“Dinner is in a half hour, but I can send for a tea tray if you wish.”
Marion shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll just freshen up a bit and join you in the drawing room.”
Her mother patted her on her back. “Take your time, dear. We can hold dinner until you’re ready.”
Once again she entered her room in sorrow, with no idea how she would go on for the rest of her life. After she’d been notified of Tristan’s “death,” she had spent two years cosseted behind the walls of this room and her room at the London townhouse.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She hardly knew the woman who looked back at her. Dark circles had surfaced under her eyes in the hours since breakfast. Her skin was pale, her features drawn. To think only last night she’d fallen asleep sated from lovemaking, hopeful that a child had resulted from their passion and love.
A scratch at the door drew her attention.
“My lady, the footmen are bringing up your trunks.” Jane regarded her with sympathy, then hurried to direct the delivery of her baggage.
“Thank you. I will be joining the family downstairs as soon as I freshen up.”
Marion splashed water on her face, then ran a brush through her hair, tying back the dark brown curls with a ribbon. One more glance in the mirror, and she headed downstairs.
Dinner was a quiet affair, with no mention of why Marion sent for a carriage and how long she planned to stay. Her sisters and sister-in-law kept up a lively chatter about the family’s plans for the Harvest Festival which the family hosted every year in early October.
Even though she continued to feel out of sorts sitting here at her family’s table, once again unsure of her role in life, some of the girls’ excitement transferred to her. She’d been lonely for so long, and then vacillating between hope and despair, that it felt good to hear of their plans. A chance to forget her own concerns for a while and focus on something joyful.
“Marion, you will be here for our harvest ball, won’t you?” The table grew solemn and quiet at Sybil’s words. Suddenly, everyone became vastly interested in the plate in front of them.
Marion chewed her lip, realizing it was up to her to break the tension in the room. “Perhaps. I’m not quite sure yet.”
“Girls, after dinner I’d like you to get together and plan some entertainments for those who will be with us for a few days before and after the ball.”
“A scavenger hunt!” Mary blurted out.
“Good heavens,” Sarah grinned. “What an odd suggestion coming from one who can hardly find her combs.”
“All the more reason to spend a bit of time searching with a gentleman for trinkets hidden among the trees.” Mary grinned at her sister, then turned toward Drake. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, brother, stop frowning.”
“I am merely interested to know the name of this gentleman with whom you wish to search for trinkets.”
Mary raised her chin. “None in particular, I assure you.”
Drake returned to his meal, Marion thinking he no doubt wished at least one of his sisters was interested in a young man who might take her off his hands.
Marion settled across from her mother on the settee in the dowager’s sitting room. Technically, her mother could move to the dower house. However, with three unmarried daughters, along with her son and his wife’s blessing and encouragement, she continued to reside in her pleasant apartments in the west wing of the manor.
“Tell me what is wrong.” Not one to mince words, her mother took Marion’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Why did you send for a carriage to bring you back to us?”
“Tristan has left me.”
Another squeeze of her hand was the only response from her mother.
Marion pulled her hand away and stood, walking toward the window where she gazed out, her fingers gripping the window frame. “I thought we were getting along better, that he had accepted I wanted to be his wife, despite his blindness, and that I didn’t want to be ‘set free’ to find someone else.
“In fact, the night before he left, we…” Remembering to whom she was speaking, she flushed and closed her mouth.
“I understand, dear.”
As the mother of seven children, and wife of a man who’d adored her, Marion was quite sure her mother indeed understood.
“Mother, he can do so many things.” Marion turned from the window and rejoined her mother on the settee, excitement bubbling from within. “He practices archery—and is quite good, and accurate. He boxes in his room at night and gets around wonderfully with his cane. He even has a dog that worships him and follows him everywhere.”
“It sounds to me like he’s made quite an adjustment to what must be a very difficult turn his life took.”
“He has. And I tell him all the time, but he still refuses to take that final step and acknowledge our marriage.”
“Tristan is frightened, Marion.”
She sat back, frowning. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s had two years to adjust to his blindness and to life without you. Then, due to some maneuvering on the part of his companion, you’ve reentered his life. Needless to say, and certainly understandable, you rushed right to him and demanded you resume your life together.”
“But I thought him dead! I was so happy he was still alive.”
“I’m sure you were, dear. But he needs time to come to grips with the idea of being blind with a wife and a potential family.”
“Mother, please don’t say what I think you are going to say.”
She smiled softly and patted Marion’s hand. “Give him time, sweeting. Just some more time. I can practically guarantee he will adjust. Time.”
Chapter Twelve
Tristan rolled over in the large bed, then frowned as something large, wet, and warm slid across his face from his eyebrows to his chin. “Argh!” He wiped his mouth. “Dog, keep your tongue behind your teeth.”
Argos laid his head on Tristan’s chest and whimpered.
Without conscious thought, Tristan reached up and ran his palm over the animal’s soft fur. “What shall we do today, Argos?” He shifted to make room for the dog alongside him. “Why is it I never seemed to think about what to do when I lived here before, but after only a few weeks with Marion, I feel so lost and alone?”
Argos not responding with anything intelligent, Tristan continued to pet the animal and muse on his life. Soon he would pick up his former routine and be as content as before. Or, if not content, at least accepting.
“Good morning, my lord. It is encouraging to see you are not waking up alone, but I question your choice of bed partner.” The sounds of Ellis bustling around the room didn’t hide the valet’s comment.
“Remind me this afternoon when my solicitor arrives to have him contact an agency to being the search for a new valet.”
Argos whined.
“I swear this dog understands everything I say.” Tristan flipped the covers off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair.
“I have heard, my lord, that some blind people find success with an animal by their side. It has been reported dogs are especially good for accompanying their masters and keeping them from entering into dangerous situations.”
“I don’t intend to have an animal direct my life, Ellis. Do you think me that feeble?”
“It is my opinion, my lord, that given your circumstances, you should welcome any relief that comes your way.”
Tristan stiffened his spine. “Which is precisely why I do not solicit your opinions. It would behoove you to remember you are the valet and I am the employer.”
“My station is forever on my mind, my lord.”
Knowing this discussion would have no satisfactory resolution, Tristan settled into the chair so Ellis could complete his morning ministrations.
He and Landers were halfway through their correspondence for the day when Carson, his London townhouse butler, interrupted them. “My lord, your solicitor i
s awaiting you.”
“Thank you, Carson. Please ask him to join us.” Tristan turned to his secretary. “If you will begin those letters, I will send for you when we are finished.”
“Yes sir. I will attend to them immediately.” Landers gathered his papers and departed the room.
“I was quite surprised to find you had relocated to London. I thought you were well ensconced in the country.” McGregor shuffled papers as he settled into the chair in front of the desk. “Will you and Lady Tunstall be spending winter in town, then?”
Once again a wave of frustration washed over Tristan at his solicitor’s words. The entire world felt it their place to comment, ask questions, and generally make him extremely uncomfortable with his decisions.
“My wife remains in the country.” He paused. “For now.”
Why the devil did he add that? He should not have to explain himself to his employees. Nor should he need to lie. Marion would not be joining him here in London. Nor would he be returning to her.
McGregor cleared his throat. “I have investigated the possibility of obtaining a divorce in another country—“
Tristan held up his hand, stopping his solicitor’s words. “I will not be pursuing that avenue.” His memories of Marion’s distress at that plan tightened his muscles. She was right in her desolation at his words. It did seem as though he disliked her so much that he was willing to leave the country. At this point he had no idea how all this would be resolved, but taking up residence in another country would not be the method employed.
“I am glad to hear that, my lord. Surely, given enough time and thought, you and Lady Tunstall will come to a satisfactory conclusion.” Tristan sensed McGregor’s relief as the man gushed.
Everyone was hopeful, except him. Did they not understand how useless he felt? How incompetent to take on the responsibility of a husband and father? Father. The bile rose to the back of his throat at the memory of once again enjoying the time with Marion, followed by the fear that their actions had created a new life. A life he was not prepared to face.
…
“I believe the best course of action would be for me to join Tristan in London.” Marion held herself stiffly as she stood in front of her mother.
The dowager duchess’s expression softened, and she patted the chair alongside her. “Sit down, Marion.”
Marion settled next to her mother. Over the past two weeks she’d given this a lot of thought. There would be no convincing Tristan that his blindness didn’t frighten her if she couldn’t be with him. She’d received no word since his departure, although Drake told her Tristan’s solicitor had contacted him to set up an account for Marion to draw from for her needs.
She snorted. Her needs. What she needed was him. She’d written a scathing letter to Mr. McGregor, putting forth exactly how she felt about Tristan’s money. Then, thankfully, in a moment of sanity, she’d torn the letter up and fed it to the fireplace. But she’d felt tremendously lighter for having done that. Although nothing had been resolved.
“My dear, you’ve waited more than two years for your husband. Can’t you wait just a little bit longer?”
Agitated, Marion stood, thrusting her crossed arms under her breasts. “How much longer, mother? The man is perfectly content in London, no doubt having forgotten all about me.”
Her mother reached out and touched her lightly on the arm. “I can say without equivocation that Tristan has not forgotten you, sweeting.”
Marion collapsed in the seat next to her mother. “I know. I mean— I think I know. How can he be so stubborn?”
“You must put yourself in Tristan’s place. He had two years to accustom himself to losing you. To no longer being a part of a married couple. Understandably, you raced off to be with him when you realized he was not dead. But you did not take into account the adjustment he would need to make.”
“Do you think I didn’t suffer when I thought him dead?”
“Of course we know how you suffered, Marion. Not a day went by that I didn’t fret you would never leave your room. Would never return to a normal life. If it hadn’t been for Penelope, I fear you would still be cosseted in your room.”
“Maybe that would have been better. Then I would still think Tristan dead, instead of just not wanting me.”
Her mother tsked. “He wants you, sweeting. Very much.” She reached across her and picked up a piece of paper. “You need something to occupy your time while Tristan works out his problems.”
“What is that?” Marion nodded in the direction of the paper her mother held.
“Mrs. Fox is laid up in bed.” Donridge Heath’s rector and his wife had been friends of their family for years. In fact, their son, Joseph, rector in a nearby town, was her sister Abigail’s husband.
“Oh, dear. Whatever happened?”
“Nothing too serious. It seems she tripped going out her back door and twisted her ankle.” She opened the paper and continued. “She asks if one of you girls could take her place in working with the children’s choir for the Harvest Festival.”
“Mother, I cannot take on that job.”
The dowager raised her eyebrows. “And the reason you feel you cannot help out the poor woman in her time of need is…”
“Oh, please don’t put it that way. Any one of my sisters would love to do it.” Marion waved her hand around.
“While you, of course, are much too busy to lend your assistance.”
“Mother.” She hated the adolescent sound of her voice. She must spend time trying to figure out what she could do to save her marriage. But knowing her mother as she did, this was a fait accompli. Few people were able to say no to the dowager duchess when her mind was made up. Perhaps she should save them both a great deal of angst and just say yes.
“All right,” she groused.
Her mother patted her on the arm. “Wonderful. I just knew you would be delighted to help Mrs. Fox.” She folded the paper and beamed at Marion. “I told her to expect you this afternoon to discuss how far along the children are.”
“Indeed?” Despite her agitation, Marion was forced to grin at her mother’s audacity. Perhaps she should send her mother to Tristan to straighten him out.
“Mother…do you suppose you could talk to—”
She shook her head. “No, dear. I would never intrude in one of my children’s marriages.” Her wide-eyed, beguiled look was almost comical. The Dowager Duchess of Manchester would do precisely as she chose. “Time, my dear. More time.”
Marion snorted and left the room, the paper from Mrs. Fox crushed in her hand. Perhaps she would have some time to walk around blindfolded before she had to leave for the meeting with Mrs. Fox. As long as she was stuck here working with other people’s children she could at least do something worthwhile to help her husband when the fool stopped being so blasted stubborn.
…
“My lord, stubbornness is indeed an admirable trait in certain circumstances.” Ellis stepped back once more as Tristan and Argos walked from the back steps to the end of the rose garden. The dog moved forward with confidence. They’d taught Argos to ignore birds and other critters while he was guiding Tristan.
The animal had turned out to be very intelligent and willing to help his master. He seemed to be intrinsically aware that Tristan could not see. The dog had learned to stop when his master stopped and move forward when he started up again. Now they were trying to get him to stop at elevations when they were about to approach steps.
Tristan was determined to grasp this, much as he had mastered archery and boxing. Maybe he’d been remiss to scoff at relying on the animal. If he could depend on Argos to guide him from place to place, a lot of opportunities would open up for him.
The next few weeks flew by as Ellis and Tristan worked diligently with Argos. Tristan became obsessed with furthering the distance he and the dog walked. He pushed himself and the dog until they were both grouchy and tired.
With some trepidation, early one morning they set off,
only the two of them, for a walk on London streets. The fall weather was perfect for a stroll. The crisp air required a coat, but the sun warmed him as they walked.
After a few blocks, Tristan relaxed and realized his dog was performing quite well. He felt the freedom of enjoying a walk by himself for the first time since he’d awoken blind.
Excitement spiraled through him. He could do this. All sorts of ideas raced through his mind. He could have an almost normal life. He could go about, perhaps even visit friends and begin to accept some of the invitations that had piled up since his return to London.
Carriages rattled by and horses snorted as they pulled passengers to their destinations. Store owners called out to one another, greeting the new day. Stepping confidently into the street, he heard a high-pitched squeal. Argos barked frantically and attempted to pull him backward. Tristan stumbled and tripped over the dog, landing on his arm. A jolt of pain shot up to his shoulder.
“Oh goodness. Are you all right?” The sound of a soft feminine voice caused the old rage at his blindness to wash over him.
Rudely, he shoved away the hand that attempted to help him up. “I am fine. Thank you.” He took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself and change his tone from the abruptness that the woman did not deserve. “If you could just direct me and my dog toward Harley Street, I would be most grateful.”
“You are on Harley Street, my lord. Can I assist you home?”
“No!” He cringed at his tone. All he wanted to do was return to the sanity of his house and get off these blasted streets. What was he thinking, going so far? He was a blind man, and it was best he remembered that and stop this nonsense about his life being anything different.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he said, “home,” to Argos and they started off.
The walk back was nowhere near as enticing as it had started out. He smarted with embarrassment over the tumble he had taken and that he had snapped at the woman who had attempted to help him. Anger at his weakness soon took over and he stomped up the stairs to his front door.
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