Read The Reluctant Husband Online
Authors: Madeleine Conway
The Reluctant Husband (16 page)
“You're young and you're strong. You've a fine man there, and if you sort out the troubles between you, there's every chance of having a houseful of fine children.”
“Has Ormiston been here?” Cecilia turned back to look at the woman.
“Ay. Watching over you until he wore himself out. He wouldn't leave your side. That Frenchwoman finally prized him away at seven this morning. I'll just summon Dorcas and she'll fetch him if you've a mind to see him.”
“I don't know. How was he? Was he very angry?”
“Whyever should he be angry? He was beside himself with worry, which is more than you can say for most husbands.”
“You said we had troubles between us. How can you know that?”
“It doesn't take an Oxford professor to tell you're not at ease with him nor he with you. It's more than newlyweds getting used to each other, too, though that's part of it.”
“You see too much, Mrs. Fourstep.”
“I may see a great deal, but I keep it to myself. As we'll keep this baby to ourselves. Doctor Warburton knows, obviously, but it's more than his job is worth to tell. Otherwise, it's just you and his lordship that knows. Dorcas has probably guessed, but I'll have a word with her. She doesn't seem the type of girl to blab below stairs.”
“Do you think that's best?”
“I do. You make a fresh start with that young man. In your heat, you have said things and he has said things that have made a great deal clear to me. It doesn't matter a hoot to me what has passed between the two of you. Still, it'll be easier for the pair of you if it don't get abroad. You've a chance to make something of your marriage. Don't throw it away out of false pride.”
Mrs. Fourstep went to call Dorcas. Within minutes, a dishevelled Ormiston was by Cecilia's bedside. Once there, he was hesitant. Her last words to him rang still in his wounded ears.
“It gives me great pleasure to see you, my lady.”
“You stayed with me.”
“I did.”
“I thank you for it. How are Reggie and Amelia?”
“Eager to see you. Are you feeling strong enough to see them?”
“Oh, yes, unless Mrs. Fourstep thinks I might frighten them still.”
“You look less worn than his lordship there. I should let them in, they'll only fret themselves more if they don't see you.”
Ormiston went to find his brother- and sister-in-law and so all private conversation between himself and Cecilia was ended for that day. Once she had seen Reggie and Amelia, Mrs. Fourstep pronounced it time for her ladyship to rest again.
The next day, Cecilia was able to walk a few paces within her room. Mrs. Fourstep returned home and the nursing was now principally left to Dorcas and Lavauden. Her strength gradually returned on a diet of fortified soups and frequent doses of Mrs. Fourstep's particular tisane. Ormiston, Dacre, and the children came to spend time with the invalid, but she was never left alone with her husband. The prospect of any intimate discussion was distressing, so she did not dwell upon it. Although increasingly impatient with being confined to her room, she did not wish to talk to Ormiston about the future. The dim memory of what she had said when the fever had broken troubled her a little. She could not recall her exact words, but she was sure that she had absolved him from their bargain in some way. Still, now that she was recovering, now that she could remember the weeks since their wedding and reflect on them, she found that she did not want to leave Hatherley or her husband.
It was nearly three weeks after Amelia's flight from Hatherley before Ormiston gingerly gathered up his wife and carried her downstairs. He seated her on a wicker lounger in the garden. After the rains of June, the lawn, the trees, the flowerbeds were lush and luxuriant. The temperature shot up and parasols were absolutely necessary to ward off a scorching sun.
Shaded by the spreading branches of a great horse chestnut in full leaf, Cecilia sat and watched as her family played at bat and ball on the lawn. From time to time, someone would come and flop into a chair beside her and take a draught of lemonade or ginger beer from the two great jugs on the table near her. She dozed and woke, then went for a gentle walk around the lawn, her hand tucked in the crook of Ormiston's arm.
“You are looking ethereal. The color is not yet back in your cheeks and you look as though you might flit off to some enchanted bower.”
“You are fanciful. I am feeling much better. Mrs. Fourstep says I may expect a swift progress.”
“Is there any pain still?”
“None. Even the bruising has faded. What happened to the family in the woods?”
“Buchan went back and sought them out. The people are from Yorkshire. They don't wish to go back. I have found them a temporary home in a cottage and they have enough to live on while they make up their minds what they wish to do. I believe they were turned off their land. They are two brothers and an uncle, as well as the woman and children. They seem to be countrymen, not town dwellers. We can find work enough or land for them here if they wish it.”
“Why were they hiding?”
“They had been poaching, and then they heard that the militia was seeking seditionists and pamphleteers. They knew enough to realize that being strangers marks you out in any place, so they retreated to the woods. They had been living there since the spring, but you could see how makeshift it was. But you are turning the subject from yourself.”
“There is nothing to say on that subject.”
“Cecilia, there is a great deal to say. We must decide on the pattern of our lives. Things have changed.”
Reggie yelled with delight as he caught a ball off Dacre's bat, and the viscount turned to watch. He saw the elegant figure of Lazenby emerge onto the terrace steps and wander toward the Marchmonts.
“Damn! I had hoped to speak with you longer, but now we must do the pretty for our guest. Do you feel up to it?”
“Yes, I do.” Cecilia's relief was almost tangible. Ormiston sighed and returned her to her seat, by which time Lazenby was upon them, bowing to Cecilia, bending over her hand to press a kiss to it and beg most penitently for forgiveness for his hound.
“It was only following its instincts. I hope you have not harmed it. I had not known that dogs could be bred so huge and so powerful.”
“I have not harmed the dog, but the handler has been dismissed. His attention slipped and with it the animal. I am only glad that there has been no lasting ill effect. You are quite recovered, are you not?”
“I am not yet ready for a full night of dancing, but I believe I could manage a gentle minuet.”
Ormiston, observing that Lazenby and his wife were falling into somewhat frivolous conversation, excused himself and returned to the game with his father.
“Does his lordship disapprove of dancing?”
“By no means. I have found him an able partner.”
“He seems very dour. I scarcely know him, although we have been neighbors since we were both in short coats. He is very serious about his art.”
“And his fencing. He and Buchan and Reggie have complicated discussions about the merits of the Venetian and the Neapolitan schools, which lose the rest of us.”
“He does not seem to laugh a great deal. Of course, he has been most concerned for your health, but he has always been thought of as staid. Odd, with a father like Dacre.”
“I do not believe that it is quite right to discuss my husband with you, Earl Lazenby.”
“Come now, I was Alexander to you before you became Lady Ormiston. Surely we are on terms. Don't come the dowager with me, Miss Cecilia.”
“Well, I won't. But I must say, I wonder how you can judge Ormiston to be staid when you also say you scarcely know him. Particularly since he has spent the better part of five years abroad.”
“Word seeps back, y'know, even when you are far from home and think yourself free from all of Society's strictures and inspections. Dacre's been baffled by the boy. Never games, you know. No horses, no cards, no dice, no wagers, no boxing. Just the fencing and the painting. Rum.”
“ âRum' you may call it, âreassuring' is how any wife would find it. How vile, how miserable to find yourself rolled up because your fool of a husband has wagered the family silver on the turn of a card.”
Cecilia's vehemence astonished Lazenby. It was clearly just as well that Ormiston and Miss Marchmont had found one anotherâthey must be the only two members of the Ton who had ever felt so fiercely about gaming and its evils. Everyone else Lazenby knew was all too happy to drop hundreds or thousands in their search for some relief from the boredom of balls and soirees. He could not help making a sly bet with himself that he'd seduce one or other of the Ormistons either to a gaming table or into making a wager within a two-month. It would be amusing to tempt the righteous pair into the way of a little speculation.
Fourteen
A wise general sizes up the enemy thoroughly before planning his campaign. Lazenby felt that he knew both his quarries well enough, but it never hurt to study one's prey closely. He resumed his regular visits to Hatherley, noting carefully that Ormiston and his lady seemed subdued and not entirely at ease with one another. He continued to make a great favorite out of Amelia, who delighted in his manner. He knew the opposite sex well enough to understand that there is nothing so charming to a young girl than to be treated as a mature and attractive woman.
Occasionally, Cecilia's rather sharp scrutiny did cause the earl a little unease, but on the whole, he was well satisfied as July passed into August. He gave himself until the end of August to tempt his targets to the gambling tables.
At first, he tried a direct approach, inviting the viscount and his lady to play at faro or whist. When he was soundly brushed off, he decided that Cecilia, being of the weaker sex, would be the more susceptible. The object of his wager was not to bet against her directly, but to lead her into a situation where she must gamble or appear ill-mannered and foolish. If he had still been accepted at the houses of the local gentry, all would have been child's play, but he was perceived to be dangerous and unacceptable to those ladies who fixed with one another on who was to be invited to a rout and who was most assuredly unwelcome. Lazenby had not minded the ostracism until now, but he began to think it might be worth attempting social rehabilitation. Apart from anything else, it was amusing to be greeted as though one were a cat that had learnt the trick of opening the canary's cage.
Truth to tell, he was bored. He could not afford to go to London, he did not wish to jeopardize his estate any further by the deep play that he would inevitably encounter there, and he was a little weary of the Cheltenham tragedies that had been enacted as a result of his more libertine propensities. He did not really intend to toy with the family of one of his strongest supporters, but the temptation to cause mischief began to overwhelm his scruples. He craved amusement and spice. At the very least, he hoped to jolt the viscount and viscountess from the stupor of respectability that was descending on Hatherley with their prolonged residence, so heavily centered on the interests and activities of the Marchmont children.
The earl found his opening with Mrs. Selby. Her husband was a solid man with few pretensions. He was one of Lazenby's hunting cronies. Out in the field, a firm seat and good hands were more important than the color of one's money, and Selby, who had earned a fortune in some dubious trade during the late wars, was a very good rider. So good, there were rumors that he had started life as a groom. Mrs. Selby was the daughter of a doctor, but she had pretensions, and made the most of her husband's fortune by adorning herself in the latest fashions, altering the decor of their house at a whim and throwing great parties to which everyone grudgingly came because she did serve excellent food and decent liquor. She was much too old to be one of Lazenby's flirts, but he had always buttered her up, at first to please old Selby, who had loaned him money and never asked for it back, and then because she remained one of the few local hostesses who would admit him to her house.
Mrs. Selby was herself a dashing rider. Despite bearing two children, her spare figure showed to advantage in a riding habit. She had a great laugh and was one of the few women who treated Cecilia with less than reverence. Her days of kowtowing to the nobs were done, she stated firmly. If Lady Ormiston chose to attend a do at the Selbys, all well and good, but it should make no difference to the fun that would be had if she did not so choose.
It was only after Cecilia had recovered fully from her illness that she developed a friendship of any sort with Mrs. Selby, and that was fostered by their mutual enjoyment of horseflesh. Dacre ensured that his daughter-in-law was mounted on a spirited gelding. After a week of schooling him to her ways, she took to the bridle paths around Hatherley and it was on a beautiful afternoon that she met Mrs. Selby properly. She had been riding through woodland with her groom when they came upon a rise of common land with a track that begged a rider to put his horse to the gallop. Eager to try out Phoebus's paces, Cecilia warned her groom that she was about to go flat-out, dug her heels into the chestnut's flank, and urged him on until the wind had plastered her veil against her face and both she and the beast were panting with exertion. It felt wonderful.
As Phoebus slowed down, she heard another rider coming toward her at a considerable rate. She slowed her mount, edged him to the side of the path, and waited. There appeared Mrs. Selby, who, on seeing her, hauled in her horse and came to chat.
“A pleasure to see you out and about. How tiresome to be ill so soon after your wedding. You've a fine fellow there. One of Dacre's?”
They talked of horseflesh and the pleasures of a lively mount and Cecilia felt her ever-present reservations about her own life melting away in this simple, straightforward discussion. She invited Mrs. Selby to call soon, laughing when she saw that lady's eyebrows rise up.
“Are you sure? I'm not quite the thing in these parts. Too loud, whiff of trade and all that. You'll make the tabbies sit up and yowl if you take up with me, my girl.”
“What is the use of being a viscountess if one can't choose one's friends? What nonsense. Of course you must come up to Hatherley and we may talk of sensible things instead of embroidering cassocks for the parish church.”
A couple of days later, Daphne Selby did call on the viscountess and did find herself taken up. Her forthright manner and her age, close to that of Lady Ketley's, were great advantages. So many of the local ladies who came to call giggled and skirted around topics like nervy greyhounds, bounding forward, then recoiling and sniffing fastidiously if they felt a subject was veering toward indelicacy. Mrs. Selby arrived in Cecilia's drawing room sporting an exuberant bonnet and a quizzical air which wore off after fifteen minutes had passed and the pair of them had established that they did not wish to discuss the provenance of last week's flower arrangement for the altar and whether Bessie Make-peace was pregnant by her husband the publican or her lover the apothecary. Instead, they spoke of affairs in Europe and whether Britain might actually complete an alliance with her foe and former colony, the upstart United States. Finally, they started speaking of horseflesh and bloodlines, competent farriers and poultices, saddlers and stamina, suitable bits and hunting country.
It was nearly two hours before Mrs. Selby left, and when she did go, she could scarcely credit how swiftly the time had passed. The viscountess was a definite addition to the neighborhood. The marquis had always been a fixture at her parties, but here was a lady of high degree showing every sign of wishing to cultivate her acquaintance. It was a heady prospect for Daphne Selby, all too accustomed to accusations of being a mushroom.
It was not long before Lazenby heard of this unusual friendship. He at once set off for Mrs. Selby's house and spent a fruitful hour there listening to the woman extol the virtues of the viscountess, virtues which most women would not have acknowledged as such.
“She's a thoroughly sensible young woman. She rides well and she favors a martingale for that gelding, which I can understand. She'll certainly liven us all up.”
“I believe so, too. But do you know, Mrs. Selby, she don't play.”
“What do you mean? Why, everyone plays, and when she comes here next month, I am sure she will take her turn at faro and anything else we decide to offer.”
“She won't, you know. Dead against all games of chance and wagers. Viscount's the same, you know. They're not prosy about it, that's certain, but they don't play and they won't play. Not for anything.”
“Lady Cecilia might play for the right stake. If I offered up the next foal from Jasper as a stake, she'd jump at the chance, mark me.”
“She won't. She'll offer to pay, and a handsome price, too, but she won't play. I'd wager my last groat on it.”
“That's all you have to wager, or so I've heard.”
This injudiciously familiar remark infuriated Earl Lazenby. Without delay, he bade farewell to the overdirect Mrs. Selby and rode off, muttering about her tendency to try to cap one's comments and get the upper hand and have the last word in every conversation. But it had been useful to discover that the viscountess had a taste for horseflesh. A taste! A positive passion. Another mark in her favor. She really was most delectable and intriguing. How Ormiston might take this new friendship Lazenby would give a great deal to know. Perhaps, if he stuck close by over the next few days, he would hear whether the viscount approved or not.
It turned out that, according to Dacre, Ormiston was so delighted to see Cecilia revive that her new friend might have been Beelzebub himself, provided Lady Cecilia was in good heart and good health. To Lazenby's astonishment, it was the marquis who was less enthusiastic about the developing friendship.
“She's a good woman, Daphne Selby, but coarse and fast. I wouldn't like to see Cecilia too closely associated with her, although as a viscountess, I suppose she may do as she pleases.” He took another swig of port as he made his pronouncement before his son and his neighbor.
Lazenby did not accuse the marquis of hypocrisy: however
laissez-faire
Dacre seemed to be in relation to his young friend, the earl was well aware that any such comment would overstep the bounds of their friendship. But it did surprise him that the marquis should be so precious. Somehow, it added piquancy to the notion of fostering the friendship, which Daphne Selby's blunt comments had nearly quashed.
laissez-faire
Dacre seemed to be in relation to his young friend, the earl was well aware that any such comment would overstep the bounds of their friendship. But it did surprise him that the marquis should be so precious. Somehow, it added piquancy to the notion of fostering the friendship, which Daphne Selby's blunt comments had nearly quashed.
Inadvertently, Mrs. Selby had reminded Cecilia of an activity she had not indulged in for months. In the course of her riding, she soon identified an isolated paddock at the edge of the Hatherley estate where she might practice once again the art of standing in the saddle or swinging from side to side of her mount. Of course, she was out of practice and her muscles were loose and unready for any advanced maneuvers, but once she had found this secluded and well-shaded spot, protected from any casual observer by trees and hedgerows, it was too tempting not to try a trick or two with Phoebus. She did tumble from the saddle, but it was worth it for the exhilaration it evoked. To attain once again her former standard, she would have to draw on considerable reserves of concentration and strength. It was a challenge that Cecilia could not refuse, a small chance for rebellion, for control over her own environment and behavior. As the summer progressed, so did her skill. Besides, Phoebus was the most responsive and eager horse she had ever had the pleasure to ride. He seemed to enjoy the early mornings of cantering steadily around as much as she did.
This rediscovered recreation was a valuable distraction from the boulder-strewn path of her relationship with her husband. He had not joined her in their marriage bed since her illness. He did not speak of his withdrawal from marital relations, so Cecilia could not bring herself to mention it, either. Yet she knew that he had not willingly left her side during the miscarriage and her fever. It was as though since her recovery, he felt that she needed him no longer. She had a vague memory of his voiceâtender, constant, pleadingâbut she could not recall the substance of his words. She tried to remember if she herself had said anything which might indicate to him a distaste or rejection. Meanwhile, they seemed never to be left alone. It was a strange reversal of that difficult time following the announcement of their betrothal and up to their marriage.
Ormiston did wish to speak with his wife, but found himself continually thwarted. He had felt so easy before her accident in visiting her room. He had allowed Dorcas time to help Cecilia with her clothes and then he had left his father to his port and climbed the stairs with anticipation not only for the physical delights she shared with him, but also for the talk, the opportunity to explore more about the workings of her mind, to discover her view of the day at Hatherley and how life there might be improved for its inhabitants, however humble. She had an awareness of the importance of everyone who contributed to the well-being of the house and its lands and an unerring instinct of how to ensure that well-being. In only a few weeks, through Dorcas and through other conversations, she had made it her business to discover all she could about the servants and the economies of the household. From trying to soothe the cares of the humblest maidservant, to showing concerned for a tearaway brother, to the vexed questions of setting wages and supervising the household accounts, the new viscountess had proved herself more than equal to the position of chatelaine.
Better still, she was able to recount to him her doings in a light and entertaining way, while informing him of the concerns and preoccupations of the people who would one day call him master. It was so tempting to forswear all responsibility for the estates, so tantalizing to consider a return (this time with Cecilia) to Italy, where he could dawdle and paint to his heart's content, without the ever-present demands and decisions of the marquisate. However firmly he told himself it was his duty to learn the ways of his lands and his people, the urge to abdicate still ran strong in him. His relations with his father were still uncomfortable, although undeniably closer than he had imagined possible. Cecilia continued to act as a vital conduit between the two men, still so ill at ease with one another, both so anxious for her well-being and general contentment.
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