by Fiona Monroe
Margaret rose to her feet. "Lord John is not here, sir. I have told you this, several times."
"But this is where he lives, is it not?"
"I should like you to leave now. I am honoured by the visit of so great a gentleman as His Excellency, but since you will not find Lord John here, I must ask to be left alone."
The aide conveyed her words to the count, and his face darkened like a storm. The count started to say something in reply, but the aide cut across him, and he then nodded slowly and grunted. Both gentlemen belatedly stood.
The aide put the untouched potato scone fastidiously back onto the plate.
"Thank you for your hospitality, madam," the count said with half a bow.
"Sir?"
Margaret spoke to the retreating backs of the gentlemen.
It was the aide who turned around.
"The Lady Lucia… you said she was with child. Is she well?"
"The Lady Lucia was safely delivered of a son. She is now in a convent, awaiting her final destiny." He bowed and was gone with his master.
Margaret listened to them going down the stairs and to the outer street door closing. As soon as it clicked shut, she tried to call out to Jeannie.
Nothing came from her throat. She tried to reach the bell-pull but got no further than the edge of the rug. Then the room lurched and swayed, and the table came up to meet her.
Chapter 17
Margaret had never fainted before in her life. Everything was confusion and darkness as she sailed through Venetian canals for hours, perhaps even for days, until a foul smell began to seep up from the swirling, oily waters. She struggled to open her eyes and found herself lying on the sofa in her own drawing room, with Downie, the cook, standing over her and Paterson, the kitchen maid, tipping the contents of a bottle of smelling salts down her front.
"She's alive, she's alive!" yelped Jeannie, who was also standing nearby, wringing her hands and weeping. "Oh my lady, you're no' deid!"
Margaret pulled in a great breath, coughed, and spluttered in the fumes of the smelling-salts, and cried, "Where is he? Where is Lord John?"
"The master's no' home yet, my lady," said Downie soothingly. "Och Nan, what are you doing, you're supposed to wave it under her nose, no' cowp it a' ower her. My lady, now let's away through to the bedroom; you lie down, and I'll bring you tea."
"I don't want to lie down! I don't want tea! Those gentlemen visitors—Jeannie—how long since they've gone?"
"I-I da ken, m'lady, no' that long."
"About five minutes, my lady," said Downie. "Paterson and I saw them go out the front as we was turning into Frederick Street."
The servants' entrance to the house was at the back, through the mews. It was a few minutes' walk around.
"Oh! They could be anywhere by now!" She ran on shaking legs down the stairs and out of the front door.
The pleasant warm spring air, fresh and scented with the aroma of cut grass from the garden-workings in the nascent pleasure grounds across the road hit her face like another draught of smelling-salts. She clung to the doorframe, dizzy again, and looked both ways up and down the street. Though she was convinced that she could spot the Italians even at a distance, she caught no sight of that peculiar hat or the black swish of cape.
Her three servants were crowded at the top of the stairs, watching their mistress worriedly but respectfully.
"My lady!" Downie called. "Come away in; you should have a lie down."
She wanted to run into the streets and search for him, but she knew it would be foolish and futile. He, too, could be anywhere.
Even so, she stumbled down the three steps to the pavement and nearly ran into a man pushing along a cart laden with sacks and sods.
The navy cursed her in broad Scots, and passers-by turned to stare at the young lady out on the street wearing nothing but morning-dress and house slippers, with dishevelled hair escaping from her newly-adopted mob-cap.
"Margaret!"
Margaret found herself seized by strong arms, and her legs buckled with relief as Lord John was suddenly right there, holding her. Afraid as she was of losing hold of her senses again, she was yet more afraid of creating a scene that would draw attention to his presence.
"What the hell are you doing? Are you all right?"
"Oh, your lordship—oh, sir—Lord John, you must come inside at once!" She could hardly talk, it felt as if her breath was freezing in her throat.
"My dear, are you unwell?"
"Come inside, come in at once!" She seized his arm and fairly dragged him into the stairwell.
As soon as Lord John slammed shut the street door, Margaret wrested her arm free from his grasp. Her first reaction of overwhelming gladness to see him alive and unharmed was succeeded by a rush of anger and disgust so strong that she felt she might faint again.
But she was determined to do no such thing. She had to have answers, immediately. The servants were still crowded onto the top landing, but when she turned and glared up at them, the three girls made hasty curtsies and scurried away.
Margaret lifted her skirts and marched up the stairs, obliging Lord John to follow in her wake.
She waited until Lord John closed the door of the drawing room, then she turned to confront him.
She was shaking, trembling all over, but she would not sit down or show her weakness. He was standing near the door, watching her carefully, and she could see now so clearly that there was wariness, suspicion, and a tinge of dismay in his face. It was not the expression of an innocent man, who had no idea why his wife was upset. It was the look of a man who had a very good idea why she might be, though wished fervently that he was wrong.
His wife. Oh God.
"I have had some visitors," she said and was faintly surprised to hear her words coming out coherent, even calm. "Foreign gentleman."
"Foreign—Margaret, now, I told you not to admit any foreigners—"
"Indeed. But as it happened, I was alone with the scullery maid, and she had no notion of whom to admit or not to admit, and she let them in. I think you know who they were. You know, don't you?"
He paused for a long moment then said, "I can guess that they were agents of a Venetian nobleman called Count Contarini—"
"Then you would guess wrong. It was Count Contarini, himself, and a kinsman."
"Contarini, himself! Here in Edinburgh! Margaret, are you all right? Did he threaten you?"
Lord John took a step toward her, arms outstretched.
Margaret picked up a vase from a nearby occasional table and threw it at him.
He stopped short as the vase bounced harmlessly off his waistcoat and fell to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces. "What the devil!"
"Are you married to his sister? Are you? Are you married to L-lucia C-contarini?" Her improbable calm had broken along with the ornament, and her voice rose to a shriek before collapsing into sobs. "Her letter. It was her letter. In Latin. She was L."
"Oh my God. What letter, Margaret?"
"I found a letter in Latin. With a lock of her hair."
"Where did you find it?" His expression was hard.
"In your box of letters."
"Where is it now?"
"What does it matter where it is now? Is she your wife?"
He ran his hand over his mouth and then rubbed the back of his neck and paced the floor back and forth for two or three turns.
Margaret waited in an agony of apprehension, longing against all hope and reason that he would have an explanation that would make everything right again. That the marriage had been a sham, with a fake priest, as the villain had claimed in The Vicar of Wakefield. That it had not been he but his twin brother who had married Lady Lucia, like—as the count had suggested—something from a stage comedy. Something, anything, that would save their marriage; something that would save her, for she now stood over the precipice of utter ruin.
Lord John let out a tremendous breath and said tonelessly, "Yes."
"Ye
s?"
"I am married to Lady Lucia Contarini. It was done in secret, and it was a mistake. Her brother's agents tried to kill me when the secret was discovered, and that is why I fled Venice. That is also why, since we are being frank, I thought it would be better for the two of us not to consummate our union. I thought we had a business arrangement. I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Now, where is the letter? I'm serious, Margaret."
"Sorry?" she cried again. "You have ruined me. I am ruined!"
"Oh—nonsense—nobody need know. But that was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead."
"What?"
"Shakespeare? Milton? Hell, I don't know, but look, Margaret—" He seized her arms. "Lucia Contarini is in Italy. I will never see her again. We are here, you and I, and we were married in the sight of God less than a week ago. Everyone in Edinburgh knows you as my wife. It need not matter; it need not matter a jot."
Margaret stared into the handsome face she had come, in so short a time, to believe that she loved. It had been the cruellest of delusions. Anger, fear, and disgust were all but swept away by a crushing wave of sadness. She wrestled her arms free from his grasp and said, "Never touch me again, sir. You are no noble lord. You are not even a gentleman."
She walked around him to get to the door. He made no further attempt to grab at her; he just let her go.
Margaret's steps slowed as she came into Charlotte Square. Long before she came close enough to her uncle's house to be spotted from its windows, she stopped and gazed through the railings and trees toward the place where she had lived for the past ten years. She could see some of its chimneys and a flash of sunlight on the uppermost story.
She could not go back there. She could, she wanted to throw herself on her uncle's mercy, and she was sure that if she presented a sorrowful and penitent face, her uncle would welcome back the prodigal niece. If she had been able to say merely that her marriage to Lord John had been a terrible misjudgement and that she repented of it, she would have been able to swallow down as much pride as was needful to find herself safe in the bosom of her true family once more.
What she could not do, was enter back under her uncle's roof in disgrace. She could not go back, as an unmarried woman, as a seduced and broken woman. A repentant and regretful bride, yes. A fallen woman, never. She could not bear to tell the truth about her situation, but she could not live a lie.
She covered her face with a handkerchief and turned instead toward Hanover Street.
"Oh, my dear. That is quite shocking."
Emmeline pressed Margaret's hands then stood up to pace the room.
Margaret had poured out the whole story as she sat in Emmeline's richly-furnished drawing room, an untouched spread of tea-things in front of her. A smart, discreet maid in a spotless uniform had brought a silver tray laden with finest china and iced dainties. No clumsy child-servants and re-heated potato scones in Emmeline's establishment.
She felt as if poison and filth was oozing out of her along with her confession, and she could not stop shaking.
"How unfortunate you did not discover the truth a day earlier," Emmeline was saying, somewhere above her. "That timing was most unfortunate indeed. Still, as it is, despite the consummation, there was, in fact, no marriage. A good lawyer should easily be able to recover your fortune."
"I do not care about the money!" Margaret cried.
"But, my dear, you should! You must! At this moment, almost nothing is more important. Let me see, Mr. Barrie in Grassmarket is good."
"No lawyer can restore my good name," said Margaret wretchedly.
"It is true, that if you take steps to recover your fortune, then the world will know that your marriage to Lord John was bigamous. But you know, my dear, it may all come out anyway. If this Contarini is going about town telling his story, and you cannot be sure that your servants, for instance, didn't listen at the door—you must protect your own interests. You surely do not want to let Lord John get away with the fruits of his infamous deception?"
"I do not know. I don't care."
"Again, my dearest Margaret, you must care. What will you live on?"
"I shall return to my uncle's home."
"No! You may be sure that Mrs. Cochrane will never allow that. Precious Miss Rankine to share a home with a fallen woman?"
Margaret burst into tears.
"Oh, dearest friend, I do not mean to be harsh." Emmeline knelt by her and pressed her hands again. "But I must speak the truth, plainly. That is how she will see you, that is how much of the world will see you, even though it was not your fault! Especially if you should be with child!"
"Oh no!" Margaret wailed. That possibility had not even entered her mind.
"You see now, do you not, how easy it is for a woman to lose her reputation? We are so very vulnerable to accidents of fortune. I shall make enquiries directly about a lawyer. The general might know. In the meantime, of course, you must stay here. Do not worry. Have something to eat. After all, you may need to keep your strength up."
With a final pat of her hands, Emmeline left Margaret to her wretched contemplation of the fondant-covered cakes and china cups.
Slowly, her thoughts and feelings—as shattered as the fragments of pottery on the floor of the home that had been hers for two days—started to come together.
She could not contemplate bringing an action against Lord John for the recovery of her fortune. Was it because she did not want to publicly acknowledge that her marriage did not exist; because part of her wanted to sweep all that away, as he had suggested, himself? It does not matter a jot. How darkly tempting those words were, now that they came back to her? She tried to feel again the anger they had stirred in her when he had suggested that they carry on pretending to be man and wife, but her strongest emotion was not righteous indignation but a terrible, deadly longing.
The tears that were leaking unchecked from her eyes and sliding down her cheeks were not for herself, not for her own reputation, not for fear of the future in a world that had no place for an unmarried, deflowered woman; but for Lord John, himself, for the man she had thought was her husband. For his long-fingered, strong hands, his warm eyes, his light, teasing voice, his bad poetry and his nonsense, and the sweet sensation of lying against his naked body. She closed her eyes, letting herself remember. She did not believe he cared at all for the Venetian girl with the Madonna smile and ridiculous Latin scholarship. There had been something so forced and florid in the letter she had half-translated, so unlike anything that she thought would appeal to Lord John. Likely, she had been infatuated with him and ensnared him, forcing him into a clandestine marriage.
But it made no difference. She opened her eyes again, letting the over-decorated, over-draped drawing room swim back into focus through the film of tears. However little he cared about Lady Lucia Contarini, he had entered into holy matrimony with her. No matter that it must have been a Papist ceremony, he was married before God to Lady Lucia, and he was not married to her, Margaret. She was not and never had been Lady John Dunwoodie; she was still plain Miss Margaret Bell. To act now as if she did not know all these things, would be to fall from misfortune into actual sin.
Because what Emmeline Douglas said, while coldly practical, was in part nonsense. One might unknowingly marry a man who turned out to have a wife already; that was indeed an accident of fortune. Deciding to remain in the disgraceful situation, that was a choice, easy to make when one's heart ached. She understood that now but still a folly. Margaret tipped up her chin. Whatever her feelings, her poisonous treacherous feelings, she would not make that choice. She would remain worthy of being called a wife to Lord John, even if she could never be one. She would maintain her self-respect and preserve her chastity, and try not to care what the world thought of her situation. She would know the truth, and that would have to be enough.
And what was she doing here? Everything in this over-stuffed room was the wages of vice, and it would not help her reputation at al
l if it became known that she was living in a house where an immoral liaison was conducted. She would have to leave, as soon as she could find some respectable avenue of escape. At the moment, she had no idea what that might be. She had no friends to go to and no means of supporting herself.
There was also the fact that she had not, in the heat of the moment, warned Lord John about Count Contarini's threat to kill him in a duel. That was something she could at least do right now. Though she could never see the man who was not really her husband again, it was not an immoral act to correspond with him on such a matter.
She dried her tears, called for writing materials, and was brought a supply of expensive-looking paper by Emmeline's very efficient maid. She wrote in a hurry, before she had time to over-think her words.
Your lordship,
Nothing could have been more distressing than our interview this morning. Do not be alarmed, I do not write with fresh remonstrances. I think you must accuse yourself of those further things that I would, in anger, have likely said, beyond what did pass between us. There is no need to revisit any of it; what cannot be changed is pointless to reiterate. What's done cannot be undone, to quote the Bard.
Nonetheless, I must tell you of one thing that was said in that very unpleasant conversation with Count Contarini. His Excellency told me that it was his intention to seek you out and challenge you to a duel—moreover, it seemed to be his intention actually to kill you in that duel, to free his sister for a match with a fellow Venetian. That was why I was so relieved to find you alive this morning when you returned home. Your lordship, I think it must be best that you leave town and seek sanctuary elsewhere. Either that, or attempt a reconciliation with His Excellency and return to Venice to reunite with your wife and child. His Excellency did not tell me what his original objection to the match was, beyond his wish to have her marry another, but if lack of money was at issue, then that problem is, to some extent, resolved.
I would like to see you happy. If the fortune I brought to what I thought was our union will enable you to be with your true wife, then something good may come of this sad catastrophe. Above all, however, your lordship, I beg you to secure your own safety.