‘Hush. My pride is more damaged than my head. ‘Tis not the French you should blame for my injury, but two remarkably self-sufficient Englishwomen.’ His laugh was cut off abruptly. ‘I should not give way to amusement, at least, not until my head is mended. Charles, you will have these documents delivered to the War Office in the usual way. I was too much in haste to see you this morning, and carried them off with me.’
‘You take too many risks. If it were known what course you follow your life would not be worth a farthing dip.’ Charles’ voice roughened. ‘A dead man can do nothing to serve his country.’
‘I know, my friend. I shall not be so careless again. Now, I should change before my lady wife returns to lunch with me. I wonder whether Barnes could procure me a suit of armor.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘Is there a strain of madness in my family, think you, Charles? Some hitherto undisclosed weakness of the brain which appears rarely, but in an acute form in adult males approaching a certain age?’
Charles looked uncertainly at his employer and friend, clearly gauging his humor.
‘I have not heard of it.’
Antony’s smile was tinged with bitterness. ‘Nor have I. Yet I have reason to believe that my own path lies in the direction of such a morass. I must speak of it, and yet it is not fair to burden you with maudlin maunderings. My friend, you see before you a man divided against himself.’
Charles’ habitually severe expression relaxed. He even managed a mildly inoffensive expression of sympathy, while maintaining a diplomatic silence.
‘You do not answer, Charles. Very wise.’ Antony sighed and walked away to gaze out of the library window onto a garden giving hints of spring. Bulb shoots speared the surface of flower beds, and thick buds swelled on trees and bushes. There was a feeling of awakening in the air. He pushed the windows wide and stepped through. ‘Come out, Charles. Sniff the new season with me. Humor my declining wits.’
Charles joined him, and together they strolled up the pathway to the stone seat overlooked by the small parlor window. A glance showed Antony that the ladies were not about, and he sat down, hands in pockets, leaning back to gaze up into the not-quite-leafed boughs of a cherry tree.
His voice was measured and emotionless. ‘I require your honest opinion on a matter of some delicacy. Do not, I beg, fob me off by reason of this delicacy. What is your opinion of my wife, Caroline?’
Charles shied like a startled horse. He actually stepped backward.
Antony said, testily, ‘Sit down, and do not pretend to misunderstand me. You cannot have failed to notice the difference in Caro since her accident before Christmas. It is too marked to be attributed to memory loss alone. Her whole nature has altered, or so it seems to me. What is your opinion?’
‘Hrrrrum.’
‘Could you not be clearer?’
Charles lifted his coat tails and sat down gingerly on the end of the seat. His words came slowly, but they had the ring of genuine feeling. ‘I believe that Lady Caroline has been matured by her recent experiences. She has become a woman of both sense and sensibility. Her mind is now occupied by matters formerly of slight interest to her: she discusses political and cultural matters with ease; and her manner towards myself and other persons of lesser rank is without height. In short, she has, to my mind, become a great lady.’
‘Hmmm. You speak with fervor. And yet, I had thought you harbored no great admiration for Caro when first we wed. Nor she for you.’
‘That is true. And therein lays the miracle. We are now on such terms as I might even claim to be friendship.’ He looked steadily at Antony. ‘This is, I collect, your own particular difficulty? You stand upon different terms?
‘Precisely.’ He bit the word off. ‘Our incompatibility is no secret. Within two months we had recognized that our marriage was an unqualified disaster. I do not hesitate to mention what has become a subject for common gossip. Yet, over time a change has taken place. It is not my imagining. You have just proven this.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, so still that a small brown bird came down to forage about their feet. It flew off like a dart when Antony spoke again.
‘Unlike you, Charles, I have not achieved that admirable state of intimacy with my wife. We barely speak on terms. I realize much of the fault lies with me, but I am unable to retrieve myself. I fear to trust where once I was so grievously wounded; I cannot accept such a sea-change. There are times when I feel she is not Caroline at all, but a changeling woman; and this is the basis of my dilemma. I can no longer rely upon my own judgment.’
‘What is it you fear?’
Antony hesitated, then said softly, ‘I sometimes see my Jenny in the way she turns her head, or speaks a phrase. I fear that I am, indeed, no longer rational.’
Having unburdened himself to the one person he did trust, Antony achieved some relief. He did not expect an easy solution, and Charles had not attempted to offer any; but sharing his fears had weakened them. Of course he saw Jenny in the new, gentler Caro. Feathers followed her as his new mistress; Chloe loved her; Lady Oriel continued scornful and unpleasant as she’d ever been with Jenny. There was also Caro’s love of art and music, both attributes shared with Jenny; and now, the liking between her and Charles.
But there the likeness finished. His first wife had been of a self-effacing nature, always deferring to others, always happy in serving people. She had enjoyed the domestic arts, cooking, preserving, handwork of all kinds, and had interested herself endlessly in the affairs of those less fortunately situated than herself.
Caro seemed to cloak herself in an instinctive wariness. Her trust was not easily won, as he could testify. There was a self-protective mechanism working in her that seemed to expect rejection, even while she looked for understanding. He had almost used the word, affection, in place of understanding. Caro – in need of affection! Certainly none of this had been evident when he married her – blind idiot that he was. Only his strong sense of duty and love for his father had sent him out into the marriage mart once more. It was Caro’s misfortune, and his own, that their paths had crossed.
Searching his mind for further instances of the difference between the two women, he smiled. Caro and domesticity were mutually exclusive. Fine foods and wines appealed to her, but their preparation and presentation remained a mystery known only to the staff. She could not sew without pricking her finger and bleeding over the stuff she handled; and household matters frankly bored her.
However, her taste was impeccable. Others had commented upon the change in the gloomy chambers of Marchmont House, and he had accepted these compliments on Caro’s behalf, and kept them to himself. He still hesitated to expose himself. Sometimes he noted a depth of sadness in her eyes when she thought herself unobserved, and he felt an urge to comfort her. But so far he had conquered that urge. It was better so – safer to avoid involvement.
Dismissing his wife from his thoughts, he bent his mind to the serious and secret work engaging him more than ever as Britain grew more isolated in a world dominated by Napoleon Bonaparte.
The Whitehall policy-makers had grown increasingly anxious about the intentions of the Tsar, as well as the less prestigious, but strategically important new Crown Prince of Sweden. Antony had had some dealings with Bernadotte, and respected his desire to create an independent sovereign Sweden. But clearly Napoleon expected the support of his former Marshal, and was prepared to use force to claim it. Bernadotte trod a wary path, placating, intriguing, avoiding direct confrontation. It was part of Antony’s work as a secret emissary to keep British interests to the forefront of Bernadotte’s mind.
He had been in Stockholm in November when Sweden was forced to declare war on Britain, and had received the Prince’s personal assurance that this was a formality. There would be no aggression, no enforcement of the blockade against British shipping. Antony had believed him and, so far, his belief had been justified. But the French were bringing pressure to bear, and soon Bernadotte wo
uld have to decide which way to go: with his former master, the ruler of Europe; or with Britain and Russia, the last strongholds against a megalomaniac aggression. The odds were not good.
Having decided to dismiss Caro, she thereupon stole into his consciousness when he was least prepared. His discovery of her interest in history and politics of the day was another instance of her latent peculiarity. Her failure to follow the expected pattern continually teased his interest and kept her in his thoughts.
In quixotic mood one night at dinner he introduced the subject of the war, encouraging his guests to discuss a topic that would normally have waited until the ladies had retired from the table. He did not give political dinners and was ostensibly uninterested in the state of the nation. However, this night, blandly ignoring surprised looks, he challenged his neighbor to the left, a rabid Whig and one-time Foxite, to support his oft-stated view that the war with France was a mistake.
Tim Rawleigh rose instantly to the bait. ‘We ain’t in a position to pay for war; that is the truth of the matter. The country is on the verge of bankruptcy; the ports at a standstill; the price of bread gone beyond the ability of the poor to pay. And, to cap it all, the North American states are threatening to break the blockade and attack our ships.’ He paused, triumphantly.
‘It does seem you have proved your point, Tim,’ drawled Antony, looking pointedly at Charles.
His secretary obliged. ‘I say we cannot afford not to fight the Corsican. If we allow events to take their course we shall wake one morning to find ourselves vassals of France.’
‘Nonsense!’ blared another voice, far gone in wine. ‘The self-styled Emperor is too busy enjoying his new young wife and baby son to be a menace.’
A scandalized feminine titter traveled around the table, and Charles hastily continued. ‘He is biding his time. He waits to see where stands the Russian Bear.’
‘And the Swedish Fox.’ Karen’s interjection brought a sudden silence. ‘Charles, you, yourself, said that Bernadotte is sitting on the fence.’
Antony looked surprised. ‘I had not thought you to be so concerned with foreign policy, Caro. Tell me, do you believe the Emperor will attack the Tsar? Will he be so foolhardy?’
Karen raised her chin and said steadily, ‘I believe he will, within twelve months.’
A babble of talk rose, some in support, most rejecting her reading of the situation. Amused, Antony continued to watch his wife defending her belief, admiring her ability to maintain her position under pressure.
Tim Rawleigh argued heatedly for his, and his party’s point of view. ‘We need peace,’ he bellowed. ‘The country needs social reforms, and we must not squander the necessary funds on machinery for war.’
Karen interposed strongly. ‘Certainly we need social reforms; but they need not be dependent on more funds. If the Corn Laws were repealed you would do away with immense misery among the poor. They could then afford to buy bread again.’
Rawleigh was not the only person to stare. Again, it was Antony who filled the silence caused by his wife’s comment. ‘True, my dear. Yet I fear the land owners would never agree. They make a very good thing out of keeping the price of wheat raised – and parliament is full of land owners.’
‘Then parliament should be changed! Do away with all the rotten boroughs and blatantly purchased seats, and put in honest men who care about more than lining their own pockets.’
This caused uproar. Tim Rawleigh beat upon the table with his fist to signify approval, shouting that this was what the Whigs would do. They would put honest men in the House. Amanda looked approving, as did a rather startled Charles. But amongst the other guests endorsement was not so widespread. The ladies, in particular, seemed to resent the adoption of a topic so uninteresting to them, and murmured to one another their distaste at such sentiments being publicly expressed by a woman.
The notoriously flighty Lady Bessborough expressed open discontent. ‘Can we not speak of something else? Politics give me the headache.’ She arched her eyebrows and smiled at Karen.
‘I apologize for giving you pain, although the discussion was not initiated by me. Perhaps you would prefer to talk about the people who are affected by politics: the children who are sent half-starved into the mills to bring home the pennies for the over-priced bread. I’ve seen such children, my lady, and they have no head for politics, either.’
The lady shrank back, confused by Karen’s wintry tone in contrast with her smile. Other female heads bent together and the murmurs grew louder. Amanda looked anxiously at her friend, then at Antony.
He interposed himself once more. ‘Unfortunately, politics are a fact of life, as is war at present.’ He looked at Tim Rawleigh. ‘You want peace for our land, as do we all, but not at too high a price.’
Rawleigh wagged his head stubbornly, as did several supporters around the table. ‘Bonaparte is invincible. Just look at his record. Wherever he appears at the head of his troops, the battle is lost to the French. We must have peace before he runs us over.’
‘Demme, man, why sue for peace just when we are beginning to turn the tide in Spain?’ Charles had actually raised his voice. ‘Napoleon has never set foot there, and Wellington has the French on the run. I say ‘tis as well our Prince now supports the Tories. The Whigs would never have brought in the necessary taxation to continue the fight!’
‘Traitor!’ Rawleigh banged down his glass and jumped to his feet. ‘Go lick the boots of our turncoat Regent, if you will – ’
Cries of ‘Shame, shame,’ came from all around the table.
‘If only Fox had lived. He’d have put the country on its feet.’ Rawleigh’s voice held a suspicion of a sob. He staggered and sat down abruptly.
He was answered by Antony’s friend, Harry Anstruther a strong Whig supporter who could yet give his enemy his due. ‘Perceval is a good enough to keep the government stable until the Prince is confirmed in his Regency.’
Antony smiled and raised his glass. ‘Well, then, Harry, I give you a toast – to our new Prince Regent and his Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval.’
All but one person rose to honor the toast, although some with a lack of enthusiasm.
‘The Prince Regent and Spencer Perceval.’
As they took their seats, curious eyes turned to Karen, still seated at the end of the long board, her wineglass untouched. Her face had turned chalky and the blue eyes stared, doll-like.
Antony thrust back his chair and moved swiftly to her side. ‘My dear, what is it? You are unwell?’
Her lips moved, but nothing emerged. She got up jerkily and excused herself, allowing him to take her arm and assist her from the room. Outside in the hall she turned to him. Her eyes had lost their opaque look; now they searched his with unusual intensity.
‘Antony, I must say this, even though it will enrage you. You will not understand, but you must… you must believe me. A man’s life is at stake. In May of next year Mr. Spencer Perceval will be assassinated in Parliament – the only British Prime Minister to suffer such a fate. You may be able to prevent this. I don’t know. But I had to tell you.’
Antony felt her mittened fingers trembling in his. He could not doubt her sincerity. His own feelings were mixed. Astonishment, doubt, some suspicion, and a strange sweet fascination with the workings of this woman’s mind.
Jenny would have spoken out in just such a way, he thought. But Jenny had no understanding of politics and policies. And she would never have disrupted a dinner party because of some fey notion that she could see into the future.
He deliberately hardened himself against the pull of those pleading eyes. ‘I do not doubt that you believe what you say, but it is not a matter I can easily accept. Where is your proof? Perceval may not even be in office in another year’s time.’
He saw her intensity wilt. ‘He will be, and he will die,’ she said, drearily.’ I can offer you no proof.’
‘Then I suggest that we curtail this unprofitable conversation and return to our gue
sts. They will be concerned.’
She looked at him, her expression unreadable, then turned away towards the stairs.
More shaken than he would ever reveal, he hesitated on the brink of calling her back. What an unfeeling cur he was. He could have shown more sympathy with her obvious shock. Whatever her twisted reasoning, she was a woman displaying empathy for someone she believed to be in danger. He recalled thinking how seldom she smiled these days. Whatever her mood, it always seemed brushed with a melancholy overlay, like a veil over a lovely ornament.
‘Caro…’
When she hesitated, he crossed the space between them, holding her at the second step with a hand on her arm.
Her eyes were on a level with his, and it seemed that they grew larger, widening into huge blue pools of pain as she searched his face.
‘I was too abrupt. I did not intend to hurt you.’ He watched her mouth trembling with the effort of control, and cursed himself again. ‘My… Caro!’ Without thinking, he had grasped her hands and drawn her close, feeling her breath on his face as his own mouth come down to cover hers.
It was a brief kiss, piercingly sweet and hot as burning steel to his lips. His whole body flamed, as longing swept through him. Then she had jerked away from him. His hands tightened instinctively as she tried to free herself.
‘Let me go!’ The words were a harsh whisper.
‘My dear, you must let me – ’
‘No!’ This time she shouted and wrenched away so hard that he let her go, rather than injure her. Immediately she whirled about and rushed up the stairs, skirts clutched high above her ankles.
About to follow, Antony was halted by Bates’ deprecating cough. He glared at the butler, who bowed, and continued his stately advance to the dining room, laden with fresh wine. By then Antony had recalled his duty to his guests. It would serve no purpose to follow Caro, he thought. She had withdrawn the very moment he had shown his disbelief. He had destroyed his chance of building confidence between them. Had he really wanted that chance, or had he deliberately chosen to kill it off? Did he still see it as a trap?
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