Married to a Perfect Stranger (18 page)

And then the image felt finished. Mary's drawing hand went still. She took a deep breath and let it drop. The sense of the room flooded back as people crowded forward to see the result. Abruptly, Mary felt hemmed in hard, stifled. She felt John's hand on her elbow. He was right behind her, looking at the drawing.

Fordyce darted forward and snatched the sketch pad away from her. He held it up for Lady Castlereagh to see, making certain it was visible to a large segment of the surrounding crowd as well. Lady Castlereagh examined the image, and as she did, Mary stared at the picture she'd created. The resemblance was striking. It was their hostess to the life. But the woman gazing back at her from the page wasn't smiling. She wasn't the chattering, assured center of this glittering gathering. Her mouth was tight; her eyes were deep and…haunted. The portrait gave off a sense of terrible sadness and fear.

Mary looked up and found the actual woman's eyes burning into hers. She didn't have to wonder whether Lady Castlereagh had noticed these nuances. The answer was dismayingly plain.

“What's all this?” asked a male voice. The foreign secretary himself wove through the press of people around them. At fifty years of age, Lord Castlereagh was a large handsome man, with pale hair and even features. He stopped beside his wife and looked at her portrait. His eyes flew to her face, back to the image. Then he turned and, without a word, walked away.

Murmurs swept the crowd around them. Many of them saw the mysterious anguish in the portrait, Mary thought. It was all too plain. Others were approaching from the far corners of the reception, asking each other what was happening.

“How dare you?” whispered Lady Castlereagh. She jerked the sketch pad from Fordyce's hands, slapped it closed, and thrust the object at a footman. “Take this away,” she ordered. The man fumbled with the tray of glasses he was carrying, got the tablet under an arm, and hurried off. With a final glare at Mary, Lady Castlereagh swept away, parting the gaping crowd like a knife through soft butter.

“Oh dear,” said Fordyce, his voice oozing satisfaction.

John stepped toward him. “I warned you,” he hissed under the buzz of speculation sweeping the gathering.

“But I spoke of your wife with the utmost
respect
,” was the mocking reply. The man's pale eyes glittered. “And she certainly justified my…esteem. I don't think anyone will heed your ‘stories of the voyage' after that little performance.”

Mary had never fainted in her life, but she felt as if she might right now. Every complaint her mother had ever made about her came back in a dizzying rush. She was heedless, dull-witted, and wholly lacking in common sense. Her dreamy immersion in art would lead to a bad end. And it had. She had offended the Castlereaghs! She had been stupid and careless and… Her knees threatened to give way and leave her in a heap on the polished wooden floor.

“Come.”

Caroline's arm laced through hers and supported her. Mary let herself be pulled toward the arched doorway. She saw Conolly pull John away from Fordyce and urge him along behind them. John's jaw looked so tight Mary thought it must hurt. Faces loomed and passed, staring and jabbering, as if they would drink in every particle of her humiliation. It was like a nightmare.

They passed into the entryway. Caroline kept moving. And then they were outside in the chill of late evening. Footmen and linkboys peered at them. After a moment, Conolly came out with their wraps and threw Mary's shawl around her shoulders. Where was John? He hadn't gone back…? No, there he was, coming behind.

“I'm so sorry,” Caroline said. “So sorry. I meant to help you by mentioning the…”

“Help?” John's voice was like a lash. “Where do the carriages wait?” he snapped at a servant.

“I can send a message to your…”

“Where?” John interrupted.

“Over yonder,” supplied a linkboy. “Down that street on the other side of St. James.”

John pulled Mary away from Caroline. When she swayed a little, he put an arm around her to guide her along the pavement. “You shouldn't come with us,” he said to Conolly when the other man started to follow. “No need to be linked with me.”

“Of
course
we will…” Caroline began.

“We will come,” Conolly replied.

The four of them walked in silence across St. James Square. Mary found she was shaking so hard it was difficult to move.

Conolly's voice came out of the darkness. “You know, Bexley, this may not be so very bad…”

John snorted. “It's a disaster!”

Mary stumbled. Only John's arm kept her from falling. Despair engulfed her.

They found the mass of carriages in the designated street, along with a cluster of drivers waiting for their charges. After a brief hunt, they located their own conveyance and got in. Mary huddled in the corner of the seat and tried not to cry.

“I only meant for Lady Castlereagh to hear how talented you are,” Caroline said when they had been under way for a while. “What a wonderful artist. So that you—both—would be noticed.”

“Noticed!” John's tone was savage.

“I'm sorry,” Caroline repeated. She sounded near tears herself.

“It wasn't your fault,” said Conolly. “If Fordyce hadn't pushed in…”

“I could kill him,” John snarled.

Mary thought of the ruffians John had encountered in the slums and what they might do for pay. Her hands grew icy. “You mustn't…you can't…”

“We all might like to, but of course we cannot,” replied Conolly, his tone all calm reason.

“More's the pity,” Caroline said.

“This incident will pass off as a mere triviality,” Conolly said.

Mary didn't think any of them believed it. At any rate, no one responded. The journey back home was mainly silent.

John sat in his study in the silent house, forehead resting in his hand, and wondered about fate. Were his brothers actually right? Had he somehow been born a bungler? Was he cursed? He saw now that he'd been naive to imagine he'd defeated Fordyce. The man would never forgive John for having witnessed his cowardice on the ship. He'd merely grown more subtle, lying in wait for a chance to ruin John's career.

Something like a growl rumbled in John's throat. He sat up straight, his hand moving in an impatient gesture, rejecting exaggeration and self-pity. Let us not overdramatize, he thought. Ruin was not the word. He wouldn't be dismissed. No one would go so far as that. But his dreams of serious advancement…

John nearly laughed. He'd longed to rise from obscurity, to distinguish himself from the rank and file of Foreign Office functionaries. And so he had! He'd become the man whose wife had offended Lady Castlereagh, without even being acquainted with her. If social connections were vital to preferment, social destruction must be the death of such hopes. He could remain in his current junior position for as long as he cared to be employed there. As years passed he would age into one of those wizened clerks he sometimes encountered in the furthest corners of the offices—knowledgeable but negligible in the grand scheme of international affairs. Frederick and George would be round to tell him how right they'd been, to offer their misguided comfort.

And he didn't see, just now, anything he could do to mend matters. Draft an apology? What precisely was he supposed to say? Lady Castlereagh, I'm very sorry that you did not like my wife's portrait of you? She…she what? What had Mary been thinking? And who cared about a drawing anyway? It was infuriating to be thwarted by something so petty and silly… But wars had been started over events that looked quite petty and silly in retrospect.

John sat back and stared at the opposite wall. Fordyce had outdone him at the game of underhanded swipes. If John circulated the story of his cowardice now, the fellow would easily pass it off as a vengeful lie. Perhaps he'd been emboldened by a sense that John had never wanted to do it anyway. He disliked having to be devious. And clearly, he wasn't much good at it.

He could practically hear Fordyce's voice, murmuring down the corridors of the office, insinuating, pretending to be sorry even as he shared every detail of this incident. Or…not every one. Details selected, or made up, by him, designed to put John in the worst possible light. What could John's wife have been up to, he would wonder, all wide-eyed innocence. What had John told her to make her draw such a strange likeness? He would probably plant the idea that John told tales about his work at home. He would hold John up as devious, and spiteful, and…bungling. John closed his eyes briefly.

The door opened halfway, and Mary looked around it. Traces of tears showed on her face. “I'm so sorry, John.”

The tragic look in her dark eyes bothered him. And yet the question erupted, “Could you not have found a way to refuse?”

“Everyone was looking at me,” she faltered. “It seemed it would be so rude.”

“Perhaps. But perhaps that would not have been as bad as what actually happened?” She flinched, and he regretted it. Yet he couldn't refrain from asking, “Why the deuce did you draw her in a way that…annoyed her so?”

“I can't help it,” Mary said. Her mouth trembled, and she blinked back further tears.

This made no sense. “What do you mean?”

“When I draw, it just happens.”

“What happens? What are you talking about?”

It was always a struggle to explain this. “When I draw, something…occurs,” Mary tried. “It lets me see deeper into people, and that becomes part of the portraits I create. It's my…talent.” The last word seemed inappropriate in this moment.

John shook his head, bewildered. “All sorts of girls play the pianoforte at parties, or sing. God knows, some chit is always being pushed forward to sing. You could have just drawn a pleasant picture. Why not make her ladyship a bit prettier than life, as portrait painters can do?”

“It's not like that for me.”

“Why the devil make her look so…haunted?” Remembering Lady Castlereagh's reaction to the image Mary had produced, John felt rather haunted himself.

“I didn't set out to do it!” Mary cried. “I can't help it if that is how she feels…inside.”

“Inside?” John gazed at his wife. He hated to see her so distressed, but he had no idea what she was talking about. He couldn't control the annoyance that rose. “For this, my career is destroyed?”

“You are not destroyed! They can't be so unfair!” Mary sounded frantic. “It was my hand on the pencil. What I did should not hurt you!”

John said nothing. They both knew that a wife's actions always reflected on her husband. And it was even more true in this case. The memory of her face when Fordyce snatched away the sketchbook and Lady Castlereagh stared at her portrait returned to him. She'd looked devastated. She looked devastated now. He fought down his temper and, finally, sighed. “The furor will pass, Mary. Some other cause for gossip will arise, and interest will…lessen.” He couldn't suppress a hint of regret. “I'll fall back into the larger mass of Foreign Office staff…”

“You shouldn't! You're so good at what you do! You work harder than anyone else. People know that. They've praised your work…”

“I don't expect Lord Castlereagh will want to hear me praised now.”

Mary winced. She came further into the room. “John, we'll find a way to fix this.”

Just now, he couldn't see it. But her eyes were pleading. He nodded.

“You're tired,” Mary added. “Come to bed.”

“Not yet.” There was no sleep in him.

“Please.” She came over and took his hand.

Gently, he disengaged. “I can't rest just now. Or…anything else. I need to think.” Tears pooled in Mary's eyes. John rose and embraced her. “Don't cry. We'll get through this. I'll take care of you.”

“You don't have to take… I want to help
you
!”

“I think you've done enough.” He regretted the words as soon as they escaped him. Mary winced as if from a blow. “I'm sorry,” John added quickly. “Go and sleep.”

“Won't you come…?”

He had to refuse. He was full of tension and afraid other harsh words might pop out. He couldn't take this mood to her bedchamber. “Things will look better in the morning,” he told her.

* * *

The old adage was bunk, Mary thought the next day. Things did not look better, not in the least. She still felt as if something dear to her had died. No, she had killed it. Her insistence on drawing had brought a load of trouble down on her husband.

Mary paced the front parlor, hands clenching and opening in distress. Her mother had been right after all; she should have resisted indulging in her peculiar talent and kept it hidden. Here was what came of revealing yourself. If she hadn't let Eleanor see her drawings, then Caroline couldn't have pushed her forward. And that wretched man Fordyce couldn't have taken advantage of the opportunity to embarrass her. And everything would still be all right.

John had gone off to his office, as usual. She could imagine the unpleasantness he'd face there. How many of his colleagues had been at the party? And how many more would be listening, agog, to the story of what had transpired? Imagining John's exposure made her stomach twist with regret. If only there was something she could
do
.

Unable to be still, Mary went upstairs. But she found no comfort in her studio retreat. She would not be sitting at her easel today. Back out on the landing, she noticed Arthur Windly through the open door of John's study. To her surprise, he was placing a sheet of paper on the desk. “What are you doing?” Moving into the room, she saw that the page held a sketch, some sort of diagram. “What is this?”

“It's a steam engine,” the boy replied. “How it works, like.”

“How it works?” Mary picked up the page and examined it. “I don't understand.”

Arthur pointed at a double square in the top corner. “That's meant to be the boiler, see, with the firebox underneath.” His voice gathered enthusiasm as he spoke. “Once the water in the boiler heats enough, the steam goes up this pipe and drives a piston, right there.” He pointed to a cylindrical shape. “That turns a shaft. Or runs a belt. You can power just about whatever you like that way.”

“I see.” And she did. “You explained that very clearly.”

Arthur merely nodded. He looked glum.

“How did you learn all this?” Mary wondered.

“I heard a man talk at the Parish Hall. There was a fella visited back home, too. He'd seen the powered looms up north.”

This was a whole new side of Arthur. “So you've always been interested in engines?”

Head down, he shrugged. “Dad says they're ‘the bane of the working man.' Taking their jobs away, you know.”

Must Arthur's father belittle everything about his son? Mary wondered.

“I thought I'd show Mr. Bexley, in case he'd like…” The boy broke off with a sigh. “It's not an adventure. I couldn't think of a good adventure.”

“Adventure?”

“He said I should have adventures. But it ain't that easy to come upon a fire to put out or somebody to…rescue, like. I was thinking…inventions could be a kind of adventure. Don't you think? Perhaps? I wanted to ask him.”

“I'm sure he'll be very interested.” Remembering her husband's glum mood last night, Mary added, “He is rather busy just now.”

“He's always busy,” said Arthur, as if he was all too familiar with that excuse. “And I'm stuck in the kitchen, with Kate and Mrs. Tanner arguing over the stove. It's gotten to be a proper donnybrook down there.”

A spark of real interest penetrated Mary's gloom. “Kate is making concoctions?”

Arthur nodded. “She's got a vast deal of bottles and such, but she says she needs more. They were all over the table. Mrs. Tanner came near to smashing the lot yesterday, so Kate put some of 'em in her room.”

Mary hadn't foreseen such friction when she introduced the maid to Jeremiah Jenkins. Here was something else she'd gotten wrong. She ought to go downstairs and speak to her staff, she supposed. But she didn't want to.

Then she realized that there was one person she might ask for advice. Fetching a cloak, Mary walked across the square to Eleanor's house. She was admitted at once and ushered into her neighbor's private parlor. Eleanor turned from her easel and smiled. “You're out early. How was the reception?”

“You haven't talked to Caroline?”

“She's still in bed. What's wrong?”

Sinking into an armchair, Mary poured out the story. The old woman's face grew more and more concerned as she talked. “Sad and anxious,” she murmured when Mary was done. “I wonder what weighs so heavily on Emily?”

Mary was briefly abashed. She hadn't considered Lady Castlereagh's state of mind and what might be troubling her. But after all, how could she be of help? She wasn't really acquainted with her.

“Well, there will clearly be a storm of gossip,” Eleanor added.

“I suppose I can be thankful that we won't hear it, since we don't move in those ‘exalted' circles.” And never would, Mary thought.

“My family will complain about Caroline's part in it.”

Another factor Mary hadn't considered. Social calamity apparently made one quite self-centered and sarcastic and just generally despicable. She rose from her chair. “I'm sorry. I mustn't drag you any further into…”

“Nonsense,” said Eleanor. “I was just thinking aloud. Sit down.”

She did. Eleanor gazed out the window, lost in thought.

Mary stayed quiet as long as she could, then words burst out of her again. “I must find a way to help John.”

“It will be very hard for him,” her neighbor acknowledged. “Men can be far worse gossips than women, no matter what people say.”

“I want to
do
something,” Mary exclaimed. “What can I do?”

“You may leave everything to me,” declared Caroline from the doorway. She strode into the room like a Valkyrie. Her green eyes sparkled with defiance. “I shall go and see Lady Castlereagh this morning and explain how…”

“No!” said her grandmother and Mary at the same moment.

Caroline put her hands on her hips and glared at them.

“It's just…” Mary didn't want to offend her, but she thought it only too likely that Caroline would make things worse rather than better.

“A young lady with a reputation for playing pranks, who had a clear hand in last night's events, is not the ideal emissary,” said Eleanor.

Caroline looked stricken. “No one could think that I meant this to happen.”

“People may think whatever they like,” responded her grandmother. “But after the ferret, and the brandy in the schoolroom tea, and the ‘ghost' in the spinney…”

Caroline sank onto the sofa next to her and took the old woman's hand. “I would never set out to hurt someone—anyone—with my pranks. Particularly not Mary and her husband. You must believe that, Grandmamma!”

“I do.” Eleanor squeezed her hand and let it go. “But then I know you very well and love you very much.”

Caroline slumped onto the cushions. “I caused this tangle. I should fix it.”

“From what Mary has told me, you were not the sole cause.”

“Edmund Fordyce.” Caroline wrinkled her nose in disgust. “The toad. And I used to think he was rather witty. But whyever did he…?”

“He and John do not get on,” interrupted Mary. It hardly mattered now why. “What can be done?” she asked Eleanor. “I will do anything, grovel and beg if need be.”