Greygallows, p.8
Greygallows, page 8
'No,' I said faintly. 'It wasn't his fault. He—'
'... is the son of a petty tradesman from Liverpool,' my aunt said coldly. 'His real name is Frank Goodbody, and he repaid his doting mother, who impoverished herself to have him trained as a musician, by running away with what was left of her scanty savings as soon as he came of age. Do you think I would have any man in this house unless I knew all there is to know about his background?'
Unbelievingly, I stared at Fernando.
It was like a transformation in a fairy tale; only now the prince had turned back into the beast. His pallid face and trembling lip tacitly confessed the truth of my aunt's accusation. I wondered how I could have thought him handsome; his face was weak, not delicate.
My aunt waved the pistol back and forth, and laughed as Fernando whimpered.
'I ought to have suspected,' she said, with an evil good humor that frightened me more than anger would have done. 'But who would think you had such bad taste, Lucy? I thought at first it was the other. At least he is a man, not a sniveling peasant. He would have taken the pistol away from me instead of whining ... Down on your knees, you little wretch! I'll see you grovel, like the dog you are, and then we'll call the constables.'
I couldn't think whom she meant. But it didn't matter. My love was dead, but a kind of sick pity remained. I couldn't stand by and see—what was that awful name? I couldn't see him condemned to prison, whatever his name was. He had done nothing criminal. My weakness, my cowardice had brought me to this pass.
'No,' I mumbled. 'Let him go. He can do no more harm; I never want to see him again. But it would be too cruel to send him to that place ... Please, Aunt.'
'Hmmph,' said my aunt, studying me thoughtfully. 'Well, it is up to you. No more whining, no more complaints? You will do as you are told?'
'Yes, anything. I am so tired ... and cold ...'
'Very well.' My aunt turned to Fernando—I still could not think of him by that other name. 'Get out. Get out of London, if you know what is good for you. You may be grateful that I don't have you arrested. I may do so yet.'
He didn't even look at me. One moment he was there; the next moment the empty doorway gaped coldly. My aunt's eye turned with slow relish toward me.
'And now,' she said, 'now for you.' I could no longer speak, my teeth were chattering so hard. I knew then what my illness was; there had been several cases of typhoid the previous year in Canterbury. I was glad. Now all the doors were closed, and there was no way out for me, no way except one. I could die. And as my aunt's face, swollen by malevolent pleasure, hovered over me like a fat pink moon, I released the last frail thread of will, felt myself falling, and lost consciousness before my body struck the hard, cold floor.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three months later I married Clare.
I was still thin and pale. Worst of all, my hair was gone. It had been cut off, since long hair drains the body during illness, and I had a cap of short, clustering curls, ugly as a boy's hair. No matter, said Clare; it will be hidden by the wedding veil.
He swept everything before him during that time, including me; but I was no barrier to anyone's will, the slightest breath could have blown me anywhere. It could be said, quite accurately, that I married Clare because he told me to, just as I drank and ate and moved like an obedient puppet, following any suggestion.
I was no longer afraid of Clare. My fear of him had gone during my illness; and with it had vanished all the other emotions I had felt—love and concern and anger. It was as if those things had belonged to some other girl, who had died long ago.
Clare's behavior during my illness would have conquered the heart of any woman who had a heart capable of feeling. As soon as I could receive visitors, he came every day, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes reading aloud, sometimes playing the soft, gentle melodies that soothed my weary nerves. He was a fine musician, a fact he had never mentioned during my inept performances on the harp and pianoforte.
I heard him talking with my aunt one day after I was able to get about, and that conversation had its effect. My aunt was demurring about the date of the wedding; I was still tired and frail, it was too soon after my illness, another month or so -
'Not another day,' Clare broke in, with quiet force. 'I cannot wait to get her out of this pestilential place, to the peace and clean air of my native moors. There at least she can enjoy peace of mind, if not a renewal of physical strength. The city is hateful to her; and with all due respect to your devoted care, Lady Russell—'
'Do me the honor, my lord, of being candid,' said my aunt, with a sneer in her voice. 'I detest the chit, and she hates me. Nothing will please me better than to rid myself of her. As soon as our arrangements are completed...'
'We have settled those arrangements,' Clare said frigidly. 'There is no more to discuss. You do not doubt my word, I hope?'
'Doubt so honorable a gentleman?'
I crept back up the stairs before they could see me. The tone of my aunt's voice told me something I had never suspected. She detested Clare as much as she did me. That was a testimonial in his favor; the only emotion I did feel in those days was a sullen distaste for Lady Russell and everything that had to do with her. If Clare would take me away from her and her hateful house and the hideous city...
So I stood at his side in St. Margaret's, with the organ echoing among the high rafters, and heard the words that made me Lady Clare. When he took my hand, his fingers closed over it gently, as if he were afraid it would crumble in his grasp. The ring had been made to fit my finger, but its blazing cluster of diamonds and opals felt like a lead weight. I wore white satin with an overskirt of Honiton lace, and the coronet of pearls in which my mother had been married. Her jewels, long locked in Mr. Beam's safe, had been delivered into my hands the day before, and Mr. Beam, for once living up to his name, had offered me stately and sincere good wishes.
Afterward there was a great crush at the house. I stood stiff and proper in my lace and pearls, smiling obediently at the guests. Most of them were friends of Clare's, with a few of my aunt's less raffish acquaintances. As I made my mechanical smiles and stiff bows, I realized I had not a single friend in the crowd. It seemed to me rather sad that a girl should not have one friend present on the most important day of her life.
From across the room Mr. Beam was watching me. He thought himself my friend, no doubt; but the expression that softened his hard old face was relief and self-satisfaction. Naturally Jonathan was not present. However, I thought I had caught a glimpse of him at the church, half concealed behind one of the pillars.
Clare took my hand.
'It is time to change now. We must be out of the city before dark.'
Obediently I turned to go; but a small cold frisson penetrated the shell of indifference that had protected me so long. My aunt hurried to my side. As we mounted the stairs together, accompanied by the toothy young maiden who, as a distant cousin of Clare's, had served as my attendant, there was laughter from below.
My trunks were packed and waiting. One stood with its top ajar, waiting for the wedding gown. My aunt and the Honorable Miss Allen took it off and helped me into the soft cashmere gown which was to be my traveling dress.
Despite my aunt's halfhearted objections, Clare was determined not to spend a single night in London. He was anxious to be home, after so long an absence; he disliked London, as did I, and there was no appropriate place for us to stay in town. The Clare mansion in Belgravia had been unoccupied for some years and was not in fit condition for a lady, so we were to spend our wedding night in a charming inn he knew of, on the road north.
At Miss Plum's establishment, even the old cat was bundled out of the way at certain times of the year, to reappear, after a judicious interval, with a litter of charming kittens. Of course we girls knew more than Miss Plum thought we did. Amid much giggling and speculation we pieced together certain theories. It was amazing how wildly wrong we were! The majority of us rejected, with horrified shock, a particularly accurate description by one little miss whose father let her play unsupervised in the stableyard, among hounds and horses. Horses and dogs, perhaps; but people—!
I knew that a woman's wedding night was something to be dreaded, and that 'that part' of marriage had to be borne with spartan fortitude, as part of the price paid for a good establishment. But that was all I did know; and I often wished, despairingly, that my information were more exact. A known fact, however dreadful, is easier to face than the unhindered flight of imagination. My aunt was not the person from whom I would have sought such information; yet if we had been alone that day, I think I would have questioned her, risking her jeers and love of cruelty, so frightened was I. But there was no opportunity. The Honorable Miss Allen fluttered and giggled and patronized me. I would rather have died than display fear and ignorance before her; and indeed, I felt as if I might do just that.
Clare waited for me at the foot of the stairs, amid a group of his friends. Several of them were the worse for wine, and their laughter and rude jests brought the colour to my cheeks. Clare was equally annoyed; he took my arm and had me out of the house and into the coach before I could catch my breath. He turned back to supervise the loading of my trunks and to exchange a few words with his friends.
The weather was bright and cold and gusty, a typical April day; but it was not the cold that made me shiver as I huddled into the corner where he had placed me. As I reached up to adjust my bonnet, I saw a face at the window of the coach, the one that faced the street.
It took me a moment to recognize Jonathan. His hair was windblown into a ruffled cockade, and his cheeks and nose were a vivid pink. But his eyes...
'What—' I began.
'Hush. I wouldn't want him—Clare—to see me and mar your wedding day with bloodshed. I would not be here but that—but that I promised my mother to give you her love.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'My best love to her, of course.'
Instead of leaving, he stood staring foolishly at me. I had not forgotten his incoherent words on the day my illness began, and I assumed that, like a storybook hero, he was feasting his eyes for the last time on his lost love; but he certainly did not look the part, all ruffled and red-nosed as he was.
'You haven't forgiven me, have you?' he said.
'There is nothing to forgive. Your boorish behavior had nothing to do with my illness.'
'And that is all it seems to you—boorish behavior? Well, perhaps it is best so. But don't deceive yourself into thinking you are escaping such boorishness by fleeing London. You will see a few things to shock you in the north, I think; Clare's arrogance cannot shield you from life altogether.'
'You are speaking of my husband,' I said coldly. 'If this is your notion of appropriate congratulations for a bride—'
'No,' Jonathan burst out. 'I didn't mean to say any of these things. I am too distraught to be sensible ... Lucy.' He reached in through the open window and took my hand. 'My mother's good wishes were only an excuse. I came for one purpose—to tell you you are not so alone as you may think. If you are ever in distress, or afraid—if you ever need help—'
I pulled my hand away.
'Go, go, he is coming!'
Jonathan's face vanished precipitately; and as my husband got into the coach I leaned back into my corner and tried to conceal my agitation. Jonathan's reference to my being alone had shaken me; it was so like an echo of my private terrors. But I was not touched by his expressed concern. First he had berated me; then he had run away. Could he be 'the other' to whom my aunt had referred on the terrible night of my attempted elopement? If so, she had a higher opinion of him than he deserved. Cruelty and cowardice, he had displayed both. With the illogic of youth, I abhorred violence, and yet I condemned the man who avoided it.
The coach started. We were pursued, for a time, by some of the more inebriated guests, but the coachman whipped the horses to a smart pace and we soon lost them. Clare, who had been looking out of the window, closed it and turned to me with a smile.
'What a relief, to rid ourselves of old friends! And what did your ill-bred admirer from the solicitor's office have to say to you?'
I was too astounded to answer; the tone of amused contempt with which he mentioned Jonathan surprised me as much as the fact that he had seen him.
'Oh, yes,' Clare said gently, watching my face. 'I saw him. You need not have feared a scene, Lucy; it would have been excessive bad taste, on my wedding day, even if I cared to stoop to chastise a clerk. Which reminds me that I never apologized to you for my behavior the day you were taken ill. I was so distressed by your state that I forgot myself. I was also laboring under a false impression; from Beam's attitude, I thought the fellow was a gentleman.'
'Then you did not fight with him?'
Clare's eyes flashed fire, and I said hastily, 'No, I understand. You could not meet with a ... But I thought dueling was forbidden by law.'
Clare relaxed. He gave me an indulgent smile.
'The code of honor is more ancient than any law. But it is natural that a lady would dislike violence. Let us talk of something more pleasant. I know you have had admirers; that is all in the past now, and I have no intention of mentioning the subject again.'
I had wondered whether he knew about Fernando. Now I was sure that he did; and I could only appreciate the delicacy with which he told me of his knowledge, and of his indifference to it. There was something very gallant in the way he spared me even the mention of unpleasantness; quite a contrast to my ill-bred admirer, as Clare called him.
From under lowered lashes I studied my husband. Perhaps, I thought, if I repeat the word often enough I will begin to believe it. He had fallen silent; there was a slight smile on his well-cut mouth, and the profile he had turned toward me was as perfect as that on an antique coin. His slender hands, in gloves of the finest leather, rested lightly on his knees. They were as white and well tended as a woman's hands, but I knew they were not weak. I had heard of Clare's reputation as a swordsman. They could be gentle, too. I thought of the touch that had caressed my hands and, on one occasion, my cheek; and I thought of the fast-approaching night; and a shiver ran through me.
Instantly Clare turned toward me, full of apologies. He adjusted the fur-lined robe around me, and as he did so my reticule fell to the floor, spilling out some of its contents. He restored bag and objects to me. Among them was a letter.
'From Master Jonathan?' he asked. He was smiling, but his expression did not deceive me. I said quickly,
'No, of course not. It is, I think, a note of congratulation from an old school friend—but you know her, Margaret Montgomery. My aunt handed it to me as we left. I had not time before...'
I started to open it. Before I could remove the enclosure, Clare's hand came across and whisked the envelope neatly out of my hand.
He proceeded to read the note, while I sat staring at him in mingled alarm and indignation. As he read, a frown gathered on his imperious brow. Calmly he tore the note into tiny pieces and flung them out the window. Then he turned to me.
'As I thought. Ill-natured gossip of the worst kind.'
'It was my letter,' I said. 'It was addressed to me.'
'It was addressed to a person who no longer exists. You are Lady Clare now, and your husband has not only the right, but the duty to stand between you and the malice of those who wish you ill.'
'Margaret does not wish me ill,' I exclaimed. 'She is my friend, she—'
'She is a relative of mine,' Clare reminded me. 'I know her superstitious, hysterical disposition only too well.'
If he had been hectoring or loud, I might have screwed up my courage to remonstrate. But he was not, he was smiling at me in the kindest way, and his voice was gentle. Not only his sex and his position, but his greater age made complaint from me seem an impertinence. My anger was overruled by these considerations—and by simple curiosity.
'What did she say?' I asked.
Clare laughed aloud and patted my hand.
'You are too pretty a child to worry your head with such nonsense,' he said indulgently. 'We must take good care of you; you are so fragile I think a breath could blow you away. They say the air of the moors is good for lung complaints; that is why I rushed you away.'
'Lung complaints? I have no—'
Clare went on, as if I had not interrupted.
'I have ordered heavy draperies for your apartments; the house is inclined to be drafty. It has fallen into disrepair over the past years, but that will soon be remedied. I selected the new furniture for your room and had it sent last week. I trust you will be pleased with it.'
Involuntarily my hand went to my throat, where Clare's wedding gift hung—a lovely pendant of gold twisted into a monogram of both our initials and set with tiny sapphires. His taste was flawless, no one could question that, and yet ... A spark of rebellion flared within me.
'I would have liked to select my own furniture,' I said.
Clare looked at me in surprise.
'It is not customary for ladies to select furnishings for a home,' he said, with perfect truth. 'And you were unfamiliar with the very shape of the rooms; how could you possibly have made a choice?'
'You are right,' I said meekly.
'If there is anything you dislike we will have it replaced,' Clare said.
Then his fastidious nostrils curled and he made haste to close the window. Our route led by the river; the milder air of spring had warmed the refuse and foul mud and the stench, unpleasant even during the winter, had become truly noxious.
