by Sandra Heath
The carriage approached Hyde Park and the corner of Park Lane, and as it slowly turned north out of Piccadilly, Alexander spoke suddenly to Elizabeth. “I’ve been thinking that it would be very agreeable if we paid a brief visit to my mother and sister at Norrington Court. It’s been some time since we saw them, and my mother has been plaguing me with invitations. I know it’s a long way to Lincolnshire, but we have time to accomplish a stay there before the betrothal ball requires us to come back to London. What do you say? Shall we go?”
Elizabeth was caught a little off guard by the sudden invitation. Go to Lincolnshire with the betrothal day so near? There was so much to still arrange for the celebratory ball… But at the same time, it would be very pleasant indeed to see his mother and sister again, especially at Norrington Court, which was a very beautiful old house that had originally been built as a medieval castle. The Norringtons had been lords of Norrington manor since the time of the Norman conquest, and were well loved and respected in that part of Lincolnshire. The atmosphere was always soothing and comfortable, and the company very pleasing indeed. She smiled at him, her gray eyes warm in the gloom of the carriage.
“I would love to go,” she replied.
He drew her hand to his lips. “I will make the arrangements without delay. We will leave well within the week.”
Opposite them, Isobel’s humming had stopped. The last thing she wanted was for Alexander to leave London. She leaned urgently toward Elizabeth. “Oh, please don’t go all that distance away, not when you and I are about to become close friends,” she pleaded.
“It won’t be for long, Isobel, for we have to return soon because of the betrothal.”
“Yes, but—”
“We wish to go,” repeated Elizabeth, a little surprised at her vehemence.
Knowing that to say anything more might look a little odd, Isobel fell silent. Her face gave nothing away, but inside she was in turmoil. She had to think of something, for a visit to far-off Norrington Court would not do at all.
The carriage was now halfway along Park Lane, with Hyde Park to the left, and the mansions of Mayfair to the right. Dawn was lightening the sky more and more, and there were faint lights at the windows as housemaids and other servants went about their early morning tasks.
Aunt Avery’s residence, which was almost opposite the Grosvenor Gate entrance to the park, was a handsome four-storied house built of red bricks. It boasted elegant wrought-iron balconies on the upper floors, and the main door was approached by a semicircular drive through two stone gateways. The coachman maneuvered the carriage in through one of the gateways, and then reined in before the house.
Alexander flung the door open and alighted, turning to extend his hand to Isobel. She descended in a whisper of swansdown, pausing to look back at Elizabeth.
“I will call upon you very soon, Elizabeth,” she said.
“I look forward to it.”
“I trust you do not mean to leave for Lincolnshire within a day or so?”
“Within four days, I should imagine,” Elizabeth replied.
Isobel smiled. “Good night, and thank you again for bringing me home.” Then she turned to Alexander. “You cannot possibly know how pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Sir Alexander.”
“I assure you that I am equally as pleased to have met you, Lady Isobel,” he replied, raising her hand to his lips.
She suppressed the telltale shiver of pleasure and then hurried into the house, for her aunt’s butler had opened the door in readiness.
Alexander climbed back into the carriage, which drew away the moment the door slammed behind him. As the vehicle swayed out of the other gateway and then began to drive back down Park Lane again, Alexander put his arm around Elizabeth, pulling her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
She closed her eyes for a long, satisfied moment, for it was at times like this that she felt most tranquil and at ease in his company. She would be a fool indeed to put everything in jeopardy simply because of some lingering yearnings from the past. Her days of happiness with James had not lasted very long, but her days of wretchedness at his hands had seemed endless at the time. That was what she must remember now, and she must look forward to her future with Alexander.
The carriage turned west at the foot of Park Lane, then passed through the turnpike gate and out of London along a stone road with the long acres of Hyde Park to the north. The dawn was pale gray now, and the trees in the park were ghostly white with frost. They passed the Jacobean splendor of Kensington Palace, and saw the chimneys of Holland House behind its screen of tall trees, and then they drove through the village of Kensington itself, where Elizabeth looked out a little uneasily at the collection of dilapidated and rather notorious buildings known as the Halfway House. It was a den of thieves and other rogues, and was suspected of being the hiding place of the footpads and highwaymen who had been at work in the neighborhood. But all was quiet now, for even villains must go to their beds, and such low persons did not care for cold or daylight.
Alexander spoke again. “It was somewhere near here that Tom Crichton believes he saw Marcus.”
“If it was Marcus,” she murmured.
“I hope it was, and I hope too that he chooses soon to seek out his old friends.”
The carriage negotiated the turning from the main road into the narrow lane, which swept down a steep incline to the level meadows that lay between the highway and the distant Thames. The hedgerow was overgrown, with some of the bare-branched trees meeting overhead, and there were very few lights in the houses they passed, but it was only three hundred yards to the gates of Oakgrove House and the twisting gravel drive that led up from the lane to the gracious villa where Elizabeth had lived since returning from Madras.
The villa was very modern indeed, and was not designed to be in the least symmetrical. It was a crenellated, irregular building with all the main reception rooms on the ground floor, each one possessing French doors to the outside so that it was possible to enter and leave the villa from wherever one happened to be at the time. There was an oblong vestibule and staircase hall, a hexagonal drawing room, an oval dining room, a circular library, a square billiard room, and a bow-windowed study that was partly rectangular and partly circular, and upstairs there were bedrooms that echoed these various shapes.
These days it was not only the rage to shun conventional design, but also to go out of one’s way to invite nature to invade one’s home, and so all the outer walls were carefully trained with climbing and creeping plants, and more plants adorned the balconies upstairs. Flowers and greenery filled every room, and there was a conservatory that was so lush that it resembled a tropical jungle. Oakgrove House was not a large property by society standards, and could not in any way compare with the likes of Devonshire House or Holland House, but Elizabeth had fallen in love with it the moment she saw it, and she had not deemed anywhere else to be even vaguely worthy of inspection.
The carriage drove up the drive and halted, and before alighting Alexander pulled Elizabeth into his arms, holding her close for a long moment. “I love you with all my heart,” he whispered.
“And I love you,” she replied. It was true, she did love him, but was it the right sort of love?
He sensed that something was wrong. “What is it, my darling?” he asked, drawing back to look into her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Something is troubling you, isn’t it? I’ve felt it for several days now, and sometimes when I look at you I can see that you are preoccupied.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” she replied, for how could she possibly tell him what she had been thinking about?
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? I mean, I could not bear it if you had a problem you did not feel able to confide in me.”
She felt suddenly close to tears.
He cupped her face in his hands, brushing his lips over hers. “You’re tired, and I’m keeping you in idle chitter-chatter. I will let you go now
, and I promise that we will leave for Lincolnshire as soon as we can, for I think that it will prove a welcome diversion for us both.”
“When will I see you next?”
“Well, there is an exhibition of sporting prints at Ackermann’s Repository tomorrow night, or is it tonight now? Anyway, I would rather like to go, for you know how I like sporting prints, but I know that you cannot abide them, and so perhaps we had better agree that I should go alone.”
She smiled. “Yes, I think we had, for the thought of examining countless likenesses of pugilists, gun dogs, thoroughbreds, and so on, does not exactly fill me with joy.”
“Then let us meet the morning after. Perhaps we could go for a drive in the park?”
“I would like that.”
“Until then, my darling.”
“Until then.”
He kissed her again, and she held him tightly for a moment. Then he alighted, and assisted her from the carriage. As she stepped down to the gravel drive, the door of the house opened, and candlelight flickered as her butler, Wentworth, emerged in his dressing gown with a three-branched candlestick.
“Good morning, Wentworth,” she said, smiling.
“Good morning, madam. Sir. I trust that you enjoyed the ball?”
“We did indeed, Wentworth,” Alexander replied.
The butler held the candlestick carefully to light Elizabeth’s way as she stepped into the house. He was a stout man of medium height, with spiky gray hair that was concealed beneath a powdered wig. He wore a plain brown dressing gown over his rather long nightshirt, and there were comfortable slippers on his feet. He shivered in the bitterly cold dawn air, and his breath was clearly visible as he stifled a yawn.
Alexander climbed into the carriage for the last time, and as it drew away once more, Wentworth turned to come into the house, closing the door quietly behind him.
The oblong entrance hall had pristine white walls and floor tiled in green, gray, and white. There was a marble fireplace where the fire had been carefully tended throughout the night, and several elegant green velvet sofas scattered with golden cushions. The doors of several rooms opened off this part of the house, and each one was guarded on either side by a handsome bay tree in an ornate terra-cotta pot.
The columns supporting part of the landing on the next floor were twined with climbing plants, and the staircase itself was adorned with pots containing hothouse hyacinths, daffodils, and jonquils. There was a handsome crystal chandelier, but it was unlit, its drops shining faintly in the light from the fire and the butler’s candlestick.
Elizabeth went to the fire, held her hands out to the warmth, and gazed thoughtfully into the glowing heart of the flames.
Wentworth waited patiently, but as she remained there, he cleared his throat slightly. “Madam?”
“Mm?”
“Shall I light you to your room, madam?”
She turned then. “Light another candle for me, Wentworth, and I will go up in a while. Please tell Violet that she does not need to wait upon me, for I will attend to everything myself.”
“Very well, madam.” He went to a table where various candlesticks were kept in readiness, and when he had lit one of them for her and brought it to the mantelpiece, he bowed again, and then withdrew.
As his footsteps died away, and silence descended over the house, she returned her attention to the fire, her thoughts winging away from the bitter cold of a London winter, to the heat and dust of a burning hot Madras summer. It was the day she had first begun to realize that James was not the man she believed him to be, and the memories were so real in that moment that she could almost smell the camphor-wood furniture in her bedroom, and hear the temple bells in the distance. James had been out all the previous night, and now it was midday, with the sun so high and hot that she had had to retire to her room to lie down. She did not know where he was, and she was anxious. What if something had happened to him? She lay back on the bed, gazing up at the muslin draperies that kept the insects away. So many insects, constantly whining, droning, and buzzing.
Then she heard James approaching the door, his steps uneven with drink. She sat up uneasily, gasping as he flung the door aside and staggered in. His handsome face was distorted with anger, and he carried a glass of cognac which he drained before dashing it to the parquet floor, where it shattered into tiny fragments.
The look on his face terrified her, for it was the face of a stranger. With a cry of fear she scrambled away, but her bed stood against the wall, and she had nowhere to go.
He lurched toward her, pausing to steady himself on the bedpost. His blue eyes were dark with emotion, and his voice was rough with jealous fury. “You are the talk of Madras, madam. Did you know?”
“Please, James…”
“It seems there are few gentlemen here who would not give handsomely for a little time in your arms. How many have you obliged already, Elizabeth?”
“None!” she cried, pressing fearfully back against the wall.
His gaze moved hotly over her naked legs, for she wore only a light silk wrap, which had parted as she scrambled away when first he had entered.
“You’re mine, Elizabeth, and mine alone. Don’t ever forget it!” His Scottish accent was always slightly more pronounced when he had been drinking, but although she had on many occasions seen him a little merry, she had never seen him as evil with liquor as he was now.
“Please leave, James,” she whispered.
“I’ll leave when I’ve taught you a lesson, madam. As I said, you are mine and mine alone, but I have and will continue to sleep with whatever lady takes my fancy. I’ve betrayed you time and time again, my lovely wife, but you will not ever put horns on me! Do you hear me?”
Her eyes were huge with fear. “I hear you,” she replied.
“And now for your lesson!” He lunged forward suddenly, catching the hem of her wrap. She screamed, trying desperately to crawl away from him, but he was too strong. The wrap ripped in his hand, exposing more of her nakedness beneath, and then he gripped her leg, his fingers so viselike that she cried out with pain.
The bed was soft and warm, but he was hard and cruel. There was no trace now of the skillful lover who had shown her the way to ecstasy; instead he was concerned only with the instant gratification of his own savage desire. He bruised her as he forced himself upon her, and she could taste the cognac on his mouth as he kissed her.
In those dreadful moments she knew more pain and humiliation than she had ever known before, and when he left her battered and scratched, she had whimpered as she curled up wretchedly on the bed.
When next she had seen him he had been sober, but he had remembered what he had done. She knew that he was ashamed of having treated her so vilely, but he told himself that she had been at fault, not he. He did not hurt her again, however, at least, not physically. Mentally he hurt her time and time again, for his infidelities were legion. In the end they cost him his life, for at last he seduced a wife whose husband was a dangerous man to cross. A duel ensued, and James French paid the price of his infamy.
The fire shifted in the hearth, and Elizabeth’s thoughts returned to the present. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the lighted candlestick from the mantelpiece, and turned to cross the hall toward the staircase. She could smell the sweetness of the spring flowers as she went up to the next floor, and she blinked back the tears that shimmered on her lashes. Until that dreadful day in Madras she had loved James French with all her heart; he had destroyed her love and her trust, and he had done so in the cruelest possible way.
Chapter 4
It was midday, and Elizabeth slept on in her canopied bed at Oakgrove House. The room was warm, and in virtual darkness, for her maid, Violet, had left the shutters closed and the heavy blue velvet curtains drawn.
The bedroom, which was directly above the drawing room, was the same size and hexagonal shape. Its walls were hung with blue floral silk, and it had tall windows that on one side opened on to a balcony overlooking t
he drive, and on the other led to a large balustraded terrace built on the roof of the conservatory. There were ornamental ferns in polished brass bowls, and more hyacinths and daffodils to fill the air with spring fragrance.
Through a doorway there was an adjoining dressing room, furnished in the same way, and lined with mirror-doored wardrobes filled to capacity with an enviable collection of fashionable clothes.
Outside it was still icily cold, and snowflakes were again floating idly on the still air, but they were so few that they could easily have been counted. Sound traveled a long way in such weather, so that the clatter of hooves and wheels carried from the highway across the meadows, but Elizabeth didn’t stir until something startled the jackdaws in the elm trees in the lane and they rose noisily from the branches, filling the air with their cries.
Her eyes fluttered and opened, and she stretched lazily between the warm bedclothes. She glanced toward the mantelpiece, and saw the face of the little gilded clock in a chink of light that somehow pierced the shutters and curtains. It was noon!
She sat up, pushing her tangled dark-blond hair back from her face, then she flung the bedclothes aside and got up, taking her frilled pink woolen wrap from the foot of the bed and slipping quickly into it. She went to one of windows overlooking the drive, drew the curtains back, and then folded the shutters aside. The cold gray light of winter fell across her as she gazed out.