"Naturally, but I didn't tell her I'd had anything to do with it. I couldn't bring myself to do that."
"There was no need. Abigail asks a lot of impertinent questions which are none of her business. She doesn't even consider whether she's being rude. It's more a matter of curiosity with her, an almost insatiable curiosity. And of course she's known me since I was a child and feels she has a right to involve herself in my life and that of anyone associated with me."
"She said my father was planning to visit again, that he had written to her, but I haven't heard from him recently. You don't suppose she's a little mixed up about that, do you?"
"It's hard to tell with Abigail. Do you still think they were...” He left the sentence unfinished out of consideration for her delicacy.
"Going to bed together?” she asked, unperturbed. “Oh, yes, she as good as told me they were. Not that I should be so surprised, allowing for my father's reputation. But I wouldn't have thought Mrs. Waltham was quite his type of woman. He told me he liked her unpredictability. Imagine!"
Greywell was imagining all sorts of things, but very few of them had to do with Abigail. When had this astonishing change come in Elspeth? Not only did she speak of such physical intimacy with a lack of embarrassment, but she showed none of the moral repugnance he would have expected from her. He wished he had some clue to what was going on.
His wish was answered sooner than he could have expected. They were entering the village now, trotting down the single street with no particular destination, when Francis Treyford emerged from a shop to the left of them.
Greywell wasn't looking at Elspeth at the time; he was trying to decide whether it would be a good idea to buy her a gift, and if so, which of the shops would be the most likely to have something of interest. None of them was very well stocked, and certainly not with anything of a very exciting nature. He should have bought her something in Vienna, or even in Brussels before the fighting had started, but he hadn't thought of it.
So it was Francis on whom his abstracted gaze fell, and his lips automatically formed a smile of greeting. Before he could say anything, however, Francis’ odd expression had registered with him. The younger man's willowy body had stiffened and his face paled, taking on a forlorn and suffering cast. What was more significant, no doubt, was that his eyes were riveted on Elspeth, not on Greywell. It was only when all of this had impressed itself on his lordship that he, too, turned to look at Elspeth.
His wife had had plenty of time to control her countenance into one of friendly interest, and was even now greeting Francis with the offhandedness of old acquaintances. She inquired after his health, his poetry, and his parents.
Unfortunately, Francis was not able, or willing, to respond in kind. He continued to stare at her, a variety of emotions passing quickly over his face. Then he switched his gaze to the viscount for a moment before saying stiffly, “How do you do, Greywell? I'm glad to see you're recovered from your injury."
Greywell didn't think he seemed the least bit glad. In fact, he had the distinct impression Francis would gladly have seen him disappear from the earth that very instant. So Francis had developed one of his hopeless passions for Elspeth, had he? And what of Elspeth herself?
Her face had frozen into the expression she'd adopted, but her eyes were lively with distress. It was impossible for Greywell to say whether this was because she was aware of Francis’ devotion and found it embarrassing, or whether she returned it and was alarmed at Greywell's discovering her secret. “You should come by to see us one morning,” he said to Francis, out of sheer devilry.
"No!” that young man ejaculated without thinking. And then he added, “I'm about to be off to visit a friend. Won't be around for a while. Perhaps when I return...” His voice trailed off.
"Yes, when you return,” Greywell rejoined, pleasant. “Do come to see us when you return."
Francis nodded gravely to him, and threw a furtive glance at Elspeth's averted face before marching off to where a small boy waited patiently with his horse.
"Francis seems a bit jumpy today,” Greywell said to his wife. “No doubt a short trip will help relax him."
Elspeth regarded him suspiciously, murmuring something that might have been taken as assent.
"Let's dismount and go into Burdock's,” he suggested, dropping the subject for the present. “I'd like to get a toy for Andrew."
The child's birthday was approaching. but of course that was also the day of Caroline's death, and Elspeth felt a deep sympathy for Greywell's pain. She didn't mention the birthday, thinking it would be something he wouldn't wish to discuss. For the last few days she'd been trying to decide how to handle the situation without inflicting unnecessarily grim memories on him, but there didn't really seem any solution. Perhaps what he intended was to give the child a present now, and let the birthday pass without comment.
Mr. Burdock's store was small, and rather cozy, compared with the shops in Coventry. Elspeth patronized it when she could, though that wasn't as often as she wished. There were a variety of goods, from ladies’ scarves to gentlemen's gloves, with a sprinkling of hardware and toys. None of them were of a quality to match the more exclusive businesses in Coventry, but Elspeth hardly felt little Andrew would notice the difference.
She led Greywell to the shelf where a few items were displayed, dismissing the dolls and soldiers as not of interest to Andrew, and the marionettes as too complicated. There were lambs with white wool fleeces spangled with gold, and cardboard models of mail coaches and curricles, jigsaw puzzles and yoyos. Elspeth frowned at the assortment.
"I think perhaps a toy he could pull. He'll be able to manage it very soon, you know, and in the meantime he could push it about sitting down if necessary,” she said.
But Greywell's eye had been caught by something entirely different. It wasn't on the shelf of toys, but resting on the floor, half pushed behind a table covered with mixing bowls. The rocking horse was made of wood and brightly painted in white, brown, and red. Elspeth had never noticed it before and wondered that Mr. Burdock had such an expensive item in his small shop, since few people in the neighborhood could afford that kind of luxury.
"It's a little large,” she said dubiously. “He might fall off it and hurt himself."
Greywell touched her chin with a finger, smiling in amusement. “Now who's being protective? Little boys take lots of spills, Elspeth, and it doesn't usually do them the least harm. We can put something soft on the floor, pillows, perhaps, and he'll be perfectly safe."
Her eyes met his for a moment. There was something disturbing about his gaze, and the way he had touched her chin. Something familiar and affectionate, almost as though they were an ordinary couple, attached to each other. Elspeth looked away. “I suppose you're right. He'd love to have the rocking horse. But it must be very expensive, David."
He laughed. “I can't see that that's any problem. Have you taken to worrying about money, my dear?"
"No, of course not. Its just that such a large present might best be given for a ... special occasion."
"Such as his birthday?” Greywell regarded her thoughtfully, drawing a hand along the smooth surface of the rocking horse. “Perhaps you're right. We'll buy a pull toy for him today and save the rocking horse for his birthday. All right?"
"All right.” She smiled hesitantly at him. His eyes did not seem to have left her face the whole time. What was he trying to read there? She turned away to choose the nicest of the toys with their strings and little wooden balls, their round red wheels and crudely carved figures. “This one, I think."
He hardly glanced at it. “Fine,” he said, brushing her hand as he took it from her.
* * * *
After dinner each evening it was her habit to go to the nursery to play with Andrew for a few minutes before putting him to bed. Since Greywell's return, he had accompanied her, as he did that night. Instead of returning to the drawing room, however, he suggested they walk in the shrubbery afterward. “It's a lov
ely night and I have something I wish to speak with you about,” he said.
Elspeth felt a momentary panic, but managed to agree in what sounded like a normal voice. “I'll have to get a shawl from my room."
"I'll come with you. I'd like to see the changes you've made, if you don't mind."
She made an awkward, flapping gesture with her hands, but he ignored it, since she didn't actually refuse. They walked down the stairs in silence, and traversed the corridor side by side. At her door he reached forward to turn the knob, entering directly after her. There was no one in the room. Her maid had left a nightdress on the bed and tidied up since she had dressed for dinner.
Greywell was surprised at the change in the room. The heavy draperies were gone and in their place were light cotton ones. The same fabric had been used on one of the walls, and for the spread that covered her bed. It was a simple gold-and-white stripe which enlivened the room considerably, especially when one took into account the new furniture. Elspeth had not stinted on expense in the material or the furniture; both were of excellent quality. But the total effect of the room was of an elegant simplicity to be found nowhere else at Ashfield.
"I bought a heavier material for the draperies for winter,” she explained, “though it's the same pattern. I like light, soft colors in a bedchamber. They make you feel good about each day, when you wake up."
"It's delightful. I had no idea one could so easily transform a room. Or perhaps it wasn't all that easy?"
"There's no problem, if you know what you want, and if you have the money to purchase it.” Feeling a little more relaxed now, she asked if he'd like to see the Queen's Closet.
"Tomorrow,” he said. “Don't forget your shawl."
Elspeth shuddered as she draped it around her shoulders and followed him from the room.
There was still some fading light in the sky, with splashes of purple and orange on the horizon. Greywell linked his arm with hers as they strolled down the gravel path. “We're going to have to talk about Francis, Elspeth. No one with the slightest sensibility could have missed his reaction to you this afternoon. It was a great deal more difficult to judge your own response. I hadn't thought you were so skilled at dissimulation."
"I've learned a great deal while you were away,” she mumbled, her eyes on the toes of her white half boots.
"Yes,” he agreed, and was silent for a while. One of the dogs came to join them, rushing at Greywell with an abundance of enthusiasm, which was met with an absent pat on his head. The dog moved over to Elspeth, but she didn't really notice and he continued to pad along at her side.
A circular stone bench surrounded a small fountain in the middle of the garden beyond the shrubbery, and he led her to it, waiting for her to seat herself before he settled beside her. He was trying to decide exactly how to put the matter when she blurted out a confession.
Elspeth had felt the tension mount as they walked, until it reached a point where she could not keep silent any longer. “I haven't behaved properly while you've been away, David. I didn't really think about how it would appear to you. I'm so sorry, but ... Francis came to visit me, and he read me his poetry, and he ... well, he seemed to understand me. He didn't disapprove of anything I did or said or believed. We're ... spiritually attuned, you might say."
"I see.” Greywell carefully brushed some dog hairs off his pantaloons and scowled at the dog, which was pawing at his boots. “What you're telling me is that you think you love him, is that right, Elspeth?"
Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined having this conversation with him. She should have, of course, but it had never really occurred to her that she would have to account for her behavior. Her romance with Francis had been as ethereal in concept as Greywell was solid beside her. It seemed, right now, not so ethereal as tawdry, and she was at a loss to justify any part of it, even to herself. Especially when she realized how close she and Francis had come to making it a physical as well as a spiritual bonding.
"I ... I suppose I love him,” she said.
Greywell sighed. Elspeth read unsuspected depths into that sigh. For the first time she thought what it would be like to be in his position: his first wife had died giving birth to his child, and his second wife had just announced that she loved another man. She sat unmoving, miserable, wanting very much to cry.
"Did you ... consummate your ‘spiritual’ relationship?"
"Oh, no!” she cried, unable to admit how close she had come. “No, I promise you we didn't. I swear it!"
Carefully masking the relief he felt, he said, “And what do you propose we do about your affection for Francis? Had you given any thought to that?"
His tone was not sarcastic, but pleasantly neutral, as though she might truly have some solution to an insoluble problem. “Why, nothing, of course! I had told him, before you returned, that we couldn't see each other any more. It has ended, all that."
Greywell was wise enough not to ask what “all that” consisted of. He presumed it had been Elspeth's prudery which had prevented any lovemaking between them, and not some other cause. It was easy enough to imagine her, as she had been when he met her, developing a sanctified kind of love for the poet Francis, which she would never have contemplated acting on in a physical way.
And he could even picture Francis doting on that kind of admiration, since it was so much in keeping with the aesthetic imagery in his poems. An unfulfilled love would probably be just what he expected of his life. It wasn't the first time he had conceived an unrequited love; Greywell could remember Francis’ infatuation with a Russian princess a few years ago. The woman had never even known he was alive.
The silence that had developed between them was making Elspeth nervous. She felt there was a great deal more she should say, or explain, but she couldn't quite think how to do it. There were Greywell's feelings to consider, and she herself felt too confused to voice half the unformed thoughts that swam through her head. If he wanted to send her away, how could she bear to be parted from Andrew? And where could he send her? Sir Edward certainly wouldn't want her back at Lyndhurst. She had become very fond of Ashfield. Leaving it would be impossible.
She cleared her throat in the heavy quiet. “If you'll forgive me this once I promise I'll behave as you would wish me to. I don't think anyone knew of my ... attachment to Francis. He did come to visit more than was perfectly acceptable, perhaps, but no one commented upon it."
She remembered Mrs. Green's obscure hint, but decided that didn't qualify. “I think I've run Ashfield reasonably well, and I've tried not to interfere in the neighborhood. The neighbors have come to accept me, and oh, David, I'm so very fond of Andrew. Please don't send me away!"
His brows shot up in surprise. “Send you away? For God's sake, Elspeth, it never crossed my mind to send you away."
It had, very briefly, occurred to him that their marriage might be annulled, since it hadn't been consummated, so she could marry Francis. But that would be intolerable. No one would accept either of them in polite society in such a situation, and he didn't think either of them would be willing to accept that kind of disgrace.
And there was Andrew. Most of all there was Andrew, who would not for a moment understand if his substitute mother were to disappear. No, there was nothing for it but to continue their marriage as they had originally intended.
"I would like to see you happy,” he said after a moment, touching a finger to her cheek, “but I don't think sending you away would accomplish that. Andrew depends on you, as do other members of the household. I see no reason why we can't go on very much as we intended when we originally married, save for your disappointment over Francis. You will find, in time, that such a wound heals, if you let it. That's all I ask of you, Elspeth, that you let it mend. That you don't dwell on it, in either guilt or nostalgia. That you let it go, so far as you're able."
"Oh, I will! I will,” she promised, fervent in her gratitude.
"Fine.” He rose from the circular bench, ending the discussion.
“Shall we go back in?"
* * * *
The subject was never raised again. Elspeth was astonished at his seeming unconcern with the whole matter. She was appreciative, of course, that there was no evidence of his being annoyed with her, no sign of any moral repugnance or aversion. Greywell was surprisingly kind to her, treating her as if nothing out of the way had ever happened. He was, in fact, much more solicitous than he had been before he went away to Vienna. Each morning he greeted her with a smile and a pleasant query as to how she'd spent the night.
His smiles, she noticed, were quite charming. They seemed to radiate from hidden depths within him of which she knew nothing. And they had no hint of the dreamy quality of Francis’ smiles. But she didn't think of Francis much, which astonished her. Greywell's physical presence was much more real than the poet had ever been.
Elspeth took to studying her husband. When he was in the stableyard, in his shirtsleeves, she watched the strength and gentleness with which he handled the more obstreperous horses. In the nursery there was something of the same quality in the way he handled his son, waiting patiently for complete confidence to come, as it inevitably would. On Andrew's birthday she insisted he be the one to present the rocking horse.
"It's from both of us,” he said, ruefully winking at her over his son's enchanted head.
"Your Papa chose it for you,” she insisted, but it made her feel wonderful when Andrew hugged each of them, his eyes shining with delight.
"He's a natural rider,” Greywell said when his small son quickly mastered the unfamiliar toy. “But we'll put pillows down if you think it's necessary.
"I don't suppose it is."
And she watched him in the evenings, when he sat reading opposite her in the Saloon, his dark head bent over some leather-bound volume from the library. His concentration was so deep she often longed to ask him what it was he read, but she didn't have the courage. Once, when he looked up and caught her looking at him, instead of working at the tambour frame she had set in front of her, he asked, “Can I get you a book, my dear? Your fingers must be stiff from all that handwork."
Lord Greywell's Dilemma Page 19