Island of the Swans (67 page)

“The other night,” Eglantine ventured, “Alex seemed… perturbed, I think, to hear of Thomas’s return. Do you suppose that’s why he’s been in such a black mood lately?”

“Aye,” Jane said shortly. “But there seems to be no help for it. Good night, Eglantine,” she added quickly, anxious to be done with the subject. “And, again, thank you.”

“What are sisters for?” Eglantine responded wryly, accepting her dismissal.

Within an hour, Jane had scrubbed the soot and grime of the streets of London from her skin and donned her cambric nightdress. As her two housemaids retreated, lugging the heavy copper bathtub between them, she pulled an upholstered chair near the fire and idly stabbed at her potted meat, bread, and cheese. This evening had ended like so many others of late. Once again she was eating alone, exhausted from her day’s labors. Alex was off at his club. His
fortress
, was more like it, Jane thought gloomily.

Eating pensively, Jane marveled at the customs of London society in which a husband and wife, living in the same house, could go literally days without seeing more than a glimpse of each other. Yet, no outsider would consider anything amiss. With a sigh, Jane wondered if the reason she saw so little of Alex lately was because of her consuming involvement in politics—or whether she was so consumed by politics because she saw so little of her husband.

She stared into the fire, reflecting on the heady excitement of the campaign. She adored the challenge and thrill of being part of something more stimulating than sitting-room small talk. To think she had actually garnered votes for the premier minister of all of England! ’Twould be so much more enjoyable, she mused, if Alex shared her love of London and her passion for politics. Instead, she suspected that he saw the walls of Gordon Castle as a means of shutting them both away from that stimulating world.

Jane nibbled on a pungent slice of Stilton, its sea-green veins running through the ivory-colored cheese like babbling burns into the River Spey. She suddenly thought of Thomas, back in Scotland, wandering along the streams that flowed past his home village Struy. Jane felt a familiar restlessness invading her body. It was hard to believe he had now returned to Britain after eight years abroad! Perhaps his current legal tangle would bring him to the London Courts of Chancery… perhaps…

“No!” she scolded herself aloud, jumping up from her chair suddenly and scattering the half-eaten cheese in all directions. As she was gathering up the spongy crumbs, there was a soft knock at her door.

“Alone?” Eglantine said, poking her head into the chamber. “What on earth are you doing?” she added, noting Jane was on her hands and knees.

“I spilled the deuced cheese!” Jane replied testily. “Yes, I’m alone.”

“I didn’t hear any carriage,” Eglantine said, pulling another chair closer to the crackling fire. “Do you fancy some company?”

Jane shrugged and then smiled, in spite of her moodiness. Eglantine pulled her wrap close to her body and tucked her feet under her as she sat down.

“Jenny…” she began cautiously. “Plain and simple… I’ve been sitting in my bedchamber, worrying about you, lass. Worried that Thomas’s coming back to Scotland has—”

“Made Alex irrationally jealous?” Jane interrupted shortly. “Aye, it has,” she confirmed grimly. “But, in case you hadn’t noticed, Alex sees a rival in William Pitt as well. The only thing that would make my Duke of Gordon happy would be to insure his duchess never spoke to another man and was pliant, obedient, and breeding more bairns.”

“Aren’t you being a wee bit harsh?” Eglantine said gently. “Forgive me for saying it, Jenny, but half of you has always been wedded to
the fantasy
of Thomas Fraser. Alex is too intelligent a man not to sense this. His jealousy and black moods, I’ll wager, mask a profound hurt.”

“’Tis not a matter of hurt…” Jane countered defensively. “’Tis his notion of possession.”

“Take care to hear what I’m saying,” Eglantine urged, leaning forward in her chair. “Thomas’s coming back from the dead was perhaps a bigger shock to Alex than to you, who’d always held him safe in your heart. I think Alex feels the love he bears you is not
enough
in your eyes… and when he sees how infatuated young Pitt is with you, perhaps it brings to mind the ghost of his old rival. Now that Thomas has actually returned to Scotland, Alex saw for himself how affected you were by the news. We all saw it, even Hamilton. Alex may be possessive, Jenny, but he loves you in the same, blind way he loved Bathia Largue. Believe me, there are many lasses who would gladly take your place.”

“But that kind of love leaves no room to breathe… to have one’s own interests or plot one’s own course in life.”

“You’re right… Alex is a difficult, demanding man,” Eglantine agreed. “But you married him, you had six bairns by him, and now…” Her voice trailed off as she was puzzled to see a stricken look pass over Jane’s features at her mention of the children. Rather than questioning her, Eglantine took Jane’s right hand and held it gently. “You lost part of your forefinger, but you still have your hand. You lost Thomas to an accident of fate, but you still have the rest of your
life…
and Alex is a part of that life! Don’t risk the happiness that’s right in front of you, Jane,” Eglantine said simply. “Mayhap I see this more clearly than you do. Compare Alex to that sod
I
married!”

Jane heaved a sigh and smiled wanly.

“It can’t be easy for Alex, I’ll admit that,” Jane said dejectedly, thinking of a crucial factor that Eglantine didn’t know: Louisa’s true parentage. “What a muddle ’tis all become…” she sighed.

Both women were startled by the sound of the front door slamming and footsteps taking the stairs, two at a time. There was a sharp knock at the door before it flew open and crashed against the chamber wall. Suddenly, Alex filled the doorframe, holding a newspaper wadded into his hand.

“You’ve not seen this, I suppose!” he growled, ignoring Eglantine’s presence in his wife’s bedchamber and stomping across the Persian carpet. He threw the paper into Jane’s lap.

Jane’s heart thudded in her chest while she studied a pointed, but rather amusing cartoon depicting two gorgeously dressed duchesses offering pecks on the cheeks to a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker. The caption read, “Consorting with the Ton.”

After a moment, Jane threw her head back and laughed, rather pleased that the part women had played in the current election had garnered such attention, for a change. Even Eglantine was repressing a smile.

“Alex, ’tis perfectly harmless,” Jane chuckled.

“’Tis certainly less offensive than the one with Her Grace
mounted
on a fox—backwards, no less!” Eglantine allowed cheerfully. She appraised Alex’s glowering countenance. “But, pray, excuse me, you two. I’m utterly fashed by today’s excursion. I bid you both good night.” She squeezed Jane’s hand and impulsively kissed her brother-in-law’s flushed cheek.

Alex paced in front of Jane’s four-poster until Eglantine had shut the door and her footsteps receded down the passageway.

“Strumpet!” he snapped at Jane, his hands clenched by his sides.

“Oh, do stop being so silly!” she retorted angrily.

The sound of the clock on the mantel chiming eleven bells pierced the highly charged atmosphere.

“I am not a strumpet, or a whore, or a wanton,” Jane said finally, rising from her chair. “I have not slept with William Pitt… or even the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick maker. Now, please come sit down, Alex. I need to say many things to you.”

“Aye, perhaps you’ve not slept with that young pup,” he said, looking at her speculatively. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her, the firelight silhouetting the outlines of her body beneath the sheerness of her cambric bed gown. “But you’re not entirely blameless, are you, my dear? There’s the matter of a certain
Captain, ’
tisn’t there?” he continued bitterly. “Our darling little redhead speaks to that point pretty well, doesn’t she, Jane?”

Jane remained silent for a moment, and then walked quietly toward him and embraced him without responding to his bitter words. His arms remained rigidly against his sides. Jane continued to hold him gently. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck.

“Alex… let’s not argue, or use Louisa to hurt each other,” she said softly. “Please… please stay with me tonight,” she whispered, unbuttoning the fastenings of her nightdress. The thin material fell away from her throat.

A dark swath of Alex’s disheveled hair cast a shadow across his forehead. He stared at her uncertainly. She speculated that her husband had drunk a fair quantity of brandy, but he wasn’t in his cups. Or at least, she didn’t think he was. Her calm reaction to his insult and her frank invitation had completely unsettled him. She flashed him a warm smile, and then reached for his hand. Silently, she led him toward their four-poster, which he had slept in only rarely, of late. He stared at her and then pulled at his knotted neck linen.

“I’ll bed you, wench,” he growled, “but I won’t make love to you.”

“You’ll make love to me, or nothing else!” Jane cried sharply, her dark eyes glittering angrily. Alex hesitated. His hands now merely fingered his cravat tied neatly around his throat. “You’ll not be crushing my bones like you did at Culloden House!” she exclaimed. “You
swore
you’d never do that again!” She caught his sleeve and stared up at him with a look that was pleading and demanding at once. “’Tis time we
stopped
wishing for what isn’t to be ours! I
loved
Thomas, but I—”

“You
still
love him and always will!” Alex interrupted fiercely, his voice betraying an anguish he rarely revealed.

“I can’t help that, Alex,” Jane blurted, “but, as God is my witness, I love you too! I care terribly what happens to you, and I adore the children—your George, my George, the lassies.… We’ve built a
life.
I want us to be
happy
together—”

“But don’t you see, Jane? I
can’t
be happy if you love another man,” Alex protested wearily. “’Tis as simple as that. Every time I see Louisa, I’m reminded of that love you still bear Thomas Fraser.”

“And what about the elder George?” she countered quickly. “What if each time I laid my eyes upon Bathia’s son these last seventeen years, I raved and drove myself into a fury, as you’ve done?”

“Bathia’s been
dead
for nearly twenty years now!” he shot back defensively, sitting on the bed with his back to her.

“And can you honestly say you don’t still love her… love the sweet memories… love the goodness of her… love her son?” Jane inquired softly. “The fondness you bear her never diminished the love you offered me all these years.”

“Bathia’s dead,” he repeated hoarsely. “Thomas is alive.”

“He’s been
absent
from our lives for a decade, Alex!” Jane said urgently.

“He’s
in
this country now,” he countered. “He has only to appear and you’ll—”

His shoulders sagged in defeat.

“I’m your wife, Alex. If you’d treat me as if that pleased you, you’d have less to fear on that score,” Jane replied heatedly. Her chin jutted forward in the air. “And, besides, Thomas won’t be here for long, it seems.” Alex didn’t reply. “To me, he might as well be dead, Alex,” she said softly. “He has done what I’m trying to do. He’s moved on in his life.”

“But you and I are like two strangers, these days,” Alex said, turning his head to glance at her briefly. “’Tis
more
than just Thomas—I can see that now. ’Tis the old story of the City Mouse and the Country Mouse.” His sad, sardonic smile made her wonder if the two of them could ever find a common path. “All this hubbub concerning the elections,” he added. “’Tis one pack of jackals pitted against another, as far as I can see. I can’t think why you want to be a part of it.”

“Don’t you see a
difference
between Pitt and Fox!” Jane demanded incredulously. “Between our king and his dissolute son? Can you imagine what ’twould be like for the nation if that impudent puppy wore the crown or his retinue had the entire nation under their thumbs?”

“Actually, I don’t see much difference between Whig and Tory,” Alex said shortly. “And, besides, it appears to me that you merely enjoy being in the center of things, like that bankrupt harlot, Georgiana Cavendish, with whom your name is now linked. At the club tonight I was told that, as a last resort to support her failing credit, she has opened a faro table at Devonshire House!”

“Her unhealthy passion for gambling has nothing to do with me, nor is it the reason I take such an interest in politics,” Jane retorted. “I enjoy the conversation and wit of men like Pitt. I find affairs of state stimulating. You have your club,” she argued, trying to make him understand. “You cannot imagine, I assure you, how deadly dull is the tittle-tattle with which most women occupy themselves.”

He didn’t reply. She stared at him in frustration and he gazed back at her, apparently unmoved by her words.

A thought suddenly struck her. Perhaps if she showed Alex that she honestly was trying to see their dilemma from
his
perspective, he would do more to see it from hers.