An Inconvenient Wife

by Constance Hussey

  Anne shielded her candle from the vagrant drafts as she ghosted along the deserted passageways. The library was a more welcoming destination. A glass of the sherry she knew always graced the sideboard would be just the thing to help her sleep, along with something dreadfully boring to read.

  She used her candle to light one of the lamps, put a few pieces of wood on the fire, and stirred it, not giving the reason a fire was lit in a seldom-occupied room a passing thought. Westcott preferred his study, and she her pleasant parlour and office, although the library was magnificent, with its colourful vaulted ceiling, floor to ceiling bookshelves, heavy damask draperies and thick Aubusson carpets. The lamp in Anne’s hand illuminated but a small portion of the room, but she knew enough from prior visits to easily find the section containing the family travel diaries. Purposely choosing one that looked both boring of content and poorly written—why did people persist in prosing on about their travels?—she settled into a comfortable chair near the fireplace, lamp on the table beside her. A ribbon confined the loose braid she wore when abed and she pulled it free. There was no one to see and perhaps she could stave off the threatening headache.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks.” She had neglected to pour the sherry. Anne grimaced, and tried to decide if she wanted it badly enough to get up—a dilemma instantly forgotten at the sound of Westcott’s voice.

  “Fiddlesticks?”

  Anne gasped, the book dropping from her suddenly nerveless fingers with a thump. “Good gracious, you scared me half to death.”

  She leaned forward, trying to see into the shadows that cloaked most of the room. “What are you doing down here? You should be in your bed.”

  “So should you.” Westcott emerged from the gloom. “Why are you here, Anne, and what brought on the “fiddlesticks”?”

  Anne looked up at him, resplendent in a brocade dressing robe, one allowing a disturbing view of his chest between the satin lapels. Hair disheveled, arm in a sling, only an eye patch missing to turn him into a pirate ready to sweep all from his path—or seize whatever he wanted. A breathtaking pirate, Anne admitted, and firmly squashed the hot tickle spiraling from belly to throat. “I was unable to sleep and I forgot my sherry, which I see you have not.” She flicked a finger in the direction of the glass in his hand.

  “Brandy,” he corrected, with enough dry humour in his voice to send a rush of heat to her face.

  “Of course, I should have known,” she said tightly.

  “How should you? We have seldom had the opportunity to enjoy a drink together.”

  An accusation? A casual comment? Anne was unsure, and his face was hidden as he set his glass on the mantelpiece and moved across the room—to pour her some sherry, she realized gratefully, shaken by the unexpected encounter in such intimate surroundings. Their recent conversation, her suspicions about the Major, her radical treatment of Sarah’s leg; all of it tumbled around in her head in a dizzying array of guilt and conflict.

  She took the offered glass with a terse, “Thank you,” and watched as he retrieved his brandy and sat in the chair opposite. “I am surprised to see you so far from your bed, sir. Does Harman know you are wandering around in your condition?”

  “Harman is enjoying a well-deserved night’s sleep.” Westcott peered at her over his glass, his voice edged with sardonic humour. “I, on the other hand, cannot sleep, but find staring at the same four walls any longer impossible.”

  “Your shoulder….”

  “Is fine.” He brushed her concern aside impatiently. “I intended to be up and out tomorrow in any case.”

  The decision was made and he’d not be persuaded otherwise, Anne judged from the look on his face. In all actuality, she was surprised they had managed to keep him confined for even five days.

  “What are you reading?” He glanced at the book on the floor. “Or should I say, planning to read?”

  She lifted a shoulder and gave him a crooked smile. “The adventures of one of your traveling ancestors, and I use the word adventure rather loosely, understand. I wanted something to help me sleep.”

  That produced a short laugh and one of those rare, genuine smiles that caused her breath to catch. He was devilishly appealing when he smiled, so she was grateful he did so infrequently. Which is a barefaced lie, Anne. You like his smiles all too well.

  “If it is as boring as most of those diaries, it will do the trick. Why anyone believes their experiences will be of interest to others is beyond me.”

  Since Anne had had the same notion, she merely nodded, took a sip of her sherry and searched for another subject. Westcott appeared ready to stay indefinitely, and she could hardly disappear the moment she saw him. Besides, far from being sleepy, she was more wide-awake than ever.

  Her gaze fell on a small portrait of Camille and a very young Sarah. “Sarah has your eyes, but otherwise looks much like her mother.” Instantly wishing she could retract her comment, Anne waited for a curt set-down. She knew the subject of his first wife was unwelcome, but other than a flicker of distaste in his eyes, he answered readily.

  “Yes, Sarah is very like her mother in appearance. I believe her more like my side of the family in personality, leavened with some of Camille’s liveliness.”

  “She has a delightful enthusiasm for life,” Anne said softly. Westcott never spoke of his wife, but the expression on his face was more pensive than forbidding and she set aside her glass and leaned forward. “Tell me about Camille, please. Sarah mentions her at times, and I know very little of her.”

  Westcott rose, picked up a poker, and stirred the fire before bracing one hand on the mantelpiece, his back to her. A long silence ensued, and Anne was beginning to think she had made a grave error in asking about Camille, when he spoke.

  “We met in London, at a ball. Not normally an event I’d attend, especially since it was less than a year past that my father died, but it was Margaret’s come out—St. Clair’s sister—and he insisted I support him. Plus, Lady Lynton expected no less of us—Carlisle, St. Clair and myself.” A thread of humour touched his voice. “Lady Lynton is not someone you say no to easily, and in any case, Margaret was a sister to us all.

  “We arrived a little before times, as St. Clair was expected to stand with Margaret and her mother to greet the guests, and we lingered in the entrance hall, Carlisle and I, waiting for Devlin and the drink he’d promised us.” Westcott half-turned to pick up his brandy, seemingly deep in thought, and Anne watched the play of emotions on his shadowed face. The look of some pleasant memory passed quickly, replaced by a chill sternness that was painful to see.

  “When she appeared at the top of the staircase, I imagined a fairy princess had stepped from the pages of a book and I was instantly besotted. So lovely and graceful, her hair shining gold in the candlelight and a smile I felt sure was directed at me. Camille appeared just as struck, and to do her justice, I think she did love me, as much as she could love anyone.” Westcott emptied his glass, walked to the sideboard and looked over his shoulder at Anne. “Will you have more sherry?”

  Anne held up her glass to show it still unfinished, and he refilled his own with brandy.

  “I stayed in Town, spent as much time as she allowed as her escort, and a few months later asked for her hand, counting myself the luckiest man in the city to win her, over the several others in pursuit, who had far more address than I.” He sat down, stretched his legs out, and stared into his glass.

  Anne took a sip of her sherry, uncertain as to whether to protest his deprecating comment, or let it pass. If he meant he hadn’t the ways of a man about town, she had to agree, but then there are some who valued other qualities more.

  “We married as soon as my year of mourning ended. Camille was eager, and I wanted badly to get back here.” He looked up, caught her gaze, and continued. “I have never been enamored with cities.”

  An understatement, that, and Anne hid a smile. A countryman, Lord Westcott, which anyone with intelligence would know after a day in his company. S
he had watched him, listened to him in conversation with his steward, learning as much as she could about Westhorp. He loved the land, was attuned to it. If ever a man needed sons….

  Anne shied from that thought and returned her attention to her husband, who had never been so open with her. Not a husband, but maybe a friend? Can you settle for that? Should you? It’s more than you expected—and not enough.

  “So I suspected,” she said. “I am fond of the country as well, although I’ve had little experience of it. I’ve lived in towns, cities and villages, but seldom the true countryside.”

  “Camille was not so fond, but she loved the house and enjoyed redecorating and entertaining; we do have some social life here, but it is rather humdrum, and a somewhat limited society. We compromised and spent an occasional month in Town, until Sarah was born.”

  Westcott stood and returned to jabbing at the embers, every line of his body rigid with remembered pain. Should she interrupt, cut off this distressing reminiscence? No, he needed this, she felt, and wondered if he had ever spoken of these things to anyone else.

  “I’ve never believed the city a healthy place for children and was unwilling to leave Sarah here alone. Camille felt differently and continued her stays in Town, short visits at first, but they grew lengthier as time went on.”

  He turned to face her, his expression once more contained and unreadable. “Camille loved Sarah, doted on her, and when she was home they spent hours together, but it was not enough. She craved the excitement and glitter of the Ton and saw no reason to give it up.”

  He fell silent, rubbing absentmindedly at his shoulder, his gaze on some point over her head. Anne felt his mind was far from this room, and from her. His next words were so softly spoken she barely heard them.

  “I should have known, before it was too late.”

  “Known what?” Anne ventured, but the confidences were done.

  Westcott started, shaking his head as if to clear it, and dropped into his chair. “Many things,” he said dryly. “Speaking of the unknown, why were you in Portugal? Isn’t it time you disclosed some of your history, Anne?”

  She stared at him in consternation, unable to hide her shock at this sudden reversal. Why bring this up now? It was so late, and she was tired. You are not in the least bit sleepy and he deserves an explanation, Anne. If you put him off, he is sure to imagine something worse than the truth. The glass trembled in her hand and she placed it on the table with exaggerated care, avoiding his intent gaze. The truth was sordid enough. If nothing else, she had to tell him of her suspicion that the Major was responsible for the attack on him. You’ve wanted to tell him for days, Anne. Now is your chance, in this quiet interlude. It is the perfect time. Then why was her chest tight with dread?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Westcott narrowed his eyes. Why the look of fear on her face of a sudden? The idea of Anne being involved in anything so bad she feared telling him was beyond his imagination. She had assured him she was not a murderess, he remembered now, and a huff of laughter escaped him.

  Anne’s head jerked up and she eyed him warily.

  “You are not going to confess now to murder,” he said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “You did tell me otherwise, in Portugal, if my memory is correct.”

  “Of course I am not!”

  Bristling, a delightful blush colouring her cheeks, she was the picture of indignation, and he grinned. “That being the case, you won’t mind satisfying my curiosity. Or are you going to hare off to bed with some excuse about being too tired?”

  “It is very late, sir. I….” She glanced sideways at him.

  She had intended to run off. The un-Anne-like behavior piqued his curiosity even more. Westcott rose, refreshed his brandy, and poured a small amount into another glass. “A little ‘Dutch courage’. You appear in need of it.” He took her hand, wrapped her fingers around the glass, and guided it to her lips. “Drink—in sips, mind you.”

  “Ugh.” Anne shuddered at the taste. “I don’t know why you enjoy this stuff, Westcott. It’s horrid.” She glared at him, but the second sip went down more smoothly and she leaned back, seeming more at ease.

  “I have begun to realize how little I know of you, Anne,” Westcott said, resuming his seat. “Start at the beginning. You were in Gibraltar prior to Portugal. Why?”

  “My father was posted there, and I joined him as soon as my school year was finished.”

  Seeing his surprise at the mention of school, she explained, “Whenever Father was sent to someplace unfit for females, I attended a school in Switzerland.” She paused. “Are you at all familiar with military life?”

  “No,” Westcott said with an apologetic smile. “I have some friends in the military, but know little of their customs.”

  “It can be very insular for the families who accompany the men, especially in a place like Gibraltar. One sees the same people repeatedly, and there were not many people to attend social events. The officers and aide-de-camps attended when duties allowed, of course.” Anne’s mouth curled in a half-smile. “No woman ever lacked an escort, and fortunately for me, the Governor’s sister took me under her wing, acting as chaperone when Father couldn’t, although sometimes several of Father’s officers escorted me.” Her lips tightened. “They were gentlemen. Father trusted them implicitly. Even so, he always assigned several high-ranking officers to attend me.”

  She sipped at the brandy, more to gather her thoughts, Westcott felt, than because she wanted the spirit. He tried, without success, to picture her as a carefree young girl making her first forays into society. He suspected she had never been one of those giddy debutantes thronging London every year, although she had a dry sense of humour he was coming to appreciate.

  “Very wise, your father,” Westcott said, and she laughed.

  “Any popularity I had was due more to the lack of competition than my charms, I assure you.”

  “Improbable, but I can see you believe it.” Westcott rested his chin against a fist. “Go on, Anne. This is all very interesting, but you are avoiding the subject.

  Startled, she straightened and took a deep breath. “Perhaps I am,” she said in a low voice. “It is not a happy story, after all.”

  Remembered pain shadowed her eyes and almost he called a halt to this distressing narrative, but he wanted to know, had to know, he admitted with more than a little reluctance. What business is it of yours, Westcott? You don’t want any part of this woman, remember? He stopped short his mental questioning, but still the quick justification sprang to mind.

  Yes, but I live with her, dammit. It’s natural to be curious.

  Bloody hell. Now he was holding arguments in his head. Westcott wrenched his mind from his tangled thoughts and returned his attention to Anne.

  “When an epidemic of fever swept through the island, it put an end to most gatherings, but until Father became ill I was still able to meet with a small group of fellow musicians. Even that had to stop, however, as more and more people fell to the fever. I was one of the lucky ones.”

  From the tinge of bitterness in her voice, Anne appeared to think otherwise, a stupid idea he was inclined to dispute. Dead is never a better choice. He forced himself to lean back; sip at his brandy; watch the play of emotion on her face as she continued.

  “One of the officers called every day in the beginning, to bring Father information about the troops and receive any orders. I knew him, had danced with him, even sat at supper with him upon occasion. I thought nothing of it, this brief daily contact, and as Father worsened, no one else but the physician was permitted into the house. By the time Father died, I had lost touch with almost everyone. Half the people I knew were either dead or had left the island, and when the Major offered his help in arranging the funeral, I was grateful. Maggie and Bill did what they could, but they were as exhausted as I was.”

  Her voice was not much more than a whisper now, and he shifted forward to hear her.

  “The day of the fun
eral, after all but the Fentons had gone, Major Reynard announced his intention to marry me, and given my orphaned state, immediately. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that I was agreeable.” She touched her fingers to her mouth, cheeks pale in the flickering light, and lowered her head. “He did not take my rejection well.”

  Dreading to hear what he surmised would follow, Westcott clenched his teeth. “Anne.” The single word was all he could manage, but not well enough to entirely hide his anger. Her head jerked and she threw up her hands in protest.

  “No! It wasn’t… Bill and Maggie heard me scre…shout, and Bill was there before….” She slumped over with a weariness that made him want to gather her in his arms and comfort her as he did Sarah.

  “They fought, until Maggie hit the Major on the head with a poker.”

  “Good for her,” Westcott said tersely, vowing to buy the woman a new loom, or something.

  Anne looked up and made a visible attempt to smile. “Very good, but it made it impossible for us to stay there. They could have had Bill hung for assaulting an officer. Major Reynard is not the kind to forgive and forget such a thing, and nothing but our word against his lies. Besides, he had to know I’d do anything to protect the Fentons, and would have used that to force me into marriage.” She lifted her shoulders in resignation. “So we ran. Packed up enough to make do, booked passage on the first ship that was sailing immediately, and within a day we were bound for Portugal.”