Susan seemed frozen where she stood, her only movements a darting of her tongue to wet her lips and a flickering of her eyes as she glanced first at Deverill, then back at Lady Ophelia, as if she were measuring their reactions to his words.
Sir Geoffrey said gently, “Come, come, love. You cannot want dear Lady Ophelia to think so ill of me as she does now.”
“N-no,” she said, her voice catching on a sob.
Lady Ophelia said, “Tell the truth, Susan, whatever it is.”
“Yes,” Seacourt said. “This is no time for more lies, my dear. Tell everyone the truth.”
Daintry cried, “Can’t you see that he is terrifying her? She knows she must go with him afterward. She dare not speak!”
Seacourt smiled ruefully at her. “I had not realized you despised me so, little sister. What have I done to draw such ire? Had you more experience of this world of ours, you would understand that husbands and wives—the people who care most for one another—frequently say dreadful things that they do not mean in the least when they are angry, only to hurt each other and cause trouble. I think Susan was as angry with me as I was with her, for similar reason. Has not some wicked person suggested an illicit relationship between me and my poor widowed cousin?”
Susan gasped.
Lady Ophelia said, “You know that accusation has been made, for you heard it yourself. Do you deny any such relationship?”
“Of course I deny it,” Seacourt said indignantly. “I did at the time, and good God, ma’am, would I be so cruel as to keep my mistress under my own roof, to flaunt our relationship before my wife’s very eyes? Of course not. Indeed, who but an insanely jealous wife could believe such a thing of any man? But some wicked person put the notion in her head, no doubt a person as cruel as the one who wrote letters accusing her of misconduct, knowing that, like anyone else, I read all letters addressed to those living under my protection. Perhaps it was even the same person, for now that I see them together, I find it difficult to believe Susan could encourage advances from a man like Deverill.”
“Much obliged to you,” Deverill said dryly.
“No doubt,” Sir Geoffrey went on earnestly, “that very same person wrote similar accusations about me to Susan, or else in her own imaginings … Was that it, my dear?”
Susan said, “But you—”
“What you thought about me is not the truth, love. I swear it to you before these witnesses. Now, can you forgive me for being so angry when similar accusations were made against you?”
Susan flushed, glancing away from him to the others, looking as guilty as a child caught in mischief. When no one else said anything, she turned back to her husband and said in a small voice, “Are you still angry with me?”
“You deserve that I should be,” he said, “for putting us all through this dreadful ordeal, but if you will come home with me now and promise to think better of me, I promise not to be angry. Come, my love,” he added, holding out his hand again.
This time Susan put hers in it at once, and he drew her close and kissed her gently on the forehead. “That’s my good girl.” Over her head he said to Lady Ophelia, “I’d take it kindly if you will arrange to send my daughter home tomorrow.”
Daintry, who was growing more wrathful by the moment, had opened her mouth to protest when a large hand clamped like a vise on her arm. She turned indignantly, and Deverill shook his head at her, the look in his eyes warning her in no uncertain terms to keep silent. Before she could tell him what she thought of his interference, or warn her aunt not to agree to Geoffrey’s demand, Lady Ophelia said, “Your arguments are persuasive, Geoffrey, but they do not altogether convince me. I shall escort Melissa home myself, and I shall expect to see Susan looking the picture of domestic tranquility when we arrive.”
“That is precisely what you will see,” he replied, looking lovingly at Susan. “I have missed her very much, and as to your fortune, you may leave it as you please, in trust or not. I hope yet to have sons as well as a daughter, you know, and the more secure Melissa’s future can be made, the better I shall like it.”
“There is no need to alter anything just yet, I think.”
Seacourt smiled. Then, tucking Susan’s hand into the crook of his arm, he turned to Deverill. “Is there a way out of this building other than through that courtroom? Susan will not want to create a further spectacle for the riffraff.”
Deverill had released Daintry’s arm as soon as Lady Ophelia had spoken, and he said now, “That door at the rear leads to a corridor, and another at the end leads outside. You can send one of the lads hanging about outside to fetch your carriage.”
“Obliged to you. Come, my love.”
Daintry scarcely waited until the door had shut behind them before glaring at Sir Lionel and Deverill in turn and saying, “I suppose you both believed that drivel Geoffrey was spouting!”
“His argument was plausible,” Deverill replied calmly.
Sir Lionel nodded his head. “It certainly was.”
Wildly, she looked at Lady Ophelia. “You did not believe him, did you, ma’am? Oh, please, say you did not! In the first place, that business about the letters …” But even as she said the words, she knew she could not explain, not without betraying Susan to Deverill, and that she could not do, not after he had proved so unworthy of the trust she had placed in him.
Lady Ophelia reached for her large reticule. “I have never known Susan to utter an untruthful word,” she said. “On the other hand, since one cannot doubt that husbands and wives do frequently hurt each other, Geoffrey’s argument was certainly plausible—most fortunately so, perhaps.”
“Not to me it wasn’t! He was lying in his teeth. I only hope he does not beat Susan senseless the moment they get home.”
“He will not do that,” Deverill said flatly.
His calm assumption of something she could not believe for a minute ignited her temper again, and she whirled on him, snapping, “What can you know about what he will do? How could you stand there and let him accuse you? Or did you, in fact, have nothing to say because you had done something to make her look to you—” She caught herself, adding hastily, “That is to say, to make someone accuse you of trifling? You certainly did nothing to protect her! I trusted you to help, and you just stood in that courtroom and let that horrid old man cite idiotic laws as cause to order her home with Geoffrey again.”
“I remind you that the horrid man you speak of is my father,” he said curtly. “As to the rest, it was out of my power to do anything even if I had wanted to.”
“There! I knew it. You didn’t want to.”
“Damn it, stop ripping up at me like a shrew. Your voice will carry into the courtroom and bring him down on us again if you’re not careful, and you won’t fare as well a second time, I promise you. You’re damned lucky he didn’t clap you into jail for your outburst earlier. He was extremely patient with you, uncharacteristically so, but press him further and—”
“Oh, do not talk to me!” Clapping her hands to her ears, she turned away from him, meaning to leave by the same door her sister and Seacourt had used.
Before she had taken a step, Deverill caught an arm and spun her around to face him. Taking her hands from her ears, he held them tightly, saying, “If you do not want to be well shaken, you will stand still and listen to what I tell you. That’s better,” he added when she froze in fury. “I made no attempt to influence my father, even when I knew you meant to fight the writ, because it would have done no good. Not only would he have refused to listen to me—and rightly, since I have no business interfering in matters coming before him for judgment—but it is likewise no business of mine to interfere in another man’s marriage. I do not expect you to understand that, since women simply cannot know as much about matters of law as men do; however—”
In a single swift movement, Daintry snatched her right hand from his relaxing grip and flung it up to slap him as hard as she could, but he caught it a hair’s breadth from his cheek, h
is grasp so tight that she winced.
Grimly he said, “I do not deserve to be slapped for telling you the plain truth, and until I deserve it, you will not do it. As for what you deserve from me for that little exhibition—”
“Enough,” Lady Ophelia snapped, startling them both. “I have been plagued by enough histrionics this past fortnight to last me a lifetime. Unhand my niece, sir, and send for my carriage. I want to go home.”
Deverill released Daintry at once, leaving her to rub her sore wrist while he went to send for the carriages. Gazing resentfully after him, she said, “Men! How can any woman stomach the creatures?”
When there was no response, she turned to see that Lady Ophelia was regarding her with a quizzical, enigmatic expression on her countenance, and that Sir Lionel was still in the room.
Feeling warmth invade her cheeks, she said, “I beg your pardon, Sir Lionel, but why do you look at me so, Aunt Ophelia? Most men are dreadful.”
“To be sure they are, my dear, but some are occasionally less dreadful than others, you know.”
Fifteen
THE JOURNEY BACK TO Tuscombe Park seemed a particularly long one to Daintry. Once they had seen the last of Sir Lionel and Deverill, and were alone in the carriage and back on the main road, she tried several times to discuss what had happened in the courtroom, but she found Lady Ophelia singularly unwilling to enter into her feelings upon at least one topic.
When she muttered, “Deverill is the greatest beast in nature,” Lady Ophelia replied simply, “I do not agree.” And when, some moments later, she said, “A gentleman worthy of the name ought to feel obligated to aid a lady in distress,” Lady Ophelia replied placidly, “Deverill holds by his own principles. There is a good deal to be said for that, you know.”
“Not when he was our strongest hope, ma’am. Why—”
“It is done now,” the old lady interjected flatly. “We must look ahead, not dwell on the sorrows of the past.”
“I know that, but what lies ahead for Susan except more of the same sorrow? I know you believed Geoffrey—”
“I did not believe him,” Lady Ophelia said, “but what I believe and what he thinks I believe are two different matters, as Deverill was trying to explain to you before you flew out at him like the shrew he named you.”
“Are you taking Deverill’s side against mine, ma’am?” she asked in astonishment.
Lady Ophelia sniffed. “I take no side at all,” she said. “I merely point out to you that he saw what you did not, that it was important for Geoffrey to believe he had convinced me.”
“But that will only make him more arrogant than ever,” she protested. “He will think now that he can continue to get away with treating Susan as badly as he has in the past.”
“On the contrary, I hope he will be less likely to harm her if he believes he still has his charming facade to protect, and having been reminded that her inheritance depends on his good behavior, surely he will tread more lightly now.” Clearly deciding these words clinched the matter, she reached into the large reticule she always carried when she traveled—and which she said contained anything anyone might ever need on the road—and withdrew a book by one of her favorite female authors. Opening it, she found her place and began silently to read.
Daintry had not paused to consider the effect that Lady Ophelia’s threat might have on Seacourt, but she saw now that it was the one thing that could weigh heavily enough with him to insure his good behavior, at least for a while. Still, the situation was unstable, and since Deverill had not helped in the least, she was entirely out of charity with him. In fact, she was furious with him, because she had dared to trust him and he had let her down with a vengeance. Looking at her aunt, she wished she could discuss the matter more fully with her, but Lady Ophelia’s gaze remained riveted on her book, making it clear that she did not wish to talk about Deverill or anyone else.
It was dark by the time the carriage rolled up before the front entrance of the house, and golden light spilled down the marble steps when the tall doors were flung wide and the butler stepped out to see if they required assistance.
Lady Ophelia’s footman leapt down from his perch to open the carriage door, and as Daintry accepted his help to alight, she saw her nieces peeping around the front door. “Hello, you two,” she called. “Why are you not upstairs where you belong?”
At this small encouragement, and with Melissa trailing like a shadow in her wake, Charley ran out and down the steps, crying, “What happened, Aunt Daintry? Where is Aunt Susan?”
Lady Ophelia, emerging from the carriage, said tartly, “Mind your tongue, Charlotte, and go straight back into that house. The very idea of running out here without so much as a wrap to cover your bare arms! You will catch your death. You, too, Melissa. Back inside at once, the pair of you!”
Charley looked mutinous, but Daintry said quietly and with a warning glance at the servants, “We must not talk here, my dears. I will come to you as soon as I can, to tell you everything.”
Biting her lip, Charley gave her a long look, then turned and went back. Melissa had already slipped back into the house.
Daintry meant to go straight up to the schoolroom, knowing the little girls would be impatient to know what had occurred, but no sooner had she and Lady Ophelia entered the hall than Medrose said, “His lordship desires you both to go at once to the drawing room, my lady. He has ordered a light repast to be served to you there.”
“Excellent, for we are famished,” Lady Ophelia said gratefully, allowing him to take her cloak and reticule. “I suppose everyone else is in there with him.”
“Yes, ma’am. That is to say, Lady St. Merryn, Miss Davina, and Master Charles are there, and Miss Ethelinda, of course.”
Daintry, realizing that she had no choice in the matter, said to the butler as he took her things, “Please send someone up to the schoolroom, Medrose, to tell Miss Charlotte and Miss Melissa that I shall be a trifle delayed in coming to them.”
She was more than a trifle delayed, however, for by the time she and Lady Ophelia had described the courtroom scene and its aftermath to the others, and had their supper, a considerable amount of time had passed.
Lady St. Merryn appeared to think the entire episode had been devised to distress her, Charles and Davina were diverted, and Cousin Ethelinda exclaimed her dismay after nearly every statement made by either Lady Ophelia or Daintry, until the latter at least was ready to strangle her. St. Merryn, on the other hand, declared with obvious satisfaction that he had never looked for such a sensible decision from Jervaulx.
“Sensible, Papa? How can you say so?” Daintry demanded.
“Just did, didn’t I? Can’t think why you females make such a piece of work about it when there was no other legal course the man could take. Not that I didn’t expect him to pull some damned foolery or other just to spite me, mind you. Only saying his action was proper. Don’t do to interfere between a man and his wife, don’t do at all. That Jervaulx didn’t try to do so makes me think the better of him, upon my word.”
“Well, I do not think better of him,” Daintry said.
Davina, chuckling, said, “By the sound of it, I should say you were fortunate not to have vexed him beyond reason. Did you really cry out at him right there in his courtroom?”
Flushing at the memory, Daintry said, “I spoke without thinking, that’s all. He made me too angry to think.”
“When I think that Charles accuses me of making a spectacle of myself when I do no more than smile at another gentleman, I shudder to think what he would say if I were to behave as you did,” Davina said, sending her husband an arch look.
Charles grimaced but said nothing.
When Lady St. Merryn moaned, reached for her salts, and lay against her cushions, holding the back of her free hand feebly against her forehead, Cousin Ethelinda said, “Pray, do not distress your mama with more of this talk, for now that Susan has returned to her family, all will be well. How thankful Sir Geoffrey must be
to have her at home again where she belongs.”
Daintry’s fingernails dug into her palms, and she wished it were possible to tell one’s cousin precisely what one thought of her foolishness. Since it was not possible, she held her tongue, but she did not hold it later, when she was finally able to go to the children and Charley’s indignation at both the fact that Susan had returned to Seacourt Head and that Melissa was to return the next day led her to be impertinent.
“I won’t let Aunt Ophelia take Melissa back!” she cried when Daintry had explained matters.
“You have no more to say about it than I had,” Daintry said, holding her sorely tried temper in check with difficulty.
“Then we’ll run away.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“We will so!”
Daintry had been sitting between the two little girls on the schoolroom sofa, but she rose now and looked sternly down at-Charley. “Stand up.”
Slowly Charley obeyed. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not make the mistake of trying to defend herself.
“How dare you speak to me in such an improper manner?” Daintry said. “Had you spoken so to your papa or grandpapa, you know exactly what would befall you. As it is, you may take yourself off to bed at once and you will spend the entire day tomorrow attending to your lessons with Miss Parish. I had hoped to arrange matters so that you could go with us to take Melissa home, but you do not deserve such a treat now. Have you anything at all to say for yourself?”
“No, Aunt Daintry.” The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she added with a sob, “I-I’m sorry.”
“I suppose you are, now,” Daintry said, steeling herself to remain firm. “Go to bed. You, too, Melissa.”
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