Grahame, Lucia (44 page)

"Why is that?"

"He absolutely does not want children," I said,
surrendering up nearly the last of my secrets.

"Really? I declare, the man has no vanity at all! And
you?"

"I do! More than anything."

"You don't mean to say you would marry someone else!"
cried Marguerite.

"Oh never!" I cried rather too ardently, and then added
in a stiff and far more rational tone, "I merely wish to escape from a
situation where I am daily reminded of the difference between how things are
and how they might have been."

"Well," said my friend with a sigh, "I will do
whatever I can to help you, Fleur. How sad it is.... I wish there were another
way. But never mind. Tell me what I must do."

"I am afraid I will need to borrow a little money," I
said. It nearly killed me. How Frederick had had the stomach to make such a
request, not once, but repeatedly, of the people he had called his friends was
incomprehensible. I would do almost anything, I thought, to ensure that I would
never find myself in so mortifying a position again.

"But of course," said Marguerite. "How much?"

"Only enough for me to get to London and for a night or two
at a hotel."

"Why, that is nothing," said Marguerite. But she was
looking at me rather strangely. I recognized the look; I had often seen it in
my grandmother's eyes. She was appraising what my dress must have cost, and my
shoes.

"Yes, I know," I said, fingering the satin rosettes at
the wrists of my gown. "Anthony pays for my clothes." I was becoming
nearly tongue-tied with embarrassment. "I... I haven't a penny to call my
own."

"Oh, my dear!" cried Marguerite, turning white. All her
heart was in her voice. "How dreadful! He has really pinned you to the
wall, hasn't he! But has it never occurred to you to nick the silver? And I
recall seeing some very fine gold plate in the dining room!"

"Yes, but that would make the nobility of my intentions
rather suspect, wouldn't it!" I said with a choked little laugh. "No,
my grandmother left me a little jewelry, which I keep in a bank in London. If I
can get there, I can sell it. It should raise more than enough money to keep me
until I can find work."

"What sort of work?"

"Whatever I can."

"You shall come to Paris," ordained Marguerite.
"You may as well come back with me. You can stay with us for as long as
you like. Théo will be delighted."

"Oh no," I protested weakly. "That would be a
terrible imposition! And if Anthony is Théo's patron—"

"What of that!" cried Marguerite.
"He
may be
Théo's friend, but
you
are mine! Besides, if you are so foolishly in
love with your husband that you are willing to endure poverty to prove your
honor, I hardly think Tony will blame us for wanting to be sure you do not
starve! My house is large —it will be delightful to have your company until you
both have sorted things out."

I knew
that
day would never come, but her warm-hearted
assurances and intermittent scoldings finally persuaded me to accept her offer.
However, I did not return to Paris with her. I told her I would follow in a
fortnight. I wanted time to make my farewells to Charingworth. I was pretty
certain, now, that my husband would not intrude upon them.

I spent hours out of doors, riding through the countryside or
sitting with my sketchbook in a hedgerow or a woodland glade, struggling, now
that my time there was running out, to capture the beauties of Charingworth, so
that I might carry a record of them with me into the future.

A morning came when I reached the last page of my sketchbook.

I closed the book and gazed at the bright ripples of the little
stream I had come to draw. It was time to leave. I knew it. Already I had
lingered too long; I felt weaker, not stronger, at the prospect of departure.

If only I could have been as clear, as transparent with my husband
as that unpolluted stream. But I was not transparent—not even to myself.

I recalled Marguerite's advice:
All you have to do is say...
What
could I lose by speaking to my husband? Were our differences—even those
regarding the propagation of little Camwells—beyond even the realm of
discussion? The mere idea of initiating so open and fearless a conversation
made me shrink; but the prospect of swallowing my unarticulated desires and
burying my vague hopes was more painful still.

I stood up at last and climbed into the saddle, still musing on
these matters.

I was far from the house but close to a copse that lay on the
border of my husband's lands and the neighboring estate. As Andromeda carried
me across the stream where I had loitered for most of the morning, a shot rang
out. Andromeda whinnied and fell to her knees. I lost my seat and landed in the
water, striking my right shoulder on the sharp edge of a large rock.

"Hold your fire, you idiot!" I cried as I clambered
toward Andromeda. But no one answered. At first I feared that my horse had been
hit, but she was quickly back on her feet and showed no signs of harm. Her hoof
must have slipped on one of the slick stones in the streambed when the shot had
startled her.

I led her back to the house, sick with guilt. If only I had not been
so preoccupied with my own thoughts, I would have found a less treacherous
place to cross the stream. As for the shots, I had often heard gunfire on Lord
Sparling's property, but never so close.

We reached the stables. I told Watkins what had happened.

"It's that Sparling brat again," he muttered, shaking
his head. He inspected Andromeda carefully and assured me that she had suffered
no injury. Then he asked me whether I'd been hurt.

"Oh, not at all!" I lied. My shoulder was throbbing
violently, but I was too proud to complain. Even when I went to my room to
change from my sodden habit, I didn't ring for Marie to help me. I was
embarrassed that I'd been thrown; I didn't want to explain the livid bruise.

No sooner had I changed into one of my old dresses than Mrs.
Phillips asked if she might speak with me; she wanted my approval for the
arrangements she had made for dinner that night, in honor of my husband's
return.

"Sir Anthony is here?" I gasped, forgetting to conceal
my surprise.

"No, my lady. He arrives on the three o'clock train from
London," said Mrs. Phillips.

"Ah yes," I said, pretending that I had forgotten,
although my heart was pounding with a mixture of anxiety and joy. I examined
the menu carefully, and for the first time in the entire history of my life at
Charingworth, I hesitantly suggested some small alterations, which I hoped
might please my husband's tastes, and then proceeded with the same diffidence
to offer some other suggestions as to the flowers which would grace the dinner
table. Mrs. Phillips, although she could be faulted in no other respect, was
somewhat conservative about mixing colors, and I thought a bolder floral
display than we usually enjoyed might delight my husband's eye.

"Very
good, my lady," she said with a
happier expression than she had been accustomed to wear of late.

When she had gone, I surveyed my collection of dresses
thoughtfully.

During my last visit to London, my wardrobe had been further
replenished by Madame Rullier, although my husband had not remained with us to
monitor the fittings. Now I selected what I believed was one of the prettiest
of all her creations, an afternoon dress of vibrant amber silk, with a few
vertical green satin ribbons extending from shoulder to hem and along the
sleeves, which were puffed at the shoulder and tightly fitted down the lower
arm to the wrist.

After luncheon, I visited Andromeda to assure myself yet again
that she was unharmed. Then I stopped by the kitchens to review the dinner menu
once again, this time with Monsieur Borchet, my husband's chef.

After that, I changed into the amber silk and wandered through the
gardens. When the hands on the face of the old clock which surveyed the gabled
roof stood at a half past two, I was seized by yet another whim. I thought of
all the times I had returned to Charingworth alone, to be met only by the
coachman, and of how disheartening I always found it not to receive a warmer
welcome at the end of a journey.

I returned to the stables and learned that my husband had arranged
for one of the undergrooms to meet him at the railway station with the dogcart.

"No," I announced to the undergroom. "I shall meet
him myself."

My nerves were as tightly strung as piano wire when I drove the
dogcart down the avenue to reach the station five minutes before the train did.

And then, shrieking and hissing, it arrived.

I stood upon the platform, waiting with an unfamiliar flutter in
my heart for my husband to appear. When a young gentleman leaped flamboyantly
from the train, I scarcely noticed; never in a million years would my husband
have broken into a run.

But the impetuous figure was rushing toward me, and a once
familiar voice was crying, "Fleur Brooks!"

It was my long lost friend, Guy.

Now I was flying toward him. We both stopped awkwardly, just short
of an embrace.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my husband step down from the
train. He was looking straight at me. For an instant, it seemed to me, his face
wore a stricken expression. But if it had been there at all, it was gone in a
moment.

"Come," I said, seizing Guy by the hand. "Let me
introduce you to my husband."

We walked slowly across the platform toward my husband, who was
approaching us with his usual calm dignity.

"Good afternoon, Fleur," said my husband.

"Welcome home, Anthony," I stammered. He must have
thought it a very odd welcome to find his wife all but in the arms of another
man. "Let me introduce a very old and dear friend of mine, Guy Hazelton.
Guy, my husband, Anthony Camwell."

They greeted each other amicably.

"But what brings you here?" I asked Guy. "I could
scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you."

Even as I spoke I half feared my husband would regard this as a
spur-of-the-moment invention.

"Nor I mine," said Guy. "I'm on my way—well, I
was
on my way, and my luggage still is—to spend the weekend at Lincroft with
the Kendalls when I saw you from the train. What could I do but jump off? It is
so lovely to see you, Fleur, after all these years. You're looking
marvelous—radiant!"

I thought this must be a gallant exaggeration. As Guy spoke, I
felt my husband's curious, piercing glance upon me once again.

"You've captured a real prize," declared Guy to my
husband with the unstudied charm I had always found so endearing in him,
although at this juncture it embarrassed me sorely. "I would not have
believed that any man on earth could have beguiled Fleur away from Paris."

My husband smiled.

"Why don't you come back to Charingworth and have tea with
Fleur?" he said. By not saying "tea with us," he had rather
delicately indicated he would give Guy and me the opportunity to talk alone.
"You must have a great deal to tell each other after so long. My carriage
can take you to Lincroft later on, if you like. It is not far at all."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of putting you to the trouble,"
said Guy. "There'll be another train along in an hour or so. I'll just
telegraph the Kendalls to let them know that my luggage and I will be arriving
separately."

"Really, it would be no trouble," said my husband.

But Guy was firm in his refusal.

"Perhaps you'd like to wait here, then, and give yourselves a
little time to talk," said my husband to me. And then, as Guy dashed off
to send his telegram, my husband added, "I'll leave the dogcart for you.
It's such a fine day—I shan't mind the walk at all."

"Oh, I'll walk!" I said quickly. "You must be tired
after your journey. Take the dogcart—I brought it for you. It is such a lovely
day that I'm afraid I rescinded your orders and came to meet you myself."

"That was thoughtful of you," he said. I realized with a
pang that I had rarely given him much opportunity to speak of me thus.
"But I insist upon walking."

"Have you no luggage?"

"None," he said. Then, with another long look, he added,
"Everything I could ever want is here."

I felt my cheeks color as I looked at him until he turned away and
left.

"He's very gracious," said Guy, returning, "and so
good-looking. But he seemed, oh, slightly upset.... Is he the jealous
sort?"

"I don't know," I said, feeling dazed. I watched my husband's
straight back disappear round the corner of the livery stable.

"You don't know!" exclaimed Guy. "You don't
know
whether your own husband is subject to fits of jealousy! Believe me, Fleur,
if anyone married to
you
had a jealous bone in his body, you'd have
found it out long ago."

I thought again of the terrible things my husband had implied
about Frederick, but I thought too of how long he had held his peace before
breaking out with them.