Greygallows (11 page)

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.

Once we had left the city behind, the countryside was lovely, with the new green of crops and grass, and patches of primroses in the hollows. The quiet country houses crouched cozily among the trees, and Clare pointed out pretty vistas. As the day waned he fell silent; and I sat in my corner like a mouse, watching the sun set.

It was quite dark before we arrived at the inn where we were to spend the night. With excitement and fatigue and hunger—for I had eaten nothing to speak of all day—I was shaking from head to foot when we drew up in the cobbled courtyard, with its enclosing galleries. When I put my foot on the step my weakness was so great I almost fell. Clare took me up in his arms, and in that posture I was borne into the inn. He carried me as he might have carried a child toward whom he felt some kindness; and once again, as I had done so often in recent days, I told myself how lucky I was to have such a considerate husband.

Even when he reproved me, his manner was perfectly kind.

I had no maid. Mary was really my aunt's servant, and Clare had a low opinion of her; I had learned to read his feelings, not in his words, which were normally restrained, but in a glance or a slight curl of his lip. When we came to Yorkshire I would have a north country maid; London servants were always discontented and surly away from home; according to Clare.

The landlord's young wife, a pretty, fresh-faced girl, helped me out of my cloak and traveling gear, and after I had warmed myself by the fire and taken a glass of wine I felt better. We dined in private; the camaraderie of the inn parlor was not for Clare. I was too nervous to eat much. The tall, mature man across the table from me was a stranger; it seemed impossible that I could be dining alone with him, much less ... But at that point my very thoughts stopped.