CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There was water in the jug by the bed, but I wondered, as I moodily contemplated that receptacle, how long I could go without eating. Or would Clare have food brought to me? Bread and water—stale bread and water—were the customary staples for a prisoner, as I recalled.

  It was morning, a dreary, blustery morning, with clouds rushing across the heavens like frightened animals. I had slept, finally, from sheer exhaustion, and I slept late. The first thing I did upon awakening was try the door. It was still locked. I was not much surprised.

  My lip looked frightful, all swollen up like an abscess, but it did not pain me too much. I suspected it would, if I ever got anything to eat. The worst aches came from a set of bruises I could not even remember acquiring during the excitement of the encounter; there was a fine group of them on my shoulder and upper arm, and a welt along my jaw. I examined them in the mirror with dispassionate curiosity. I did not need Jonathan's law knowledge, or the great Mr. Blackstone, to tell me that this latest act of Clare's did not alter my situation. I did not doubt that if I should ever display such bruises to a magistrate he would simply give Clare a lecture on kindness to inferiors and me a sterner lecture on submissiveness.

  Having nothing better to do, I settled down by the window with a glass of water. The morning wore on, and nothing of interest occurred, except that my neglected appetite began to make itself felt. I had had no breakfast and it was now approaching luncheon time. I took another sip of water, and then sat up. Williams was bringing Clare's horse around to the front of the house, and shortly Clare himself appeared.

  He stood for a moment looking about him, drawing on his gloves in a leisurely fashion. He was impeccably groomed, in a splendid new coat and cravat; a diamond sparkled on his shirt front.

  I shrank back as his eyes approached my window, and when I ventured to peek out again he was riding off down the road.

  If I had not seen him ride off I would have looked for a hiding place when I heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. Knowing Clare was gone, I had only one interest—not so much who stood at the door but what he or she was bringing. I was very hungry.

  The door creaked open, and there stood Mrs. Andrews. Her face was red with emotion, and at the sight of me she began to cry.

  'Oh, my lady! Oh, my lady...'

  I found myself in the absurd position of consoling Mrs. Andrews for my bruises.

  'Now, now,' I said briskly, patting her shoulder. 'You would serve me much better if you would get me some food. Unless his Lordship has ordered that I be starved.'

  The strangest look came over the housekeeper's face. She even forgot to cry.

  'His Lordship left no orders with respect to you, my lady. I heard, last night, from Anna, what had happened. The girl was in such a state I thought she would fall into a fit. I have never seen—'

  'Yes, yes,' I said impatiently. I was concerned about Anna and had every intention of inquiring after her; but at that particular moment I did not want Mrs. Andrews' powers of concentration further distracted. 'Did his Lordship say nothing to you?'

  'Not a word,' said Mrs. Andrews solemnly. 'This morning he came down cheerful as a lark. He was in the best of spirits, planning his trip; I suppose he thought you had breakfast in your room, as you often do, for he did not mention you until he was about to leave and then he said—now let me see, what was it exactly—yes, he said: "Her Ladyship is a slug-a-bed this morning, Mrs. Andrews; be sure she eats a hearty luncheon, if she has not breakfasted. Tell her I will return tomorrow or, at the latest, the next day." He went off humming, my lady.'

  'It is incredible,' I muttered, forgetting my status and speaking to her as woman to woman. 'Mrs. Andrews, what do you suppose is wrong with him? You see what he has done—'

  'Yes, and I stand here babbling,' said Mrs. Andrews. 'Sit down, my lady, and let me tend to you. I'll tell you what it is,' she continued, leading me to a chair, 'it is the drink. I've seen it before, to my sorrow, it is one of the troubles women must suffer from. "Strong drink is raging," the Scripture says, and a truer word was never spoken; it can turn a good man mad. Of course his Lordship did not mean to do it. He was such a dear little boy—'

  'I am sure that is true,' I said. 'But it has no bearing on the present case, unfortunately. What shall I do?'

  To my surprise, the old lady looked askance.

  'My lady ... if I might venture...'

  'Say anything you like to me. When have I ever reproached you for speaking frankly?'

  'But this ... it is a delicate thing, and not my place ... Only, you have no mother, and so I thought...'

  'Pray go on,' I said, wondering.

  'It is a great trial for women, certainly,' Mrs. Andrews mumbled. She was very busy with a pot of ointment, and did not meet my eyes. 'Especially to so young and delicate a lady ... But it is a cross, my lady, that must be borne, woman's punishment for the sin of Eve, you know. A man, a gentleman—even a well-bred gentleman—well, after all, my lady, he is a man, whatever else he may be, and there is nothing a woman can do to prevent it!'

  She ended in a rush of words; she was purple with embarrassment and anxiety. I might have laughed, if she had not been so much in earnest—and if her words had not held such unconscious irony. She thought Clare had turned to drink because I rejected him. She had reason; no one could know that his advances the previous night, before an impartial witness, had been the sole such incident in our marriage.

  'Thank you, Mrs. Andrews,' I said. 'I will think over your good advice.'

  I went down to luncheon. I was shy at seeing Jonathan after what had happened, and—I am ashamed to say—I was a little angry with him. It was illogical of me to resent his not coming to my rescue, when any interference on his part would have worsened my situation, as well as his ability to help me in the future. Yet when has emotion ever been logical? Mrs. Andrews had rubbed soothing ointment into my bruises and reduced the swelling on my mouth with cold water. I had, however, resisted her suggestion that I cover the bruise on my cheek with rice powder.

  The look on Jonathan's face, when he saw me, made me ashamed of my petty trick. He went quite pale.

  'We will eat at once, if you don't mind,' I said quickly, to prevent an outburst. 'I am so hungry.' It was fortunate that I was hungry, otherwise I would have found it impossible to carry on a casual conversation during that meal. Jonathan hardly spoke, and touched almost no food. The air between us was heavy with unspoken words. After dinner I suggested a walk. Even with Clare's hideous henchman following, we could talk more freely outside the house.

  It was gray and windy; the wind tugged at the veil I had tied over my hair, and blew my cloak about. As I had expected, the lurking figure was waiting. It fell in behind us. The cold air seemed to calm Jonathan. He strode along beside me in silence until we were out of sight of the house. Then, gesturing me to remain where I was, he turned back toward our follower.

  I watched the ensuing conversation with interest and some concern, but it did not end, as I half expected, in violence. Instead the man grinned evilly and took something from Jonathan's hand. He went off without a backward glance, and Jonathan returned to me.

  'What did you say to him? He will tell Clare you sent him away.'

  'He will not dare admit he was bribed to leave his post,' Jonathan said coolly. 'I thought I recognized him; we met once, in the ring, and it seems I made an impression on him. No, I think we are safe from Master Sam. I had to be able to speak with you, Lucy, without fear of being overheard. I have a strange feeling that we may not have many more opportunities.'

  'Why do you say that? You are—you are leaving? Or do you have a presentiment, a warning—'

  'No, no.' Jonathan smiled, and then became serious. 'You are falling into one of his traps when you say that; it would please him to see you cowering and terrified of his specters and ghosts. But that is only one of his traps, Lucy. If I could see the reason for them, I would not be so afraid.'

  'You, afraid?'

  'I have acted a heroic part, have I not?' Jonathan said bitterly. 'I have done hard tasks in my life, but I never had a harder thing to do than stand by last night, hearing him ... But Lucy, I know that is what he wants! Several times I have tried to take my leave, but he detains me here, for a purpose which is still obscure. So long as we are in ignorance of his motive, we are safest in resisting the roles he is trying to thrust upon us. Do you understand?'

  He felt it, very deeply; in his eagerness he took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. Gentle as he was, he touched the sore places on my arm, and I winced with pain. Jonathan saw my look; with a low exclamation he caught me in his arms. I could hear the pounding of his heart under my cheek, and the way his voice shook as he muttered,

  'It is too much for me, I can't do it; no man could. If he touches you again—'

  'No,' I said, without moving; I felt as if all my life I had been searching for this moment and this place, in his arms. 'You are right in what you say, and you have seen his most dangerous trap. He wants you to attack him. He wants to drive us both to some desperate act. Why? That is what we must think about.' And then, as his arms loosed their hold, I caught at his coat front. 'Only—only hold me for another moment, before we begin thinking.'

  With a sound that was half laugh and half groan he complied; we stood locked together, with the wind blowing my cloak about us both. The open moors stretched out all around, and anyone, might have seen us; but for a few seconds I did not care if the whole world saw.

  'Very well,' I said, after a time. 'You may begin to think now.'

  I put myself away from him, and he let me go. His face was drawn as though with actual physical pain.

  'I can't think reasonably any longer, not where you are concerned. I want to do mad things—snatch you up and run away with you, to a place where you will be safe.'

  'You think I am in danger?'

  'No, no.' He shook his head vigorously. 'You see? I am in such a state I let my wild fancies run away with me, and frighten you ... Let us walk; it will clear my head, and I will tell you what I think, and you will tell me when I am wrong.'

  He took my arm and we started off along the path.

  'Your husband's anger seems to arise from jealousy,' Jonathan began. 'At least that is how an outsider would interpret his behavior. I know you have given him no cause—'

  'No cause,' I interrupted. 'But there was an incident ... It sounds foolish, but I want you to know it.'

  I told him about Fernando. I had long since lost all feeling except contempt for that creature, and yet it was extraordinarily difficult to tell Jonathan about him. I could not look him in the face, but kept my eyes fixed on the rusty bracken on which we walked.

  'Clare knew of this?' Jonathan asked. 'Surely your aunt did not—'

  'She ought not to have told him, but she may have done. I have the feeling that he does know, and has for some time.'

  'It is unfortunate. Foolish and trivial as it was, to a man of Clare's temperament the thought that you preferred another—and that other a lowly music teacher—'

  'He married me.'

  'Yes, but it might prey on his mind, particularly if—'

  'If what?' I inquired innocently.

  'If some later incident should confirm his suspicion.'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  Jonathan took a long breath.

  'I have talked to the groom, young Tom. There is a rumor in the village that he was dismissed because your husband suspected that he—and you—'

  I knew then how an innocent man might be convicted of a crime he had never committed. I must have looked the picture of guilt; the blood rushed to my face and my limbs grew weak.

  'No,' I said, in a voice that did not sound like my own. 'No, not even Clare could think ... He's a boy, a little—'

  'He is sixteen. Only a year younger than you. No, Lucy, don't pull away from me; can you suppose for one instant that I believe this slander? I may tell you that few of your friends in the village believe it.'

  'There was opportunity,' I said, calming myself with an effort. 'That was Clare's doing—he insisted I have a groom with me when I went out. It was very natural, since I didn't know the paths...'

  'Good,' Jonathan said approvingly. 'This is what we must do—consider the dangers and not lose ourselves in righteous anger. As you say, the thing is possible; and it is possible that Clare would develop a kind of monomania on the subject. Don't you see, Lucy—if he does believe this, his treatment of you becomes explicable. It is even fairly mild. He does not mistreat you unless he is intoxicated, and any judge would consider him justified in drinking to forget his fear of his wife's infidelity.'

  'Judge,' I repeated, horrified. 'Are you thinking in such terms as that?'

  'I am considering all possibilities. If he should threaten you physically—'

  'He has struck me.'

  'I know exactly what he has done to you,' Jonathan said, in a voice that made me shiver. 'And if I were able to exchange ten years of my life for the chance of returning those blows ... Well, but now I am talking like a hero in a silly novel. I must talk and think like a solicitor. And from that viewpoint I must tell you that he has done nothing which he is not entitled to do, under the circumstances which he would certainly plead.'

  I was silent. There was nothing to say.

  'I spoke with Tom about your accident on the moor,' Jonathan went on. 'He tells a rather strange story. A message called him away that day, to a person to whom he feels an obligation even greater than that which he feels for you. He will not tell me who sent for him; it is a girl, I suppose, and contrary to the prejudices of our aristocrats, delicacy is not limited to the upper classes. What is important is that the message was a counterfeit. It was not dispatched by the person whose name was signed to it.'

  'That is strange.'

  'More than strange.'

  'Oh, I know,' I burst out. 'I know what you are thinking. I have had similar thoughts, when I was frightened. But they make no sense. No one has any cause to hate me; and my adventure on the moor could not have been designed to harm me. I might have been killed, it is true. There are bogs and crevices; the horse might have thrown me onto my head. But no one planning evil would have left so much to chance.'

  Jonathan nodded; I could see the same objections had occurred to him.

  'I believe there is something I ought to tell you,' he said. 'I can't see how the knowledge could help you just now, but one never knows. It concerns your marriage settlement.'

  'You told me once I ought to understand it. If I had insisted then—'

  'It would have made no difference. Mr. Beam respects one woman's good understanding, but he regards my mother as some people regard a well-trained dog; she is the exception that proves the rule of the general inferiority of the species. Yet the subject is not difficult, when it is stripped of legal quibbles. It amounts to this: On your marriage, your property was divided into three parts. One was made over to your husband. He had complete control of both income and capital. This part...' He hesitated, and then went on. 'This part has been spent, to settle Clare's huge debts and to clear the title of the estate.

  'The second portion was settled on you. This money too is gone. You signed it over to Clare several months ago. What he has done with it I do not know; but the amount spent on refurbishing the house has been enormous, and there may have been other debts.

  'The third portion, by far the largest, was put in trust for—for your heirs. The income is to be enjoyed by your husband, but he cannot dispose of the property from which that income derives without the consent of Mr. Beam. I see by your face that you anticipate what I am about to say. It was indeed this question that brought me here. The second paper you signed requested Mr. Beam to release this vast property to your husband's control. Mr. Beam has absolutely refused to sanction such a step. He holds strong views on family succession and the rights to a potential male heir.'

  'I see.' I avoided his eyes. 'And if—if there should be no heir?'

  'That is a possibility Mr. Beam will never admit,' Jonathan said dryly, unaware of my real meaning. 'The income is Clare's in any case; the agreement merely prevents him from dissipating the property until his son inherits, in the normal course of time.'

  I did not reply; I was thinking. I could not help but connect this news with Clare's avoidance of me; and yet I could not see what bearing it could have. Unless ... The idea was preposterous and repulsive. But I had to ask. I found it hard to speak, my mouth was suddenly so dry.

  'What if I should die without having children? What would happen to the money then?'

  'Women cannot make wills,' Jonathan said bitterly. 'Not unless that right is specifically guaranteed them by the marriage settlement; and Mr. Beam is the last man to suggest such a radical procedure. The money would go to your husband, of course, and ... Lucy!'

  He stopped short, facing me. We had climbed a slight hill and the wind pulled the veil from my head and tore my hair loose from its pins. It had grown since my illness and was now long enough to touch my shoulders; it rose from my head in a cloud, like wings trying to lift me from the ground. A lock brushed Jonathan's face, and he caught his breath.

  'I am mad with worry,' he said tightly. 'I am thinking thoughts I dare not utter. Lucy, is there anything I do not know—any incident, any word that might confirm my insane, groundless suspicion? For if there is—if there is a single solid fact to confirm this madness—then you must come with me, today, and escape from that house!'

 

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