The Marriage Act (13 page)

“That was a private conversation,” Caro objected, though she could already tell she was waging a losing battle.

“I can see why.”

“Sophia, please.” Caro set a hand on her arm. “If there are certain aspects of our relationship Welford and I prefer to keep to ourselves, we have good reason. You know how ill my father is. Think how upset he would be if he were to learn my marriage is unhappy. I can’t do that to him.”

“Why is your marriage unhappy?” Sophia asked with undisguised curiosity. “Was Lord Welford unfaithful to you, or were you unfaithful to him?”

“I’m not going to dignify that question with an answer.” At the flash of resentment that crossed Sophia’s face, Caro hastened to smooth things over. She needed her cousin’s cooperation if she and John were to have any hope of carrying off their deception. “Welford and I don’t suit, that’s all. We started off on the wrong foot and things only grew worse from there.”

Sophia’s eyes narrowed, as if she didn’t quite believe Caro’s explanation. “If things are so dreadful, why is he helping you?” With gossipy relish, she asked, “Are you blackmailing him?”

“Blackmailing Welford? Of course not. As if he would ever do something so improper he could be blackmailed for it, or I could make him do anything he didn’t want to do! He came willingly, because he admires and respects Papa. And if you have any affection at all for my father, you won’t give away our secret.”

Another secret. Caro was drowning in them, and in the falsehoods necessary to keep them from coming to light. First she’d set out to hide the truth of her marriage from her father, then she’d undertaken to cover up Ronnie’s drinking, and now she was entering into a conspiracy with her cousin—a conspiracy she was also going to have to keep secret from John, for if he suspected Sophia had already guessed the truth, he might well decide the game was up and tell her father everything. And all because of the first secret she’d kept, the first lies she’d told, longing for Lawrence Howe even as she’d agreed to marry John.

When this was over, she was never going to tell another lie again.

Sophia considered a moment, a thoughtful look on her face. “So Lord Welford would want me to play along?”

“Yes, of course he would—though he won’t thank you for listening at keyholes, or for involving yourself in our private troubles. If I were you, I wouldn’t let on to him that you’re any the wiser.”

The prospect of John’s disapproval had the intended effect. Sophia immediately changed her tune. “I wasn’t planning to tell him.”

“But what about my father?” Caro said. “You’re not going to give our secret away to him, are you?”

“I don’t see any reason to tell Uncle Matthew, at least not if you think it would be upsetting. I’d never intentionally do anything to hurt him.”

“And you won’t tell your parents either? You won’t tell anyone?”

Her patience waning, Sophia let out her breath in a huff. “I’m not a tattler, Caro. If it’s that important to you, I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Oh, thank you.” Caro pressed her cousin’s hand gratefully, but as sincere as her thanks were, doubt nagged at her. John clearly trusted his valet to keep their secret, and Caro had faith in Ronnie—though he might let something slip by accident, he would never intentionally give them away—but she wasn’t so sure about Sophia.

Her cousin had always been headstrong, more apt to act on emotion than to think matters through. Rather like Caro herself had been at that age—and Caro knew all too well what kind of disastrous decisions a girl of seventeen or eighteen could make.

Chapter Twelve

Truth is scarcely to be heard but by those from whom it can serve no interest to conceal it.

—Samuel Johnson

John woke the next morning on his half of the bed, while Caro remained sound asleep on her half. They’d gone to sleep without so much as a word spoken between them, but at least they’d managed to share a bed for an entire night without arguing.

He slipped into his dressing room and rang for Leitner. Though the rooms he and Caro had been assigned were comfortable rather than elegant, after the crowded accommodations of The George and the rustic simplicity of the hunting box, having his own dressing room again felt downright luxurious.

Leitner arrived in no time with a fluffy white towel over one arm and a steaming ewer of hot water in his hands. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Leitner.” John washed up and set about shaving, eyeing his valet in the mirror. “That black eye is looking even more colorful today.”

“Yes, my lord. I am not sure this shade of purple suits me. Lavender would be better with my coloring.”

“How are you settling in here?”

“Quite well. I am sharing quarters with Sir Geoffrey’s man. The servants are cordial enough, though their English is not so easy to understand.”

“I expect that’s just the Leicestershire accent.”

“Likely so, my lord. It is interesting how they speak of her ladyship’s father. They refer to him always in hushed tones.”

John paused. “Do you mean hushed as in the way one might speak of a man with one foot in the grave, or hushed as in merely respectful?”

“I think it is more the latter, my lord—as if he were the master here, and Sir Geoffrey the younger brother.”

John was relieved to hear the servants weren’t tiptoeing about the bishop as if he were about to give up the ghost at any minute. For Caro’s sake, he hoped she and her father might have some time together first.

John finished shaving, accepting a towel from Leitner. “I’m not surprised they speak of him with such respect. It’s no small thing to be a bishop in England. A bishop resides in a palace—well, it’s called a palace, whatever its design—and has the precedence of a peer. He wields not only spiritual and administrative authority, but also political power and influence, with a seat in the House of Lords as one of the Lords Spiritual.”

“And he has the ear of God,” Leitner said, so lightly that John wasn’t sure whether he was serious or making a sly joke. Like most Austrians, Leitner was of the Romish persuasion, though he wasn’t particularly devout.

“If any man is likely to have the ear of God,” John said as he pulled on a shirt, “it’s Bishop Fleetwood.”

“You admire him, my lord?”

“I do. He’s one of the few men I know who actually lives out his ideals. I’ve known him since I was fifteen, and the headmaster at Winchester mentioned to him that I’d had to spend Christmas at school while all the other boys had gone home. Bishop Fleetwood took me under his wing.”

John had been one of only two commoners who had remained at school through the six weeks of Christmas vacation every year, the other being a boy whose parents were in India. Most of his schoolmates had gone home for the shorter Easter break too, but John had grated on his stepmother’s nerves so badly that his father had sent the carriage for him only once a year, when the long midsummer vacation began. By that point, John’s return to Halewick had always been strained, for after ten months away he’d felt more like a temporary visitor than a member of the family. Some years, he’d scarcely even recognized Ronnie, who’d inevitably grown by leaps and bounds. Just when John’s sense of being an outsider would begin to wear off, he’d have to go back to school for the new term.

“There was such a priest not far from where I grew up,” Leitner said darkly. “People said he liked the little boys.”

John paused in tying his neckcloth to give him a reproving look. “Good Lord, get your mind out of the gutter. It was nothing like that. He merely encouraged me to join the chapel choir, and told me if I ever had need of help or advice, I could come to him. He was kind and fatherly, and at a time when my own father’s attention had shifted to his new family.” John drew on his waistcoat. “After I inherited and took my seat in the Lords, Bishop Fleetwood became a mentor of sorts. And for every kindness he’s shown me, he’s done the same for countless others. I never once called on him, whether in London or in Chelmsford, without encountering a line of the troubled and needy who’d come to seek his help.”

Helping John into his coat, Leitner nodded sagely. “That must have been a great trial for her ladyship, to grow up as the daughter of such a man.”

“A trial?” John said with a frown. “You weren’t attending, Leitner. I’ve just been telling you what a good man he is, and by ‘good’ I don’t mean self-righteous or tiresomely judgmental. Bishop Fleetwood is universally beloved.”

“Yes, my lord, I heard what you said. But would it not be difficult to live up to the reputation of such a father, and to meet every day such a lofty standard?”

“I wouldn’t know,” John said with a wry twist of his mouth. He gave his coat sleeve a slight adjustment, so that it showed just the perfect amount of cuff at the wrist. “My father was rather less saintly.”

“He did manage to live with your stepmother for a number of years, my lord.”

John eyed his valet. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

“Only if it amused you.”

John chuckled despite himself. “You were lucky with that one.”

When John went downstairs the breakfast room was empty save for Caro’s father. Bishop Fleetwood was holding a cup of tea in one hand and a letter in the other. “Good morning, John,” he said cheerfully without looking up from his reading. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well. There’s nothing like a long journey to make the bed at the end of it inviting.” John helped himself to the eggs, sausage and mushrooms on the sideboard. “And you, sir?”

“Oh, I always sleep like the proverbial log.” The bishop folded his letter and tucked it in his pocket. “Church business. It follows me no matter where I go. Sadly, letters from my clergy are never as diverting as Caro’s were. She’s still asleep?”

John sat down opposite him. “Yes, I thought she could use the rest.”

“She never was an early riser.”

“No, indeed.” In truth, John had no idea whether she was an early riser or not. After five years of marriage, he’d awakened beside her a grand total of twice, once that very morning and before then at the inn in Little Brickhill—and even at the inn he hadn’t really been
beside
her, but on the floor with the bed between them.

“It warms my heart to see her looking so well,” the bishop said. “Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, I believe I told you on the day you asked for Caro’s hand that I knew you would be good for her.”

“Yes, sir.” John ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You did.”

Bishop Fleetwood smiled. “I confess I had my worries, and questioned whether I’d done the right thing in giving you my blessing—not that I don’t think the world of you, my boy, but Caro was still very young, and at the time I had no notion the two of you had even fallen in love.”

No one but the bishop ever called him
my boy.
“In that case, I’m surprised you gave me leave to propose.”

“Frankly, I didn’t want to let you get away—or at least, I didn’t want to deprive Caro of the chance to consider your offer before you left for Vienna. Not only did I know you to be responsible and gentlemanly, but I could tell that you and Caro had a good deal in common—you both love travel, music and children, for example, and you’re both fair-minded, conscious of appearances, and respectful of tradition. Even your differences seemed well suited.”

John hadn’t known Caro liked travel or music, but it was the bishop’s last statement that seized his attention. “Our differences?”

Bishop Fleetwood smiled. “While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that opposites attract, I’ve found that some of the happiest marriages result when two dissimilar temperaments complement each other, so that a husband and wife check each other’s excesses, and lend each other their strengths—a steady character with an impulsive one, for instance, or a warm, expressive nature with a more subdued one. And my Caro can be a touch impulsive.”

John noticed the bishop was tactful enough not to spell out the second half of his example, that John could be cool and withdrawn. “She can be that.”

“But a good girl withal,” the bishop said with a searching look at John. “A loving girl, with a heart so big it’s sometimes more giving than prudent. And I could see you needed that, my boy.”

John had never thought of himself as
needing
love. Wishing for it, yes, but he’d got along on his own for most of his life, and there was no reason he couldn’t get along that way forever. He was surprised and a bit embarrassed that the bishop had formed such an opinion. John rarely talked about his feelings.

But since Bishop Fleetwood was speaking as a fond father, John merely agreed, “Caro does have a big heart.” The remark was true in its way, even if her affections had never extended to him. John still remembered how touched he’d been the time he’d walked her home from church and she’d invited poor motherless Miss Culverhouse to come to her house for marzipan. “Certainly she loves you very much, sir.”

“And I love her more than I can say. She may be your wife, but she’ll always be my little girl. That’s why her welfare is so important to me, and why it was a great joy to me when she accepted your offer. I knew the two of you had the potential to bring each other lasting happiness.”

“But what if it hadn’t turned out that way?” John had the uncomfortable sense he was lying to a man he’d always respected, and a man of the cloth no less. “You said yourself that she was very young. What if it had turned out we didn’t suit, and she’d ended up unhappy?”

“Then I should have been gravely concerned,” the bishop said, “but not in despair. I haven’t forgotten when you were at the head of your class at Winchester. I would’ve reminded myself how clever you are, and had faith that you would puzzle it out.”

Puzzle it out? Puzzle
what
out? He already knew why he and Caro were miserable together, and it had never been in his power to resolve the problem. It wasn’t merely that she’d left him on their wedding night. He could have forgiven that readily enough, especially if it had been a youthful mistake.

The real reason their marriage had failed so spectacularly was that Caro had accepted him under false pretenses. He’d had no notion she was in love with another man, no notion she found him stuffy and stubborn and irritating, no notion she felt nothing for him whatsoever. He’d wanted a real marriage, and she never had.

How could he possibly make Caro happy, when the chief quality Bishop Fleetwood believed made him a good match for her—a steady character—was the very thing about him Caro most despised?

* * *

John didn’t see much of Caro that day, at least not until dinner. Her aunt and cousin were already promised to call on neighbors, and Caro went along with them to renew old acquaintances. John spent his day writing first to The Three Swans in Market Harborough to inquire about Barnes’s recovery, and then to Halewick to apprise his steward of the coachman’s injury. He dispatched a third letter to the Foreign Office, to inform them of his whereabouts in case they should have any wish to reach him. Then he made the mistake of opening a book he found on a table in his dressing room—
Italian Mysteries
—and lost several potentially productive hours to reading by the window.

The ladies returned in time to change for dinner. Caro came down in a gown of Prussian blue silk that highlighted her slender curves, a rope of pearls at her throat. She looked sophisticated and stylish, as elegant as any of the ladies of the Viennese court.

“What a lovely gown!” Lady Fleetwood said.

John wasn’t usually at a loss for words, but it took him a moment to find his tongue. “My thoughts exactly.”

“This is only the third time I’ve worn my gown,” Miss Fleetwood said. “I copied it from a picture in Ackermann’s.”

He didn’t blame her for sounding envious, a pretty eighteen-year-old cast in the shade by her even prettier cousin. “It’s a most becoming gown, Miss Fleetwood. Ronnie, doesn’t Miss Fleetwood look fine this evening?”

“Jolly fine,” Ronnie said with feeling.

John’s eyes strayed back to Caro. She caught him looking at her and smiled—a rather conspiratorial smile, but he wasn’t sure whether it was meant to acknowledge his appeasement of Miss Fleetwood’s transparent bid for attention or the greater deception they were practicing on her family.

He led Lady Fleetwood in to dinner, while Sir Geoffrey had the pleasure of leading in Caro. John tried to remember the last time he’d led his own wife in to dinner. Unless he counted the meal they’d shared at The George in Little Brickhill, the last time had been just after their wedding, during the brief period they were both at Halewick.

At the thought of Halewick, he suffered a nostalgic pang. It was a fine old house, comfortable and spacious and redolent of two hundred years of his ancestors’ occupation, and he missed it. But just as his stepmother’s dislike had kept him in virtual exile for much of his school years, more recently Caro’s presence there had kept him away. He might have come home from Vienna for at least a brief visit, but what would’ve been the point when Ronnie was away at school and he and Caro hadn’t even been speaking? If he’d been restless at Halewick before his marriage, he could scarcely imagine how empty the house would feel, sharing it with a wife who loathed him.

“I noticed your letter to the Foreign Office in the outgoing post, Lord Welford,” Sir Geoffrey said over the first remove. “Have you any idea where your next assignment will be, or do you plan to remain in England?”

“I suppose that will depend on whether the diplomatic service has any great need of me. I expect to stay in England for the present, perhaps until my brother takes his degree.”

Ronnie’s eyes went round with dismay. “Don’t wait on my account!”