Grahame, Lucia (35 page)

"Forgive me, darling. I know how all this must pain you, but
warfare is never pleasant, is it? And you will discover that your husband has
no business accusing
you
of violating
his
trust!"

When, after several hours, I still had not emerged from my
bedroom, my husband finally came to rouse me. I sat up in bed and passed my
hand over my forehead.

"I can't imagine what is wrong with me," I murmured
faintly.

"You don't feel well?" he inquired.

"Not at all. The Channel crossing was so trying. And then
that endless train ride. But I had hoped to feel better once we were settled
here. It's unthinkable that I should miss Marguerite's first night after having
traveled so far to see it!"

"Unthinkable, yes," he agreed, looking at me with an odd
smile.

I sank back into the pillows. It was not difficult to look
convincingly piteous: All I had to do was to contemplate the possibility that
he might absolutely insist upon my going with him to the theater.

Fortunately, he was not yet so hardened a cynic that my
performance failed to move him. As he surveyed me, his face grew increasingly
troubled, and finally he repeated, with evident anxiety, the question which now
seemed to prey most heavily upon his mind.

"Are you
quite
certain that you are not with
child?"

His drawn look and his low tone told me, beyond any doubt, of the
abhorrence with which he regarded this possibility.

At this realization, all my good resolutions failed me.

"Don't flatter yourself," I said sharply, momentarily
forsaking the kidskin gloves.

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Well," I pointed out, "it
would
be
practically a miracle, wouldn't it?"

His face darkened. And then he began to laugh.

"What a way you have of expressing yourself," he
remarked. "You really have no heart at all, have you?"

"I don't know what you mean. Have I offended your sense of
propriety?"

He sighed. "Oh no, Fleur," he said, looking down at the
floor and shaking his head with amusement. "That is not what I was
thinking at all." He lifted his gaze. "Perhaps you ought to rest a
while longer. You may feel stronger by evening."

Some time during the evening, however, I began to feel a good deal
worse, for—after agreeing that I appeared far too frail to get up from my bed;
after arranging to have a tureen of soup sent up to me from the kitchens; and
after descending to the hotel dining room to take his own meal—my husband
returned, commented that I looked more peaked then ever, berated himself for
having left my side, and declared that he could not even think of doing so for
a second time.

I protested. There was no need for him to stay with me: Both my
maid, Marie, and Stanford, his valet, had accompanied us to Paris; the hotel
had a large and attentive staff. For neither of us to appear at the opening we
had come so far to celebrate, when only one of us was disabled, would be such a
disappointment to Marguerite.

My husband dismissed all my objections. He had given Marie and
Stanford the evening off; nothing could be more impersonal than the services of
a hotel staff; he would be a heartless churl to abandon me when I was so
ill—even Marguerite must agree.

"But why deprive
yourself?"
I asked. "It
serves no purpose. All I want is rest."

"And I intend to see that your rest is not disturbed,"
he said. "However, you will be comforted to know that I shall stay
very
close at hand, should you require
any
thing at all."

He closed the door and left me.

Thus thwarted, I tried to anticipate the events that lay ahead and
decided that I did not want to face them in only the nightclothes I was wearing
or, at best, a dressing gown. As noiselessly as possible—and trusting that my
husband would keep his word not to disturb me—I put on the dress I had removed
earlier. From the sitting room, I could hear the occasional faint but crisp
rustle of my husband's newspaper.

At precisely a quarter to nine, I heard a rap at the outer door,
followed by more rustling—as he presumably folded his newspaper and laid it
down. I opened my door a crack. I hoped that as soon as she saw my husband,
Madame Mansard might have the presence of mind to pretend that she had come to
the wrong room.

And she did.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, monsieur," I heard her say
breathlessly. "What floor
is
this? I seem to have knocked at the
wrong door."

"Oh, I don't think you are mistaken, mademoiselle," was
my husband's cordial response. "You are the nurse Lady Camwell sent for,
are you not?"

I held my breath.

"Do come in and sit down," he continued disingenuously.
"Her ladyship is sleeping now."

Oh, the gall of the man! I bit my lip.

Madame Mansard seemed to hesitate.

"I am on my way out," concluded my husband. "You
are very late, you know. I have already missed the curtain, and I'll be lucky
to catch much of the second act." He sounded piqued, as if she were to
blame.

Madame Mansard stepped into the trap, and without making his exit,
my husband closed the door.

That was when I left the wings and walked onto the stage of this
private drama. Madame Mansard shot me an uncertain look.

"I am afraid that my husband has no intention of going
anywhere," I told her. "And therefore you and I can have no business
with each other, after all. I am very sorry to have—"

"On the contrary," interjected my husband firmly,
"I suspect that we three have a great deal to talk about." He turned
to me. "Perhaps we should begin by discussing why you have gone to such
lengths to arrange this rendezvous behind my back. I think it is high time to
sit down and lay our cards on the table."

But it was Madame Mansard who took control of the situation.

"But, of course," she said with perfect aplomb. Then she
turned to me. "May I put my coat in your bedchamber, Lady Camwell?"
she asked.

I led her quickly to my bedroom, before my husband could stop us,
and closed the door.

"Well, what shall we do?" she asked, removing her hat.
"We had better be quick, I don't think he will let us remain alone
together for very long."

"Does he know you?" I asked.

"He has never seen me before in his life."

"Then you must leave," I said. "There is no reason
for you to become any further entangled in this sorry business. It was very
kind of you to come here, but there is really nothing to be done, under the
circumstances."

"But what about you? I understand, from Madame Sorrel, that
Sir Anthony has not treated you well at all in recent weeks. His suspicions are
already very high—if I should leave now, without satisfying his curiosity,
might it not provoke him against you further?"

"I hardly think so. Anyway, it doesn't matter."

"I find I am rather tempted to take him up on his
offer," continued Madame Mansard thoughtfully. She began stripping off her
gloves. "I would love to confront him with his sins. He seems awfully sure
of himself. I wouldn't mind knocking him down a bit. And I really don't believe
it could make things more unpleasant for you. Quite the contrary. But it is up
to you, of course. The risk is yours."

I considered this. There
was
something peculiarly
intriguing about the notion of making my husband turn on the spit for at least
a little while. I had occupied that unhappy position far too long.

My husband opened the door.

He looked excruciatingly uncomfortable.

"I beg your pardon," he announced to Madame Mansard,
"but I am afraid I cannot permit you to say anything further to Lady
Camwell that you do not say to me as well."

Madame Mansard and I exchanged glances.

"Well, if you really don't mind," I told her, "this
may be rather interesting."

"Oh, I don't mind at all," she assured me. "I
expect it will give me great pleasure."

She removed her coat, displaying a worn and paint-splattered
dress. I liked it. I liked her.

With my husband at our heels like a sheepdog, we returned to the
sitting room.

"Who the devil are you?" asked my husband ungraciously,
as soon as Madame Mansard had taken her seat.

"I beg your pardon," retorted our visitor coldly.
"I have not come here to be interrogated by you. I am here to give Lady
Camwell some information, which she has very generously agreed to let me share
with you, as well. Although none of it will be a revelation to you."

My husband frowned faintly as if he were trying to assess a most
puzzling situation.

Madame Mansard turned to me. "May I speak frankly, Lady
Camwell?"

"Oh, please do," I said. "Be as frank as you
like."

"Lady Camwell," she then proceeded, "I understand
that, as a result of having discovered a secret in your past, your husband has
adopted an attitude of... extreme disapproval. Would that be correct?"

"Yes, I think so," I said. "Would you agree,
Anthony?"

"Oh, I'm just here to listen," he demurred lazily.

He had erased the frown from his face and now reclined in his
armchair, with his fingertips pressed piously together.

"Do go on, please, madame," I said.

"Yes, well, I wished only to bring to your attention, Lady
Camwell, the sad fact that your husband's morals and behavior—his utter
disregard for you and for the vows he made to you, long,
long
before he
learned your unhappy secret—are far more condemning than anything
you
may
have done."

This was what I was here for, and yet, as she spoke, I felt the
unpleasant fiery shiver that comes when one begins to realize that one has been
deceived. My husband, too, now looked very altered. He had straightened in his
chair and was staring at his accuser keenly. His ordinarily pale face was
suffused with color.

"I am afraid that I have learned a great deal about the
baronet's lamentable habits from my father," continued Madame Mansard.
"My father, with whom I am no longer on any terms at all, loves nothing
more than to unearth—"

My husband leaned forward abruptly.

"I know who you are," he said softly. "You are
Germaine Poncet."

"I was born Germaine Poncet," was her calm reply.
"But that is no longer my name. As I was saying, Lady Camwell, my father
likes nothing better than to collect any scandalous information he can about
the weaknesses and appetites of the very people who have made him rich. Often
he is able to profit from these—as he did in your case—but I believe he truly
enjoys them for their own sake. What he gleaned about your husband, for
example, did not lend itself to blackmail, but it gave my father endless hours
of amusement to think how much money he was able to extort from you, Lady Camwell,
so that you might retain your husband's regard, while your husband was
betraying you with every courtesan in London—or at any rate, all those who were
blessed with black hair and small waists."

My husband got up from his chair suddenly and went to the window.
I would have liked to leave the room altogether, but I could not move. Yes, in
the heat of his anger, he had said something about having mistresses, and yes,
he had certainly implied that it had started long before he learned my bitter
secret, but later... had he not assured me—that night when he had accused me of
faithlessness while proclaiming his own fidelity—that none of it was so? I took
a labored breath.

Now I realized that, in spite of all the evidence to suggest it, I
had never truly believed that he had been with other women since he had married
me. I had discounted his claims as something he had invented to taunt me; I had
attributed even his erotic sophistication and his curious acquaintance with
Madame Rullier to the experiences of bachelorhood.

"Lady Camwell," I dimly heard Madame Mansard saying with
real concern, "I hope I am not distressing you." I strove to bleach
all expression from my face. "Not at all."

My husband turned from the long window. His own face wore its
customary look of imperturbability. His gaze did not waver from mine; it was
mine that glided on, back to Madame Mansard, while he lounged against the
window hangings with an air of arrogant disregard.

"I don't know, Lady Camwell, how much you wish to know. Your
husband has had a series of mistresses—he never keeps any of them for long. He
is said to be very good to them; no one has ever spoken ill of him in that
respect. But he really did conduct himself disgracefully—"