CamillasConsequences (4 page)

“Perhaps it is too forward of me to ask you to a ball. Would you consider attending the opera with me?”

A metallurgist who enjoys the opera?
Hephaestus, you are most intriguing.

“
Don Giovanni
is playing at the London Royal Theater in Piccadilly Square.”

How appropriate, a tale of philandering and revenge. Perhaps too appropriate. I should say no. I wish to say yes, but I cannot. It would be a wonderful evening, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, listening to the exquisite sounds of sopranos and tenors.

Since this is what I desire, to be courted by a man, should I not accept? I must give his proposal serious consideration. After all, I wish to find love.

But only with a certain type of man, one who is my social equal, who can love me without eventually leaving me for another, who can conform to my exacting standards. What of my earlier promise to myself, to forego love in order to pursue my mission? Is it not possible to do both? Why shouldn’t I pursue both if the opportunity arises? Hephaestus stares at me as if he knows me, and his obsidian eyes cut into my soul.

This decision cannot be made at a moment’s notice. “Regretfully, I must decline.”

He seems crestfallen but does not give up. “If you wish me to replace your gate, you will have to see me, and I will ask you again.”

I must say I admire persistence in a man. “Two days from now. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Do not be tardy.”

“It will take much longer to fashion an entire gate. Six days hence, promptly at four. I look forward to seeing you.” He takes my hand, raises it to his lips and kisses it.

Even through the glove, his touch is warm, and although I should pull away, I do not. When Hephaestus releases my hand, it takes all my self-control to stop myself from standing on my toes and kissing his lips. I imagine their firmness and their heat. Delicious. Forbidden. “Until then, Hephaestus.”

When I leave the shop, a confusion of emotions overwhelms me. Suspicion. Arousal. Happiness. Wariness. Despite my trepidation, I am most eager to see Hephaestus again.

At precisely three o’clock, I enter the Chesterton Tea House. Ladies seated at small round tables look up from their cucumber sandwiches, their lips purse into little “ohs” of surprise, and a flurry of whispers races from one to the other. I nod at the high-society ladies, the ones I recognize from pictures in the newspapers. A few of them nod back. Only a few. I frown. These women have no idea of the services I have rendered for them over the past few years. If they did, they would ask me to join them and shower me with thanks. No matter, my goal is to see Lady Aldridge.

There she sits, at a quiet corner table, accompanied by one of her daughters. Their hair is an identical shade of corn silk, their eyes the same vivid blue. In the daughter’s severe bone structure I recognize traces of Lord Aldridge. Lady Aldridge, on the other hand, is all soft contours and delicate mannerisms. She holds her fork in a dainty grip, plants the tines into a slice of tomato and lifts it to her mouth.

Everyone’s eyes follow me as I stride across the room. Are they envious of my diamond earrings? Do they resent the magnificent Equine that pulls my carriage? Are they thinking of the latest rumor surrounding the solitary woman who resides at Bleak Hills? Or, as Hephaestus implied, do some of them secretly admire me for being a success in a man’s world?

“Lady Aldridge,” I say with a smile, “allow me to introduce myself.”

“Camilla Covington,” she says, as though tasting a new food and finding it bitter. She places her fork on her plate, and her shoulders stiffen.

It is almost comical to see her daughter duplicate her movements, all rigid and proper, sending me the message that I am unwanted. The young lady, barely seventeen, her hair twisted into an elegant French braid, looks down her aquiline nose at me. She truly is Lord Aldridge’s offspring.

Considering that I am here to better Lady Aldridge’s life, their chilly reception causes me to grit my teeth. I suppose I cannot fault the lady. She has no inkling that I have come here to help her deal with her husband’s multiple infidelities.

Since she does not invite me to sit, I use a polite, deferential approach. “I was wondering if you could spare a few moments to speak with me.”

Before I even finish, she shakes her head. How rude.

“I’m afraid not.” Her pretty eyes narrow, and she raises a teacup to her pale, pink lips.

I lean forward, lower my voice so no one else can hear and issue an ultimatum. “Either you come outside with me for a short walk along the garden path, or I will sit here and say what I need to say in front of your daughter and every other lady within earshot.”

Mother and daughter exchange consternated glances. For a woman such as herself, rumors and scandal are the enemy, so she behaves exactly as I expect.

“Excuse me, Sarah,” Lady Aldridge says to her daughter. “It appears Miss Covington and I have an important matter to discuss.”

“Thank you, Lady Aldridge. May I call you Virginia?”

“You may not,” she mutters tersely as we exit through the rear door and follow a narrow garden path. “I cannot imagine what someone like you might have to say to me.”

“There is no need to be disagreeable,” I admonish, my fingers brushing the leaves of a mulberry bush.

Blood-red roses wilt on the vine. A sea of fallen petals litters the ground at my feet. Since the sun blazes in the sky, I open my parasol to shield myself from its rays. Lady Aldridge walks a few steps ahead, her spine rigid, her steps short and rapid. Since she is a victim, I should not make her feel worse by drawing out this conversation.

“I should like to discuss your husband.”

“What of him?” she snaps, whirling to face me.

Why so much anger? She behaves like a cornered animal. “I will be brief and direct. You are aware of his perversion, are you not?”

She looks at me blankly. Is she ignorant of his philandering? As I continue to stare, her façade falters.

Her cheeks blanch, and when she speaks, she sounds rehearsed and wooden. “He is a good husband, a loving father, a respected politician. Do not make accusations.”

“I simply wish to understand how you can continue to live with a man who betrays you on a regular basis.” When I discovered Samson’s infidelity, I rectified matters immediately.

“He has always been faithful.” She utters “faithful” with a tremor.

Denial is much like a bog. Once you fall into its depths, it is virtually impossible to extricate yourself. Poor woman. I must say I pity her, trapped in a loveless marriage, unable to break free. “I know for a fact that he has not been faithful to you.”

Her blue eyes are glassy. “Have you…do you have knowledge of my husband?”

“No!” What a ludicrous assumption. Me? Consort with Lord Aldridge? “I am speaking of the
men
.”

“You know of this?” she whispers, glancing at the other ladies through the window as if hoping for rescue.

“Yes. Why do you remain with him?”

“A woman in a marriage is like a bird in a cage, is she not?”

“No. There is always a way to unlock the door and fly free, although sometimes one must be creative.”

“How?” A note of desperation tinges her voice. “Divorce is not an alternative. The Church will not allow it. My family cannot afford a scandal. I have three daughters. Sarah will make her debut this spring. Our family’s name must be impeccable in order for her to find a good husband.”

“A husband unlike your own.” Society binds a woman to her husband, expecting her to remain honorable throughout the union. If she so much as flirts with another man, her reputation is stained forever, and the husband can resort to an immediate divorce. But if a man commits adultery, there are no similar repercussions. The wife is blamed for not seeing to her husband’s needs, and she ultimately bears responsibility for his infidelity.

A tear runs down her cheek, resembling a dewdrop sliding down a rose petal. “Yes, a husband unlike my own.”

“I am not here to judge you. That is not my role. It is your husband who concerns me, but I need to know how you feel about him.”

She pauses a moment. “He has always been good to our daughters.”

Once, I followed Lord Aldridge and his trio of blonde, prattling girls to a milliner’s shop. While I watched through the window, he sat patiently on a bench, admiring each daughter as she modeled one fashionable hat after another. In the end, he purchased several, and they flounced out the door in their new apparel, jostling one another, all of them trying to hang on their father’s arm.

“But for everything else, I loathe him.” Her eyes burn with an inner fire.

“Do you wish to confront him about his errant ways?”

“Confront him?” She shakes her head, a tendril coming loose from her chignon. “He is Lord Aldridge, a member of the House of Lords. He is powerful beyond your dreams.”

No more powerful than I. “He does not frighten me,” I say. “Do you wish him to stop fornicating?”

“Of course.”

Good. In order to decide on a proper course of action, I ask more probing questions. “Do you still have relations with him?”

She balks and takes a step backward. My question is indeed invasive, but I relish asking it. Women are so repressed, so unable to discuss sexuality. It should not be so. Even I, who have never lain beneath a man, am capable of discussing the sexual act in great detail.

“A wife cannot refuse her husband,” she admits in defeat.

“So you allow him to lie on top of you.”

Her eyes widen, and no sound comes from her open mouth.

“You let him slide his member into you.”

She folds her arms against her chest, as if to shield herself from me, and averts her eyes. “Y-yes. I must. It is a wife’s duty.”

It pleases me to pry this intimate information from her. I thirst for first-hand carnal knowledge but am forced to rely on vicarious experiences that I capture with my Panoptoscope. “How does it make you feel to have relations with him when he has lain with a man?”

“Stop!”

“Do you know where his manhood has been?” I recall Aldridge ramming his stiffened cock into Tewkesbury’s puckered hole. “He is guilty of sodomy!”

“Enough!”

“Imagine where his tongue has been. Think of the crevices it has explored,” I whisper harshly. “It is the same tongue he uses on you.”

Her hands press against her ears. “He disgusts me! I can’t stand for him to touch me, but he does! And I can do nothing to prevent him! I am his wife. I belong to him!” she shrills.

“Quiet,” I soothe, placing my arm around her shoulder. Antagonizing her was not a good idea, but Lady Aldridge must learn that she does not have to be a victim. There is a way for her to take control of her marriage. “Do you want him to pay for his sins?”

“Yes!” she utters with ferocity.

Never have I involved a third party in my activities before, but perhaps this time I should. Why not? It might make matters far more stimulating, and increasing Lord Aldridge’s torment is definitely of interest to me. “If you wish your husband to suffer, leave your home on Sunday morning. Allow your staff to leave for the day.” Undoubtedly, one or two will remain, but not enough to interfere with my plans.

“All right.”

“If you wish to witness his suffering, return promptly at two.”

“Witness his suffering?” she repeats, uncomprehending.

“Yes, if you wish to participate, to punish him for his transgressions, return home at two. If not, I will carry on with my judgment without your aid.”

“Judgment?”

She need not know the details. “If you do not have the stomach for it, stay away. Return in the early evening after I have finished with my disciplinary action.”

She nods.

“If you wish to exact revenge against your husband, do not share the details of our conversation with anyone.” My earlier thought about secrets resurfaces. I am taking a risk by involving someone else. Yet the more I look at her, at the fury on her face, the anger, the betrayal, I believe I have found a kindred spirit.

“I will speak to no one.” She takes a long breath, wipes the tear from her cheek and clasps my hand in both of hers. “Why are you helping me? Who are you, Camilla Covington?”

A righter of wrongs. A bitter crusader. A woman searching for love, a pure, honorable love. “A mystery,” I answer. “Goodbye, Lady Aldridge. I hope to see you Sunday.”

“Perhaps.” She returns to the tea house, scattering petals as she walks. Her strides are longer, more confident, her shoulders no longer hunched.

The bonds of marriage should never be broken, such is my belief. Both parties must love and honor one another. If not, I will impose my own rules to rectify the situation, rules that must be obeyed.

* * * * *

The housekeeper, a shapely girl in a modest gray uniform, examines my visiting card. She looks at me and then back at the card, probably thinking it is highly unusual for an unmarried woman to call upon a married man.

“Lord Aldridge is expecting me,” I lie.

“He is?” She sounds doubtful and scrutinizes me from head to toe.

My attire is rather dour, but I prefer to wear black on these occasions. There is something to be said for black, which I associate with power and revenge. “We have an appointment to discuss the upcoming vote.”

“All right, ma’am,” she says with a good dose of skepticism. As she heads up the spiral staircase, which is in no way as grand as my own, I notice how her curvaceous figure fills out her drab clothing.

For a housekeeper, she lacks tact. It is a wonder Lord Aldridge keeps her in his employ considering her lack of civility. Unless…oh dear, can it be? Another conquest, this time a young female? Does Aldridge know no limits? I must make sure, however, before making false accusations. Several minutes later, as I have begun to pace in the foyer, the girl returns and gives me my card.

“Lord Aldridge never called for you.” Her gray eyes chastise me. “He would like you to leave.”

She does not even do me the courtesy of saying please. The top button of her dress is undone, revealing milky skin and a slight yellowish bruise. A bite mark? Was her dress undone when she answered the door? I cannot recall.

I hold my beaver stole closer to my neck and produce a sealed envelope. “Give him this.”

Her hands remain by her side. “You should go. Lord Aldridge says it’s not proper for a spinster to call on a married man.”

A spinster! How dare she insult me in this manner! And she has the audacity to lecture me on morality. Me?
Me?
“Why you insolent little tart!” Taking two brash steps forward, I shove the envelope into her palm. “Give him this. And button your dress.”

The girl staggers back. “Yes ma’am.” Her cheeks flush as she fumbles for the top button. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She scurries up the stairs, holding her dress in one hand, revealing calves that are firm and white. And bitten. That is all the proof I need. Damn you, Aldridge. Sighing, I await the girl’s return. As expected, it does not take long.

This time, when she speaks to me, her attitude is much improved. “Lord Aldridge will see you in the library, Miss Covington.”

I walk primly behind her, up the curving staircase, down a narrow hallway and into a room that smells of cigar smoke. Rows and rows of books cover the walls of an austere library, decorated in somber ocher tones. Most definitely a place where a man can retreat from the rest of the household. Along a bay window covered by lush draperies is a rococo divan. On the other side of the room are two overstuffed easy chairs covered in plush pile upholstery. The stench of smoke lingers in the air, and at the far end, sitting at his walnut desk, is Lord Aldridge, an offending roll of tobacco between his lips.

“Thank you,” I say to the girl, whose name I still do not know. “Bring us tea with scones, please.”

“We have no scones.”

“Then begin baking.” She should not witness what is about to transpire. “I will be here for quite some time.”

She looks questioningly at Aldridge, and he gives her an almost imperceptible nod.

The moment the girl leaves, I say, “Put out your cigar.”

“No.” He takes a lengthy inhalation and puffs a huge cloud of smoke in my direction. When he is done, he props both feet on his desk.