An Absent Wife

An Absent Wife

By Camille Oster

Copyright 2013 Camille Oster

All rights reserved. 

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements:

To Heather for her help.

Contains artwork by
Alexandre Cabanel

Camille Oster - Author

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

@Camille_Oster

[email protected]

St James Square, Mayfair, London, 1871

“It seems my wife is dead,” Lord Lysander Warburton said and folded the crisp note sent from the Colonial Office. He returned the note to the silver tray placed by one of the club’s butlers on the shined mahogany table next to his chair in the quiet reading room.

Lysander’s dearest friend, Harry, looked up from his paper and sniffed.
“Good,” he said. “Finally the harlot is good enough to do something right.”

“Careful, Harry,” Lysander warned without any discernible sting in his voice.
“She is my wife.”

“Was, Lysander.
No more. And good riddance to her.”

Lysander considered the news.
He couldn’t remember exactly the last time he’d seen his wife. It must have been at his nephew's christening two years ago. He turned over the implications of her death in his head.

He’d always said his marriage was the worst thing that ever happened to him
—even before the tart ran off with some useless lieutenant. Lysander couldn’t remember his name. That wasn’t strictly true, his name was Samson Ellingwood—a man of little consequence—but Lysander liked to think that he couldn’t remember the man’s name. He’d bristled at her lack of propriety, if anything. She could have carried on discreetly with her...friend, as is expected, but instead she had to resort to dramatics and run off like some witless character in an eighteenth century tragedy.

“Cholera apparently,” Lysander stated quietly after a long silence.

“Nasty way to go,” Harry said absently. “They would have burnt the body. Never mind, that is a shackle you can do without.”

Lysander wasn’t as convinced as his friend of the benefits of this turn of events as he was now fair game for all the unmarried women in London
—not to mention his mistress, Evie, who would now likely get strange and trying ideas. He hated dramatics and hysterics, and he would likely be subjected to both in short order.

“It’s a damned nuisance actually,” Lysander admitted.
It really was; he’d been plodding along quite happily living his life in London, while his wife occupied the Devon country house –a situation that had gone on for six years until her desertion.

He trie
d searching his feelings, but had trouble discerning what they were. He’d hated her from the start—the bride that had been forced on him at the tender age of twenty-three. He’d ignored her completely throughout the engagement, which in fact turned out to be almost as long as their marriage.

His hatred had turned into indifference after they were married and he’d rarely given his marriage much thought until she ran off with that ridiculous man, which had proved highly embarrassing as the news had spread across London.
He hadn’t expected it and there had been nothing he could do against the malicious gossip. There had been rumours of a pending divorce, but they had never discussed it—not that he’d had the opportunity to, but he could have had someone track her down if he’d needed to. He’d considered the idea of divorcing her, but the concept itself was unseemly and he’d seen no real reason or benefit from it. While a divorce would make a statement to the gossips and such, it wouldn’t actually improve his life, so he’d seen no rush; he only would have made himself a target for the cloying society mothers—a position he was now placed in anyway. No matter what the girl did, she was a nuisance.

Lysander stayed at the club and returned home shortly after nine in the evening.
He would normally go to his mistress’ house, but he wasn’t disposed to. He supposed he’d pay some reverence to his late wife for the evening—not that she deserved it.

Withdrawing to the comfortable chair in his study, he considered the abject failure that had been his marriage.
His wedding band clinked slightly against the crystal whiskey glass as he picked it up. He’d worn it because it was his duty to—a duty he’d adhered to for the sake of propriety. He had always made sure she was sufficiently provided for; he’d given her requests due consideration when she’d written to him. He’d never denied her anything reasonable or anything due to her position or status.

Adele Fowler, had been her name before he’d been forced to give her his
, in an act to save the estate and family from ruination.

“I’m not marrying that girl,” Lysander shouted at his father after he’d burst into his father’s study at the Mayfair house. He’d just heard the news from his mother that he was to marry the daughter of the disastrous family his father had invited to dinner the previous week. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven’t lost my mind.  T
here is nothing wrong with the girl. She’s pretty enough.”

“Her father’s in trade.
His name is Fowler for God’s sake—could there be anything more common. Five hundred years of tradition and you want me to throw it all away on practically a...heathen.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.  S
he’s a lovely girl. Her manners were impeccable.”

“And you wish to spend every future Christmas with that
plow-horse of a father? I can’t believe you have done this—I won’t agree.”

“You know very well why I have done this,” his father roared. “You think this house keeps on nothing? You think the country estate keeps on nothing?
We must replace the roof.”

“And you are to sell me like livestock for a new roof?”

“Make no mistake; you are marrying this girl to save the honor and continuation of this family. The Fowlers have more money than the Queen and we are requisitioning it. You will marry the girl and you will smile while you’re doing it.” His father’s hard side came out as he delivered his demand. It wasn’t often that it did, but it was beyond doubt that he was serious. Lysander knew he would be disinherited if he didn’t.

“My interests lie elsewhere,” Lysander finally said.
“There is a girl—”

“Not anymore,” his father cut in.
“This is your duty, Lysander—one you will have to perform and that is just the way it is. There is no point fighting it. Our family needs this money or we will slide into genteel poverty like the Havishworths, losing all of our property with nothing to our names other than a title. Is that the future you foresee for us? I don’t care if this annoys you Lysander, you will do it.”

Lysander pursed his lips before storming out of the room.
He left the house and didn’t return for ten days. His rebelliousness had stayed until he had run out of money and he had to return home, knowing full well that the speech his father would give him when he turned up in his study asking for more money.

Lysander sniffed at the memory of the awful conversation with his now late father before taking another swig of his drink. He listened to the quiet of the house before his thoughts wandered back to the past. Cassandra had been the name of the girl he’d wanted to marry. She was smart and sassy, with a wicked sense of humor. She’d been the one amongst all his acquaintances that everyone had adored, but she had definitely treated Lysander with more consideration than the rest.

She was still the same now—the life of the party—
but she was married to Lord Alterstrong, who she affectionately called a ‘brute of a man’. Cassandra would always ask where he kept that illusive wife of his, but Lysander had never relented and brought his wife with him to any of his social occasions. The only time he saw Adele was at family functions. She wasn’t the uncouth creature he’d expected; her manners were impeccable, which only made her even more dull in his eyes. She’d developed a friendship with his aunt of all people. He knew they wrote to each other and they spent time together whenever they were in the same vicinity.

Adele was just...boring.
Everything about her was dull. She was pretty enough, but she had no sass or wit. She’d never succeeded in making him laugh. She was just there and he’d had no trouble forgetting her, even when she was present.

Her desertion had come as a real surprise.
He’d dismissed it as absurd teasing when he’d first heard through a letter from one of the neighbors, but as more news came from the staff at the country house, it had turned out to be true—she’d run off with some military man who’d been stationed in the district. Lysander had been more annoyed than hurt. It was beyond reason that he should be cuckolded by his mouse of a wife. It was an absurd notion and he would have laughed heartily if it had happened to someone else.

All in all, he hadn’
t been a great husband. His anger at her being forced on him had marred any potential affection he could have developed for her and time only cemented the chasm between them. He wasn’t sure what kind of marriage she had expected going into this; he’d no idea what her expectations were in regards to anything, but she got to live in a fine country house and she’d been respected in Devon county. She’d been a lady and had been referred to as such, any insult to her status would have been an insult to his and the good people of Devon wouldn’t have dared.

But she’d given it all up to be a consort of a lowly Lieutenant, an action he could neither understand nor condone, but she’d done it
—rejected everything he offered: the security, the status and respect, to cavort with a man who could offer her nothing but social subjugation and notoriety. He knew her well enough to know that notoriety was not what she sought. She’d been a paragon of respectability, bending on none of the required etiquette and he had silently ridiculed her for it.

It
had never been a success of a marriage and he wasn’t sure it could ever have been. They were too dissimilar. They’d come from completely different backgrounds.  How could it have been that they could have made a success of a marriage he didn’t want. It was the fault of their fathers, who’d sought gains beyond the happiness of their children. They had both paid for their greed by forgoing the happiness of their children. But then the Fowlers’ wealth had been absorbed into the family name, making them a formidable family again. There was no doubt it was her wealth that had done it. He’d always believed that her gain in status and rise in society had been a good bargain in her eyes; it wasn’t until her desertion that he’d come to realise than maybe it was not.

Harry was right in that her body would have bee
n burnt as was the custom with cholera victims. There was no body for him to collect, but he still felt as if he had to go and collect her things. In line with her propensity for being a nuisance, he had to go all the way to India to do it. That is where they’d run off to. Lieutenant Ellingwood had taken on a lowly commission far away from England, as was required by military men who took on inappropriate consorts.

Not only did it confound him that a man would so depress his own prospects for a woman
—his mousy wife no less—but it also irked him. Something about the whole thing sat very badly with him.

With a sigh,
he concluded that he must travel to India to bring her possessions back to England. He hadn’t been a good husband, but he would do this for her and not leave her forgotten and ignored in death in some far off country. He owed the Fowlers that much. It would be a long, arduous voyage, but he hoped that if he did this, he would be comfortable putting this whole debacle behind him.