An Infamous Marriage (8 page)

My dear husband,

I regret to inform you of your mother’s death today. It was a sudden apoplexy. We did what we could, and Mr. Elting was called, but she was beyond our assistance. It happened very quickly, and I believe she did not suffer. To her last day, despite her condition, she spoke of you with unvarying fondness.

I remain, etc.,

Elizabeth Armstrong

She could say no more.

* * *

For the first few months after Mrs. Armstrong’s burial, Elizabeth was freed from unwanted society by the strictures of deep mourning. But as winter turned to spring and her friends began to invite her to dinners and card parties again, she refused and issued no invitations of her own. Gradually everyone but Eugenia Ilderton and Augusta Rafferty left her alone, and even their calls grew far less frequent.

Elizabeth didn’t mind. Half of her mixing in Selyhaugh society had been for the sake of being a good soldier’s wife, and now that she knew how bad a husband her particular soldier was, it hardly seemed worth the effort. Thanks to Lady Dryden, everyone must know Jack cared nothing for his marriage vows, lacking the decency to even be discreet about his affairs. She didn’t want to go where she would only be mocked.

Instead she devoted herself to her sheep and her horses. Jack might be a dreadful husband, but she would not shirk her responsibilities as mistress of his lands. If Westerby Grange wasn’t the most profitable farm of its size in all Northumberland, nay, in all the north of England, it wouldn’t be through any lack of effort on her part.

As the months went by, she received several of the usual friendly, amusing letters from Jack, written before he could have possibly got word of his mother’s death. Part of her wanted to burn them unread, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to toss them on the fire. Instead, she read them once each before folding them and putting them out of sight—not in the pretty marquetry box where she’d treasured his letters before, but in an old hatbox in the back corner of her wardrobe.

She did not write him again. At last, in June, she received his reply to her cold note.

My dear Elizabeth,

Thank you for sending such prompt word about Mama. I hope you are well. I am, and I keep busy, for we are all but certain now it will be war with America. I cannot write more now, but I await your next letter.

Yours most affectionately,

Jack

She almost unbent at his obvious bewilderment. How startled he must have been to receive her coldly worded notification, and now he must go to war! But then she remembered he had stolen another man’s wife and taken her under his protection, and that even before, he’d flirted and danced his way through Montreal as though he had no wife back in England.

In the end she left the letter unanswered until she heard, over a month later, that the Americans had indeed declared war. No longer able to justify delaying, she wrote again.

My dear husband,

We just received word of the Americans’ declaration of war. I hope you will keep safe. I enclose an account of the estate and the prices the yearlings brought at auction.

I remain, etc.

Elizabeth Armstrong

Perhaps she would regret her coldness if anything happened to Jack, but she was still too angry at him to make peace. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him why, not with a whole ocean separating them.

News of the war began to trickle in. She learned of the capture of Detroit and rejoiced that the outnumbered British had won it almost bloodlessly through guile. The last thing she wanted was for any harm to come to Jack. She wanted him to come home, healthy and whole, so she could tell him what she thought of him.

A few months later Sir Richard’s carriage rolled into the Grange stable yard again. Elizabeth met him at the door, her heart in her throat. He had sent no word of his coming, and with his old army connections he often knew more and sooner about what was going on with England’s armies than the papers did.

He looked grave, and Elizabeth swayed, gripping the doorframe to steady herself.

His dark eyes widened. “Don’t faint! It isn’t what you think. Jack is wounded, but I have no reason to think him in danger.”

He steered her to the parlor and made her sit down. There he told her of the Battle of Queenston Heights, how Jack’s commander, Sir Isaac Brock, had fallen in battle, and how Jack had then taken command. He had promptly led a bold counterattack on the invading American force. His actions assured a British victory before he was wounded himself with a bullet in his side and a badly broken leg when his mortally wounded horse had fallen atop him.

“How dreadful,” Elizabeth said faintly. “Are you certain there is no danger?”

“There isn’t any such thing as certainty even without a war, is there? But my correspondent assures me the surgeons have no fears for him. I tell you, this is wonderful news!” His eyes brightened, and he brought a hand down on his thigh with an emphatic slap. “Your husband is a hero, my dear, and if he isn’t made a major-general now, there is no justice left. I must write my friends and see what else can be done for him.”

Evidently Sir Richard still had influence, for Elizabeth soon got word that Jack had not only been promoted, he’d been knighted just like his uncle before him, and she had to accustom herself to being addressed as Lady Armstrong. Lady Dryden had a knack for saying it with a sneer that forced Elizabeth to hide a wince every time they met at church.

Unfortunately, Jack’s wounds, though not life-threatening, proved severe enough to necessitate a long convalescence. Rather than taking command in the field, he languished at York and then in Montreal. Again Elizabeth almost wrote him a letter of forgiveness, until Lady Dryden shared more gossip from her Canadian cousin, namely that
Sir John Armstrong,
the oh so handsome wounded hero, was being nursed with particular and scandalous devotion by a certain beautiful and notorious widow. Elizabeth hardened her heart and kept her letters to brief accounts of the estate’s finances. He replied in kind, saying only that he had been ill in addition to his injuries but was recovering well, and that he had no commissions for her, since he had everything he needed in Montreal. He left off signing his letters
Yours most affectionately, Jack,
in favor of a chill, businesslike
Believe me, &c., John Armstrong.
She tried to tell herself she didn’t mind. After all, their marriage had never been anything but a business arrangement.

Sir Richard lived to see Bonaparte’s downfall and peace with France, but not peace with America nor his nephew’s return home. He died in August 1814, leaving Jack his London house and much of his personal fortune. Elizabeth was too little in the habit of showing any friendliness to her husband to write a lengthy letter of condolence, but she did assure him of her sincere grief for his uncle and her determination to leave their new fortune untouched until he returned or wrote her of his intent for it.

She never received his reply, for peace came first. She began to calculate how long it would take him to sail home and to make her plans for the confrontation that must surely come.

Chapter Seven

February 1815

When the
Antigone
reached England, Jack, as a matter of course, called promptly at Horse Guards the morning after he arrived in London. The plans he had made for defending Canada and perhaps attacking America in the bargain had been rendered obsolete by peace, but he wanted active service if they had any to offer him. Now that his leg no longer pained him with the slightest exertion, he ached to prove himself worthy of the major-general’s rank and knightly honor that had been conferred upon him after Queenston Heights.

He was promptly and courteously received by Sir Henry Torrens, the current Military Secretary, but as he had feared, the army had no employment for him. Sir Henry all but assured him the next time there was a vacancy for an officer of his rank in Canada, the command would be his. But since he didn’t foresee such a need in the next year or two, he urged Jack to go home and see to his house, lands and family, which he surely must have missed during so long an absence.

When, less than an hour after walking in, Jack stepped out into a cold winter’s morning, he finally allowed himself a sigh. His last hope of delaying his return to Selyhaugh and Elizabeth was gone. Having no other choice, he returned to his hotel and turned his mind to his home and his marriage.

He wished he understood what had gone wrong. While he and Elizabeth had not made a love match, it had given every early promise of being a civil and friendly one. He had enjoyed her letters for the comfortable assurance they gave that all was well at home. While Elizabeth was a somewhat awkward writer, there was a wry humor that came through the stilted sentences and made him grow fonder of her. So he had exerted himself to write back as amusingly as he could, to make as much as possible out of the occasional moments of drama that had enlivened the often dull world of a regiment in an isolated frontier post in what had then been an uneasy peace.

But then that letter announcing his mother’s death had come. Such a dreadful, inexplicably cold little missive! After Jack had got over his initial hurt, he had concluded she had been too busy to write more, or that she was one of those types who when faced with death didn’t know what to say and said too little for fear of saying too much. She had kept her grief over Giles contained, though Jack could tell that wound had been deep. So he’d written his own brief letter—though he’d hoped his was warmer than hers—and awaited the resumption of their usual friendly correspondence.

It had never come. Her next letter had arrived months after the war began, and had only contained the briefest good wishes for his safety during the conflict. She might have written exactly the same words to the merest acquaintance. She’d enclosed an account of the horses and sheep, as dry as a clerk’s ledger. Jack had taken the hint and responded in kind, and the pattern of their correspondence was set from there.

Jack had once considered asking Elizabeth if anything had gone amiss—if she’d heard some dreadful story about him—but what could it possibly be? There was no way Elizabeth could have found out about Bella Liddicott, either their affair in 1799 or their one night in London five years ago, just after his marriage, while he waited to sail back to Canada. He wasn’t proud of that night, and he’d often guiltily wished they had never crossed paths again.

But other than Bella, he had no indiscretions that should seem unforgivable. He hadn’t been entirely chaste since his marriage, but how many men away from their wives for several years were? He certainly couldn’t imagine any gentleman of his acquaintance keeping faith to an
unconsummated
marriage. And how could she have even learned of the Mannering scandal, or of his liaisons with Hannah Mackenzie or Sarah Boyd? She had no acquaintances in Canada.

He must stay in London for a few days yet, he consoled himself. He needed to visit his banker, not to mention a tailor, since he hardly owned any clothing that wasn’t a uniform.

Perhaps while here he might select a gift for Elizabeth, something to help him win his way back into her good graces. They were married. That could not be undone, and if he were ever to have heirs, she must be the one to bear them. What would best please her and purchase her forgiveness from whichever of his failings had come to her notice? Jewels? A fine, fashionable shawl of the kind she’d be unlikely to find outside London?

He had risen in the world since they had married, between his promotion, his knighthood and the small fortune Uncle Richard, dead these six months, had left him. His lady wife ought to be well dressed. However, he didn’t know her taste. One couldn’t assume all women liked the same things—if he’d learned nothing else from his mistresses and lovers over the years, they’d taught him that—so perhaps it would be wiser to bring Elizabeth to London and let her do her own shopping.

Still, he didn’t want to face her empty-handed. Elizabeth liked to read, he remembered that much, and he’d noticed half the tiny library she’d brought with her to the Grange was composed of books of travels. That was it. He’d visit a bookshop, choose something new she’d likely enjoy and supplement it with a necklace or a ring to prove he wasn’t cheap.

He lingered till the next Monday. Then, garbed in a bottle-green civilian’s coat under his old army greatcoat and armed with presents for his mysterious wife, he hired a post-chaise and made his way northward through the late-winter landscape. On the second night, he met an old Scottish soldier, a veteran of Portugal and Spain turned out of work by peace. Unemployed major-general and corporal sat up till midnight in the inn’s common room drinking ale and sharing war stories. Upon learning Macmillan had been an officer’s batman, Jack impulsively hired him as his valet.

Their progress northward was slow, for the roads were mired in the mud and slush of winter. Once they reached York and found the road north entirely snowbound, he hired a horse and rode ahead, leaving Macmillan to guard his baggage and bring it along once the roads cleared. In a valise strapped behind his saddle he carried nothing but two changes of linen and his gifts for his wife, though peace offerings would perhaps be a better term. There was a simple sapphire ring and a newly published account of travels through the Ionian Islands, and he prayed she’d like at least one of them.

He was unspeakably relieved to be able to ride again. For almost a year he’d thought he would spend the rest of his life hobbling with the aid of a cane and forced to rely upon a carriage whenever he traveled any distance.

Also, he had a much better chance of surprising Elizabeth this way than if he waited to travel with the carriage. Surprise was a great tactical advantage in dealing with an adversary—and such Elizabeth was. They were husband and wife. He wanted an heir. He was thirty-five now, which would make her thirty, certainly young enough to bear several children yet, but the sooner they began, the better.

He must simply remind her of the facts and bring her into line with his way of thinking. He’d led soldiers into battle and managed the always tricky relations between the British and their Indian allies. Surely one wife couldn’t be so much of a challenge. He pushed aside the thought that a woman stubborn and determined enough to maintain those cold, correct letters for three years might not be easily won over.

* * *

It was almost midday on a sullen February morning when he rode onto his lands for the first time in five years. Old snow lay in the shady patches of ground, half-melted and dingy, but it couldn’t hide that the land was in good heart. He smiled to see the old fortified bastle barn. It had been both house and barn for the Westerby family during the days of the border reivers, but for Jack it had been his favorite spot to play as a boy, alternately a fortress to assault as a dashing, intrepid border reiver or a hay-scented, cozy refuge where he and Giles had hunted for kittens and drank milk fresh from the cow. Beyond it stood the new stables his father had built for the Westerby Grange horses, flanked by the still newer sheepfolds Elizabeth had mentioned in her second 1813 letter. The Purvis cottage had a new roof, and the shutters and doors of the Grange itself had been freshly painted a cheery red.

Jack rode into his own stable yard, where an unfamiliar groom emerged from the stables to meet him.

The groom, a lanky lad of eighteen or so with straw-colored hair and freckles, touched his cap. “Good day, sir.”

Jack thought fast. Who had Elizabeth said she’d hired after Robin Welch had left to seek his fortune in London? “Jeremiah Sanderson!” he said. “Don’t you know me?” He recognized the boy, now that he thought of it, though old Sanderson’s youngest had been half his present size when Jack had last seen him.

Jeremiah’s face reddened. “Sir John! It’s you! I beg your pardon—didn’t recognize...” he stammered.

“And why should you?” Jack smiled in reassurance as he swung down from the saddle. “It’s been many years, after all.”

“That it has, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Here, take care of Prince,” Jack said. “He’s nowhere close to as regal as his name, but he served me well on this journey, and he’s earned a good bran mash.”

With another deferential touch of his hat, the boy took Prince by the bridle to lead him into the barn.

“Is Lady Armstrong at home?” Jack asked with careful carelessness.

“I’m right here.”

Jack spun on his heel and almost tumbled on his backside into the wintry muck. So much for the element of surprise. She’d got the advantage of him after all.

The woman who stood ten feet away at the edge of the stable yard was nothing at all like he’d spent the last five years imagining.

She’d been a plain, mousy nonentity when he’d married her, and women who weren’t beauties at five-and-twenty were rarely improved by the passage of half a decade. He’d imagined her growing ever plainer and more dowdy, dragged down by the demands of managing the Grange.

She was still no striking beauty. She had undergone no magical transformation. She was not even dressed in the height of fashion. No curling tongs had touched her straight hair, nor had her pale skin been given new color with cosmetics.

But she carried herself with confidence now, and her air of command made her seem taller than her actual height. And command was the only word for it. Jack seen the look—and its reverse—often enough in young officers as they began to rise. Some men lacked the knack. The more he asked of them, the more they bent under the weight of the responsibility. Others...grew. They looked taller. Surer. More themselves. As Elizabeth did.

And if she was no diamond of the first water, neither was she displeasing to the eye. When they had married, she’d been thinner than he liked, with an anxious, gaunt look. Now, he still wouldn’t call her buxom, but even beneath her warm, sensible brown wool dress and scarlet cloak he could see the womanly sway of her hips and the swell of her bosom. Oh, yes, she had
good
breasts, the kind that would fill his hands with their heavy softness when he freed them from her corset and set his mouth to them. To think he’d taken comfort in the idea that it would be dark when the two of them joined in bed! No indeed. They would leave candles burning, so his eyes as well as his hands and mouth could feast.

She cleared her throat. “Have you nothing to say to your lady wife?”

She hadn’t been like this before, had she? So assured, with that edge of sarcasm to her voice. “You are not as I remembered,” he managed.

“Nor are you,” she said coolly. Jack was suddenly conscious of how gray the hair above his ears had gone, of the silver strands threading throughout the brown, of how lined and weathered his face had grown in his years of war and pain. The years had aged him far more than they had touched her.

“It’s been a long time,” he heard himself say. This wasn’t how he’d imagined this reunion going. He hadn’t felt so out of control since his ship had got caught in a hurricane the first time he crossed the Atlantic.

Her eyebrows arched. Even at this distance Jack could see the flashes of green amid the clear light brown of her eyes. The same eyes he’d remembered as dull and muddy. “Indeed it has,” she said. “Will you come in? You’ve had a cold ride of it, I fear.”

He had, and once inside they could talk without an audience. Jeremiah still lingered outside the stable with Prince. Jack could see a pair of maids peeking out from the scullery, and he would wager a week’s pay that the remainder of the grooms and herdsmen were listening from the stable and barn doors. So he crossed the muddy space separating them and offered his wife his arm. She took it, though the pressure of her fingertips was so light he could hardly feel their touch.

Together they walked inside, handing his greatcoat and her cloak into the keeping of a gaping housemaid at the door. Elizabeth led him to the parlor, where she sat gracefully on a straight-backed chair on one side of the hearth and gestured for him to take the seat opposite.

Jack remained on his feet. He leaned against the mantel, letting the warmth of the fire soak into his chilled limbs and soothe his aching leg. The room had not changed much, though he thought Elizabeth might’ve had the sofa and chairs re-covered. Hadn’t they been a darker green? Or perhaps she’d only had them cleaned, or he was remembering another parlor altogether. Good God, why was he thinking about chairs? And why was his wife poised so calmly on one? Shouldn’t she be fainting in shock at his sudden appearance, or fluttering and calling for her smelling salts? Wasn’t that what wives did, at least the pale, mousy, ladylike ones? What business had she looking in command of herself and the situation?
He
was the husband.
He
was the general, the hero of Queenston Heights.

He’d been ready for fainting and hysterics. He’d been ready for raging over his long absence. He was not ready for her calm, self-controlled reality. Abruptly he realized she’d had just as long to imagine this meeting as he had. She must have a strategy, too. Until he could get her off hers and onto his, she would occupy the high ground.

He could not comfort her, for she hadn’t broken down. He could not speak words of love and joy at seeing her again, for they would ring hollow. Damn the woman, what was she playing at?