Louise Allen Historical Collection (62 page)

‘Ah.’ Elliott hitched one hip on to the edge of the table and regarded her, his lean face thoughtful. ‘I thought you trusted me, Arabella.’

‘I did.’ She saw her use of the past tense register. ‘You told me that there was no one else. Anne tells me that there were rumours that you were interested in Lady Frederica early in the year.’

‘I was, although I thought I had been careful not to make it obvious. If Rafe’s death had not intervened and I had accepted an invitation to their house party then I would probably have proposed to Freddie,’ Elliott said coolly. ‘She is intelligent, amusing, well-brought up and suitable.’

‘I can see that. You were aiming high; she is a very good match for a younger son.’

‘I have money—that appeals to the Framlinghams. Freddie is a younger daughter. I would have been acceptable.’

‘And even more so now.’

‘Quite.’

‘And her affections were engaged?’ Bella asked. ‘Was this to have been a love match?’

‘Good God, no! We like each other. I think I can say we are friends. Lovers, no, never.’ Elliott looked at her steadily. ‘I told you I had never been in love with anyone, did I not?’

‘Yes, you did. And I should have asked you if you had any prior commitments while I was at it,’ Bella said.

‘You think I am dishonourable enough to jilt another woman?’ Elliott was as tense as she now. But of course, she had impugned his precious honour.

‘I think,’ she said tightly, ‘that you would have done almost anything to put right your brother’s actions, whatever the consequences. Consequences like society gossip, a young woman who expected a proposal having the shock of her life when she meets the pregnant wife of the man she looked forward to marrying, a child with a father who cannot love it.’ Elliott’s face hardened, but she swept on. ‘Are you going to write to Frederica?’

‘No, of course I am not.’ Elliott got up and stood in front of her. ‘That would imply there was something to explain. Freddie is no more heartbroken over me than I am over her. And if you think if I made her an offer and I would break my word to her because of some obsession with righting Rafe’s wrongs then you do not know me at all.’

‘I don’t think I do!’ Bella flung back. ‘I know nothing of your life. You keep me shut up here—today was the first time I have been allowed out—you do not invite your friends to visit—’

‘You are not shut up.’ Elliott was not shouting by sheer force of will, Bella thought, her own heart thudding. She had never seen him like this, the blue eyes blazing, his face taut with anger. The thought flickered into her head that he looked magnificent. Terrifying, but magnificent. ‘I am trying to make sure you rest, trying to allow you time to get used to things. Do you think I enjoy being stuck here face to face with the mess that this estate is, with no relief from it? I have a perfectly good life I could be living, friends I could be with, another estate, invitations—’ He dug into his desk drawer and threw them on to the surface.

‘Well, go and live your other life then,’ she shot back. ‘Go and do whatever it is you do with your friends—I wouldn’t know, I haven’t met them because I am not good enough to meet them. Go and look after Fosse Warren, go up to Town and visit the relatives I must not see.’

She was being unreasonable, she knew it. But she loved him and he would not let her past the careful kindness, would not share his life with her. He could not even promise to share his needs with her. Bed was one thing, but all the rest of what made up Elliott Calne was a closed book. Why should he open up to her? He had never wanted to marry her. It hurt so much at the back of her mind where she tried to hide it that today’s humiliating encounter was like a fingernail dragged across a raw graze.

‘Very well, if that is what you want. I will drive over to Fosse Warren now, there is nothing here that needs me for a week or so. Turner has his orders.’ He picked up a pile of correspondence from the end of the desk. ‘I will not refuse these after all.’ Elliott paused in the doorway. ‘And do feel free to go shopping whenever you wish, my dear.’

Elliott drove away from the Hall and his wife more confused than he could ever remember being, even when Rafe had turned against him. She made him so angry, yet he did not want to feel that way and she did not want to cross him, he knew that. Arabella was trying so hard to be a good wife to a man she did not love…

Ah, is that it, you fool?
he asked himself.
You want her to love you.
As if things were not difficult enough already.

That would be a miracle, Elliott decided, turning his team in the direction of Moreton in the Marsh. She had loved one Calne brother and had been utterly betrayed. Why should she ever give her heart to another, who looked so much like her betrayer? And what would he do with a wife who loved him anyway? All that emotion, all that pressure to live up to an ideal and never to hurt her. He would never manage that—he was blundering about now, hurting her over the child, over Freddie. And if she loved, then she would hope he would love her back.

He wanted a wife who would be passionate in bed—he had that. One who would preside over his households with competence and charm. And she was learning very fast to do that. He needed a viscountess to look after his people and she was doing that far better than he could ever have hoped. And, of course, he needed a wife to bear him children, give him an heir.

The leaders pecked and swerved as his hand tightened on the reins and Elliott cursed under his breath. If only this relationship was not entangled with his feelings over the baby. But without the child there would be no relationship.

Love was an emotion for women. It hurt, it complicated matters. Men of his class did not marry for love.
You want her to love you because you think you are better than Rafe
, his conscience jabbed at him.
You need to feel you own her, just as you need the child to be yours. Rafe betrayed you, rejected you and now you want to crow that you have made Arabella happy when all he could do was attempt to destroy her.

What sort of reason is that for wanting your wife’s love?
he asked himself.
She is no fool. She likes you well enough in bed, she liked you well enough when she thought you would make a decent father. Why couldn’t you have hidden how you feel about the baby? Why couldn’t you have explained about Freddie?

Elliott urged the team into a canter.
Just don’t fall in love with her,
he thought.
Don’t be so stupid as to risk that. Rafe did not love you, the child most certainly won’t—children know when they aren’t loved—and Arabella can see you all too clearly.

He was almost at Fosse Warren when he heard the hooves thundering behind him. He reached for his pistols in their holster strapped to the side of the curricle as he turned to look over his shoulder, then thrust them back as he recognised Peters, the head groom from the Hall, galloping flat out on Ace, Elliott’s big black hunter.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded as the man reined in beside him. ‘Her ladyship?’

‘No, my lord.’ The man got his breath back and pulled a letter out from the breast of his coat. ‘Her ladyship is perfectly well. Only she rang, about half an hour after you’d left, my lord, and gave me this letter. She said it was urgent and I was to give it to you as soon as I could.’

‘Ride on to Fosse Warren with me,’ Elliott said, putting the roughly folded letter with its blob of sealing wax into his own coat. What had Arabella to say that was so urgent?
Never come back, I hate you,
probably. Or she had sat down with the dictionary and found the words to tell him just what a stiff-rumped, self-righteous, deceitful husband she had found herself.

He fended off the enthusiastic welcome of butler and housekeeper at the Warren and retreated to his study, thankful for the small, well-worn familiarity of the place.

The hastily melted lump of wax broke into shards under his impatient thumb and he spread the letter out on the desk.

I am sorry,
it began with no salutation.
I have been so afraid of exposing you to gossip and censure for what I did. For my sin. And there they were, my worst fear. Not only friends who would be critical of you—but such a beautiful young woman. So eligible. She will know what to do always. She will know how to act and what to say. Not like me. I stood there feeling lumpen and ashamed. Of course you should have married her.

There is no excuse for me losing my temper. I cannot blame it on my condition—it is my insecurity and guilt. My shame. And I should not take it out on you.

But, Elliott, you should have told me about her. I am your wife and I want to be a good wife. And I cannot if you keep things from me.

Do not worry about me. I feel better now I have written this and I will do my best to have long lists of all the tenants’ needs by the time you have exhausted all your invitations and reassured yourself about Fosse Warren.

I will do my best to look after the Hall while you are gone.

It was signed simply
A.

Elliott looked at the letter for a long time. He was not even making much of a fist at being the sort of husband Freddie, brought up to this life, would have expected. Arabella was lonely and ashamed and feeling guilty. He picked up his pen and wrote.

I will come home tomorrow, I am sorry too, I should have trusted you with the truth. I find I do not want to look at turnip clamps or attend prize fights. I will come home and we will hold dinner parties if you would like that. And we will go on picnics.

E.

E
lliott returned home the next day and discovered that, for a married man, there were interesting ways to make up after a row. They held dinner parties and a card party, Arabella met all the local gentry and faced down the occasional raised eyebrow at her burgeoning figure. The staff, as he suspected, had already guessed well before they were told that their mistress was expecting a happy event, and were quietly delighted. On the surface theirs was a successful marriage.

Anne Baynton and Arabella became fast friends and, as she became more secure and confident, his wife began to blossom in a way that took his breath when he looked at her.

Arabella grumbled about backache and twinges, about feeling too hot and having to disappear at frequent intervals into the brand-new water closet he had ordered to be installed. But she also grew more passionate and adventurous in bed, which delighted him, although, out of the bedroom, she remained slightly distant and reserved. She had not forgotten what he had said about the child and he wondered if she trusted him after he had concealed the truth about Freddie from her.

And he knew he was not reaching out to her as he should. He did not know how to reach her, how to make her trust him without declarations of love that he was sure she would see through. Would he have fallen in love with her if he had been the one to meet her in that country churchyard, if she had looked at him and seen her Sir Galahad on his black charger?

He liked her, he worried about her, he desired her body and enjoyed her mind. Was that not enough without pining away and feeling the need to write poetry and make flowery speeches? As the weeks passed and everything else became better on the surface Elliott found he could not forget, except for a few hours at a time, that the child Arabella was carrying was not his.

Then one morning in the middle of August he found her, her hands clasped over the swell of her belly, her expression intent and inward looking. ‘What is it?’ Elliott knelt beside her. ‘Is something wrong? Shall I send for the doctor?’

In answer she took his hand and laid it on the curve and smiled at him, her face radiant. ‘Feel. The baby is moving.’

And under his hand something shifted, kicked.
Arabella’s baby. Rafe’s son.
An ordinary miracle that every parent greeted with joy and rejoicing. He felt ill with the violence of his instinctive rejection and furious with himself for feeling that way.

Elliott fought to keep his face clear of expression, but she must have felt his reaction through her hold on his hand. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ he lied. He had to hide it from Bella, she needed tranquillity and reassurance now, not this dishonourable rejection that he should be able to overcome. ‘I was just worried—doesn’t that hurt?’ Another kick came right under his palm as though the child sensed him and his resentment of it.