Grahame, Lucia (34 page)

Perhaps my husband
was
vulnerable on this score. I
remembered the night he had come to my room and confessed his sense of guilt at
having pressed his suit too soon.

"And that sad day
will
come, I guarantee it,"
continued the viscount. "But it seems, at present, to be rather a long way
off. And in the meantime, I'm certain that my young cousin is cheerfully
occupied in finding ways to make your life a misery to you and to remind you of
how unworthy you are to bear his name."

"Something like that," I admitted. "You are very
kind," I added. His kindness had finally vanquished the tremors in my
hands. I took a deep breath and poured myself some tea. "I fear I have not
behaved well, either," I confessed, "I think perhaps I have been far
more unkind than..."

Than what? Than my husband deserved? He had shown me no mercy.
Surely he did not deserve any.

"... than I need have been," I concluded limply.

"Unlike your strong-willed husband," resumed Lord
Marsden, "I have no illusions about my abilities to solve every dilemma.
Yours I find particularly poignant because it was so predictable and yet I did
nothing to avert it." He brooded for a moment or two. "It's a very
painful thing to witness—two people, both so dear to me, who have succeeded in
bringing only the keenest unhappiness to each other. What is to be done?"

"Yes, what is to be done," I mused, making it a comment
upon the hopelessness of the situation rather than a question.

"Of course, there is only
one
truly civilized
solution," declared the man of the world. It seemed that he had given the
matter a great deal of thought. "A divorce would, of course, be
unthinkable, and a legal separation would cause nearly as great a scandal; but
I know that if Tony is brought to reason, you will be able to work out some
polite arrangement that will keep you apart as much as possible, while preserving
the social niceties."

I shuddered, almost imperceptibly.

"You don't approve," observed the viscount.

"It seems so... cold," I confessed, staring at the
carpet.

"It does, doesn't it. But surely it can't be any worse than
what I suspect you are enduring at present." He hesitated. "You
need
not go on like this, Fleur," he said at last. "I can put an end
to it."

I lifted my eyes. My cheeks were hot.

"You can?" I whispered. "How?"

"I have told you that Tony's day of reckoning will come. He
knows only too well that nothing good ever comes from squirming away from
unpleasant truths. In the end, he will be compelled to face up to his own
responsibility. When he has done so, his mood may not be charitable, but it
will no longer be retaliatory. If he is left to himself, that may take weeks or
even months. But if I were to intercede, if I were to put it to him bluntly, he
would be forced to examine his conscience—sooner perhaps than he would like,
but he is far too honest to turn away from what he must know is the truth."

I considered this carefully. If it were true, it would lay all my
worst fears to rest, it would disarm my husband's threats, and free me from his
dominion.

I heard my husband's voice.
How will you use your liberty?
and
crimsoned, remembering the answer I had given him.

I pushed the thought away and considered, instead, Lord Marsden's
great influence with my husband. I had never inquired as to its roots, but now
I saw the reason for it. With such a heartless mother and, presumably, a
weakling for a father—my husband had never spoken of the man, no doubt he was
ashamed—how hungrily any child would have turned toward the aura of thoughtful,
calm, worldly wisdom that Lord Marsden radiated.

"Well," I said carefully, "if I may reserve the
right to accept your offer of help in the future, I should like to do so. But
that is all. For the moment, I must ask you
not
to intercede on my
behalf. I am very grateful to you, of course— immensely grateful. But for the
present, I would prefer that you say nothing of this to Anthony."

"Certainly not, my dear, if that is your wish," said
Lord Marsden, looking rather surprised. "But I can't imagine why you would
refuse. I assure you, Fleur, Tony is not so unjust that he would blame you for confiding
in me."

"It's not that," I said. "It's just that... well,
Anthony is not close to many people. I know that you love him, and I believe
you are one of the very few who are truly dear to him—the dearest of all, I
think. How could I jeopardize that by putting you in a position where you might
even
appear
to be taking my side, now that we are so divided? You say he
would not blame me for confiding in you, and perhaps that is true. But he might
well feel subtly injured by you, in spite of himself, and that would be a pity.
I really believe, Neville, that the wisest and kindest thing you can do for
both
of us is simply to continue to be the loving, trusted, and unquestionably
loyal friend to him that you have always been. No one who knows you can avoid being
influenced by your goodness—Anthony least of all. You have no reason to worry
about me. Your compassion and your generosity have done more to raise my
spirits than I can say."
And I will try to be more deserving of them,
I
vowed silently.

Lord Marsden gave me a long, searching look as he rose to his feet
to leave.

"I think perhaps you have a warmer heart than you give
yourself credit for," he said at last.

By the time I had taken myself back to Grosvenor Square, I was
resolved to curb my tongue and to extend toward my husband some of the same
generosity with which Lord Marsden had showered me.

But how speedily do the best of intentions crumble under the
smallest provocations!

When my husband returned late in the afternoon, he quickly
undermined his cousin's salutary effect on my temper. He found me in my sitting
room, where I had once again taken sanctuary, and wordlessly handed me an
envelope. My first observation was that it had been opened; my second, that it
bore Marguerite's return address. Nothing could have made me feel more
violated; for a moment I bit back speech, out of fear of the rage that might
otherwise spew from my lips.

At last I remarked calmly, "I never dreamed that you would
stoop to open my letters. That's a new low—even for you."

"Perhaps you ought to turn the envelope," was my
husband's equally calm rejoinder.

I did.

It was addressed to Sir Anthony Camwell, Bt, and Lady Camwell, at
Charingworth, and had been dispatched thence to Grosvenor Square.

My husband, still standing over me, said nothing more. Perhaps he
was expecting an apology, but an apology would have been absurd. Had not he
himself boasted that I had no idea what he was capable of—how could I possibly
be faulted for having assumed the worst?

I drew out the letter and read it. It was very brief— merely an
invitation to the first night of Marguerite's new play, which was to open in
Paris at the end of the week. The tone was cheerfully impersonal.

I was nearly overcome with emotion at my faithful friend's
instantaneous response to the veiled appeal of my recent letter to her. I laid
down the invitation carefully, without looking up. I did not want to let my
husband catch my expression.

"Would you care to go?" he asked.

I composed my face and lifted my head.

"Do my wishes matter to you?"

"No, I suppose not," he conceded with a smile, and
added, "I have decided to accept the invitation."

"For both of us?" I asked, trying not to reveal my
eagerness.

"Oh yes," he said. "Aside from the fact that I have
always enjoyed Madame Sorrel's performances, I am curious to discover what has
inspired this unusual invitation, and there is not much likelihood of that, I
think, if I don't bring you along."

It was true—the invitation was very much out of the ordinary.
Marguerite, although she thought very highly of herself, was completely lacking
in the kind of vanity that assumes one's friends must be eager to witness one's
every triumph.

"Perhaps it is a particularly fine play," I suggested.

My husband's lips curved. He picked up the invitation and pointed
to the play's title.
L'Embuscade.
The Ambush. It could only be yet
another of those broad farces in which Marguerite invariably shone.

"That must be it," he agreed, with an expression which
clearly told me that he found my explanation wanting.

He strolled off toward the doorway.

"Anthony," I called softly just as he reached it.

He turned.

"I am sorry," I told him with difficulty, "that I
accused you of opening my letters."

His response was not encouraging.

"So am I," he said impassively, and left me to ponder
his meaning.

We dined out a good deal that week and entertained a little as
well. Although we did not go so far as to wave white flags at each other and
negotiate an armistice, there was a notable cessation of hostilities.

Perhaps I resisted the temptation to provoke my husband merely
because I did not want to give him any excuse to deprive me of the têtê à têtê
with Marguerite for which I so desperately longed.

Or perhaps I had been softened by the knowledge that, no matter
how deeply I might have affronted their own high notions of honorable and
decent behavior, I still had friends. I knew now that neither Neville nor
Marguerite would abandon me to my husband's untender mercies. This was a great
comfort, for his apparent interest in the trip to Paris still gave me moments
of alarm. What seemed inconceivable in the light of day, or when he was smiling
at me in company across a gleaming, candlelit table, seemed perfectly and
horribly possible in the dark.

In Paris we stayed once again at the regally appointed Hotel
Continental on the Rue de Castiglione. But my husband had booked a larger suite
than the one we had shared at the start of our honeymoon; this time, we lay in
separate bedrooms.

Marguerite and Théo called upon us the morning following our
arrival. Marguerite was so charming to my husband that I almost feared she had
taken his side. Théo, who was looking very well, was even worse. He behaved
with so much bonhomie that I was sure my husband must suspect it of being
false. Yet my husband repaid him in kind, and soon —as if they had known each
other all their lives—they were having a spirited argument about Puvis de
Chavannes, whose paintings my husband admired considerably more than Théo did.
They moved on to discuss their mutual enthusiasm for the works of Henri
Rousseau.

The delightful visit was so brief that I barely had time to recover
from my dumbstruck surprise before our guests departed. My fears that my friend
had gone over to my enemy's camp were routed when, as she stepped forward to
give me a final hug, Marguerite pressed a tightly folded bit of paper into my
palm. I slipped it into my sleeve and returned her embrace with far more
emotion than the occasion seemed to call for.

Perhaps my husband had recognized that indeed something was afoot,
for after Marguerite and Théo's departure, he appeared suddenly reluctant to
leave me alone. But as soon as we returned to our suite after luncheon, I
declared myself to be very tired and in need of a nap.

"How I wish I were less fatigued. I was so looking forward to
wandering about Paris. You won't go out and leave me here alone, will you, Anthony?"
I added plaintively, for I wished to make certain that he would not slip out
and meet with Poncet while I was feigning sleep.

"Certainly not," he assured me to my relief. "I
would not dream of leaving you alone."

Once I was safely sequestered behind the door of my bedroom, I
drew Marguerite's note from its hiding place.

"Darling Fleur," she had written, "Do
not
come
to the theater tonight. Your upstanding husband must come alone —for I would be
highly
insulted if
both
of you were to absent yourselves!
You,
however, are to plead a severe headache or any convincing ailment that is
temporarily debilitating but unlikely to kill you!

"I have the impression from your letter that your husband has
decided to occupy the moral high ground with respect to you, but I have
discovered a few things that should speedily dislodge him from a position he
has
no right to adopt!
Do not be distressed, I beg you, to learn that I
have heard these things from Madame Germaine Mansard,
nee
Poncet. She
turned up as the scene painter on a production for which Théo did the playbill.
We have become very good friends! Believe me, Fleur, she is a young woman of
fine
character and has the
greatest
sympathy for you. She will come to
your room tonight at a quarter to nine to deliver what I hope may be a useful
weapon against your husband.