Lord Greywell's Dilemma

by Laura Matthews

  Greywell never let on that he understood this little ploy. It was a game they played, and he was perfectly willing to participate. His intention was to consolidate the gains he'd made, before putting them to the test. He had already devised a scheme for bringing matters to a head, but it would have to wait until the marriage was safely performed and Sir Edward headed to Lyndhurst with his new bride.

  Of course, Greywell could simply have told his wife he loved her and asked if she'd changed her mind about Francis, but Elspeth was not quite the same woman he'd married. When he looked back at that time he'd spent at Lyndhurst, he remembered how easy it had been to read every emotion in her face. In those days she could not have dissimulated if she'd wanted to, but the past months had affected her. She had become more cautious, and with her caution had come the ability to dissemble. Hadn't she withheld from him the gravity of her involvement with Francis? She had purposely let him believe it had been little more than a harmless flirtation. And it had certainly been more than that.

  And yet he found it difficult to believe that Elspeth loved Francis, that deep inside her she maintained a secret desire to be with him. Greywell was not convinced that his assumption wasn't wishful thinking, or even unsuspected arrogance, but he could not believe Elspeth was so thoroughly attuned now to artifice that she could behave toward him as she did if her affections weren't wholly attached. But there was the nagging doubt which would not leave him alone. He wanted this matter settled once and for all.

  The morning of Sir Edward's wedding dawned hot and still, with a promise of suffocating heat later in the day. Elspeth and her father were already at the breakfast table when Greywell arrived. They both looked lethargic and were taking desultory bites of food around a few uninteresting comments such as “I think everything is ready for the wedding breakfast” and “This is going to be the damnedest heat to travel in.” Greywell didn't feel any more energetic than either of them, but he smiled cheerfully as he seated himself, saying, “It's a good thing we decided to have the meal outside under the trees where there will be a little shade."

  "What we'll need is a bit of a breeze if everyone isn't to expire on the spot,” Elspeth sighed. “Even with the wedding as early as planned, we're going to have people eating at the very heat of the day. If we didn't need all the servants to pass the food and drinks, I think I would devise some of those enormous fans you see in the Eastern drawings, where the slaves stand about waving them to cool some overindulgent potentate."

  Sir Edward regarded her speculatively. “I believe you would. You know, Elspeth, you've become almost frivolous since the last time I saw you, and it's very becoming. Don't you think so, Greywell?"

  "I think Elspeth is charming,” her husband agreed, smiling across the table at her. She accepted the compliment with a demure lowering of her lashes. That was the sort of thing he wondered about. When he had first met her she had had none of those little feminine tricks; she had been all bald frankness. Who had taught her that, if not Francis? And where she had been capable of blushing at any hint of intimacy she was now almost coquettish. Well, perhaps not that, but certainly warmly affectionate. Not that he minded! Unless it was part of an act to disguise her true feelings.

  "Well,” Sir Edward continued, “she has more of a taste for finery than I would ever have imagined, and I for one am pleased to see it. With Abigail I don't mind in the least that she dresses a little oddly now and again, but Elspeth is too young to be so eccentric. And Abigail has a flair for wearing the most outrageous outfits. I quite like them on her. Elspeth, on the other hand, used to look like a scalped rabbit the way she wore her hair, and she dressed as though she were companion to the bishop's widow."

  Greywell chuckled as he helped himself to another slice of toast. “She looks very much the fashion plate these days,” he teased.

  "Don't you like it?” she asked, anxious. “I thought you wanted me to dress as befits your wife."

  "Of course I do. I'm delighted with the transformation. Though I can't say I ever remember your looking like a scalped rabbit, some of your more unflattering dresses might have been fit for wearing with the bishop's widow. Perhaps you should confess you don't do it just to please me, though."

  Elspeth looked puzzled. “Who else would I do it for?"

  "For yourself, my dear,” he said gently. “I think Sir Edward is right. You have a taste for finery that you didn't previously acknowledge."

  "Oh, that.” She lifted her shoulders negligently. “Emily Marden showed me what was fashionable, and I found I like pretty clothes. Now I even subscribe to some of the magazines to see what they're wearing in London. If we were to go there one day, I wouldn't want to be thought a complete dowd."

  Greywell was strangely silent after these remarks, Elspeth thought. She had rather hoped he would take her hint and ask her if she'd like to go to London for a visit. It needn't be a long visit. She would just like to see the metropolis, with him. But it would probably be painful for him to introduce her to his friends. She was not, after all, the beautiful, vivacious Caroline with whom he'd left London some years ago.

  A hot gust of air ruffled the curtains behind the baronet, and he mopped his forehead with a linen handkerchief. “I guess I'd better be getting ready,” he said as he stuffed the cloth back in his pocket and rose. “This is an important day for me. One of the most important in my life."

  A small murmur of protest escaped Elspeth's lips before she could stop it. Sir Edward laid a hand on her shoulder in passing and said, “I haven't forgotten your mother, Elspeth. I won't ever forget her. She was a very special woman. But I'm fond of Abigail, and I think we'll get along together very well. We need each other.” And then he straightened his shoulders and walked briskly from the room.

  Elspeth bit her lip and kept her eyes on the napkin she was twisting in her lap. “I'm sorry,” she said to Greywell. “I didn't mean to do that, honestly. I'll make up for it at the service and at the breakfast."

  "You needn't apologize. Your father understood how you felt. I dare say he's remembering your mother a great deal today."

  She wondered if he'd remembered Caroline a great deal on the day he'd married her. Well, of course he had. He'd been cross with her the whole of their drive to Ashfield, but she hadn't understood that it was because she wasn't Caroline. Elspeth didn't think her father would be like that at all, but then her mother had been dead for ten years. Greywell hadn't married Elspeth because he wanted another wife, but because he needed someone to take care of Andrew. He still needed her for that. A footman rushed to help her as she pushed back her chair. “I should be getting ready now, too,” she said, giving him a brief smile. “There are a few last-minute things I should see to."

  "Of course,” he said, rising politely. There, she was doing it again. How had she so quickly learned the art of masking her face that way? Greywell had far preferred it when her countenance was an open book.

  * * * *

  Mr. Clevedon performed the wedding ceremony with great aplomb. The vicar was genuinely fond of Abigail Waltham, and he had no reason to think anything but the best of Sir Edward, since he wasn't one to listen to gossip of a man's past, and, in truth, very little of Sir Edward's notorious past had followed him into this distant county. Certainly Elspeth had never mentioned his propensities at home, and since Abigail herself knew of them, from his own mouth, that was all that could be expected.

  The wedding breakfast was the largest function Elspeth had handled during her stay at Ashfield, and she was slightly on edge about everything coming off well. Aside from the indecently hot weather, however, there was hardly a hitch. She had remembered, from that long-ago afternoon at Lyndhurst, the idea of serving ices, and they were a special treat on such an intolerably scorching day. In fact, the only thing that arose to disturb her complete satisfaction was the arrival of Francis Treyford with Sir Markham and Lady Treyford.

  Elspeth had not been aware of his return to the neighborhood. And she had no way of knowing that Grey
well had insidiously worked the matter out himself, by declaring to Lady Treyford one afternoon, when he happened to come upon her in the village store, that he was sure Abigail would be devastated if Francis didn't attend the celebration. “He is, after all, one of her young protégés,” he had said. Though Lady Treyford was not aware Abigail had any protégés, she had immediately sent an express off to her son insisting on the necessity of his being there for the wedding.

  This summons had come as something of a surprise to Francis. He was still mooning over Elspeth and writing florid poetry about her, which he scrupulously avoided showing to the friend with whom he was staying. But the more he thought about the matter, the more he was sure Elspeth herself must have spoken with his mother and pressed for her allegiance in getting him to return to the area. This was, of course, very flattering to Francis, but he wasn't particularly comfortable with the idea of courting her (or whatever it would amount to) under Greywell's nose. Therefore, he was delighted when, during the course of the wedding feast, Greywell happened to mention to him that he was off that very afternoon for London. What could be more propitious?

  No word of this plan leaked to Elspeth during the final flurry of activity. Sir Edward and his bride were safely stowed away into his traveling carriage, and departed in a fine spray of dust. The guests gradually took their leave, discreetly patting at their damp foreheads and holding their arms tightly to their sides.

  Elspeth was disturbed at the way Francis pressed her hand at leave-taking and murmured something about seeing her soon, but she forgot it a moment later when she entered the house on her husband's arm. Andrew wobbled before them, overtired from the excitement, and she prepared to take him up to the nursery.

  "Before you go, my dear,” Greywell said, in his most languid voice, “I should tell you I'm about to be off for London."

  Elspeth regarded him with astonishment. “London? In this heat? Why didn't you tell me sooner? Is there some emergency?"

  "No, no. It is merely an auction of personal effects that I'm particularly anxious to attend. Several excellent snuffboxes in the collection. I didn't wish to interrupt your preparations for the wedding by mentioning it before this. Clemson has taken care of all the details. I shan't be gone more than a week."

  "But I...” Elspeth didn't finish the sentence. He must have known she wished to go to London; she had as good as said so that morning. So it was evident he didn't wish to take her, and she wouldn't put herself in a position of begging him, or even allowing her disappointment to show. If disappointment was a strong enough word. Elspeth felt crushed by the weight of his rejection. Scooping Andrew up into her arms, she said to the child, “Kiss your papa goodbye, Andrew, love. He must go on a short trip, but he'll be back soon."

  Greywell very nearly backed down at the child's pathetically puckered face, and Elspeth's own suddenly paled complexion. But, dammit, a week wasn't all that long, and it had come to seem vital that he know the extent of Elspeth's involvement with Francis. He searched her face for some sign of relief at his departure, and could find nothing but stony acceptance. “If you would prefer I stayed here...?” he said.

  "Certainly not,” she replied, her chin lifted. “You will of course do exactly as you see fit, my dear Greywell. It's not every day that particularly fine snuffboxes are auctioned off. How fortunate that my father was married in time for you to go.” She allowed a questioning note to creep into her voice. “You would not, I trust, have missed the auction on his account."

  "There's plenty of time,” he assured her. He refused to grab the bait she dangled so attractively before him. He was in no mood to quarrel with her or anyone else. Already his plan seemed a little foolish and overly dramatic. Why couldn't he just tell her he loved her, and trust her to tell him the truth about the state of her own heart? But their eyes were locked in stubborn refusal to compromise, and he merely ruffled Andrew's hair, being careful not to brush her breast. “I'll bring you a toy from London,” he told the boy. “They have wonderful toys there."

  This seemed to satisfy the child, and he smiled sleepily as Greywell placed a chaste kiss on Elspeth's forehead. “Perhaps I could be back sooner,” he offered.

  "Please don't hurry on my account."

  Miffed, but whether with her or himself he would have been at a loss to say, Greywell sketched a bow in her direction before taking the stairs two at a time to change to his traveling clothes. She didn't come to see him off. He couldn't even make out her figure in the nursery as his carriage bowled down the drive and away from Ashfield.

  * * * *

  When Francis called that evening she had Selsey tell him she was worn out from the festivities and could not see him. After that, she felt a little better. At least Francis wanted to see her. Apparently Greywell didn't. Who ever heard a flimsier excuse than going to London to purchase snuffboxes? He who already had so many he didn't know where to put all of them.

  Elspeth assumed he was tired of her already, that their lovemaking was not enough to hold him. She had thought their lovemaking quite spectacular, but she supposed, as a man, he was more accustomed to it and thought no more of it than he did of his daily meals. And perhaps Caroline had somehow been better at it than she was, though Elspeth could not imagine how. Certainly Greywell had seemed very pleased with her, as she was with him, but she had to confess to herself that she had long been naive, and a few weeks of physical intimacy with her husband had probably made her no more sophisticated than a newborn babe.

  It was almost too hot to sleep that night, and as the stifling air closed in on her like a physical presence, she tossed on the bed, baffled and hurt by Greywell's defection. Only last night he had come to her here, stroked her body into an iridescent flame that burned so fiercely she had felt herself almost out of control, delirious with the shattering culmination of their lovemaking. And he had experienced the soaring heights, too; he had told her, his lips whispering softly in her loosened hair. Why had he gone away?

  Well, perhaps the lovemaking wasn't enough. Elspeth had never assumed it would be, until she had experienced it. Then she had thought possibly it was. She had thought she might survive with even this sort of intimacy, if she had to. She didn't want to have to. Oh, God, how she wanted to believe his displays of affection were love. How she wanted to be cherished by him, just as though he'd never loved another woman, had no memories to stand between them. She didn't want to believe he was merely making the best of a bad situation, having married her for his son's sake.

  How did you know when someone loved you? Elspeth rolled over on the bed and stared at the ornamented plaster ceiling. There must be as many different kinds of love as there were people to do the loving. Look at her father. He loved Abigail, but in a different way than he had loved her mother. And Francis. He said he loved her, but Elspeth had long ago realized that he loved the idea of being in love, he loved the excitement it generated, the poetry it inspired in him. Anyone would do as an object of his devotion. Not that it wasn't pleasant being such an object. But it was a hollow thing, puffed up out of hot air and wholly insubstantial. Was there ever a love that was substantial enough?

  Elspeth wondered if her mother had ever doubted her father's love. And whether she would mind, now, that he loved someone else, in this different way. She wondered, too, whether Caroline would have minded Greywell's loving someone else ... if he did.

  But did he? Elspeth could list a whole page of her own faults, and in the sultry night they seemed to exclude the possibility of his loving someone with all those flaws. It was easy to love him; he had so few flaws. She wished he had more, so she could love him anyhow, and make it more fair for him to love her in return.

  Well, she would try to be better. She would try to make herself more lovable, if he would give her a chance. And she would take her courage in her hands, forgetting her pride, and tell him she loved him, that she had never really loved Francis, which he must know very well. Who in her right mind could love someone like Francis? Especially when t
here was someone like Greywell there with whom to compare him. She finally fell asleep thinking of the way her husband treated his son, and his wife, with such infinite kindness.

  * * * *

  Francis came the next morning. When the footman told Elspeth he was there, she was tempted to put him off again, but decided against it. Instead she took Andrew with her to the North Drawing Room as a precaution. Francis was standing by the sofa, one hand elegantly resting on its back. He was dressed in his usual careless style, which had endeared him to her in the past, but now simply made her feel a little impatient. It was a studied kind of carelessness, the kind of look he thought a poet should have. His head came up sharply when he heard the door open.

  "Elspeth! How I've longed to see you alone!"

  At that moment Elspeth stood back to let Andrew toddle into the room in front of her. “It's good to see you again, Francis. I thought you would wish to see Andrew. He's started walking since you went away."

  Francis was too startled to speak for several seconds. He regarded the small boy as he might have a soaking wet dog about to shake all over him. Finally he said, “Um, that's nice. He hasn't quite got the knack of it, has he?” This to Andrew's sudden fall to the floor, where he scowled at Francis, as though the young man had tripped him.

  "Oh, he's coming along beautifully. They take tumbles all the time at first, you know."

  "I didn't know,” he assured her, looking as if he would rather not have learned. “Doesn't the nursery girl take him outside to play?"