Laura Kinsale (35 page)

Or so she hoped.

She sat on the windowsill, folding and refolding her hands as she waited. It had been nearly three weeks since Mr. Taylor had returned from Ashland with discouraging reports, and two since Gryf’s rigidly formal note, asking if he could call on her to discuss her trust and other matters.

And other matters.
That was the phrase that terrified her. She was certain he was going to start divorce proceedings, even though Mr. Taylor assured her that there were no legal grounds on his side. The marriage in Tahiti had been confirmed by the home church, and the confusion Stephen had made of the annulment with his bribes and persuasions had been cleared, to the regret of several defrocked parsons. Tess was being the model wife: staying at home, attending no parties, caring for her child. She had read all the books, and pored over the
Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine
with a vengeance. No detail of what it would require to make her a proper gentleman’s lady had escaped notice.

It was all she had known to do. When she had first made the connection between Gryf and the signet ring and the story of the
Arcturus,
it had hardly seemed real. She had clutched at it as a way to save him, when there was no other appeal but to the lords themselves. It was only after, when they had recognized and acquitted him, that she began to understand the full meaning of the change from vagabond captain to sixth marquess.

No longer was there a barrier of rank and wealth between them. In title and inheritance, he was more than her equal. The newspapers in their glee over the amazing tale spared no detail of the lord’s balance sheet: income from rail interests, Welsh coal mines, Mayfair and
Westminster ground rents, rich farming estates in Hampshire and Dorset…it was every man’s dream, to be turned up rich, and the dailies made the most of it. Tess, too, had been overjoyed. Each pound of annual income that the papers listed seemed to her a brick taken down from the wall of pride that separated them. She was patient, thinking he would come to her as soon as he grasped the reality of his fortune.

But he did not.

And in his silence, there was a message. It was some flaw of her own that made him turn away.

Mr. Taylor tapped on the half-opened nursery door. Tess looked up with a start, and then invited him in. She managed a wan smile.

“I’ve come to say good morning to this godchild of mine,” he said affably. He bent over the cradle and dangled his fingers, but his eyes were on Tess. “You look charming, madam.”

“Do you think so?” Tess stood up and began to dawdle nervously about the room.

“Very much. Though I could wish for a little more color in your cheeks.”

Tess went immediately to a mirror and began to pinch at them.

Mr. Taylor shook his head with a smile. “No, no. I didn’t mean it literally, my dear.”

“Oh.” She glanced at him, and bit her lip. “Do I look so knock-kneed?”

“Panic-stricken,” he said gently.

She took a deep breath, and let it out. “This is worse than my first ball.” She glanced again out the window. “It’s already five past. Do you suppose he’ll be very late?”

Mr. Taylor spread his hands. “I can’t venture to say.”

“Perhaps he won’t come at all.”

“I shall be after him with a stick, in that case.”

She turned a sad smile on him. “I thought you’d already tried that approach.”

“Oh, no. He hasn’t seen anything of my temper yet. I shall give him this chance to make amends.”

Tess looked down at her skirt. She said unhappily, “From what you said of him, I don’t think he’s coming to make amends.”

Mr. Taylor gave the baby one last chuck beneath the chin and straightened. “He can’t divorce you, Lady Tess. You must believe that.”

“What difference does it make, whether or not he can? It’s enough that he wants to.”

“There’s no indication that a divorce suit is what he wants.”

“Oh,” she said, on a slightly squeaky note. “He must regret it more than ever, now. Being forced to marry me, when every choice should be open to him.”

“Lady Tess,” her guardian said soothingly. “He didn’t seem to me to be regretful.”

“How did he seem, then?” she asked in despair. “What was he like?”

Mr. Taylor frowned slightly, and looked down at the baby, wide-eyed but quiet in his cradle. “I would say…” He squinted thoughtfully. “Something like a man who has been sleeping, and is waking up.”

Tess said in a small voice, “I don’t understand.”

“No. It isn’t easy to describe.” He left the cradle and lowered himself on the windowsill opposite Tess. “It would be as if—but no, you wouldn’t have ever seen an infantryman in that state.” He paused. “It’s a breakdown of nerves. If you pin a man under heavy fire for too long, no way to go forward, no way to go back, no hope of rescue—and then, when he’s given himself up for dead, pull him out…” He shook his head. “It has
its effects. I suspect that your husband isn’t quite rational yet.”

“And it’s my fault. He would never have suffered it, but for me.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Taylor raised his eyebrows. “As it turned out, he’d be an ungrateful sod to blame you for what gave him back his inheritance.”

“If only I were a better lady,” Tess groaned. “He’s probably ashamed to have a hedge bird like me for a marchioness. You know what they’re saying in the papers?”

“Those letters?” Her guardian snorted. “You haven’t given a thought to a bunch of stuffed corsets like that, have you? I give you my oath, your husband hasn’t. He doesn’t even know the Ladies’ Society for Christian Womanhood exists, and he certainly won’t care if they decline to admit you to their ranks because you’ve read Lyell’s
Principles of Geology.
”

“And Darwin,” she reminded him. “They liked that rather less.” She pursed her lips. “I suppose it’s slightly more decorous to think the Earth is millions of years old than to believe one’s ancestors were related to apes.”

A tap on the door interrupted. The majordomo said in his quiet voice that Lord Ashland had arrived. Tess felt all the life drain out of her fingers—she had hoped to be prepared, by watching for the carriage. Mr. Taylor looked at her, and then politely took his leave with no further word.

“In the rose drawing room,” Tess told the servant. That was part of the private apartments that had been her mother’s; the sunny, pleasant room opened directly onto the nursery. Tess had a half-conscious idea that if Gryf saw or heard his child that it might make him want to stay with her. She gave the dozing baby a quick butterfly kiss and went into the drawing room, closing the
nursery door behind her. She doubted her son would cry, for though his tantrums could be monumental, they were mercifully seldom, and the head nurse had orders to look in on him every five minutes.

Tess made herself sit still on the divan and wait, but she could not help blindly tracing the outline of one of the huge chintz roses that cascaded across the couch. A light knock sounded at the door, and she clenched her fingers. “Come in.”

At first sight of him, her heart sank. He stood just inside where the footman left him, not even looking at her. In that airy summer room, his chill figure in black frock coat and gray trousers was the single dark image. A devil in the garden, with bright hair and ice-cold eyes.

“Good morning,” she said, before her voice could fail her.

He looked at her, and then away, as if he could not endure the sight. “Good morning.”

A moment’s awkward silence followed. Tess fell to tracing the rose again, her hand hidden by the pastel volume of her skirt.

She heard him draw a deep breath. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said. “I won’t take much of your time.”

She glanced up at him in quick anguish, and then made an effort to recover herself. “Will you sit down?” she asked, trying to match the formality of his tone.

He came farther into the room, but not to sit. He stopped by the mantelpiece of carved alabaster, a few yards away from her, and stood stiffly. She saw him rub the fingers of his right hand against his palm, as if he wished he had something to crush in it.

“I wanted to tell you what I’ve planned,” he said without preamble. “About your trust. To see if you approve.”

“I’m sure I’ll approve anything you think is best,” she
said, and was proud of herself for coming up with such a proper wifely gem.

He threw her a sardonic look, the first break in his reserve. She lowered her eyes. Even her best efforts could not seem to match the mold of feminine duty.

“Good,” he said flatly. “Then it won’t distress you if I ask Mr. Taylor to appoint a trustee other than myself.”

She had expected that; Mr. Taylor had warned her. What she dreaded to hear was the reason behind it. She said humbly, and untruthfully, “Of course not.”

He took a few more restless steps, with his hands behind his back. She watched him from the corner of her eye. He did not seem to her at all like a man who had been sleeping. He seemed more like a man who had not slept, not for a long time, his face and his movements wooden with strain.

He said, “I’m also placing Ashland in trust, for you and the boy. If you know of a trustee you would like to have appointed, please tell me.”

Burning bridges, Tess thought. She couldn’t quite manage another pearl of connubial bliss, so she only nodded mutely.

“Do you know of anyone?”

She bent her head and shook it, blinking rapidly.

A long silence ensued. Tess fought the blurring of her eyes. It should not have hurt her; she should have been resigned by now. But still, she had cherished some small hope that he might have changed his mind.

“That’s all I have to say, then.”

His words were expressionless. Final. For an instant, as she slowly raised her eyes, she caught him looking at her. He turned away to the open window. “No—that isn’t quite all.” He stared down at the windowsill. “I wanted to thank you. For your—”

His voice broke suddenly, on the smallest upward
crack, and she saw his mouth and jaw grow taut. He did not try to finish the sentence. Once again, he curved his hand into that empty, white-knuckled grip. “Damn,” he said softly, to the landscape outside.

She swallowed. After a moment, she asked, “Am I to understand you’re leaving Ashland?”

He nodded once, still gazing out the open window.

The marriage manuals had warned, in great capital letters, that a wife was not to interfere in her husband’s affairs. But the next question popped out before she could censor it.

“Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Back to the ship, I think.”

“You aren’t happy at Ashland?”

“No,” he said, and looked down at the floor. “No, I haven’t been very happy there.”

She felt her heart beat faster. She said faintly, “Perhaps you would be happier here.”

The stiffening of his shoulders beneath the black coat was obvious. He turned slightly, and met her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you hate me so much?” It was barely a whisper.

He swung back toward the window with a harsh sound. “I don’t hate you, Tess.”

That was something, at least. She gazed at the straight line of his back. “You don’t think we might…be a family someday?”

He gripped the window sash. The question went unanswered.

“I’m such a dunderhead.” She plucked disconsolately at her skirt. “I wish I knew how to be what you want.”

“Tess—” His voice was raw with pain.

She said suddenly, “Would you like to see your son?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared out the window, so
that she could not see his face. She rose, interpreting permission from his silence. She went out of the room, shutting the nursery door behind her.

At the soft sound of the latch, Gryf turned back from the window. The moment’s respite was godsent: he thought if he had stayed there one more instant he would have thrown himself onto the pavement below, as the only answer to the intolerable pressure inside of him. He wanted to leave, but his feet would not move. He stood rooted to the spot, staring longingly at the door he had entered, like a dying man would stare at the sanctuary he could not reach.

A family. The idea terrified him. He had learned his lesson well and finally: only alone and untouched was he safe. Love was the siren song that he had followed all his life, the veil of enchantment that hid the savage rocks beneath. He had to go, now, before he was ensnared in it again. He had to go, and yet he could not move. When Tess appeared at the door with her bundle, he had not the strength even to turn his face away.

She did not bring the child to him, but went back to her place on the couch and sat down. He could see her shyness, embarrassment, almost, that she tried to hide by bending over the froth of white lace so that two stubby arms brushed her face as they waved in jerky exploration. A cheap trick, he thought fiercely. An appeal on the basest level; emotional blackmail of the lowest kind. He tried to harden his heart to the scene, and almost succeeded. Almost, he found he could walk away from that posed and pretty picture of English domesticity and say that it meant nothing.

And then there was a swift flutter at the open window next to him. Something bright and green plummeted past his shoulder, a tiny parrot, that made one quick, silent circle of the room and came to land on top of Tess’s head.

She straightened abruptly, and the bird sidestepped upward with monumental unconcern, leaning over to peer down her forehead as if to see the baby. “Oh!” Tess cried, and shook her head. The bird spread emerald wings and tried to take off at the sudden move, but its claw tangled in the net that held Tess’s thick, dark hair. “Isidora!” she wailed, as one whole side of the coiffure came free, tumbling down across her shoulder. The baby began to shriek, and Isidora struggled harder, flapping and hopping frantically to get free of the trap. Tess sprang up from the couch with the baby. In the commotion, Gryf’s feet took him forward; he found his son dumped without ceremony into his arms. Tess pressed both hands down over the offending bird, wailing, “Oh, how could you, you stupid beast! Now you’ve ruined everything!”

Isidora answered with a muffled screech. Tess stamped her foot, and huge tears started in her eyes. She made little sobbing sounds of frustration as Isidora’s head popped in and out between her fingers. She worked at the tangled net, and a moment later the bird shot free. It circled the room again and came back, this time to sit on Gryf’s shoulder. Tess plopped down on the couch with a knotted fist pressed to her mouth. Her hair had all fallen down now, and her face was screwed into the trembling pout of a thwarted child. The prim picture of motherhood had dissolved into chaos.