by Mary Balogh
So. Here he was with a sore nose that doubtless resembled a beacon, riding a sweaty horse, bound he knew not where. He might as well continue for a while, he decided, though at a pace that would be kinder to his mount, which had offended no one. After all, he had nothing to return home for. Not now or ever again, it seemed.
He could not have imagined Arabella behaving with quite such cold dignity. His mind touched back to the scene in his office that morning, and he found himself spurring his horse on again. He had never in his life felt such helpless guilt. That was what he was running from, doubtless. And that was what he had been hoping to have pounded out of him at Jackson's. Pointless efforts! He carried his guilt deep within, inescapable and inaccessible from without.
He would not have hurt Arabella for worlds. He had grown fond of her fresh innocence. He had taken her at a very young age from her own home and had undertaken to protect her with his name and his person. He felt a great responsibility for her. But he had hurt her quite dreadfully. She had looked wretchedly ill. Obviously some fiend had told her the night before about Ginny's connection to him, and she had been tortured all night by the knowledge.
But there had been more than suffering in her face that morning. If that had been all, he might have coped. He might have taken her in his arms and soothed her and promised her the earth as a recompense for having hurt her. But she had been quite untouchable, cold and controlled. Something had been killed in her overnight. The remnants of her childhood, perhaps. Her faith in him. Perhaps her faith in humanity.
Her great innocence was proving to be her worst enemy, of course. If she just had a little more worldly wisdom, she would realize that it was common practice for a gentleman to keep a mistress. There was no implied insult to one's wife in doing so. He was not less respectful of Arabella, less fond of her because he kept Ginny. But Arabella did not know that. She expected the marriage service to be taken literally. She felt slighted, rejected. This would be one more blow to her very fragile self-confidence.
And he was responsible. Lord Astor pulled his horse to the side of the road in order to allow a fast-approaching vehicle to overtake him. A mail coach went rattling past. It was time to turn back to London, he decided, for his horse's sake if not for his own.
And what was he to do about the matter? he thought. Give up Ginny and beg Arabella's pardon? Was he prepared to allow his wife such power over his life? Was he going to allow himself to feel that he had committed some heinous crime? What had he done that was so very wrong, when all was said and done?
By the time he was in sight of London again, Lord Astor was feeling somewhat angry with himself for having allowed his wife to upset him so. Sooner or later she had to learn some of the harsher realities of life. Eventually she had to grow up. He could wish that she had not found out about Ginny. But the truth was that she had, although it was not his fault that she had done so. She must just learn to live with reality. Other wives did, yet appeared to have quite contented marriages.
He must speak to Arabella, he decided, without either harshness or apology, and explain to her what their marriage was to be like. There was no reason why they should not develop a friendship and an affection for each other. There was no reason why they should not have a satisfactory marriage. And there was certainly no reason for him to give up Ginny.
Arabella had admired him to such a degree that she had been nervous with him.
She had liked him.
She had trusted him.
She had been proud of him.
She did not wish to see him or speak with him. She did not wish him to touch her.
Damnation! Why had he had to be burdened with such a child for a bride?
She had looked haggard and gaunt that morning.
How would he be able to face her with the proper firmness of manner, without allowing her appearance to act as a reproach to him again?
How would he be able to assume a normal relationship with her? Had there been anything normal about their relationship anyway?
How would he be able to make love to her again at the end of the week, knowing that his touch outraged and repulsed her? Damnation!
Lord Astor dined at White's again that evening and accepted an invitation to move on to Brooks' later to play cards. By some miracle he won what a mere year before would have seemed a small fortune to him. Yet he would as soon have lost and been able to feel that his fortunes matched his mood. He drank to the point at which he had hoped to be roaring and blissfully drunk. Instead, his head was as clear and his mood ten times blacker than they had been when he had arrived hours earlier. He considered going to Ginny's but could feel no stirring of desire for her whatsoever. He slept somewhat less than he had the night before. He wondered if Arabella was awake and miserable.
Arabella dined at home with Frances, and the two of them joined Lady Berry at the opera in the evening, where Arabella sparkled with good humor and during the interval entertained both Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Hubbard with her bright chatter. In the middle of the first act she quietly removed her pearls when she realized she was wearing them, and dropped them into her reticule. She slept almost as soon as she lay down, being both physically and emotionally exhausted.
12
Lord Astor rose to his feet in some surprise when his wife entered the breakfast room the following morning. One glance at her face told him that her mood was as cold and set as it had been the previous day. She looked pale and surely thinner than she had when he first knew her.
"Did you miss your walk with George this morning, Arabella?" he asked. "The weather does look rather gray."
"It is chilly," she said, "but quite bracing. George had a good run. I took a maid with me, my lord. I was the height of respectability."
She came from the sideboard with the usual muffin and nodded to the butler to pour her coffee. Lord Astor looked at her, not knowing what he should say or whether he should say anything at all.
"Do not let me keep you from your paper," she said, cutting into her muffin.
He did not immediately resume his reading. "Did you enjoy the opera?" he asked.
"Yes, I thank you, my lord," she said.
"And do you have plans for today?" he asked.
"Frances and I are to call at Lady Berry's this afternoon," she said. "We are going to Vauxhall tonight."
"Vauxhall?" he said. "It is beautiful during the evening, Arabella. Also potentially dangerous. You will need to be careful."
"We are to be of Lord Farraday's party," she said. "Mr. Hubbard is to be there. Sir John Charlton. Theodore. Others. I shall be quite safe, thank you."
She had not once looked at him. Her voice was coldly polite. Lord Astor dropped his eyes to the paragraph he had been reading but found after two minutes that he no longer remembered even so much as the topic of the article. He closed the paper, folded it, and set it beside his empty cup.
"If you are not planning to be busy during the next hour, Arabella," he said, "I would like to talk with you in the library.''
"After breakfast I always consult with the cook and the housekeeper," she said. "But my first duty is to you, of course, my lord. Are you leaving me now? Will you give me ten minutes?"
"At your convenience, Arabella," he said, rising to his feet, bowing to her, and walking from the room.
Arabella would not let her shoulders sag. The butler was still standing at the sideboard. And she would not leave half the muffin on her plate. She ate it in small mouthfuls, chewing tediously what felt like straw in her mouth. She would not show by even the smallest sign that she suffered. This day was to begin the pattern of all the rest of her days. She would approach it with dignity. She would not become a weepy, vaporish female.
There was still something very unreal about the whole situation. Soon she must wake up to find it all some dreadful nightmare. But she knew that there was no waking up to do. It was all true. She had married a man without any sense of honor or decency.
Whenever she allowed herself to thin
k about the last three weeks—and just as much when she did not allow it—she felt nauseated again. And panic constantly threatened to grab her by the stomach. She had known all along that her husband could not care for her deeply, that she was not the type of lady to attract the very handsome Lord Astor. She had been beset by a strong sense of her own inferiority all through her acquaintance with him.
But she had never dreamed that he would be unfaithful to her. She must be very naive, she supposed. She knew that men kept mistresses. She knew there were such creatures as courtesans—she had seen some of them in the streets close to the theater and the opera house. But she had never thought that any of the fashionable gentlemen of her acquaintance would associate with such females. Perhaps some of the noisy, foppish young men who crowded the floor of the theater and ogled one with such impertinence might do so, but not the more respectable married men. And certainly not her husband.
She thought in great agony of the nights when he had come to her and she had been so scrupulous about giving herself completely to the man she had freely agreed to marry. Even when she had been afraid on the first two occasions. Even when she had been shy at the beginning. Mama had told her that men derived pleasure from the marriage act—it was not just for the creation of children. And she had wanted her husband to have pleasure even from her less-than-desirable person. She had wanted to be a good wife.
Yet he could have had no pleasure with her at all. All those nights in the past week and more when she had looked forward to his coming with some eagerness and had enjoyed his touch when he came, he had come only in order to create children in her. He would not have kept Miss Cox if he had had pleasure with his wife. He went to Miss Cox for pleasure. The beautiful, voluptuous Miss Cox. He did with Miss Cox the same things that had become so precious to her.
That terrible dull ache that was in her stomach, in her throat, in her nostrils threatened yet again to turn to panic. Arabella picked up her cup, held it with both hands in order to steady it, and sipped the strong, tepid coffee. He wanted to talk to her. Her husband had summoned her. She would obey.
"Thank you," she said, pushing back her chair even as the butler came to assist her. "You may clear away now."
She walked along the hallway to the library, nodded to a footman, who rushed to open the door for her, and stepped inside.
Lord Astor closed a leather-bound volume with a snap and got to his feet.
"Come in, Arabella," he said, "and have a seat."
She perched stiffly on the edge of the chair across from the one he had just vacated. He did not sit down again.
"I see that your purpose has not cooled since yesterday," he said, pausing and looking down at her.
She was regarding the hands that were clasped in her lap. "No," she said. "I did not speak impulsively."
"We must talk this out," he said. "Otherwise our life together will become intolerable."
She looked up at him slowly, her eyes stony. She said nothing.
"Arabella," he said, "when I met you and married you, Ginny was my mistress. During the weeks when you have been growing to like me and become proud of me, as you put it yesterday, Ginny has been my mistress. I am not a different person suddenly because you have discovered the truth. I am not a monster."
"You are a liar," she said. "You lied to me on our wedding day, and—worse—you lied to God."
"I am sorry," he said. "You cannot know how sorry I am that you have discovered the truth. Not because I enjoy deceiving you. And not because I am ashamed. But because you have been hurt. But you need not be, Arabella. I respect you. I have grown fond of you. I hoped—and I still hope—that we can develop a friendship and an affection for each other."
"May I ask you something?" Arabella asked, looking steadily at him. "If you were to discover that I had been... had been... that I was Mr. Hubbard's mistress or Lord Farraday's or someone else's, would you be satisfied with my explanation that I still respected you, that I was still fond of you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Arabella," he said impatiently. "That is an entirely different matter."
"Is it?" she said. "In what way?"
"You are a woman and will bear children," he said. "Besides, this is just the way our society works. Most ladies of any maturity accept the situation and would think it ill-bred to seem to know the truth."
"Ah," she said, "I see how it is, my lord. The blame must somehow be shifted to my shoulders. I am childish, of course. What can one expect of a bride of eighteen? And I am ill-bred. I have been brought up in the country and have never been exposed to the superior moral standards of London. Of course, if I were only more mature and better-bred, I would understand that there is nothing dishonest about promising fidelity to a bride when one employs a mistress."
Lord Astor put a hand to his brow and paced to the window. "We are getting nowhere, are we?" he said. "Let me be plain with you then, Arabella. I will not allow you to dictate the way I live. I am afraid you must learn to accept that. And if you do, you will not find me an inattentive or unaffectionate husband. If you find that you cannot accept reality, then I will allow you to return to Parkland Manor—until you are older, perhaps. What is your wish?"
"I am your wife," she said, "your property. Do with me what you wish, my lord."
He turned back to her in exasperation. "You will stay here with me, then," he said. "I shall stay away from you as much as I can while your hostility lasts. Ginny will doubtless be a more amiable companion. And you need not fear that you will be forced to do your duty—with a strong sense of martyrdom, of course. I have a bed to go to where I will be welcomed with no reluctance at all. I wish you good day, madam."
Arabella rose to her feet and sank into a deep curtsy. "Thank you, my lord," she said. "You will forgive me, perhaps, if I do not return the greeting."
* * *
Frances must be feeling some disappointment, Arabella thought as they were entering the main arched gateway to Vauxhall Gardens that evening. It was true that they had had all the excitement of driving across the new iron Regent's Bridge, and certainly they had arrived faster than they had expected. But Frances had had her mind set on approaching the pleasure gardens by river. Arabella thought that she probably had had a romantic image of herself being handed into a boat by Sir John Charlton and comforted by his strong arm during a choppy crossing.
But Sir John would have been nowhere in sight even if the bridge had not been in place and they had been compelled to take a boat. Lord Farraday had taken them up in his carriage with his sister. They were to meet the rest of the party at Vauxhall.
One could not be disappointed with Vauxhall Gardens, though, even if one approached by the less romantic route, Arabella discovered. She stepped through the main gateway with Frances on her arm, Lord Farraday and Mrs. Pritchard close behind, and discovered that they had stepped into an enchanted world.
"Ooh, Bella!" Frances pulled on her arm and gazed about her in wonder. "It is magical. Look at all the lanterns."
The night was perfect. The clouds that had obscured the sun all day had moved off to leave a clear, moonlit, star-studded sky. There was scarcely a breeze. But there was enough to move the top branches of the trees that were everywhere around them and to set the myriad lanterns to swaying. Patches of light and shade chased themselves along the many pathways and over the trunks of trees.
"It is like a fairy tale," Arabella said. "Cinderella and her glass slipper."
Mrs. Pritchard stopped behind them. "I always love to see and hear the reactions of people who have not been here before," she said. "And tonight you are fortunate. Everything is perfect. How did you know it was going to be quite such a night, Clive, when you planned this party?"
He grinned. "When I said my prayers last night," he told her, "I explained that for my sister nothing but the best was good enough, or I would never hear the end of it."
"Oh, foolish!" she said. "Let us take Lady Astor and Miss Wilson to your box before the music begins. We are rather lat
e. Your other guests will doubtless be waiting."
Arabella proceeded with her sister along the path that led straight from the gate. She deliberately shook off the mood of deep depression that had been with her all day. She was going to enjoy herself, she decided. She was eighteen years old and she was a member of a party at Vauxhall. There was going to be music to listen to and supper to eat among congenial company. There were paths to walk along and lanterns to light her way. And later there were to be fireworks. It was to be the sort of evening she could only have dreamed of a year before. She was going to make the most of it.
The rest of the party was there before them: Theodore, Sir John, Mr. Hubbard, Lady Harriet, and her elder sister with her husband. They occupied one of the lower boxes, Arabella saw, close to the orchestra. She smiled gaily at everyone and acknowledged the bows of the gentlemen. Had Theodore brought Lady Harriet? she wondered. He sat next to her. How clever of him if he had done so. Frances, she saw at a glance, was settling herself at the opposite side of the box, next to Sir John Charlton.
"Ah, my dear Lady Astor," Mr. Hubbard said, indicating a chair close to his, "you are just in time for the music. Handel, if you like the man's music. Or if you do not, I suppose. I was rather hoping for dancing, myself, but it seems we are not to be that fortunate tonight. The proprietors are catering to superior tastes."
"I am just as pleased," Arabella said, taking the proffered seat and smiling at him. "These are lovely surroundings in which to listen to music. Which of Mr. Handel's works is to be played?"
"The Water Music," he said. "Good music to drink by, ma'am." He laughed at his own joke, lifted his glass, and bowed to her. "Farraday, wine for the ladies."
Arabella looked more closely at the bright eyes of her companion. Was Mr. Hubbard foxed? How scandalous. She had never actually seen a gentleman in his cups before. She hoped Mr. Hubbard would not disgrace them all by trying to stand up and sing to the crowd. She remembered Papa's stories of one of their neighbors who had a tendency to burst into song in public places when he had been drinking, though one scarce knew the sound of even his speaking voice when he was sober.