Louise Allen Historical Collection (59 page)

‘How very thoughtful. My wife would be delighted. There is only so much we can do, you know. I am sure you will be a most beneficial influence in the parish, Lady Hadleigh.’ He smiled and moved on to the next parishioner in line.

‘Do you want to see the family chapel while we are here?’ Daniel asked. He seemed to take her silence for consent and steered her back into the church and down the side aisle. ‘Here we are and that…’ he gestured to where a large slab in the floor was highlighted by the lines of fresh mortar around its edge ‘…is the entrance to the vault.’

Bella took a deep breath. Whatever she did, she must not express any emotion. ‘Where will the memorial tablet go, do you know?’ she asked, reading some of the inscriptions she could decipher and which were not in Latin. There was a florid monument from 1707 with the viscount of the time depicted in Roman general’s uniform that contrasted oddly with his full-bottomed wig and a charming table tomb with a fourteenth-century Calne and his wife, he with his hound and she with her lap dog at their feet.

‘There, where the board has been set up, next to his parents’ memorial.’ Daniel pointed to a bare patch of wall where a rectangle of painted wood had been placed. When she came closer she saw it was a coat of arms.

Now she was here she was surprised to find how little emotion she felt. The man she thought she had loved had squandered his life, hurt many people, betrayed trust and his duty and now he was gone, leaving only Elliott, the brother he had spurned, to mourn his loss. Poor man, she thought, startled by the pity that overtook the hurt and anger that had been inside her.
So arrogant, so proud—did you sense that your brother is worth six of you? Why didn’t I meet Elliott Calne first and fall in love with him? Or perhaps I have.

The thought was so unexpected, so sudden, that she gasped and sat down in the nearest pew with a bump.

‘Bella?’ Daniel sat down too. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I was thinking of Mama,’ she lied. ‘I do not know where she is buried and I wish I could leave flowers on her grave, visit it from time to time.’ Using such an excuse stung her conscience.
Forgive me, Mama,
she thought.
I had to tell him something.

‘But you are thinking of her,’ Daniel said. ‘That is all that matters.’

‘Yes, you are right, she is in my heart.’ She took her handkerchief, a very pretty scrap of Swiss lace that Elliott had picked out for her when she had been buying her reticule, and dabbed her eyes, pretending tears.

Am I in love with him?
It was too difficult a thought to come to terms with here, now, with Daniel, unwittingly tactless at her side.

‘I am sorry to be such a watering pot,’ she said with a smile. ‘The monuments all look very handsome against the grey stone, I think. Will you come back for luncheon?’

‘If it would be no trouble.’ Daniel walked her back, handed her up into her carriage then followed in his. Bella regretted her polite invitation the moment she made it. Now, instead of the simple luncheon she had intended to eat on the terrace and the opportunity to try to come to terms with what she actually felt for her husband, she would have to sit inside in the small dining room and make conversation while Henlow and at least one footman danced attendance. She just wished Elliott would come home.

Elliott studied the stonemason’s notes. The man was right, he was almost certain. If the memorial slab was made a little narrower and taller and the angles at the top replaced with a wreath, then it would sit more harmoniously next to his parents’ monument. It would be the work of a moment to look again at the chapel and then he could get home and see Arabella, put her mind at rest about the bishop before he broke the news about her brother-in-law.

He wondered how she was and hoped she would have sent for the doctor if she had felt unwell again. He wondered, as the carriage drew up at the churchyard, if she was thinking of him.

He strode down the aisle, hat in one hand, notes in the other and into the Calne chapel, put down his hat on a pew and studied the wall. Yes, he would write and order the changes. His eye was caught by something close to his foot, a scrap of white, and he bent to pick it up.

The very new, very pretty handkerchief embroidered with lily of the valley in whitework was one of the set he had given Arabella in Worcester. Arabella had been here.

She had sat here, amidst his ancestors, carrying the child who could well carry on the line. She would be hoping for a boy, he thought. It was the natural wish for every wife with a title and an inheritance to secure for her husband. It would not occur to Arabella that her husband could be so dishonourable that he hated the idea of her with his brother’s son in her arms.

I hope she found peace here,
Elliott thought as he took up his hat and strode out of the church, the heavy door closing with a bang behind him,
because it gave me none.

‘I’ll walk,’ he said to the coachman. ‘Tell her ladyship I will be home after luncheon.’ He strode off in the direction of the village before the man could respond. What he wanted was not a civilised noon meal with his wife. He wanted to get drunk and hit someone.

He probably needed someone to hit
him,
he acknowledged furiously as he vaulted the fence into the lane—a fight would be deeply satisfying. He felt betrayed, which was nonsense, illogical. It would be satisfying to be able to shout at Arabella, rant at her for her actions, her pregnancy. He had felt none of that when she first told him, only anger at Rafe and pity for her.

But the child had not been real to him then. Now he could see the changes in Arabella, saw the consequences in the doctor’s visit, her desire for the nursery. She had ordered the cradle to be polished—for Rafe’s son.

Elliott reached the village duck pond and kicked a stone into it, sending three ducks and a coot panicking to the far shore. Two small boys, who doubtless should have been doing something useful for their mothers, looked up from where they were fashioning a fishing pole from a length of twine, a bent stick and a pin with a wriggling worm, dismissed him as no threat to their truancy and went back to their task.

Elliott sat on a log, ignored the effect on his elegant pantaloons, and watched them. They were about six, he supposed, grubby, ragged, gap-toothed and utterly absorbed in their adventure. He wanted a son like that. He wanted Arabella to have a son,
his
son. They would go fishing together, play truant from the tutor together. He would teach him to ride and shoot and care about the land. His son, a boy with Arabella’s hazel-green eyes and his own dark honey hair.

Damnation.
He had no right to be thinking like this. It had been no problem at first. It was as he came to know Arabella, to like her, to realise she was not just his wife in some abstract sense, but a person who mattered to him—that was when the fact that the child she carried was not his began to hurt.

He hated himself for it, he decided as he stood up and circled the pond. If she knew, she would despise him for feeling like this after all his talk of honour and duty. Elliott dug into his pocket, found two sixpenny pieces and tossed them to the boys as he passed. Their gasps of delight made him smile, albeit grimly, as he headed for the Calne Arms.

Bella finished her luncheon and went back to contemplating the pile of parcels the footman had brought in from the carriage. She supposed they must be for her—who else would Elliott be buying hats for?—but she did not like to open them. The thought that he had been choosing gifts for her made her happy, but she dare not cling to the hope that the gesture meant more than the kindness he had shown her all along.

She wanted to see him, to hear his voice, discover whether the pleasant ache in her heart was truly love. She feared it was. The misery of loving and her love not being returned warred with the happiness the emotion brought her. Elliott had already been so kind, had sacrificed so much, been so patient, she could not burden him with her feelings, feelings he would not return. And why should he believe her, even if she told him that she loved him? She had fancied herself in love with his brother—Elliott would think her fickle, would question her judgement.

But where was he? It was two hours since the carriage had returned and the footman said his lordship had apparently finished his business in the church and had walked off towards the village.

The clock struck three and she found anxiety had turned into worry and worry into anger. He had been gone for almost three days, he must know she was anxious, and yet he had not even put his head round the door, just sent a message and a pile of shopping.

Bella seized the nearest thing, a hat box, and yanked at the ribbons. It cost her a broken nail before she could open the knot she had jerked tight. Inside was the most frivolous villager hat with a big knot of green ribbon over one ear. She tossed it aside and tore open another that proved to contain a stack of fabric samples. They spilled at her feet as she looked at the next. Elliott, it seemed, had indulged himself by buying her fine lawn chemises.

‘Hah!’ Bella dropped them back on to the tissue paper from where they slid on to the floor. What did he care about her underwear? He didn’t even come straight home to see her.

‘Don’t you like them?’ She spun round as the deep voice from the doorway made her breath catch. Elliott lounged there, looking very slightly dishevelled. She was not sure whether she wanted to slap him or kiss him. Possibly both.

‘You’ve been drinking,’ she accused.

‘Not much,’ he said, wandering into the room. ‘Not enough. A pint of knock-me-down, but Em still standing.’ His eyes were shuttered, wary, a strange contrast to his careless slouch and loosened neckcloth.

‘Why did you not come home?’ she demanded. ‘Look at the time! Your luncheon has gone to waste, I was worried…’

Are you turning into a shrew, wife?’ Elliott picked up the bonnet and reached out to drop it on her head.

Bella slapped his hands away and the hat went flying. ‘Where have you been?’ He frightened her like this.

Elliott picked up the hat and laid it back in its box with exaggerated care. ‘In the inn.’

‘Is it muddy in there?’ Bella demanded, gesturing at his boots.

‘No. I walked round the pond, I seem to recall.’

‘I was worried,’ Bella repeated, laying a hand on his forearm. Elliott looked down at it and she lifted it away.

‘The footmen would have told you I was in the village,’ he said. ‘Must I account for my movements to my wife now? What do you think I was getting up to? Debauching local innocents?’

That hurt, as it was obviously meant to. ‘No,’ she countered sweetly. ‘I assumed you were getting drunk in the local tavern and perhaps getting into a fistfight.’

‘I would have enjoyed that. As it is, I am not drunk, I have not fought anyone and now I am home. How have you spent the time?’

‘I went to church and then I went to see the family chapel. Daniel showed me. I was upset because—’
Because I realised I loved you.
‘And then I came home and entertained Daniel for luncheon. He is being very kind.’

She stalked over to the bell pull and yanked it. ‘I suppose you would like some luncheon now?’

‘You rang, my lady?’ Henlow appeared, calmly oblivious that the drawing room was a litter of packages and underwear, his mistress was standing, elbows akimbo, in the middle, and his master was mired in mud.

‘Thank you, Henlow,’ Elliott said. ‘Her ladyship has changed her mind.’ The butler bowed himself out, still expressionless.

‘I am not hungry,’ he snapped before Bella could catch her breath and call the butler back.

‘What is the matter with you?’ she demanded. She was not scared of him, not exactly, but she was scared for
them.
This was not the Elliott she had come to know. His eyes were fixed on her midriff and she realised she had laid a protective hand over the swell of her belly. ‘Don’t shout at me, I am certain it upsets the baby.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Elliott said, not sounding so in the least. ‘I should not have forgotten that everything revolves around that confounded child.’

‘Elliott! How could you? Our baby—’

‘Rafe’s son,’ he fired back and then caught himself, his face pale and his eyes dark with emotions she had never seen there.

‘But you married me because it might be a boy,’ Bella said, struggling to understand. ‘You said it must be the heir if it is a boy.’ And then she recalled the shadow that had crossed his face when she had teas-ingly remarked that she hoped the baby was a boy because they would have such fun together. ‘You resent it, don’t you? Elliott, it is an innocent baby. If you are angry, be angry with me, not the child.’

‘I am not angry with the child, or with you,’ he flung at her over his shoulder as he kicked aside some fallen underwear on his way to stand and stare out of the window. ‘I am not even angry with Rafe although, God knows, he deserves it. I am furious with myself.’

‘With yourself?’ Bella stared at the broad shoulders, braced as though he expected her to throw things at him. ‘You mean, because you want it to be
your
son? But you said—’

‘I know what I said. I know what I should think. I know what is the right and honourable way to feel,’ he said without turning around. ‘So that makes me dishonorable and wrong, does it not?’

‘Oh, Elliott. No.’ Bella wrestled to find the right words.
What have I done to him?
‘It just makes you human. I should have realised, I should have thought.’