by Mary Balogh
"You were a great success last night," she said in an attempt to divert Frances' mind from its sad contemplation of the sacrifice. "I declare, if there had been twice as many sets as there were, there would still have been gentlemen clamoring to dance with you."
Frances dabbed at her eyes and put her handkerchief away. "I do think it tiresome that I cannot waltz, though, Bella," she said. "I am twenty years old, after all."
"Lady Berry has promised to try to get us vouchers for Almack's," Arabella said. "And I was presented to Lady Jersey last night. Perhaps soon you will be granted permission. Until then you may not waltz, so there is no point in lamenting the fact. His lordship has said that in the meantime he will teach us both the steps."
Frances sighed. "You are fortunate in being married to one of the handsomest gentlemen of the (on, Bella," she said. "I thought there would be many more in town, but really the gentlemen here are not a great deal handsomer than those at home, are they?"
Arabella laughed. "And glad I am of it," she said. "I should positively quail if everyone was as splendid as his lordship."
"Sir John Charlton is very handsome," Frances said. "Did you know he is heir to the Earl of Haig, Bella? His uncle. And the earl is elderly. Sir John said he would call on me this afternoon. We do not have any plans for being from home, do we?"
"No," Arabella said with a frown. "Do you like Sir John, Frances? I danced with him too. He is very good-looking, indeed. But do you not think he knows it rather too well?"
"If he does, he has good reason to be somewhat vain," her sister said. "He is so very fashionable, Bella. He quite puts most other gentlemen in the shade."
Including Theodore, Arabella thought rather sadly. If it were not for Theodore, she might not have been so eager to take upon herself the task of wedding Lord Astor. And she might now be comfortably at home with Mama and Jemima while Frances had all the responsibility of making his lordship comfortable. Not that Frances would have to make any effort to do so, of course. He would doubtless be blissfully happy with Frances as his bride.
The thought was thoroughly depressing. And surprisingly, the thought that she might be at home comfortably free of the necessity of being Lord Astor's wife brought with it no longing. Only a strange and quite unexpected gratitude to a providence that had kept from her family an essential truth that might have changed the whole course of her life.
Arabella did not pause to explore the feeling. "Will you write to Mama or to Jemima?" she asked. "We really should try to be finished before luncheon, Frances. I let several people last night know what we would be at home this afternoon. Perhaps we will have visitors."
But her hopes of letter-writing were dashed when a footman opened the door and the butler bowed himself into the room behind an enormous bouquet that had arrived for Frances from one of her dancing partners of the evening before.
Frances shrieked and Arabella proceeded to clean her pen.
The day after the ball, Lord Astor arrived home in the middle of the afternoon to find his drawing room almost crowded with visitors. He was not surprised to find his aunt there. She had quite adopted his wife and his sister-in-law and rarely allowed a day to pass without calling on them or inviting them to join her in some diversion. It was to be expected too that several of Frances' lady friends should call, most of them with their mothers. And Sir John Charlton had been clearly taken with Frances the night before and had understandably called this afternoon, bringing Farraday with him.
What was perhaps somewhat more surprising was that Hubbard was there, and the gangly youth who could not dance. Lord Astor had not noticed the night before that either had shown a marked preference for Frances. And indeed, both seemed quite satisfied to be in conversation with Arabella. He could see at a glance, before she saw him, that she was talking to them with great animation.
He bowed to a group of ladies seated with his aunt, and resigned himself to a few minutes of conversation with them. He had come home to take Arabella into the park in his curricle. He would take a different carriage if his sister-in-law did not have anything to do and needed to be included in the invitation, but he had suspected that someone would turn up to take her driving or walking.
It was a beautiful afternoon, far too fine to be indoors. He had originally planned to spend a few hours with Ginny, but the thought of being confined for the afternoon inside her cozy, perfumed boudoir did not hold out its usual lure. He would visit her some other day, when it was raining perhaps, or when Arabella was otherwise engaged.
Lord Astor settled rather impatiently to outwait the visitors. He caught his wife's eye after a couple of minutes and smiled. She returned his smile, blushed, and faltered in her conversation. He turned his attention back to what Mrs. Soames was saying, quelling a twinge of annoyance. What was it about him that Arabella shied away from? He had never been unkind to her. Why could she not talk to him except when she appeared to forget who he was? She seemed always able to talk to other people. Yet he was her husband. Did she find him uninteresting?
Arabella was busily assuring Mr. Browning that even if his tailor was not Weston, his coat looked remarkably dashing. After all, she said quite reasonably, if all gentlemen patronized only Weston, how would other tailors make a living? And sometimes one man could gain a reputation undeservedly. Other, unknown tailors might be quite as excellent as the famous man himself.
Mr. Browning looked somewhat reassured as Arabella smiled and nodded at him.
"I do not go to Weston myself," Mr. Hubbard said, "ever since he looked down his nose at me as if I were a worm when I offered to pay a bill on delivery of a waistcoat. A true gentleman will leave his bill unpaid for at least half a year, it seems, and then pay only in part."
"Well, how very ridiculous," Arabella said. "I do not blame you for refusing to encourage such nonsense, sir. So you see, Mr. Browning, you must not always fear that you are unfashionable. You must remember that Mr. Hubbard has a different tailor, and no one would say that he is unfashionable, would they?"
Mr. Browning looked even more cheered. Mr. Hubbard's cynical mouth quirked into a smile for a brief moment as he looked at Arabella's bright expression.
"May I take this seat, ma'am?" Lord Farraday asked, indicating an empty one beside Arabella. "I was walking all morning—on Bond Street again. I cannot think what keeps those ladies of mine so busy at the shops. After admiring a fan in one, they can walk the length of the street admiring a dozen others, and then decide to return for the first one, only to discover when they get there that it is not nearly as pretty as they had thought." He grinned.
"Please do sit down," Arabella said. "We simply must find out from you if you patronize Weston, my lord. If you do not, I believe we have won our point, for your coat looks remarkably fashionable."
"It takes two footmen and his valet to pour him into it," Mr. Hubbard said languidly.
They all laughed, and Arabella caught her husband's eye again across the room.
The guests began to drift away eventually, and finally even Lady Berry took her leave, after promising to call with her carriage the next morning to take her two charges to the library to exchange their books.
Frances was starry-eyed. "Sir John Charlton is to return later with his phaeton to take me driving in the park," she said. "Which of my new bonnets should I wear, Bella? The blue, do you think? My lord, are you quite sure that the blue parasol I brought with me to town is quite fashionable enough for Hyde Park?"
Lord Astor turned to his wife with a smile when Frances' anxieties were finally allayed. "Would you like to put on one of your new bonnets while I have the curricle brought around, Arabella?" he asked.
She flushed. "Oh, I am sorry, my lord," she said. "I have just told Mr. Browning that I will drive with him."
He inclined his head. "I hope for your sake that Mr. Browning can drive rather better than he dances," he said.
"Oh, I am sure he can, my lord," Arabella said, her expression serious. "He did not have the advantage
of a dancing master, you see, because his grandfather raised him and would never send him away to school or allow him to associate with other children of his own age. But I am sure that he learned to ride and handle a conveyance."
"Well," Lord Astor said, "you had better go and get ready, then."
"It is all right?" she asked, looking anxiously up at him. "Aunt Hermione has assured me that it is quite unexceptionable for a married lady to be accompanied by a single gentleman in a public place. She even said that a lady will be considered positively rustic if she does not cultivate male acquaintances and that her husband will find her tiresome if she relies on him always to escort her everywhere. You are not angry, my lord?"
"Of course I am not angry, Arabella," he said. "Run along now. Perhaps I shall take you and your sister to the theater again tonight. There is to be a different play."
"Oh." Her face looked stricken. Her fingertips covered her mouth. "Mrs. Harris has invited Frances and me to accompany her and Adelaide—her daughter and Frances' friend, you know—to Mrs. Sheldon's literary salon. The conversation there is very superior, she says, though it sounds to me as if it might be tedious. I would far prefer the theater, my lord, but I cannot go back on my word now, can I?"
"Of course you cannot," Lord Astor said with a somewhat stiff bow. "I am pleased that you are so well-occupied, Arabella. If you are sure that you have plenty of diversions for the rest of today, I shall keep a dinner engagement that I was prepared to break."
"By all means, my lord," she said, brightening. "Please do not let me be the cause of your breaking your promise."
Less than an hour later, Lord Astor was on his way to his mistress's house, congratulating himself on having a part of the afternoon and all of the evening in which to relax and enjoy her company. And he would not even have to feel the guilt of wondering if Arabella was at home, bored and unoccupied. He did not drive through the park, although doing so would have taken him just as quickly and by a far more scenic route to his destination. Somehow he had forgotten that the sky was blue, the sun warm, and the trees and grass and flowers dressed out in all their spring freshness.
8
Arabella was seated at her escritoire in the morning room, trying yet again to write the letter to her mother that had not been written the day before. If only there were not so much to think about, she felt, the task would be very much easier. She had succeeded in describing the Marquess of Ravenscourt's ball, but there was so much more to write about. Poor Mama and Jemima had never had the chance to know what life was like in town—Papa had never been willing to make the journey even when he and Mama were younger.
But truth to tell, Arabella could not concentrate on bringing alive the splendors of the Season because she was beset by so many conflicting feelings that had no place in her letter at all. She was excited, depressed, contented, and unhappy all at the same time, and it was difficult to sort out her emotions and know what the exact state of her life was. In retrospect, life at Parkland seemed a time of incredible peace and placidity.
She had been happy in the last few days to find that after all she was being accepted by the ton. She had been somewhat afraid that she would be rejected as someone far too young and uninteresting to mingle on terms of equality with members of society. She had been convinced that people would consider her something of an impostor in her role as Lady Astor.
But it was not so. She was receiving numerous invitations, and several of them were for her alone and did not even include her husband. She knew that he had other interests. And Lady Berry had told her that husbands did not like to feel obliged to spend a great deal of their time with their wives. Lord Berry himself was living proof of that. And so she was pleased to find that she could live a life of her own and release her husband from any sense of duty that might keep him at her side. After feeling some guilt at having to reject two of his invitations the day before, it had been a relief to know that after all he had asked her only out of politeness. He had had a dinner invitation that he wished to keep.
A relief, yes. But also a little depressing. In the long-ago days of her youth she had thought of marriage as a companionship. She had pictured herself with a husband who never left her side and one with whom she could share a deep and personal friendship. That was long before her agreeing to marry Lord Astor, of course. Even so, it was depressing to know that marriage was nothing like that at all. At least the marriages she had seen in the past few weeks were not. And hers was not. Lord Astor was kind. He always made sure that she was fully occupied and properly clothed. He had bought her gifts. But for all that, there was no closeness between them. And how could there be when she was so inferior to him in every way? She continued to lose weight, but the loss of a few pounds would not transform her into a beauty.
Her problem, Arabella decided, trimming her pen and preparing to write to her mother about her drive in the park the afternoon before, was that she was not always willing to accept reality. And she was very perverse. She had always felt decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of his lordship because his splendor was a continual reminder of her own plainness. The present turn of events, then, should thoroughly satisfy her. It seemed they were about to lead their own fairly separate and busy lives. There was no reason whatsoever why the idea should depress her.
She had found poor Mr. Browning, with his dreadful lack of confidence in himself, very easy to talk with during the drive in the park, and she had not given one thought to her own lack of beauty while she was with him. So there was no reason why she should have wished she was with her husband, torturing her mind for ideas of what to say to him. And at the literary salon the evening before, she had had a long and comfortable conversation with Lord Farraday and avoided having to listen to the languishing poet who tried so hard to look as gloomy and romantic as Lord Byron was reputed to be. Why should she have wished her husband was there?
And he had not come to her the night before. He was not at home when she and Frances returned—she had asked the footman who admitted them. She had lain awake for a long time expecting him, wondering if he stayed away because he thought she was asleep, wondering if perhaps he had not come home at all. She had missed him. She had become accustomed to his visits. She liked them.
She must finish her letter before Frances came downstairs, Arabella thought, bending determinedly over it again. Once Frances came, there would be no more writing. Her sister would be either too excited or too unhappy about the news that was awaiting her. Either way, there were bound to be tears.
His lordship had accompanied her again that morning when she took George for a walk. When she had suggested that she would take a maid if he preferred to read his paper, he had assured her that he would enjoy the exercise. She had let him put the lead on George and take him along the street to the park. And indeed it did seem as if her pet behaved himself better with his lordship, as she had admitted to him when she knelt on the path inside the gate and detached the leather strap so that George could run free.
They had not talked a great deal, but she had enjoyed their stroll nevertheless. He had chosen quite freely to come. She must not feel guilty at taking him away from his breakfast.
"Did you enjoy your evening, Arabella?" he had asked.
"Oh, yes," she had said. "Everyone sat and talked, my lord. There was no music and no dancing. And no cards either. There was a poet there whose latest volume recently created a stir, though I cannot recall his name at present or the name of the book. Frances found his poems quite affecting, but I must confess that I did not hear them. I talked with Lord Farraday."
"Did you indeed?" he had said.
"Yes." She had been smiling, watching George snuffling around the trees that were becoming familiar to him. "He told me many stories about university and the scrapes you and he and Mr. Hubbard got into. I have never laughed so hard in my life. It is amazing you never got into deep trouble, my lord."
"I am glad you enjoyed yourself," Lord Astor had said. "Would you care to t
ake my arm, Arabella?"
She had done so and been reminded of her very inferior stature. "Did you enjoy yourself?" she had asked.
"I beg your pardon?" He had looked blankly down at her. "Oh, at my dinner? Yes, thank you, Arabella, well enough."
They had said very little else. When they had arrived home, she had gone down to the kitchen herself to restore George to his new quarters rather than send him with a footman and hear him whine every step of the way. His lordship had handed her a letter when she returned to the breakfast room. He had been smiling. He knew how much she loved to receive news from home.
The letter had contained little beyond the ordinary, though she had devoured its contents with great eagerness. But there had been one thing, and when she had looked up flushed and eager, it was to discover that his lordship was sitting quietly watching her.
"What is it, Arabella?" he had asked, amusement in his voice. "Good news?"
"Theodore is coming," she had said. "Sir Theodore Perrot, that is. He is coming to town, Mama writes. How splendid!"
"I met him," Lord Astor had said. "He is the fair-haired and rather broad one?"
"Yes," she had said, staring down at her letter, picturing Theodore coming to sweep Frances off her feet again. Dear, dependable Theodore, who would show Frances at a glance that he was twice the man Sir John Charlton was, or any of her other admirers. "Dear Theodore."
Lord Astor's eyebrows had risen. "And when may we expect his arrival?" he had asked.
"I think any day," Arabella had said, clutching the letter to her bosom and looking across at her husband, stars in her eyes. "We may invite him here for dinner the day he appears? And we will take him to the theater with us and introduce him to our acquaintances and make sure he is invited everywhere? Please, my lord."
He had lifted his cup of coffee and swallowed a mouthful before answering. "It will be as you wish, Arabella," he had said.
But her reaction had been calm in comparison with what Frances' would be, Arabella reflected now, realizing that she had written only a sentence since she had last bent her head over her paper. She blanked all thoughts, exciting and depressing, from her mind, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and wrote.