Lady Hathaway's House Party (2 page)

Unlike the rest of the world, she had a sneaking suspicion that he would be happy enough if it could be done. He wore his marble Greek-statue face with her as with everyone else, but from being a favorite cousin she dared to inquire a little more closely than the common herd how matters stood between them. She had suggested once when he seemed to be in an approachable mood that a divorce might be desirable, seeing that the estrangement was permanent, and there was an heir to the title and to Belwood to consider.

“No!” he had said, with such a fierce passion she nearly fainted. For a half an instant his cold marble face had come to life with pain and misery and anger. His eyes fairly blazed, then he was saying with assumed calmness, “There has never been a divorce in the family, Kay.” But it was not the disgrace of a divorce in the family that had caused that anguished outburst. He was as proud as a Spanish grandee, of course—all the Avondales were. The old duke had died with it. Curled up his toes and died when Oliver made his maiden speech in the House. Marquess du Léon he’d been then. Silly title. The speech had been good, and when all the ministers and whatnot began crowding around Oliver after it was over, the old duke had taken a seizure and died. They called it heart trouble, but it was a swollen heart from pride that had done it.

But it wasn’t pride that had caused that look to come to Oliver’s face. Good pride like the kind that had carried off the old duke might be warm, but offended pride was cold. It was the marble face that appeared in public. There was a burning heat in the face that forbid divorce. Its intensity had shocked her. It had been hate, or love, or both.

Belle, though—there was a different story. No tantrums for her. No hate, and no love either according to the way she acted. If indifference had a name, it would be Belle Martineau, the Duchess of Avondale. That’s what everyone said, anyway. But Belle Anderson couldn’t have been so indifferent. She loved him enough to marry him. Nobody made her. Not her father, whatever people thought. He wouldn’t let her stay on at home if he wanted her to be the Duchess of Avondale. He must know this prolonged estrangement would lead to divorce. But he didn't make her go back.

Yet Belle wasn’t so indifferent that she was willing to meet her husband. Had written that cautious little note inquiring in a roundabout way if he would be there, and she had written back assuring her,
truthfully,
that he would not. Who would believe her? Belle would think she’d planned it, and spend her weekend hiding in her room.

Lady Hathaway could have gone on thinking about it all day, but she had more urgent things to see to. There was her dance, which she might call a ball if enough of the neighbors sent in acceptances, and if she felt up to it. That would call for a larger orchestra and more elaborate decorations than the dozen potted palms she had rented from the florist. It would also call for some brainwork as to who should lead off. She must also order extra ricks of hay for the stables, and hire some village girls to help Pierre out in the kitchen.

Thank God for Pierre! At least her meals would be unexceptionable. Talk to him about the menus and see to wines. She took up her list of accommodations and began her other work, with only intermittent memories of the Avondales to pester her. She was always happy when she was planning a party. How good it was to be planning a party again! A pity Alfred wouldn’t be here. He used to like her parties too. He would have enjoyed the Italian soprano. On second thought, maybe it was as well he wasn’t here.

Chapter Two

In Devon, the Duchess of Avondale sat waiting for Mr. Henderson’s carriage to pick her up. By leaving at nine o’clock they would reach Ashbourne before dinner. She wished she had declined Lady Hathaway’s invitation, and said so one last time to her father, Sir Donald. “I can’t think why I’m going,” she said, tapping her foot and wondering still how she could get out of it.

“You’re too young to be cloistered,” Sir Donald replied, only mechanically now. Belle was packed and she had accepted the invitation, so of course she would go.

“I’m not cloistered,” was her automatic reply. “I see everyone."

But everyone at Easthill was only a handful of neighbors. She should be in London with her husband. One way or the other, the matter must be settled. If she was serious about never going back to Avondale, then there must be a divorce arranged, and if she wasn’t—well, close to a year was long enough to play games. She owed it to Oliver as well as herself to get the position regularized. And how would it be done, Sir Donald wondered. She never said a word against Avondale, but she had been saying a good deal about Mr. Henderson lately, and what she said had a marrying sound to it.

Arnold was kind, and understanding. He was very pleasant to be with. Anderson was forced to read backward from this that Oliver was not kind and understanding, not so pleasant to be with. Whatever Belle wanted, he would stick by her, but it did seem a little odd to her father that she would want Arnold Henderson when she already had a
real
man. Arnold Henderson was—well, he
was
easy to be with, but so was a dog. He had big brown eyes like a puppy, and was as faithful as a dog to Belle. Always there, trotting after her. If that’s what she wanted, she never should have married Avondale. Still, one mistake at eighteen years couldn’t be allowed to spoil a girl’s whole life. He loved Belle too much to condemn her to that.

This Hathaway person was Avondale’s cousin, and while Sir Donald’s first hope that Oliver might be there, pulling strings, had been vanquished by the letter assuring Belle he wouldn’t be there, still the two were cousins. Some meeting might be attempted or arranged, pushing either a reconciliation or a divorce. It would get Belle out of this rural rut she had sunk into. Maybe prod her back to London, and maybe that would be the best thing too, to get rid of the puppy at her heels.

“I hope Lady Hathaway won’t think it odd, your going with Henderson,” her father said.

“Nothing is considered odd in that circle, Papa.”

Glancing at Belle, he thought she must have been considered odd. A simple little country girl, green as grass, pitched into the middle of that unholy London crew. But she’d wanted a season, and her mama would have wanted it for her. Had always regretted she hadn’t had one herself.

Still, her mama had done better than Arnold Henderson without benefit of a season, he thought contentedly. Arnold hadn’t been good enough for Belle before she became a duchess; it was odd beyond reason that he was looked upon with favor now. Before Belle went away to the city and became sophisticated she hadn’t looked twice at him, but when she came back two months later she’d changed.

The wide-eyed hopeful look was gone from her brown eyes. Of course, her rowdy brown curls were tamed down too, and her dress fancier, but that hadn’t been the real change. She’d become different. Colder, indifferent. Donald was only a father, and couldn’t quite put his finger on the change, but it was there and he didn’t like it. She didn’t laugh as much, or sing, or hardly ever run anymore. She used to be a great tomboy, running around the yards like a young colt—but of course he was harking back a few years, when she’d been fourteen or fifteen. He supposed in some vague way that her being a duchess made such behavior ineligible now, but she wasn’t such a stiff, proper little lady when the duke had met her, and fallen in love with her, and married her.

The man must have jawed the life out of her. Likely that was why she made those oblique remarks about Arnold being easy to live with. Belle wouldn’t like someone always pinching at her. He’d never done it himself, and in the ten years that her mama had been gone, no one else had corrected her much either. He would have been happy to see the old Belle back, but there was no sign of Arnold effecting the change. She was cool and citified with him too. He shook his grizzled head in puzzlement.

Mr. Henderson’s plain black carriage pulled up to the house, and Belle arose to join him, without waiting for him to enter. She didn’t dash out to meet him, as she used to do with her beaux, but strolled resignedly to the door, as though she were on her way to her execution. “I’ll be home soon, Papa,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Be good.”

“You be good too,” he adjured playfully.

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“Yes, you’re with Arnold,” Sir Donald answered, and there was something akin to regret in his words.

It was a long drive to Ashbourne. Long enough to occasion a stop for lunch and a change of horses. Arnold, with his usual foresight, had sent a team ahead to await them, and he would pick up this team on the way back. All these plans had been talked over with Belle. It was the sort of conversation they had with each other—mundane, practical, with occasionally little timid attempts at lovemaking. Very timid. So different from Oliver. Never mind, that was what she liked about him, that he was different from her husband.

Belle found her heart beating a little faster to be going again amongst her London friends. She didn’t know who would be there, but at Lady Hathaway’s house, one did not expect to meet only provincials. Arnold—a cousin of Lady Hathaway’s husband—and she would be the closest thing to country folks, and she was asked herself as Avondale’s wife.

Now that she was actually on her way, she found herself looking forward to the visit with some pleasure. The winter had been long and very dull, and the spring with all of nature stirring around her had awakened some latent desire to come alive again. Every time she walked in the meadow and saw the trees budding and the flowers opening, she felt this sense of urgency to start living. Just as she had always felt it when she was young. Just as she had felt last year, and what a thrill it had been to be getting to London.

She had thought she would never feel it again. All the winter long she had dreaded spring, and the memories it must inevitably bring, but now that it was here, and she was getting out of her shell, she felt a tingle of excitement. She wished she weren’t with dull old Arnold Henderson, but some dashing, dangerous buck. Some daring man who would make Oliver sit up and take notice. But what nonsense that was. Oliver would not be there.

As their carriage pulled up in front of the columned entranceway to Ashbourne, Belle heard the sound of wheels behind them, and turned with interest to see who else was coming. She thought she saw a crest on the door of the carriage, and her mind flew to Avondale, but the carriage, and especially the horses, were not fine enough to belong to him. Nothing but the best for the Duke of Avondale. As the door opened, she recognized the occupant to be Lady Dempster. A wicked old gossip of a woman. One would be sure of hearing all the doings of the city—and the city would be sure of hearing that the Duchess of Avondale had come out of hibernation too.

Being a gossip, Lady Dempster was delighted to see Belle was attending, and rushed up to her, her tongue flying with a million empty expressions of pleasure. Their entering Ashbourne together caused a frown to fly to Lady Hathaway’s pouched face, for it had been her intention to confess the dreadful fact of Oliver’s coming the minute Belle set her foot inside the door. She wanted to get it over with, but it was not possible with Lady Dempster’s sharp ears flapping. Other guests too came almost immediately, so that it was a servant that showed Belle to her room, and she was left in ignorance of what dire fate awaited her. Ollie had said he’d be there for dinner—it was scarcely more than an hour away. He’d come anytime.

As a result of her one other visit here, Belle was a little familiar with the layout of the place. She knew there was a very nice garden that could be reached through the library without entering the main saloon, where the other guests would be assembling. After her long trip in the carriage she wanted to go down to it and stretch her legs. She told herself that it was
not
a reluctance to go in and meet the guests that led her out the side door. She needed—wanted—air. Arnold had kept the windows closed the whole trip. So typical of Arnold.

The others would only be gossiping and having wine. She knew the routine of house parties—remembered it well from the two she had attended with Oliver, one here and one at Crockett Hall. First wine and gossip, which was called “catching up,” but consisted in reality of the gentlemen gathering at one end of the room to discuss their horses, their mistresses and politics in that order, while the ladies talked around the grate of their friends’ lovers, for of course they none of them admitted to having one herself. She supposed her presence would be a boon for them. She could almost hear them. “My dear, she came with that gentleman in the corner. The tall one, rather handsome. Do you suppose he’s her lover?” “Well, she came
with
him!” “Does Avondale know?” “Does he
care?”
And
a polite concerted laugh.

She was a little peeved to see someone had had the same idea of escape to the garden as herself, till she noted it was only Arnold, then she walked smiling toward him.

“Are you afraid to go in too?” she laughed.

“I’ve been in. That strange-looking lady we met at the door, Belle, was there and gabbing like a goose. She looks like a witch. Black hair and a black gown and a pointy nose. She asked me if I was your latest cicisbeo, in the most meaningful voice. Maybe we shouldn’t have come together.”

“It’s only Lady Dempster, Arnold. She will ask worse questions than that before the weekend is out. When she asks me whether you are my beau, I mean to remind her I am a married lady, so pray do not feel yourself compromised.”

“It’s you I’m thinking of.”

“I know. Tell her what you like. What
did
you say?”

“I said I didn’t speak Italian.”

A little gurgle of laughter escaped Belle’s lips. “She will tell the world you’re a savage! I’m ruined.”

“What should I have said? I’m like a fish out of water with these city sharks.”

“Why, Arnold, you have had a few seasons! You should have said she did you too much honor.”

“And so she did,” he said, taking her arm and sliding it through his.