Married to a Perfect Stranger (22 page)

She wanted to set it aside and push on with her work, but her neighbor said she had important news. With a sigh, Mary stood.

Grudging the precious minutes required to don hat and cloak and gloves, she made ready, then hurried downstairs. She was surprised to find Arthur struggling to open the front door. He had a large, obviously heavy basket hooked over one arm. It seemed almost more than he could carry. “What have you got there?” she asked.

The boy jumped and cried out. The basket tilted and two apples and a turnip bounced from under the cloth laid over the top.

One apple rolled across the floor to her feet. Mary bent to retrieve it.

“Don't bother yourself with that, ma'am,” said Arthur, his voice unusually high. “I'll pick them up.”

Puzzled, and a bit suspicious, Mary stepped over to return the fruit to its place. The basket was piled with various fruits and vegetables, she discovered. And nothing else. She looked down at Arthur. He
was
always hungry, but these were hardly his favorite foods. “What are you doing?”

“An…I'm…”

“Have you taken these from the kitchen?” Mrs. Tanner would make a great fuss. How had he even gotten this haul past her?

“No!” declared Arthur.

Mary waited. “You know you can eat as much as you wish,” she added finally. “If you are not getting enough…”

“Ain't for me,” the boy interrupted. “They're…they're for a charity, like.”

“Charity?” Mary was utterly mystified.

“Lady Caroline is sending them to…somebody who needs 'em.” Arthur's voice strengthened as he went on. “She asked me to help, like. She's that busy.”

“A gift for the poor?” Why should Caroline employ Arthur on such a mission?

“Poor. Right. No money at all.” He nodded and spoke even faster. “Her ladyship was asking about my family, see. And I told her how Pa wanted me to learn my lesson, because of that chicken and all.” He gave Mary a wide-eyed look.

The oddities in his story tugged at her. But other concerns pulled harder at her attention. “You shouldn't go into poor areas of the city alone,” she said. “It's not Limehouse, is it?” she added sharply.

Arthur shook his head. “Never heard of that. This place is all right. I been there before.”

She stood looking down at him. “Do you promise me that you are not up to some mischief?”

The boy gazed limpidly back. “Just doing as Lady Caroline asked me, ma'am.” He opened the door. “For a good cause, she says.” He scooted out.

“Well, be careful,” Mary called after him. By the time she reached the pavement, he was already halfway to the street out of the square. She told herself she would have to make further inquiries and discover exactly what he was up to.

* * *

“I saw Lady Castlereagh last night,” Eleanor said as soon as Mary joined her in her parlor. The old woman was alone; there was no sign of Caroline.

Had two weeks really passed? Mary made the calculation and realized they had.

“And all is…well.”

Mary's pulse accelerated with hope. “You don't sound certain,” she replied as she sat down.

Eleanor frowned. “Perhaps I should say, all appears to be well for you and John. The drawing is…forgotten? Not that, but I've been assured that it will not be held against your husband or affect his chances at the Foreign Office in any way.”

Mary waited for the flood of relief, but she didn't quite feel it. “Something in your tone leaves me uneasy.”

Eleanor shook her head, seemed to consider. “I know I can speak to you in confidence, Mary, and trust you not to gossip about Emily Castlereagh…”

“You can,” said Mary.

Her neighbor still hesitated, yet it seemed as if she wished to confide.

“I don't know anybody to gossip
to
,” Mary added. “I'm not acquainted with anyone in her circle.” Well, except William Conolly, Mary supposed. But she wouldn't tell him or indeed anyone.

Eleanor smiled briefly, then gave a nod of decision. “Your drawing had much truth in it, I think. As they so often do. Emily is quite troubled, underneath. I think it has to do with Robert, her husband.”

The stately foreign secretary, John's ultimate superior, must have many concerns weighing on him, Mary thought.

“She gave me the impression that he's been depressed in spirits. She didn't say anything outright, you know. It was all implication. I think he doesn't like being hated.”

“Who could?” Mary said.

Her neighbor nodded. “Since those terrible killings at Peterloo in August…well, I'm sure it's been difficult. Robert is obliged to support Lord Sidmouth in suppressing dissent.”

“Sending soldiers into the countryside to stop the weavers rioting,” Mary said. Some had begun to protest the ferocity of Lord Sidmouth, the government's home secretary.

“Byron wrote that mean-spirited satire, and even though he's run off to Italy, it seems this fellow Shelley has done another, even worse. And the financial panic in America is threatening to spill over onto…” Eleanor stopped and sighed. “Well, as you can see, Emily ran on a bit. I suppose she may be regretting it now. But in all this, your drawing is…rather insignificant. It was just the moment of exposure, I believe, that overset her. She's recovered and does not hold a grudge.”

Now came the relief. Mary reached out a hand. “Thank you so much for seeing her.”

Eleanor squeezed her fingers, nodding. “I'm glad I did. I shall go back, I think. Since I live so ‘out of the world' now, perhaps she will feel she can talk to me and…ease her worries a little.”

Eleanor was a truly kind person, Mary thought. And she was glad to know that a bit of good might come out of her social misstep.

Though eager now to get back to her sketch pad, Mary stayed a little longer, chatting. When she inquired about Caroline, Eleanor said that her granddaughter was out shopping. “Is Caroline much involved in charitable endeavors?” she had to ask.

“Char…? Good works? Caroline?” The old woman cocked her head. “Not that I am aware of. Why do you ask?”

“Arthur said he was helping her with some food donations.”

“Really? How…gratifying.”

“She didn't mention anything to you?”

Eleanor shook her head. They gazed at each other in mutual puzzlement. But neither had any more information to offer.

* * *

Arthur was still gone when Mary returned home. It was eleven by the time she settled to her drawing again, and she no sooner picked up her pencil than Mrs. Tanner appeared at her door. She insisted that they discuss the upcoming changes in the household. After a while, Mary gathered that she feared she would have no say in choosing a new maid. Once she was reassured on that front, she finally went away. Mary locked the door behind her.

Sitting, she stared at the rough oval within the hood that she'd set down earlier. She closed her eyes and recalled the face that belonged there. She could see it. The image was as vivid as any she'd drawn in the past. She put a few lines on the page, a hint of eyebrows, a nose, a curve of jaw. But there was no life to it. It was the suggestion of a face rather than a portrait.

She sat still and summoned her abilities. She wanted more than anything to help John. Nothing came.

Mary stayed before her easel for hours, but try as she might, she could not transfer the vision, so clear in her mind, to the page. At a certain point, fear started to make the process even more difficult. Her special kind of drawing had been at the center of her existence for years and years. She couldn't imagine what life would be like without it.

John was working his way through a convoluted description of the escalating political tensions between Siam and Burma when he heard voices in the corridor outside his office. It sounded like…but it couldn't be. He half rose in his chair. And Frederick and George strode in, accompanied by a junior clerk. “Your brothers to see you, sir?” said the latter. His tone suggested he wished to verify the visitors' bona fides.

What were they doing here? John stood and nodded to the clerk. He departed.

Frederick looked around at the stacks of paper and well-used furnishings. “This is where you work, then?” Neither his tone nor his expression suggested approval.

“Is there anything wrong at home?” John asked.

“Not at
home
,” replied George.

John's spirits sank. “This is my colleague, William Conolly,” he said. “My brothers Frederick and George.”

His brothers nodded as if Conolly was a negligible person. “I've made a special trip down here to set things in order,” said Frederick. “Shall we get to it?” He looked around as if deciding where to sit.

“Things?” echoed John.

“The muddle you've made.” Frederick moved toward John's desk chair. Conolly looked puzzled.

John snatched up his coat and hat. “This is not the place to discuss family business.” He walked out before they could reply, forcing his brothers to follow.

He took them to an inn nearby; it had a number of comfortable private parlors that were often used for Foreign Office meetings, and he was easily able to procure one. He ordered ale as well, suspecting that he was going to need fortification.

“All right,” said Frederick, throwing himself into a chair. “I've come all this way, at a most inconvenient time, I might add, to offer you a position on the estate.”

This made no sense to John. “What estate?”

“My estate,” his eldest brother answered, as if speaking to a half-wit. “The family estate.”

“Why would I want…?”

“Mama wants you back home,” said George. “We can't have you embarrassing the family and alienating important people. What if we need to ask the government for a favor at some point? What about Roger's chances abroad?”

“You can be my steward,” said Frederick. “Though I already have an extremely competent steward,” he added under his breath.

“Work for you?” He'd rather slit his throat, John thought.

“It won't be too difficult.” Frederick nodded as if assuring himself of some point and murmured, “I shall keep Dobbs on.”

“This is what you really think of me then?” said John.

His brothers looked at him as if they didn't understand the question.

“Nothing I accomplish will ever change your minds, will it?”

“Mama doesn't think the present muddle is entirely your fault,” replied Frederick kindly.

As usual, he didn't seem to have heard John's actual words.

“She knows it's mostly due to that wife of yours,” George said. “Mama sent along her apologies for introducing you to such a pushing, managing female.”

Frederick nodded. “George says you've become erratic and abusive under her influence.”

John felt as if his head might explode. Yet even in the depths of his rage, he recognized echoes of phrases he'd flung at Mary when he first arrived home. It was hard to recall how angry he'd been then that she wasn't the Mary his mother had chosen for him: submissive, quiet, empty-headed, boring. Thank God she'd changed! He wouldn't have that Mary back under any circumstances, he realized.

“John? Are you listening?” Frederick assumed a look of benevolence. “Everything will be all right. Don't worry.” He spoke as if to a child.

How could an idea of kindness be so wrongheaded? John wondered. “Do not speak of Mary in that way ever again,” he said. “Tell Mama I said so.”

Frederick reared back in surprise. George nodded as if to say,
See?

“I am not leaving my position at the Foreign Office,” John continued. “And if you try to make trouble for me there, I will protest in ways that you will
not
relish.” John disliked speaking to his brothers so harshly, but they couldn't seem to hear more reasonable statements.

“Didn't I tell you?” said George to Frederick. “He's lost all sense of what's owed…”

“I've lost nothing,” John interrupted, “except the willingness to be considered a failure.”

“No one used the word…” Frederick began.

“They simply thought and implied it.” Leaving his untouched mug of ale on the table, John rose. “Let this be the last such conversation between us. I don't want—or need—your interference in my life.”

“What are we to say to Mama?” George looked scandalized.

“Give her my love, and tell her the same.”

“You'll find you're sorry when you come to ask for our help,” Frederick declared.

“I shan't. Ask.” John turned and left the parlor.

Through the walk back to his office and the first hour or so after, he sustained himself on outrage. But gradually, the anger faded, and other emotions came to the fore. He'd made his point most forcibly and perhaps alienated his entire family. His position wasn't wrong. He stood by it. But it was…lonely. If only they would
listen
…

At this point, his treacherous mind insisted on evoking memories of the many good times he'd had with his brothers, the countless loving actions of his mother and his late father as well. They did care for him. He knew that. His mother would be wounded by his curt message. He could imagine her sad, bewildered eyes only too well, and the thought made him wince. But then she would see his reaction as just another mistake. His family's expectations were like a net that it seemed he couldn't escape no matter how he cut and flailed.

John set off home with a stew of emotions churning inside. Mary was the only one who believed in him. But if only your wife believed in you, what did that say about your place in the world?

* * *

The moment John walked in that evening Mary shared her news. “Eleanor went to visit Lady Castlereagh,” she replied. “She promised that my drawing will not be held against you.” She repeated her afternoon conversation, minus the parts she'd promised to keep secret. When she was done, he nodded. “Good,” he said and held his hands out to the heat of the fire. “I'm grateful to the dowager countess. I will tell her so at the first opportunity.”

He seemed rather glum this evening. Mary put aside her own anxiety and tried to cheer him up. “So…the scandal is finished?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “You've done very well.”

“Then why aren't you celebrating?” she wondered.

“It is to be overlooked. It won't be forgotten.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm very glad the Castlereaghs are mollified. Very thankful for it, Mary, truly. But such…tittle-tattle leaves a trace. Others in the office will remember.”

“But if Lord Castlereagh isn't angry with you, he would tell them not to…”

“Subordinates don't always ask. They make their own judgments about what their superiors would like and act accordingly.”

“But then you could go to him and…”

“No. That would make things much worse.” John sat on the sofa and beckoned. “But it is good news, and I thank you for it.”

Mary sat beside him. He looked tired, she noticed. Or, more than tired. “Did you have a difficult day?”

His short laugh was mirthless. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head, gazing into the fire. “There's no need to talk about it. Indeed, I'd rather not.”

Silence fell over the parlor. Mary waited, and dreaded, an inquiry about her drawing of the man in the square. Minutes ticked past, and it did not come. Finally, she had to say, “I did not…manage to do the portrait today.”

“Umm?” He sounded as if his mind had come back from a great distance.

“I will try…I will do it tomorrow.” The image would come, Mary insisted silently.

“Portrait?”

“Of the man who was following you.”

“Oh.” John brightened. “Of course. I was thinking earlier today that we could send his likeness to a man in Limehouse who has been very helpful to me. He knows a great many people, and I think he would be willing to show it to some of them.”

Mary nodded.

“Solid information is the thing.” He sat straighter. “That is the whole point, after all. And it will make a far greater difference, in all ways, than rumors and insinuation.” He seemed to notice her worried expression. “Not that I am belittling your friend's help with Lady Castlereagh.”

To Mary's relief, Kate came in and announced dinner. John rose and moved toward the parlor door. “Shall we go right in? I'm famished.” The thought of taking action had energized him, Mary saw. She would have been delighted, if only she had the drawing to give him. But she would have—tomorrow.

“Mary? Aren't you hungry?” John asked, waiting by the door.

Her stomach was too knotted up for her to tell. But she rose and followed him into the dining room.

“I am remembering what you told me about the way you draw,” he said when they had begun to eat. “How you capture the character of the…subject. It should make identifying this man much easier.”

His kindly tone only worsened her dilemma, Mary thought. It was like a dream come true that had twisted into a nightmare. How often had she longed for recognition of her work as her mother complained of it? How it had stung when people had gossiped about the portrait of Lady Castlereagh, whispering that she only wished to attract attention to herself—undeserved attention.

Now John was eager for a drawing, respectful of her skills, and she could not produce one. The images that had poured out of her—even when she didn't want them to—had run dry. No. No, they had not. She'd been tired today and continually interrupted. It was just one day. She'd have it for him when he came home tomorrow.

“Don't you think?” John said.

“What?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

He smiled at her. “I've bored you, going on and on about Siam. I'm sorry.”

“No, you haven't. I'm very interested in your work.” And hadn't heard a word as he spoke of it. It was a bitter pill that she must pretend with him just when circumstances offered an opportunity to grow closer.

* * *

When she was sure John was asleep, Mary slipped from bed and quietly put on her warm dressing gown and slippers. Rest was far from her tonight. Silently, she moved through the dark house, so different from its daylight self. In her studio she built up the fire, which had died to a few coals, and lit candles. Placing tapers on either side of her easel, she settled at the table and placed her sketch pad there.

The outline of the cloak with its empty hood stared back at her like a stubborn phantom. Mary picked up a pencil and held it poised over the image. No impulse moved her. Biting her lip, she thought, Perhaps it could be like a push to a waterwheel to get things moving. She made herself add a few folds to the garment and some detail to the spear points of the fence.

But it was no good. The face remained a vacant oval within the cloak's hood.

Start again then. Perhaps there was something off about this attempt. She'd gone wrong in a way she couldn't see. She turned to a fresh page in the sketchbook.

To her immense relief, her hand moved at once, and she began to draw. The strokes were quick and certain, bold and stark. But the face that formed under her hand wasn't the man from the square. It was her own, as clearly as looking in the dressing table mirror.

“No, No, No,” said Mary. She seldom drew herself, and less often as she'd grown up. It seemed…vain or indulgent. But she was given no choice. Her hand continued to move as it would, creating a self-portrait without pity. Dark circles and lines of tension appeared around her eyes. There was an unhappy downturn to her mouth.

After an unknown length of time, her fingers went still, and Mary sat there, tired and frustrated. She should be glad of this evidence that her talent wasn't dead. And she was, she supposed, although she hadn't truly believed that. But she was annoyed that she couldn't command it. She'd drawn William Conolly when she wished to. Why couldn't she create the image she wanted now?

Mary looked down. Her worry and uncertainty were plain in the portrait—and unsurprising. She was well aware of those emotions. But there was something else. Her drawings always showed more, and they'd never steered her wrong when she accepted the offered insights. With narrowed eyes, she examined her own image. It showed strength, determination, and…even a dash of wisdom. She couldn't deny it; those traits were on the page. But there was more—what was it? This woman carried a weight of some kind, more than mere worry.

Mary looked and puzzled and pondered and finally realized what it was. She felt that if she could produce the right drawing for John, he would understand and love her, and if she couldn't, he would not.

Mary stared blankly at the drawing. That wasn't true. Of course it wasn't. It was ridiculous. Her marriage, her life, was a matter of far more than one drawing. Her happiness most emphatically did not teeter on such a knife-edge. But…the woman she saw pictured—it felt like herself and not herself—the woman she'd drawn believed it.

Mary sat there, appalled, and struggled with this idea. Slowly, she came to see that it was there, somewhere deep down, the conviction that everything depended on this portrait. The admission came with a vast sinking feeling.

Her drawings hadn't mattered before, she thought. Not really. They'd comforted her and helped her, but they hadn't been a matter of…

“Are you here drawing in the middle of the night?”