeed would be glad of the chance to be useful to him.
“He swears he loves another,” one woman called out.
Miss Manning’s glance towards Lady Guinevere showed that she was not ignorant of that story. However, she merely nodded and replied easily, “I can only hope that his high esteem for her will lead him to follow her counsel in the matter of his marriage.”
She was equally aware of his history as a rake – indeed who among the ladies of the ton was not – and she was not concerned about it, for, she said, “I believe all gentlemen have their little ways, and it is the duty of a wife to accept her husband as God has made him.”
The Dowager snorted at that pious pronouncement, and uttered a disparaging remark about the namby-pamby ways of this younger generation. But at the end of the questions, she nodded her satisfaction along with the others.