by Joan Smith
“Good. Gone trotting over to Siderows’ to say goodbye to the family, I suppose? I came at a good time. How come you didn’t go with her? Ought to have, you know, Clay. Really ought to have gone the first time. No need to go every time, but today it seems to me you should have gone along for the looks of it.”
“I don’t know where she is. She’s run off on me again,” Clay admitted shamefacedly.
“Eh?” Rex jerked to attention, his little blue eyes fairly starting from their sockets. “You don’t mean it! You haven’t let her get away again. Deuce take it, Clay, you’ll have to mount a guard on that girl. Gone again.” He shook his head in amazement. “How come you ain’t out bringing her back?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Well, dash it, man, you can’t sit here slugging wine when your bride’s out careering all over town for all you know, making a show of the pair of you. Don’t know what you’re thinking about, sitting here moping.”
“I don’t think she’s careering around town. She took the traveling carriage, all loaded for a trip.”
“Hmph, that’s odd. Would she have gone on to Somerset, do you think?”
“No, I do not, though she would like me to think so.”
“Must have gone home then. To Sussex, I mean. Nowhere else she could have gone, is there?”
“I guess not,” Clay sighed. Just as the sigh was expiring, he was visited with a very face-saving idea. His eyes brightened, and he settled back, smiling fondly on his visitor. “Have a glass of wine, Rex,” he said, and poured as he spoke.
“Huh, don’t mind if I do. Madeira, eh? Sweet, sticky stuff. Never could stand it,” he stated, just before tossing off the glass at a gulp.
“Yes, poor stuff,” Clay agreed, refilling his glass. “Do you know. Rex, I am glad you came by. You’re the very chap to help me out a little.”
“Any time. Always glad to oblige a friend,” he said, sipping on the much-maligned madeira with apparent relish. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to make sure my wife is not with her family before I set out in pursuit. Perhaps you would be so kind as to call at the Siderows’—her parents and Wanda are staying there, too—and see if she is there. If she’s not, drop by the Tamesons’ and see if she is by any chance with them.”
“All right. I’ll do that. Come back here and let you know.”
“Thank you, Rex. Oh, and by the way, there is no point in giving them a fright. Don’t say you’ve been here first, or mention anything about her disappearance.”
“Oh, so that’s why you don’t want to go yourself? Can’t say I blame you. Must be a lowering thing to be so repulsive your wife can’t stand one night with you. I won’t say a word. Trust me. Can’t undertake to bring Ellie back, though. She wouldn’t come with me after this morning.”
“I’m not asking that. Just let me know if she’s there. You’d better get right along.”
“Ain’t finished this rotten wine yet.”
“Leave it.”
“Huh? What’s the rush? Didn’t see you bestirring yourself to find her. You know what, Clay, I think Ellie might have a point. You do use people.” On this defiant note he arose, finished the wine, and stomped from the room, feeling he had put Claymore in his place, for once.
Neither chastened nor repentant, Claymore went to the door with him, dictating orders all the way. “Don’t sit around chatting for half an hour, Rex, or stop for wine. Just nip in smartly and find out if she’s there, without letting on she’s gone. Can you remember all that?”
“Ain’t a complete dunce,” Rex replied. “Course I can. First Siderows’, then Tamesons’. Far as that goes, Tamesons’ is a waste of time. She won’t be there. Don’t care for Caroline above half. It’ll be Siderows’, or she’s dashed straight off to Sussex.”
“Go, anyway, just to be sure.”
“All right, all right. Your own fault. Don’t see why you couldn’t have got the poor soul a diamond ring.”
“Hurry!”
“I’m going!”
He went, finally. Claymore returned to his little parlor, but found himself unable to sit still, or to think coherently. Either she was there, with Joan or Caroline, or, she was not. He forced himself to concentrate. All right, so if she was there, he’d have to go, tail between his legs, and get her. They’d set out for Somerset immediately, without even waiting to hire a guard. If she wasn’t there— Siderows’ or Tamesons’—he’d assume she’d gone directly to Sussex, and have to go after her.
He’d take his curricle. They might enjoy driving in the open carriage if the good weather held up. Why were these irrelevant thoughts intruding at a time like this? Images of himself and Ellie, cutting along in the curricle with the sun in their faces and the wind in their hair. He recalled his curricle ride with Wanda, that fiasco that had turned him against her entirely, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. He had never ridden with Ellie—never done anything with her. And Rex said she was a bruising rider, too. Their curricle was replaced, in his mind, by a pair of bays, and they were dashing through fields, side by side, over hedges and ditches. Oh dammit, why couldn’t he concentrate? He had to get her back.
All right—one way or the other, he’d be traveling. Get ready then. His valet would have a light traveling case packed. Lord, he hadn’t even shaved, in his mad morning’s excitement. He dashed up to his room, made his preparations, got some money from the safe in the study, and was just coming into the hall when Homberly was admitted again.
“In here,” Clay said, and hustled Rex into privacy before he opened his budget.
“She ain’t there,” Rex said, coming right to the point for once. “Went to Siderows’ and Tamesons’, and she ain’t with either one. Hasn’t been there. Had my groom take a look around the stables, too, in case they was lying for her, and there was no sign of your carriage. She ain’t there.”
“Sussex then. I’d better get going.”
“I wonder. . . .” Homberly assumed his wise face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.
“What, have you thought of something?”
“Thing is, Clay, I don’t see Ellie going back home. Besides her mama cutting up stiff—which she would, you know—there’d be Wanda’s taunting to put up with. All I can say is, she must have been awful desperate to go pitching herself into that cauldron.”
“But where else could she be?”
“Your place. Somerset.”
“No, I’m convinced she’s not gone there. She always pokered up at any mention of my mother. Besides, she’s left me; she wouldn’t go to my house, would she?”
“No, but I can’t see her going to hers either. She was always wonderful close with my sister. Used to talk of going on the stage together. Was going to pretend they was sisters. Just foolish child’s talk, of course, but . . .”
“You are not seriously saying you think my wife plans to go on the stage!”
“No, but she might have gone to Bath with Mama and Missie. They left about an hour ago, before I came here. I was there to see ‘em off.”
“Well, was my wife with them?”
“No. No, I’d have told you if she was, but she might have been planning to meet ‘em along the way.”
“I don’t think so. Mama will be going there. I told you, my wife is afraid of her.”
Rex was frowning at Claymore, an intent spark in his blue eyes. “That’s three times you’ve said it inside of a minute.”
“Said what?”
“My wife.”
“Well, what of it? We are discussing my wife; why should I not use her name?”
“You never do, though, use her name. You always say ‘my wife.’ Slides off your tongue as easy as if you’d been married a decade. I should think it’d take you a while to get used to it.”
“No, I am used to it already.” He stood a moment considering this speech. He was not at all used to it, of course; how could he be when to all intents and purposes he was not married, did not have a wife? It wa
s only the frequent and repeated uttering of the mystical words “my wife” that brought any feeling of reality to that charade that had been performed at St. George’s.
“It gives the impression you think of Ellie as a thing,” Rex charged. He marveled that this wonderful insight had somehow occurred to him, and added, “Just a thing, like a horse or a carriage. Something to use.”
“That is the second time today you have accused me of using people,” Clay fired up. “I can assure you I have not used my wife as a thing.”
“You’ve used her bad anyway, or she wouldn’t have left you. I begin to regret I ever called you to come and get her this morning. Tell me truthfully, now, Clay, why did she go? I won’t tell a soul, but I feel it’s my fault she married you, for it was me put the notion into your head.”
“I don’t know,” Clay said, and clamped his jaws shut.
“Seems hard you didn’t even get her a diamond ring, Clay, with all the jewels you’ve got locked up in a box somewhere. Everyone knows it. Shows a lack of respect, of interest in Ellie.” He waited for some response, but the locked jaws didn’t budge an iota. “I think she’s hurt. Thinks you don’t care for her a jot. If that’s the case, you shouldn’t have married her.” Rex was sure this would bring some response, possibly even physical, but still Clay stood with his mouth shut and his tongue between his teeth.
“Didn’t even sign your letters ‘Love’ or anything, after all the warm stuff you scribbled off to the Rose.”
At last he got his response. “My w—Ellie doesn’t know what I wrote to Rose, and how does it come that you know what I wrote to Ellie?”
“She told me, this morning. Bawling her eyes out, too. She’s jealous of the Rose, Clay. If you ever hope to get this marriage off the ground, you’re going to have to explain to her you’re all through with the Rose. Even if you don’t love Ellie, you owe it to her—”
“Of course I love her. Why do you think I’m half distracted with worry! Rex, I can see you’ve made some sort of a botch of this morning.”
“I made a botch of it! Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch! You’re the one made a botch of it. Seems to me something happened last night! You did something stupid, Clay. Don’t know what it was, maybe it’s none of my business, but something turned her sour between the time she married you and this morning, when she came limping into the hotel. You didn’t—you didn’t beat her, did you? She denied it, but then she would, I suppose, for the disgrace of it. It’s been preying on my mind, thinking I led that poor girl on to marry a beater. She was limping something awful when she came in, which is why I mention the beating.”
“No, she cut her foot on a broken wine glass. The limp, Rex, surely it was not at all pronounced. I was hardly aware of it.”
“Daresay you was hardly looking. It was very noticeable. Who smashed the glass?”
“That was an accident.” Clay waved it away with a fluttering hand.
“Drunk, was you?”
“Certainly not.”
“ ‘Cause if you was, daresay you might have got carried away and pounced on her. Scare the wits out of a shy girl like Ellie.”
“No, there was nothing like that.”
“You must have been foxed, Clay. What she said— well, there was no other way of reading it, though, of course, she couldn’t come right out and say what she meant. Said, though, that—well, I don’t remember word for word, but said you proved you didn’t love her. Yes, and you was talking about Rose in your sleep, too. Should think anyone’d know better than that.”
“But we weren’t even in the same room,” Clay said, and immediately the words were out he realized the chasm at whose brink he hovered.
“Eh?” A sapient blue eye was fixed on him.
“I mean, for sleeping—and if you tell a single soul, I’ll break your face,” he added, plunging with two feet into the abyss.
“Well, if you ain’t a slow top. The Marquis of Claymore!” Rex went off into uncontrollable whoops of laughter, till the tears were trickling down his face. Between gasps for breath he exploded, “Separate rooms ... said you didn’t love her... no wonder ... gudgeon ... and I thought you’d pounced.”
“Stop laughing like a hyena and get out of here.”
“Didn’t even creep up like a pussycat.” Again he was off into chuckles.
“That’s a lie! If you breathe one word of this, Homberly, I’ll call you out.”
“The fellow doth protest too much, methinks.”
“Shakespeare! You’re quoting Shakespeare at me,” Clay said, incredulous. “I don’t believe it. At a time like this. My best friend, sitting there quoting Shakespeare at me while I am in the worst toil of my life.”
“Sorry.” Rex sobered up immediately at the seriousness of the charge. “No offense. Didn’t know it was Shakespeare. Heard St. Ives say it t’other night. Thought it had a pretty grand ring to it. Might have known it wasn’t his own.” Unfortunately, he again fell into titters.
“You’d better go, Rex. I’m setting out for Wanderley’s place in Sussex right away.”
“I’m off to Bath then. Tell you what, Clay, you won’t find Ellie at home. Know that as well as I’m standing here. I’ll keep an eye out along the way to Bath. Inquire at the toll gates if your carriage has been through. Won’t seem anything odd in that, for anyone who recognizes me will know we’re close as peas in a pod. If I discover Ellie’s gone that way, I’ll let you know. Where should I direct a message?”
Clay listened with some interest to this opinion. Not that Rex had so much as a suspicion of a brain, but he did know Ellie pretty well. “You can send word here. If she’s not at her home, I’ll come back here, I guess.”
“All right then. If I hear anything at all I’ll write to you here.”
“Yes, thanks .”
“Sorry about—you know—all that laughing and Shakespeare and so on. Fair floored me, though, to think of you being so slow.” His only absolution was a snort and a sheepish look from his friend. Rallied by these, Rex said, “Say, Clay, why don’t you come along to Bath with me? Just like old times. We might race—”
“Rex, be sensible. I can’t go racing with you.”
“No, no. Forgot. Your wife, of course. Well, I’m off then. Happy hunting and all that.” He went to the door, chuckling into his collar stealthily. “Pussycat by Jove, Marquis of Claymore. Clunch.”
Mrs. Meecham accosted Claymore as he was gathering up what he needed for his trip, and inquired whether he wouldn’t have a bite before leaving.
“No, I am in a great hurry,” he said. It was well past noon, though, and he was suddenly aware of violent pangs of hunger from his long fast
“You have to eat,” she pointed out. “Might save yourself time if you did it here. There’s cold meat ready and some soup.”
“Well, if it’s ready,” Clay allowed, and was taken to the breakfast room, while Mrs. Meecham poured consoling words regarding “keeping up his strength” over his head, and hot coffee into his cup. At last, his body fed with food and his mind with worries, he left for Sussex.
Chapter Sixteen
He wasted the rest of that day in a fruitless trip to Sussex, was forced to stay overnight at an inn to rest his horses, and arrived back in London the next day around noon, no further ahead than when he had left. She was with none of her relatives, neither the Siderows, the Tamesons, nor her own mother. She must have gone to Bath after all with the Homberlys, as Rex had suggested. Wait to hear from Rex then. He waited the remainder of that day and the whole interminable night with no word from Rex. By morning he could wait no longer, but had his curricle hitched up to go to Bath himself.
He kept a spare team stabled at Reading, so he was at least sure of good horses for the remainder of the trip. He made it without hindrance to Gay Street, where Mrs. Homberly annually rented lodgings for eight weeks, then found he hadn’t the heart to face yet another batch of people and lie again. He headed to the York Inn, but realized he was likely to meet a dozen peo
ple he knew there, and drove around instead to the Pelican, a respectable place, but not quite of the first stare. He dispatched his valet, who did not take well to becoming a general factotum, with a note to Gay Street. It was while he was refreshing himself with a bottle in his suite that Rex came in.
“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked. “She ain’t here, nor hasn’t come this way, for I’ve asked everyone. Slyly, of course. Very slyly.”
So great was his shock that Clay didn’t even take him up on this ominous addendum. “What do you mean, she’s not here?” he asked, turning a shade paler.
“Told you I’d drop you a line if I heard anything. Well, I didn’t. Hear anything, I mean, or drop a line either, far as that goes. So why are you here?”
“She must be here.”
“No, she ain’t.”
“But she is not at her father’s either.”
“Told you she wouldn’t go there.”
“You said she would be here.”
“Well, what I said was if she hadn’t gone to your mama, she might be here.”
“She is most certainly not there.”
“Certainly not here either,” Rex advised, and flopped into a chair, from where he could reach the bottle and a glass, both of which he put to use without further ado.
Clay began beating a tattoo on his knee with his closed fist. “She is ill,” he said. “Got an infection in that cut. That is what must have happened.” He closed his lips and frowned...
“No reason to go thinking that,” his friend reassured him. “No saying she got one of them terrible infections. Though, of course, there’s no place likelier than a foot to get one in, what with having to put on an old sock, and walk on it and all. And it was certainly a terrible cut; the poor soul could hardly stand up when I last saw her. Still, that’s not to say she did get an infection like my old Uncle Harry. Ever tell you about him? Let a little scratch go—on his foot, just like Ellie—and before a week was out, it had puffed up like a balloon, right up past the ankle. They thought they’d have to cut it off, the foot, but he was too scared, so he just let it go on swelling. Can’t say I blame him.”