Lord Greywell's Dilemma (19 page)

“I’m a married woman,” she reminded him now. “You really shouldn’t be writing poems about loving me or . . . or my loving you. You know I’m fond of you, Francis, but that’s not at all the same sort of thing as loving you.”

“Then who
do
you love?” he demanded, the dreamy light gone from his eyes. “Not Greywell. You hardly know him, for God’s sake!”

“Well, I don’t love anyone, I suppose. I don’t know you very well either, do I?”

“Better than you know Greywell,” he insisted. “You and I have a great deal more in common than you and he.”

Elspeth was feeling a little alarmed. “That really doesn’t matter, you know. I’m
married
to Greywell. That isn’t something that can be changed. And I wouldn’t want it to be changed,” she added rather hastily.

Francis smiled angelically. “No, of course not. There is something so much more satisfying about a love that isn’t of the body, Elspeth. It’s of a rarer, more purified nature, isn’t it? One feels the torment of the soul cleansing one’s spirit.”

Obviously he didn’t understand at all, but Elspeth hardly felt up to arguing with him about the subject of bodies and souls. “I really should go up to Andrew now,” she said, rising. “He’ll just be waking from his nap.”

When he had reluctantly left, with a sweet smile of complicity, Elspeth wandered to the nursery in something of a daze. Was she falling in love with him? It was true she looked forward to his visits with something a great deal stronger than an anticipated visit from Emily Marden would have inspired, but that didn’t mean she loved him. That meant she was a little lonely, and his company was more amusing than Emily Marden’s. Not that she didn’t like Emily Marden! Elspeth was exceedingly fond of her, and really should go to visit her again very soon. She would have done it before now, if she hadn’t been afraid of missing one of Francis’ unannounced visits.

That very evening she sat down and wrote to Greywell, at the new Brussels direction.

It’s a great
shame there will be more fighting now, and that you have had to go to Brussels. You would love to see how Andrew is getting about these days and how much he has grown. I quite understand the necessity of your going, though, and hope matters will proceed as we would all wish. Tomorrow I shall visit Emily Marden to see how she gets along with the baby. One day soon I will even take Andrew along with me on these ]aunts, as it
would give him some new experiences. Spring is a little late in coming, but I get outside with him as often as possible.

She tried, without success, to think of something she could say about Francis (Mr. Treyford in a letter to Greywell, of course) that would not sound compromising. She could hardly say he came almost daily to read his poetry to her, or that his poetry was about her. It didn’t even sound good, when she thought about it, to mention that he called so often.

There was something about this letter that bothered Greywell, but he was too busy at the time he received it to consider what it was. The chaos which followed the news of Napoleon’s escape was a matter he had taken in hand, since there were many who seemed not to know how to handle the surprising event. His influence at the Congress had not been what he had hoped, and he felt his abilities might now be better employed in sorting out the hopeless muddle . . . before he went home.

There were reasons to go home—Andrew, Ashfield, even Elspeth—but he couldn’t force himself to do it. Certain that his talents were still needed, perhaps needed more than ever now, he stayed on in Brussels, sending home only a brief note to Elspeth saying:
Your father has written what a fine job you’re doing there. Forgive my delayed return, but it is necessary. Do give my love to Andrew and amuse yourself with Emily Marden. Spring will doubtless make everything more cheerful and allow more activity, but not, I hope, of an interfering kind on your part.
(He had remembered the snuffboxes at this point, and the dairymaids.)
I shall be home as soon as feasible.

His cavalier attitude irritated Elspeth. Certainly there was every reason for him to stay in Brussels if he wished, but he needn’t have mentioned her interfering, and he needn’t have sent his love only to Andrew. At the time, she could have done with some expression of affection from him, even if he didn’t really mean it.

How sadly I’ve degenerated, she thought as she set the letter aside on her escritoire in the Queen’s Closet. I would never have considered wanting his affection when I married him, only his respect for what I could accomplish. Now I want him to offer me something he couldn’t possibly feel, just because Francis is so wretchedly prompt in offering me his agonizing declarations of devotion.

By the time Elspeth received this letter at the beginning of May, Francis’ poetry had subtly changed. His struggles with his soul on the subject of his love for another man’s wife, already a major part of his new verse, had recently taken a new turn. He had taken to impassioned descriptions of Elspeth herself, in which his euphemisms got more and more absurd, as they got more and more intimate. Her “twin orbs,” she realized after a second reading, did not refer to her eyes at all but to her breasts. At first she had wondered why he called them delicious, rather than enchanting. On realizing her mistake, she had blushed furiously and said, “You mustn’t write such a thing.”

“There is no way on earth I could prevent myself,” he declared, fervent. “It would be a disgrace to my talent to shun the very natural beauty of your body, my dear Elspeth.”

Knowing she should put a stop to this dangerous game, she yet could not quite manage to deny him the right to visit her, and read her his increasingly erotic poetry. The reason she was unable to do so was that it moved her, in a very unascetic way. For instance, she got quite an unusual physical reaction from his reading about Cupid’s cave and Cupid’s torch. It made her feel quite warm all over, and rather breathless. A delicious shiver ran through her, and when he was finished reading, she couldn’t look at him, but walked over to the vase of flowers on the table in the corner and rearranged them with nervous fingers.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” she asked. “Andrew will sleep for some time now, and I could use a breath of fresh air.”

Elspeth had learned that he preferred sitting indoors reading his poetry, but he gallantly accepted the invitation. He was a natural horseman, with an easy elegance in the saddle that pleased her. His languidness didn’t vanish, but he appeared more masculine when he was on a horse. And she wanted him to appear more masculine just now, when her body tingled with unaccustomed sensations.

Their horses seemed to feel the tantalizing breath of spring in the air, frisking down the path away from the stables. Buds on the trees were finally beginning to open, and the grass was a fresh, vibrant green. Elspeth had noticed how many birds there were around Ashfield, and she asked Francis now if he could identify any of their cries.

“A few of them—the rook and the magpie. You really can’t miss either of them, though, can you?” His gaze went to the trees along their path where some hidden bird was spilling out his glorious song. “I tell you what—let’s dismount and see if we can see him.”

He helped her from her sidesaddle, allowing his hands to linger at her sides when she was safely on the ground. His eyes, kept steadily on her face, were soulful and pleading. Elspeth felt a definite tug of desire, a most decided wish to have those fascinating lips on hers. She did not give him permission; nor did she turn her head aside when he lowered his head to hers. The pressure of his soft flesh on hers was a unique experience. She had never before been kissed that way. There was something altogether thrilling about the way his mouth meshed with hers, about the way his lips moved over hers, gently rubbing, pressing, drawing on something deep inside her. Elspeth shivered with the sheer excitement of it.

“You’re scaring the birds away,” a voice said from nearby.

Startled, Elspeth hastily pushed Francis from her and looked about with large, panic-stricken eyes. There was nothing to be seen. The voice had sounded suspiciously like Abigail Waltham’s, but there was no one around them. They were in a stand of trees, with the horses grazing on new tufts of grass, but there was no other living creature within her view. In fact, the birds had taken flight; she had heard the rustling of their movement as Francis kissed her, but paid no attention to it. Now their song was gone and she and Francis stood frozen, waiting for Mrs. Waltham to manifest herself.

She took her time in doing it. When one is fifty-two years old, one doesn’t climb down from a tree with any great degree of speed. It wasn’t a large tree from which she descended, and it had branches growing fairly close to the ground, but Elspeth watched her come into view with astonishment. Francis let out a peal of delighted laughter.

“You frightened off a whitethroat,” Abigail said when she had her feet firmly on the springy earth. Her shawl was snagged and the rest of her clothes terribly disheveled, but she cocked her head to one side, very much as a bird might, and studied the pair before her. “Did you come to see the birds?”

“Oh, yes,” Elspeth said quickly. “Francis . . . that is, Mr. Treyford wasn’t sure what kind it was but I liked the gushing, jerky little song it made. We used to have a blackcap at Lyndhurst, but its song was different.”

“They don’t sound at all alike,” Abigail sniffed. “I’m afraid you don’t know much about birds, my dear Lady Greywell.”

Was it Elspeth’s imagination, or did she stress the “Lady Greywell”?

“I’m afraid I don’t,” she admitted, hanging her head.

“How did you get up in that tree?” Francis asked, still smiling.

“How do you suppose I got up in it?” Abigail demanded. “I climbed it, of course. I climb it every spring to get a close look at the birds, and when people don’t come along to frighten them off, I can spend hours observing them at close range. Now I’ll have to wait till another day to see them.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Elspeth murmured.

Abigail eyed her thoughtfully. “You should be.”

“Yes, well, we didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously.” Abigail snorted and turned her back on them to trudge toward her house, leaving them to stare guiltily at one another.

Francis didn’t look as guilty as he should have, Elspeth thought as she muttered something about getting back to Ashfield.

“There’s no hurry, now she’s gone,” he said.

“I want to go back now.”

Francis shrugged. “She’s not a gossip, Elspeth.”

“It doesn’t matter.” But it did matter, a great deal. Elspeth could not have borne the idea of Mrs. Waltham telling anyone what she’d seen. Fortunately, she was sure Francis was right: Abigail wouldn’t mention it to a soul, not even Greywell. She allowed Francis to help her into her saddle, holding herself stiff and awkward until he had mounted his own horse. They rode back to the stables without speaking.

Chapter Ten

Elspeth spent a great deal of time that day thinking about Francis. And even more time thinking about herself. She had always assumed she was above temptation, simply because she’d never before been tempted, she realized now. It was surprising, and upsetting, to learn that she was as beset with human frailty as anyone else she could think of. Elspeth knew she shouldn’t allow Francis to visit her any longer. Actually, she reluctantly admitted, she should have forbidden his visits some time ago, when he first declared his love for her, or at least when his poetry became so provocative.

Realizing her mistake did not necessarily mean she was capable of adjusting it in future. Something in her attempted to justify her conduct. Elspeth wasn’t particularly pleased with that whiny voice that assured her she deserved a little pleasure from life. It said: See how hard you’ve worked to take care of Andrew and to run Ashfield to the best of your ability. It said: Greywell doesn’t care for you, and he’ll never care for you, because he’s still in love with his dead wife. It said: What you do is your business and if it doesn’t hurt anyone else, no one has the right to complain about it. Worst of all, it said: Everyone knows your purity is too great to be ruined by a little dalliance.

Elspeth knew she should fight this voice determined to undermine her high standards. On the other hand, she was beginning to understand that she was infatuated. There had been any number of young women near Lyndhurst who had suffered from the same affliction, and Elspeth had been able to recognize it in them without the least difficulty.

In herself, she could call it whatever she chose, but it amounted to the same thing. The only problem was that she hadn’t realized then what she did now—it was a very strong emotion. Especially after Francis had kissed her, she wanted to experience that kiss again, and she wanted him to hold her. In her mind she didn’t really go further than that, thinking of him holding her, pressing her against his chest

When she tucked Andrew in for the night, she was abstracted, and afterward she couldn’t remember whether she had gone through her usual ritual of telling him his father loved him, and that she loved him. But when she went back to look in, he was fast asleep, holding one of the toys his mother had made. Elspeth sighed and wandered off to her room, too distracted to find a book to read, and certainly in no mood to write a letter to Greywell.

At one moment she would believe she had the strength not to see Francis again. At another she knew she wouldn’t. At times she even blamed Greywell for what was happening: If he hadn’t been away so long, she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to form this attachment to Francis. Sometimes she merely blamed fate, though that seemed an unfair thing to do, when Francis was writing odes to fate for the good fortune of their having the time to be together. Really, it was a terrible muddle, and she went to bed with a pounding headache.

Nothing was changed in the morning. Elspeth awaited Francis’ arrival with a certain trepidation that had not formerly bothered her. The tightness in her chest was almost outweighed by the fluttery feeling in her stomach, but not quite. All morning he didn’t come . . . and then all afternoon he didn’t come. Elspeth tried to occupy herself with Andrew, but she found herself constantly moving to the window that overlooked the drive.