Malcolm wrote, but often their letters were weeks and months in crossing. He would answer a letter of hers, written five weeks before. She managed to keep all in mind, and no matter what her intentions as to her own future, she tried to write cheerfully and not distress him by insisting that she would divorce him. She did not wish him upset and made moody, as could so easily be done, Thomas Fitzhugh assured her gravely.
Thomas Fitzhugh had seen action and sold out, just before his marriage. He said, “A man in battle wants a free cheerful mind, to give his best to the action. If his mind is divided, it could be fatal for him. I beg you, Mrs Villiers, to write of nonsense rather than to worry him.”
The countess wrote that they heard little of Malcolm now, and would dear Valerie send her some news from his letters? London increased with news, but much of it was of little value and proved false.
The season is most amusing, there are many here, and some gallants in uniform. I feel tears in my eyes when I see one of the colouring of dear Malcolm. I almost feel he is there, I am about to call out to him, then I see it is not Malcolm at all. Dear me! You will think me foolish. But indeed I am so concerned about our dear foolish boy. How reckless and gallant he is. I do wish he would sell out.
The earl wrote:
How much I miss you in London. Would you had come with us to relieve the tedium. I have no one to talk to, as Eustace must dance attendance on Deidre, who goes out from noon to midnight, then sleeps all the morning for her beauty! She has ordered a hundred gowns, and dressmakers clutter up the parlour much of the afternoon. I wish they were married, perhaps Eustace would have more sleep! She flutters after one idea and another, she will have a tea, and a ball, and entertain fifty guests to dinner. I think they plan now to wed at Christmas. I shall be glad when that is all over. What a turmoil it will be, to be sure!
Valerie read between the lines on that one. The earl disapproved of Deidre more and more, but would say nothing to hurt the feelings of his elder son. But surely Deidre would settle down after marriage and be a comfort to them all. She was Eustace’s choice for a wife, she must have sense and worthiness. But Valerie, remembering the cold blue eyes, the high baby-voice, had her doubts. Did she marry to have a soft nest for herself, and think to give little but her body in return? That was not marriage, that was like a doxy, thought Valerie immorally. She had heard of the females who sold their favours in return for clothes and jewels and the rent of their fine houses.
In August came the news, more grave this time. Marshal Victor of France had joined forces with General Sebastiani and King Joseph, brother of Napoleon. At the end of July the battle had begun, and the engagement at Talavera had brought horrible casualties. The news came out by degrees. Valerie formed the habit of being in the downstairs hallway when the postman came, to seize the letters anxiously, also the gazettes.
Mrs Fitzhugh would come out from her parlour. “What news of Talavera? Any news of your dear husband?”
Finally in mid-August, they heard the news. The battles had been heavy with casualties, but Wellesley had won. What casualties? Valerie’s heart was heavy with dread, and some ominous cloud seemed to hang over her, until finally she had the welcome letter from Malcolm. He was alive. He had been injured, but slightly, compared with others.
In relief, fear, and exasperation she shot off a letter to her husband.
My dearest Malcolm, Should you be close, I should not be able to refrain from shaking you! What injuries have you? Of what extent? What are you doing for them? Have you a comfortable billet? Are you in Lisbon? Have you a doctor close? Pray you, write at once, and relieve my mind! For I am most upset and fretful about your scanty news. I realize you have more important things to do than to write to an errant wife! But I beg you — Malcolm, do write at once, and let me know the extent of your injuries, if you might come home —
The pen slackened and paused. Come home? But that would force her to a decision, whether to return to Arundel or the London town house, or to remain with the Fitzhughs and admit an open break in her marriage.
Reluctantly, she conceded to herself that she did not wish to break the marriage. If he did not love her, she would remain away. But if he loved and needed her, she would return. Her attachment and concern for Malcolm were stronger than she had thought possible. She closed her eyes, rested her chin on a weary hand, and thought. Then she wrote again, with more composure.
I hear often from your dear father and mother. They miss you immensely. I would beg you for their sakes to sell out and return home. They worry about you, and at their ages, the worry is not good for their health. Do consider your family, Malcolm, and think what is best for all of you.
She continued then, with news of the Fitzhugh family, in whom he had taken an affectionate interest, though he had never met them save through her letters. Then she concluded:
Your anxious wife, Valerie.
She franked it, and sent it off before she could regret or take back any wording. He wrote again and again before she knew he could have received this letter. About his injuries, he said nothing. His billet was in a comfortable home of a fine Portuguese gentleman, who treated him like a son. Three of his brother officers were with him, and he spoke of their pranks and efforts to find good food in the ravished countryside. And so she had another worry — did he eat enough? And well? She doubted it very much. Malcolm was not one to be picky about his food. If he found nothing much to eat, it was for lack of the supply of food.
She read proudly in the gazettes about the elevation to the peerage of Sir Arthur Wellesley. There had been no time to consult him about a possible title, his brother had been consulted instead, and William decided on the name “Wellington.” So all the gazettes were full of the new Viscount Wellington of Talavera. Valerie basked in the many-times-reflected glory that her husband was off serving for the new viscount.
The earl wrote wistfully again from London, demanding what news she had of his son. She wrote to him faithfully every week, indeed most of Sunday was spent composing letters to her husband, her father-in-law and mother-in-law.
She gave him the news she knew he longed for, then continued:
You speak, sir, of my being quiet in the country. Indeed, we are not so quiet. In the past month, I have attended no less than four grand dinners, a ball in the town hall, no end of teas, and Mrs Fitzhugh has given a dinner for above twenty-five guests. I assisted her in the planning of the latter. You may tell the countess that her invaluable assistance was evident in the correctness of the seating, the planning of the menu which was praised by all, and the manners of sweet Eliza, who made us all proud of her as she entertained us at the piano after dinner.
I think of you all often. How does Eustace? I do hope he has recovered well from his coughing. Is London so chill yet? I had supposed September would be sunny and bright as it is here in the Cotswolds. You must all come to see me one day, for you will find it an exceeding pretty country. The blue hills of the Malverns are so fine on a sunny day, and even on a rainy day they brood in purple above us. The stone for the cottages is all local, and turns a soft creamy yellow with age. Covered over with roses, honeysuckle, morning-glories of blue and purple, and clematis, and bordered with columbine, daisies, poppies, each in her season, the Cotswolds are fine indeed. I love going for walks with young Marianne, she is so appreciative of the joys of the country. We pull on men’s boots, and go trudging about in fair weather or foul, in rain or shine, and come home with ruddy cheeks and fond memories of the sights we have seen.
The earl answered promptly. Valerie suspected that he wrote so often because he was intensely bored in London and longed to be back at Arundel.
My dearest daughter,
Your welcome letter has me longing for Arundel, or for your fine Cotswolds. I sighed over your pictures of roses and honeysuckle, the pretty cots with flowery vines trailing over them. I fear my roses are neglected this year, the news from Arundel is indifferent. If only we had been home — all cosy together, and pot
tering about.
I have attempted a garden here in London. You may imagine the dismay of my good wife. However, I assured her that in my worn tweeds and disreputable hat, everyone will think I am the gardener, and so it has proved. Ladies pass me with never a nod, noses in the air at the smell of good black earth.
However, London has contrived to defeat me in my efforts. My roses are puny and show few buds. Black dust inhabits my green hedges. Not a rabbit have I seen. I poke about daily, encouraging the little buds, speaking softly to the few flowers which dare to come up. Poor things, they should be in the country, as should I.
Eustace was ill again above a week, and Deidre was much annoyed that he could not accompany her to an event at which His Majesty was to be present. We satisfied her with a distant cousin as escort, grand in uniform, so she was well pleased and tells us she danced every dance.
Valerie laughed and sighed over the letter and finally showed it to Mrs Fitzhugh. “Is he not a dear? It breathes in every line,” said Valerie affectionately.
“He is, indeed. Thank you for showing it to me, dear Valerie. Do you not wish —” She hesitated, flushing. “Do you not want to give in to their wishes and return to them? I think he at least needs the comfort of your presence.”
Valerie shook her head. “I do not wish to go to London,” she evaded, her brown eyes turning serious. “I am determined to make my own living.”
“I confess I do not understand you,” said Bess Fitzhugh. “It is not my affair, yet I am concerned for you. You have helped us so much, it will wrench our hearts when you leave. Yet — when your husband returns…”
Valerie hung her head. Mrs Fitzhugh tactfully changed the conversation. Valerie was thinking that when Malcolm returned, then she must take action. She would be twenty-one if he lingered much longer on the Peninsula. Then she would go ahead in her action for a divorce. He must be free to choose someone more suitable for a wife, if indeed he wished to marry at all.
Before his marriage, and the wars, he had been a gay rake, enjoying the attentions of light ladies, gaming, plays in London. He might be all too relieved to return to this, unencumbered by a wife.
A disgraceful incident momentarily pushed the Peninsular war from the headlines of the gazettes. Canning and Castlereagh fought a duel on Putney Heath on the twenty-first of September. Canning was wounded in the thigh. Castlereagh lost a button off his coat. All England was scandalized. Two cabinet ministers, to act in such a manner!
The Tory government might fall over it. All wondered and conjectured. Instead there was a new Tory government, with a lawyer, Spencer Perceval, at the head. Canning and Castlereagh were both out.
Valerie could not care much. They could all be dismissed, for all she cared. If only the war would end, and Malcolm would come home! She admitted secretly to herself, that was all she could hope for — that he would come home, safe and sound, teasing her, devilling her, even wounding her with his indifference — just so he might be safe and sound.
CHAPTER 6
The October days were cold and rainy. Valerie had felt a black cloud over her spirits for many days now. She had not heard from Malcolm for four weeks, then all at once, four letters together. Yet still she continued to brood, as she confessed to Bess Fitzhugh.
“Something is wrong, I feel it,” said Mrs Fitzhugh, troubled. “I would not upset you, my dear. However, there is something in me that whispers of trouble. Oh, dear, I should not have spoken. Thomas will be angry with me.”
Valerie passed her thin hand over her face. She had not been able to eat much lately, she felt so troubled herself. “Do you have the second sight, then?” she asked in an attempt to cheer.
Mrs Fitzhugh nodded soberly. “Yes, I think so. I felt it before my mother died, and then again when my brother was killed in action. Oh, I pray nightly for your husband and yourself, my dear.”
“How good and kind you are!” Valerie thanked her and returned to the lessons, trying to thrust her worries from her. The weather was so dark and gloomy, it was depressing all their spirits. She would soon have another letter from Malcolm, and all would be well, she told herself.
But the next afternoon, a grand barouche drew up in front of the manor house of the Fitzhughs, and Mr Louis Kenyon stepped out. He was limping heavily, his face grey and lined with fatigue.
He came in at once, and the butler showed him into the cosy sitting room and went himself for Valerie.
In the schoolroom, puffing a little, the butler stammered, “Mrs Villiers, there is a gentleman here to see you, Mr Louis Kenyon. Shall I tell Mrs Fitzhugh?”
Valerie had gone white as a lily, and her hands went to her face. “Mr Kenyon?” she asked. “Oh, it must be bad news — oh, my God in heaven —”
She could not compose herself, until she saw how she was frightening the girls. She stiffened her spine, set them to a lesson and descended the stairs to the first floor.
Mrs Fitzhugh reached the sitting room as soon as Valerie and put her arm about the girl’s waist as they went inside. Mr Kenyon got up painfully from his chair and bowed to Valerie.
“I will reassure you at once, we have had no bad news from Malcolm,” he said when he saw her pale face.
“Oh, thank God,” she said faintly and sat down heavily on the nearest chair. Finally she recovered her manners, introduced Louis Kenyon to Mrs Fitzhugh. “He is the dear cousin of my father-in-law, and helps him immensely about the estate.”
“Mrs Villiers has been such an aid and comfort to us,” said Mrs Fitzhugh. “I do hope you have not come to take her away.”
Mr Kenyon smiled slightly, but his eyes were suffering. “I fear I must. I have a letter here from the Earl of Arundel,” and he put it into Valerie’s hand. “Pray, do not read it yet,” he said quickly. “I must tell you first —”
“There is bad news!” whispered Valerie, clutching the letter to her.
“Yes, there is. I fear the news is most shattering to us all,” said Mr Kenyon. “There is no easy way to tell you, my dear Mrs Villiers. Eustace Villiers, Viscount Grenville, has died of a fever in London.”
Valerie stared at him. “Eustace?” she whispered, remembering the grave courtesy, the kindness, and sympathy of her brother-in-law. “No, he could not — oh, no —”
Mr Kenyon, still standing, made her a deep bow. “It is my honour to inform you that you are now the Right Honourable the Viscountess Grenville.”
The silence in the room was profound. Eustace dead. And Malcolm heir to the title! It was incredible. Valerie shook her head automatically. Her hand went to her face, her fingers over her eyes, as though she would deny what had happened.
Mr Kenyon continued gravely: “Lady Grenville, I beg you to make haste and return with me to Arundel. The family has returned home with — the body of young Eustace. The funeral is in two days, if you can return with me. Needless to say, the earl and the countess are so grief-stricken that they scarce know which way to turn. The last thing the earl said to me was, ‘Bring Valerie home, my dear Louis, bring her home, for I cannot endure much more.’ And so I have come, to ask you to return at once with me.”
Valerie seemed incapable of speech, sitting there numbly with the folded letter in her hand.
Mrs Fitzhugh said, tremulously, “I will send a maid to pack for you, dear Mrs — I mean, Lady Grenville. Let me send also for Thomas. You will remain overnight with us, Mr Kenyon?”
He nodded, and she slipped away to make the plans.
“Oh, Mr Kenyon,” Valerie whispered at last. “Tell me it is not true. Not dear Eustace, dead — how did it happen?”
His face turned bitter, he half turned his body from her, groping for the mantelpiece. “My lady, I fear I cannot control my anger. I have prayed for myself, to keep control. But Lady Deidre would go out night after night, in fair weather or foul, and dragging poor Lord Grenville with her, sick though he was. Nothing we said could turn her from enjoying amusements. ‘I must be gay, I must be gay until my marriage,’ she cried to us all.
And now, oh, God, there is no marriage.”
Valerie bit her lips against equally angry words. Mr Kenyon had dropped his face on his hands at the mantel. He seemed years older, and she thought of how devoted he was to his cousin’s family, who had been closer than his own.
“Dear Mr Kenyon,” she said finally. “We cannot judge or condemn. It is an act of God. But oh, how bitter it is, how bitter it is.” She thought of the cold blue eyes of Lady Deidre, her haughty manners, the frantic search for pleasure, for more beautiful dresses, one more season in London while she was still a girl, unmarried.
Mr Kenyon raised his head, nodded, unashamedly wiped the tears from his eyes. “Forgive me, I should not have burst out. It is not my place. But my heart aches for the earl, my cousin. How he grieves! If only he can manage to get Malcolm home, it may ease the pain.”
“He has written?”
“At once. And also to His Majesty, begging him to release Malcolm from service immediately. His Majesty’s secretary wrote, saying His Majesty was ill and could not reply, but action would be taken and letters sent. That is all we know for the present.”
Mrs Fitzhugh came in, the butler following, with a silver tray of hot tea and sandwiches. Mr Kenyon was thankful to sit down and eat, talking in a low tone of the grief they all felt, of the situation in London during the final illness of Eustace.
Mr Kenyon was then shown to his room. The two grooms were cared for, as were the horses. Mr Fitzhugh had come home and expressed his grief for them, and his offer to do anything at all to help.
Valerie retired to her room. The maid had packed for her, and all her small trunks and valises were ready, except for the final garments in the morning. It was then that she opened the letter from the earl. Expecting to have a long, emotionally exhausting letter to read, she stared at the few lines.
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 7