Grahame, Lucia Read online

  “You are completely mistaken,” I said. “The truth, if you must know it, is that I have never been able to manage money.” How could he know that I’d been the very soul of husbandry during the lean years with Frederick? “I am afraid I am forever coming up short—and with nothing to show for it!”

  “Well,” he said, “if there is anything I can do, you have only to ask.”

  I was silent.

  “Besides,” he went on, “you are a very lovely woman, and I wouldn’t mind seeing you looking a bit more soignee.”

  I chose to ignore this oblique request, one of the very few he ever made of me, and continued to wear the same gray dresses I had during my last months in France. Virtually every penny that passed from my husband’s hands into mine continued to go straight to Paris, but there was no way that I could appeal to my straitlaced husband to break Poncet’s hold over me once and for all.

  My husband did not care much for society and made only the minimal gestures toward it that were required of a man in his position.

  At Charingworth, we paid occasional polite visits to some of our neighbors, but except for these small acts of neighborly civility, we shunned the endless rounds of fox hunts, shooting expeditions, country house weekends, empty but rigidly orchestrated social calls, and elaborate dinner parties that provided so many people of our station with their sole raison d’être.

  That suited me very well, for I had no raison d’être at all, nor had I any love for the upper classes or for their ostentations, prejudices, and frivolities.

  The one unmitigated benefit of my new life was my limitless freedom out of doors. Instead of walking, however, as I had done in my youth, I rode the filly with which my husband had presented me upon our return from the Continent. When I was with Andromeda, I was almost happy. She was a glossy little black horse with a white blaze on her face and an endearingly delicate manner. But her fastidious airs disappeared when I brought her to a gallop and her passion for speed was unleashed.

  I had not learned to ride at the school in Montreux where my grandmother had sent me for two years, so it was my husband who taught me. He was a superb horseman and under his tutelage I took to the saddle quickly, with a buoyant confidence, expecting that my fearlessness would win me his lavish approval. Instead, even in his restrained way, my husband proved to be a surprisingly demanding and critical instructor. I sensed that it drove him wild, for example, if I either pulled too hard on the reins or grew too lax in my control, but the only indication he gave of this was in the ironic tone of his mild rebukes. Nevertheless, he let no error slide.

  After I had licked the first few wounds to my pride, I found that I did not object to my husband’s manner of instruction. In fact, our rides together, when he accompanied me on his chestnut stallion, Perseus, were among the few pleasant intervals in our marriage. But they could not compensate for its other disappointments.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hardly ever, during this period of our lives, did my husband express the frustrations that must have been gnawing at him. Even when his temper frayed, he kept it as tightly controlled as the fist he had raised against the windowpane in Athens.

  One or two such incidents occurred in conjunction with his mother’s first visit to us, which she finally condescended to pay in early November, after we had been settled for weeks in England.

  Earlier, in a fit of boredom so great that even the idea of seeking out the fabled dragon in her lair offered itself as an appealing diversion from the stately passage of the long, slow days at Charingworth, I had suggested that perhaps we ought to call upon her at her Yorkshire manor.

  “I think that is a most unsuitable idea,” said my husband, in a chilly voice that brooked no compromise. “You tire so easily, Fleur, I’m sure you would find the trip fearfully exhausting.”

  It was clear that he was dead set against the notion. I was surprised. Never had he rejected any proposal of mine so unequivocally.

  He seemed equally displeased when Lady Whitstone sent us the letter announcing her intention to favor us with a visit. After showing it to me he proposed, with a flash of that old, acerbic sparkle, that perhaps it was time for a holiday in France. I demurred, saying that I felt very remiss at not having made the acquaintance of my mother-in-law long ago. My husband shrugged and yielded.

  Lady Whitstone’s stay with us was not a pleasant event. Lord Whitstone did not accompany her—I had once been given to understand by a remark of Lord Marsden’s that Whitstone had a poor opinion of my husband, who did not share that worthy nobleman’s enthusiasm for slaughtering foxes.

  When I finally laid eyes on Lady Whitstone, I was astounded by the resemblance between parent and child. My husband was a perfect, albeit masculinized, replication of his mother: the pale complexion, hers; the white-gold hair, hers; the haughty bearing, the cool gray eyes, the excruciatingly high-bred nose, and the clean line of the narrow jaw, all hers. Only his dark lashes—hers were as light as her hair—and equally firm, but more generously formed mouth suggested that his sire might have contributed anything at all to his makeup.

  My husband had been tender enough of my feelings to warn me in advance that Lady Whitstone was obsessive about rank and ancestry. In fact, he added almost nonchalantly, he was certain that she would never have married his father were the Camwells not one of the richest families in England, while her own family, the Cercys, equally ancient but far more distinguished, had fallen upon hard times. His voice was casual, but with an undertone that suggested he judged her harshly on that score.

  It was no surprise, then, that one of Lady Whitstone’s earliest conversations with me, almost entirely one-sided, was a general dissertation on the importance of maintaining the purity of good blood. Sometime during the conversation, she asked me what my father’s name had been. When I told her, she gave me a quizzical look and then went on to decry the unfortunate modern trend, among so many people of impeccable genealogy, to take a mate from the inferior classes, thus polluting England’s finest stock with every sort of undesirable characteristic.

  It was a theme to which she invariably returned on the rare and brief occasions that my husband left us alone together. Then one afternoon, my husband was called into the village on an urgent matter which seemed likely to occupy him for several hours. Almost as soon as he had gone, Lady Whitstone began to bombard me from across the tea table with more details about the Camwell family’s origins, wealth, and noble connections than I had ever wished to know.

  When she had finally exhausted the tiresome subject of the Camwells, I scarcely had time to offer her another cup of tea before she began tracing her own immaculate Cercy lineage back to the Battle of Hastings.

  “You mentioned that Hastings was your father’s name. But you went by a different one,” she suddenly interjected into her monologue. “Deslignères, was it not?”

  I froze. I had mentioned my father’s name to her, but I had never told her my grandmother’s. This was the first indication she had given of the extent of her interest in my origins, and although I was not warmed by it, I was mightily impressed. I had been very vague about my early life in our conversations. My husband, of course, knew the name I had used before I married Frederick, but I was pretty certain, from Lady Whitstone’s atrocious accent, that she had not heard that name from him; she must have somehow found it out for herself. It could only be from the records of my marriage, in Paris, to Frederick. To think the woman would have gone to such lengths!

  “Yes,” I said, wishing that she might revert to the less volatile subject of William the Conqueror.

  “And this grandmother of yours, who raised you, her name was also Deslignères?” persisted the intrepid researcher, leaning toward me and looking somewhat like a well-kept vulture.

  “Yes,” I repeated, astounded by the depth of her genealogical excavations. “Deslignères,” I then added, giving it the correct pronunciation.

  “And your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Deslignères
, again,” I replied with the utmost politeness.

  “What a curious coincidence,” she observed. “Or did all the women in your family marry relatives?”

  It was at this moment that my husband slipped like a pale shadow into the room.

  “So it was nothing so very important, after all,” said Lady Whitstone of the matter which had taken her son from her side. “Really, Anthony, you are far too quick to respond to every bumpkin’s imaginary troubles. It breeds disrespect.”

  By now I had acquired the distinct impression that behind her elegant and richly clothed exterior beat a heart that harbored very little affection for her son.

  “Do you think so, Mother?” said my husband, indifferently settling into a chair.

  “You have always known my views on your relations with those people, Anthony. You encourage them to forget your station.”

  “As if they could!” he murmured. Then, inclining his head toward me, “She thinks I do not take sufficient advantage of ‘those people,’ Fleur, and instead encourage them to think poorly of me. What is your opinion on the subject?”

  “I have never heard you spoken of with anything but respect and affection, Anthony,” I told him truthfully. So there! was the message I flashed simultaneously at Lady Whitstone from behind my lashes.

  “Well, that is only to be expected—I’m the king of the castle and you are, after all, my wife,” said my husband, in a tone of such cynicism that I was momentarily shaken.

  “And every day I see the lengths to which you go to be worthy of such regard,” I added with a warmth that astonished me.

  He sent me a look that all but pierced my heart, but his face closed up when his mother spoke again.

  “Oh, let’s not argue about such paltry things, darling. Fleur and I have been having such a lovely tea. You must try some of this lemon cake.”

  My husband ignored that proposition and instead lounged in his chair, as fainéant as a squire at the end of a long day’s hunt.

  “And what have you and Fleur been talking about?” he asked carelessly.

  “Oh, this and that,” said Lady Whitstone with a little laugh. “Indeed, I can hardly recall now what we were speaking of when you burst in upon us.”

  “Indeed?” remarked my husband, stretching out his legs. “Perhaps I can assist your memory.”

  His mother blanched.

  “I can remember,” I interjected, for I had no confidence in my languid husband’s ability to defend me. “You had concluded that I was a bastard and were taking the opportunity to remind me that my mother was one, as well. That was your point, was it not, Lady Whitstone?”

  Without his having moved a muscle, I imagined for a moment that my husband’s demeanor had become alert and watchful. I shot a glance his way, but he was only examining his fingernails.

  “Is that so, Mother?” he asked idly, with his gaze on his hands.

  “Certainly not!” protested Lady Whitstone, with what seemed to me unnecessary vigor in the light of his apparent unconcern. “I was merely curious about what seemed to be an odd coincidence.”

  “Then let me enlighten you on that subject,” I said. “Like you, my grandmother did not approve of intermarriage between people of different stations in life. In fact, she did not approve of marriage at all. She never married. But I think you already know that. You appear to have taken great interest in the matter and to have done a fair amount of digging on your own.”

  I expected Lady Whitstone to protest angrily, but she did not. Instead she continued to cast furtive looks in the direction of her impassive son.

  “Yes, indeed,” I went on. I was beginning to enjoy myself. “Bad blood is a terrible curse. And do you know the worst of it, Lady Whitstone? I will tell you—it’s this. I do not even know who my grandfather was! Why, he might have been anybody—the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker. Just think, perhaps he was even your own father—or your husband’s—if either of them were inclined to flout their domestic obligations!”

  This was an outright lie. I knew exactly who my grandfather had been. My grandmother had impressed his name upon me, for very much like my mother-in-law, she had adored titles almost as much as she had adored wealth.

  Lady Whitstone had gone whiter than ever.

  I could not imagine what might be my well-bred husband’s response to my outrageousness. There was no excuse for it, other than that she had driven me to the wall with her questions and insinuations. Surely he would be horrified —not only by the appalling freedom of my speech but also at the discovery that I really had no claim to respectability at all.

  But when I finally dared to steal a glance in his direction, I saw that he wore an expression of pure delight. He had eased back even further into his chair and was beaming at me affectionately.

  “Well, how do you like that?” he said, turning to his mother. “Tell me, have you now managed to accomplish everything that you set out to do here?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Anthony.”

  “You’ve insulted me, you’ve insulted Fleur, and you’ve insulted the whole village. Short of inviting you to whip the stableboy or to beat the dogs, I cannot imagine how we can possibly provide any further amusement for you.” He came lazily to his feet and strolled over to pull the bell-handle. Within seconds a housemaid appeared and was sent to fetch Mrs. Phillips, the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Phillips,” said my husband when that lady arrived, “it seems that my mother has been called back to Yorkshire rather suddenly. Please arrange to have all her things packed as quickly as possible. She will depart for the station within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Phillips tonelessly, but she moved with an alacrity that suggested real enthusiasm.

  “This is ridiculous, Anthony,” said his mother through her teeth when the housekeeper had gone. “Whitstone is not expecting me to return for another fortnight.”

  “Well, do whatever you like, Mother,” returned my husband amicably. Then he added, in a voice of steel, “But if you choose to remain here you’ll have to be content to wear nothing but the clothes you have on your back, for I guarantee you this, everything else you own will be on the next train to York.”

  “I have always said you had a vicious streak, Anthony,” said his mother. “It was that foul-tempered wet nurse of yours, I’m sure of it. There was venom in that girl’s milk.”

  “That must be it,” he retorted with a laugh, and then added in that low and dangerous tone, “But you should thank your stars that where you are concerned, I have had the patience of Job.”

  They glared at each other like snakes.

  In spite of the intense hostility between mother and son that this incident exposed, not to mention the equally violent antipathy that had arisen between Lady Whitstone and me, all three of us fell back upon our good manners pretty quickly and papered over the rift with one final pretense at mutual civility.

  We drove together to the railway station.

  There we exchanged chilly but polite farewells. We had just put Lady Whitstone on the train, which was about to pull away, when a young man raced up in a dogcart. Tossing the reins to his groom, he gave a joyous whoop, leaped from his seat and dashed to catch the train. The groom lowered himself slowly to the pavement and came around to the head of the shuddering, exhausted horse, which was completely blown from its exertions and all but bleeding from the nose.

  My husband’s face darkened alarmingly. He watched the train disappear and then strolled over to the groom, whose face was strained with worry.

  “Why was this horse driven so hard?” inquired my husband. His tone was casual.

  “Young Lord Percy had a bet with his father, sir, that he could leave ten minutes later than Lord Sparling insisted he must if he were to have any hope of catching this train,” replied the groom in an expressionless voice.

  “I see,” said my husband still in the same neutral tone. He continued to observe the trembling animal. Finally he said, “I suppose you’
ll leave the creature at the livery stable here until he’s thoroughly rested.”

  The groom bit his lip; it was plain to see that, behind his unexpressive manner, he was angry and upset. How could he not feel humiliated by my husband’s self-righteous interference in a matter over which the groom himself, it seemed, had very little control?

  “I can’t do that, sir,” he said at last in a very low voice. “My orders are to return with the horse as quickly as possible.”

  “The horse may die,” my husband said.

  “So may my wife and baby, if I lose my position,” retorted the other with a flash of anger.

  My husband flushed more deeply.

  “Of course,” he said at last. “I beg your pardon.”

  I supposed there was nothing for it, then, and that the groom would turn away to carry out his inhumane obligation.

  But neither of the men moved. I felt they were taking each other’s measure.

  “The Sparlings can go to the devil,” said my husband suddenly. “Let the horse rest. I’ll give you a place at Charingworth. You won’t be any poorer for it.”

  For an instant the groom looked as if he might leap at the offer, but still he hesitated.

  My husband laid his hand lightly upon the horse, which was shuddering somewhat less violently. The groom appeared to be thinking hard. His face was as unrevealing as my husband’s.

  “And which one of us do you think will be brought up as a horse thief?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’ll take up the matter of the horse with Lord Sparling myself,” replied my husband. “If you would have no objection to that.”