Belladonna

by Moline, Karen

  “I should think Nicola and Andrew would be a perfect couple,” Belladonna says, waving her hand dismissively. “They seem to deserve each other.”

  Guy gives a little half smile. “You’re right. I’m working on it.”

  “Are divorces that difficult in England?”

  “Not extraordinarily,” he says, “but should Nicola find any information whatsoever about Laura, Hugh would have a much more difficult time of it.”

  “I see,” she says.

  “You know,” he says, “the way you waved your hand just now reminds me of a woman I met. Well, not met exactly. Made her acquaintance. In New York.”

  “Let me guess. Her name begins with a B and ends with a club.”

  “How did you know? Must be the eyes.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’m the only woman in America with green eyes,” she says sarcastically. “You’re not the first person to have remarked upon it.”

  Guy smiles, for real this time. “Did you ever go to the Club Belladonna?”

  “Do you mean, did I ever stand outside and wait to be chosen by a dog? No, I’m afraid I did not.” She’s not lying. Of course she never did. “I don’t like being surrounded by people.”

  “Then why, may I ask, did you subject yourself to this party tonight?”

  “To relieve my social obligations and give my tedious neighbors something to talk about,” she replies, her voice cold once again. “Now that they’ve seen the house and my eccentricities"especially my mingling freely with what they consider social and moral undesirables"they’ll stop pestering me with invitations to their ludicrous parties and drinking engagements and shooting expeditions and leave me alone.”

  Guy wonders for a fleeting second if he might be wrong. He knows she’s telling the truth about wanting to be left alone. Perhaps Bryony had a dog called Dromedee, not Andromeda, and his suspicions are pure coincidence.

  Perhaps not. She sits so still. She is so imperious. She listens with such powerful concentration. She has enough money to buy the Bank of England. There’s an air of impenetrable mystery about her, and he knows he’s falling in love.

  He stands up, stretches, and says good night.

  She nods. Her face has resumed its polite blankness, the same look he’d seen when he first came into the room and sat down in a silver-blue chair.

  I know that look, Guy says to himself as he heads to his room. I have seen that look too many times before, staring back at me in the mirror.

  16

  Fathers

  and Sons

  “It was considered a great honor to be eaten,” Hugh says. “That’s what Guy told me about some of the cannibal tribes he met on his travels. If one ate the flesh of the fiercest and bravest enemies, that fierceness and bravery would enter one’s own body and be perpetuated forever.”

  “I see,” I tell him. “Thank you for imparting that valuable bit of information. I’ll consider it next time I wish to roast one of our neighbors on a spit.”

  Hugh laughs, and Laura smiles. We’re near the pool the following afternoon, enjoying iced tea"mine spiked with a healthy dollop of bourbon"and the relative calm after yesterday’s excesses. Guy is off on what he called an “expedition” with Bryony and Susannah, exploring the maze and the paths beyond, so Belladonna and I are listening to Hugh talk about him.

  Nothing like a healthy dose of lovemaking to loosen the tongue.

  “There aren’t any cannibal tribes in Ceylon, silly,” Laura says, resting her head on Hugh’s shoulder as he kisses her hair. It’s lovely to see them like this, I decide, magnanimous soul that I am. Someone around here deserves to be happy.

  “No, but there’s a wildness in the jungle that suits him,” Hugh replies. “Guy chose to escape the family shackles as soon as he could; to the manor born became all that sort of rubbish to him. His father was a bully and a tyrant; I rather think he made mine seem nearly human. It is a terrible thing for a child to realize he is both unwanted and unloved by his own father. It is almost more than one can bear.”

  We don’t know what to say, and Hugh falls silent. That terrible truth we understand, I realize. All of us sitting with our silver beakers full of iced tea and mint on this lovely limpid afternoon. Bound by the tyranny of our childhoods.

  “Guy’s been disinherited, as well, which is quite a feat for the son of an English lord. But after his mother died, and then his sister, he wanted nothing but to escape. There was a monstrous fuss after he accused his father of killing both of them. His mother and his sister, I mean. Although his father didn’t, of course, unless you consider deliberate neglect a form of slow murder. I know Guy did.”

  “Please explain,” I say. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Guy and Gwendolyn, his little sister, had always been exceedingly close. His mother was a delicate creature, completely at the mercy of her husband, and she never really quite recuperated from Gwen’s birth. She loved Guy passionately"more than his elder brothers, I fear, which in part explained their antipathy to him"but was not able to supervise the household as much as she might have had she not been ill and often confined to bed. Guy was utterly devoted to Gwen, especially after their mother died.”

  “How old was he when his mother died?” I ask.

  “Let’s see, he’s a year older than I am, so that was when he was eight. Gwen was four.” He shakes his head. “I find it exceedingly difficult to believe Guy is going to be forty this year. Which means I’ll be forty next year. Bloody hell!”

  “You’re not such an old bag,” Laura says.

  “Thank you, darling,” he says, “for that vote of confidence. So when their mother died I believe Guy felt an even deeper responsibility for his sister. Their father was rarely home, thankfully, and showed no interest in his children when he was. As I recall, if the children wished to see their father, it was necessary to make an appointment with his private secretary.”

  “But why did you say Guy accused his father of killing his mother?” I ask.

  “Because his father had gotten his mother pregnant again, explicitly against the doctor’s orders. She was frightfully ill for months, and then lost the baby. Another boy. Why his father was so persistent in procreating escapes me. Perhaps he knew that he had spawned two of England’s most useless bastards, and that his only worthy son loathed him and everything he stood for. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. Nor will Guy.” He shakes his head. “Whatever the details, the pregnancy and the death of her baby did Guy’s mother in. She lingered a few months, then died. Guy never forgave his father for it.”

  “And what about his sister?”

  “It was the measles, I believe, or mumps,” Hugh goes on. “One of those childhood diseases we all catch and then usually get over. There was no reason for her to have taken so ill; certainly not to have died. Guy was at school and she was at home, and they thought she had flu or some such, a typical fever that children get from time to time, that sort of thing, and therefore her symptoms were neglected until it was too late. Nanny was a horror; she didn’t believe in coddling her charges, not that one. Gwen was such a stoic little thing. She didn’t want to complain or make a fuss around her father or Nanny. It was a senseless tragedy.”

  “Was Guy with her when she died?” Belladonna asks.

  Hugh looks at her quizzically. “Yes, it’s funny you should ask that. I think the bond between Guy and Gwen was almost telepathic, so that when she took ill, he knew something was wrong. I remember this quite clearly. We were at school, and he woke me up in the middle of the night and told me he was leaving, that he had to get home because Gwen was ill and she needed him. I told him he was daft, and that he’d be caned and sent down if he dared run away, but he said he didn’t care and he’d already bribed one of the groundskeepers to give him a ride to the train, and he had to do it. I gave him what little dosh I had hidden in my socks, and off he went.

  “He made it to his house, being Guy of course, and snuck in, up to his sister’s bedroom. She was terribly
ill, but I think she willed herself to wait for him so she could say good-bye. She told him not to be sad, that she was going to be with Mummy and their baby brother in heaven, and that she would always love him and be his guardian angel.”

  A tear rolls down Laura’s cheek, and I’m afraid I am all choked up as well.

  Hugh stops to catch his breath. “She died in his arms, which I’m sure was a small measure of comfort to him. But then the rage took over. He stayed with Gwen until she was cold. No one came in to see how she was feeling, not a soul. Then he snuck downstairs, using the servants’ staircase, where his father was having a very important dinner.”

  “No one knew yet that Gwen had just died, or that Guy was there, in the house?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” Hugh replies. “So when Guy burst into the dining room, this furious young chap screaming at the top of his lungs at his father, pummeling his chest with his small fists the way his chum Landis had taught him, well, it was rather a scene. Well-bred young gentlemen did not indulge themselves in public outbursts; and most certainly not amongst prominent friends and colleagues of one’s father. But Guy didn’t care. He was screaming at his father that he’d killed his mother, and now his beautiful little sister as well, and that he was going to pay for it someday, that Guy wasn’t going to rest until his father had been punished as the murderous bastard that he was. And then he told his father he never would speak to him again, that he would hate him forever, until the end of his days, until the day he knew he was dead and left to rot. It took nearly all the servants to subdue him and put him up to bed, he was so hysterical.”

  “Poor little boy. That’s dreadful. I never knew all the details,” Laura says softly.

  “And do you know, it was particularly ironic that this was most likely the only time in his life that Guy’s father was actually proud of his son,” Hugh adds. “Guy’s outburst proved to dearest papa that Guy had character and courage. That he was willing to fight for what he believed in. Threats and rage belonged to the kind of language his father used to intimidate all who met him. He was a man of imperious will and power. The one time I had the misfortune to meet him, he scared me half to death.”

  “What was his name?” I ask conversationally, trying not to look at Belladonna. Guy’s father sounded exactly like the kind of man His Lordship might be. “Is he still alive?”

  “He was the Earl of Ross and Cromarty.” He laughs bitterly. “Such a name for such a man. But he died yonks ago. Before the end of the war, I believe. Guy told me he’d long gone to his just rewards.”

  Botheration. If he died during the war, the earl certainly can’t be him. Of course it’s not exactly realistic for me to think that every rich English bastard we hear about could be His Lordship himself. Why, if I keep this up I might as well suspect Hugh’s father. Or Laura’s. Or even the Pritch’s. Double botheration. I must stop it.

  “So the eldest son is now the earl,” I say, keeping my doubts to myself.

  Hugh nods. “John Francis. Utterly useless sod. The last I heard, he was drinking himself into insensibility. Most of the estate is gone. I don’t recollect where Frederick, the second son, is. Probably off in the veldt shooting monkeys in the back for sport. He’s that sort.”

  “Did Guy ever go back to school?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Hugh replies, “they took him back after the earl had a word with the headmaster. He came home with me for all the hols, and as soon as he was eighteen, he ran off. Since his brothers hated him as much as he hated them, they were glad to be rid of him. As far as I know, Guy went all over Africa and India, and we caught up again during the war. He was posted to India and so was I. Lots of contacts there. When the war was over, his business took off. Same ‘useful’ contacts, I expect. Gemstones and import-export and those tea plantations in Ceylon and Lord knows what else. I know Guy better than to ask for specifics.”

  “But he is a good friend,” I say.

  “The best,” Hugh agrees solemnly, “Oh, I know he has a wicked way with the ladies, but he’s got a good and passionate heart when push comes to shove. I wouldn’t be sitting here, with the woman I love, without everything he’s done for me. For us. And he asks nothing in return.” He frowns. “I think Guy is a tad too proud about having such a will of iron. I’ve thought about this quite a lot, you know, because I feel I owe him so much. But I fear he treats his emotions much as an army treats its recruits. He is a master of concealment.”

  In that, he’s met his match.

  Hugh can only stay for another four days, and Laura is despondent, moping around the folly, once he’s gone. She had been planning to leave soon after, but I convince her to stay for a few more weeks. Her children are traveling with their father, so there’s no reason for her to go back to a lonely house. Next time Laura comes, I’ve insisted that she bring Rupert and Cassandra. It’ll be good for Bryony, who is going to miss Guy something fierce once he goes. But that’s been put off, too. Laura begged us to let Guy stay on as well, so they could travel back to London together. He’s then planning to go on to Ceylon. Trouble with the tea is all he’ll say. Been away too long already.

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Guy and Belladonna have taken to riding every morning. It had been Laura’s idea to saddle up and keep herself busy, but she soon lost interest. Firkin watches them go instead, with a pleased gleam in his eye.

  “Born horseman, that one,” he says proudly.

  “Though not like the Contessa,” I retort.

  “No one can charm an animal like she can,” he agrees. “But he sits a fine horse, he does.”

  Belladonna doesn’t discuss her morning rides with me, and I don’t ask. Our routine is smooth and pleasant, perfectly suited to sultry July days. They get up and ride. I have a leisurely breakfast with Laura and let her talk about Hugh and Guy. We have grown to adore each other, and she doesn’t ask prying questions about Belladonna. We putter around the house or read. I attend to my mountains of paperwork and Laura writes letters. We have a swim. We have a light late lunch. We often garden as the afternoon draws to a close, when it’s cooler. Bryony plays with Susannah and the other children. I check in with Jack and the Pritch if need be. More of the same. Be patient. Plotting and planning.

  Take a deep breath. Shoot steady. Aim for his heart.

  After dinner, we sit on the veranda and watch the fireflies dance. The rest of the world seems so far away. It can’t hurt us here.

  That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m waiting. Something is going to happen. Something soon. Belladonna is changing. There is some small part of her that is softening, and it’s Guy’s doing. She’s fighting it, I can tell, but not as hard as she might once have.

  “You seem fairly chipper,” I say to her late one balmy night when the two of us are alone.

  “What do you mean?” she says.

  “I mean your chipperness may in part be due to Mr. Guy Lindell, he of the hay.”

  “Bryony is terribly attached to him,” she says blandly.

  “So am I, in my way. And Laura is, too, of course. He’s an awful charmer. And he’s nice, once you overlook his rather unfortunate libido.” I smile. I can’t tell her I especially like him because he’s kept his mouth shut about his suspicious queries with regard to her true identity. “But I expect he’s been a perfect gentleman with you.”

  I wait for her to bite ray head off for saying that, but she doesn’t.

  “Yes, he has been,” she says after an uncomfortable pause. “When we’re riding we rarely talk. Or when we do it’s about nothing important. He reminds me a bit of Jack Only less upright. Still, I think they’re equally honorable, in their own way.”

  “That’s true. But Jack is an employee, and he knows a lot of things about you. We went through that"”

  No no no, I don’t want to remember Sir Patty. I shouldn’t have brought it up.

  “Anyway,” I quickly say to correct myself, “I just worry about you, that’s all. I worry that you might be worrying about him. Does tha
t make any sense?”

  “No, it certainly does not. Did your knee tell you that?” she asks sarcastically. “Damn you, Tomasino, I hate it when you’re right. But if it makes you feel any better, I can tell you that I honestly don’t understand why I can tolerate him. And that’s all there is to it on the subject of Guy Lindell.”

  Oh ho, what have we here?

  You can’t trick a trickster.

  The trunks are packed and tickets are bought. It is going to be very quiet around the house, and I’m prepared to indulge myself in a nice long sulk once Laura and Guy leave. I’ve gotten too much accustomed to their faces.

  Their last night, Belladonna can’t close her eyes, and she goes down to the library in the middle of the night in search of a nice boring book that once may have lulled La Pompadour to sleep. As she is walking back down the hall toward her room, she notices that Guy’s door is cracked open, the light spilling like bright gold onto the carpet.

  He, too, is restless.

  Curiosity overwhelms her and she peers in. Guy is in his pajamas and a robe of hazelnut-colored silk, sitting on the bed with a small silver frame in his hands. He is staring at it so intently that he doesn’t see her, and Belladonna knows instinctively that it must be a photograph of his sister and mother. His head is bowed, and there is such an expression of tortured grief on his face that she can’t help feeling a pang of grave sadness stab her heart. It surprises her, and scares her deeply. She hasn’t felt grief for any man, not in all the years since Leandro died.

  She steps away from the door, then knocks.

  “I saw your light on,” she says. “Is everything all right?”

  He has instantly wiped the melancholy off his face and put the photo facedown on the night table. He is, in fact, astonished that she’s asked after him. She’s never done that before; she doesn’t like to talk about feelings, hers or his. She is not what he’d call a sympathetic sort.