Lord Greywell's Dilemma (20 page)

Andrew was cranky. Bates told her he was teething and not to expect any immediate improvement in his behavior. For the first time, however, Elspeth could feel the impatience rising in her, and, rather than snap at the poor child, she left him to the care of the nursery staff. Unable to settle down to a book or to any handwork, Elspeth roamed about the house, finding herself critical of the way the fireplaces had been cleaned or the furniture dusted. She almost mentioned these things to the housekeeper but decided she was being particularly picky today and that tomorrow she would doubtless find nothing amiss with any of the rooms.

It was too late by the time she thought of it to call on Emily Marden, so she went to the pianoforte and played for the hour remaining before dinner. Almost every night for the last few months she’d sat at that table in lonely splendor, but tonight she particularly felt it—the loneliness and the splendor. Greywell wasn’t even in her thoughts. It was Francis she thought about. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come to see her today? Had he been upset by Abigail Waltham’s spying on them? He certainly hadn’t seemed so at the time. Perhaps he had mentioned something he had to do today, and she’d simply forgotten in her confusion.

Mostly Elspeth asked herself one question: What am I going to do? She was unable to answer the question, but it did occur to her that she wouldn’t have to answer it if Francis never showed up again. As though to spite her, after not presenting himself all day, Francis arrived just as she was leaving the dining room to go to the drawing room.

He wore a driving coat with several shoulder capes, and he looked very dashing as he handed his hat, coat, and gloves to Selsey. “Ah, Lady Greywell,” he said, for Selsey’s benefit, “I hoped I wouldn’t interrupt your dinner. I spent the day with a friend north of Coventry and thought I would call on you on my return.”

“Have you not eaten, then?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. My friend keeps abominably early hours.”

“Come and sit with me in the drawing room. Selsey, please bring in some brandy for Mr. Treyford.”

When Francis had disposed his willowy form on the sofa beside her, and Selsey had left the tray discreetly close to his elbow and retired, Elspeth said, “I had thought you weren’t coming to visit today.”

“Didn’t I tell you I was going to visit George?”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter.”

“But of course it matters! You must have wondered where I was!” His face distorted with concern, and he very naturally grasped one of her hands to press it with abject apology. That did not seem sufficient, however, and he leaned over to brush his lips against hers.

Elspeth had meant to tell him not to do that again. Instead, she found herself clinging to him, in a misguided effort to keep her overwrought emotions at bay. He kissed her forehead and her eyes and her trembling chin, all the while saying, “My adorable Elspeth, my lovely, sweet lady,” in a kind of chant that mesmerized her. She knew that her hands had gone around his waist, that her lips were responding to his when they came again to play on her mouth.

She had neither the desire nor the will to withdraw from his embrace. Even when his hands slid down along her sides and came to rest tentatively beside her breasts, she made no demur. How could she put a halt to an experience that was bringing the most delicious sensations to her body? All the while he continued to kiss her with an urgency she was beginning to share.

But when his hand moved to cover her breast over the sarsnet gown, she blinked her eyes open in alarm. A shock of longing had run through her. Elspeth gently pushed Francis’ hand away from her breast and sat up. “Please, Francis. You mustn’t.
I
mustn’t.” She swallowed before adding, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. Did you bring a poem with you? Would you read to me?”

His tormented-soul look replaced a brief frown. “No, it’s entirely my fault, Elspeth. I know you’re a married woman. How I’ve struggled to resist your charms! My God, it’s almost beyond my strength. I’ve written about it. Here, let me read you this.”

From his pocket he withdrew a crumpled sheet and proceeded to read it with an abundance of agony in his voice. In the strongest possible terms he expressed the torture being with her daily caused him, and his inability to stay away from her. The poem’s conclusion, that he would plumb the depths of his soul for the strength to bear his burden, seemed slightly out of context after what they had just been indulging in.

What bothered Elspeth was something else altogether. She wet her lips and asked, “You didn’t read that to your friend George, did you?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, “but I didn’t tell him whom it referred to. You needn’t worry about that. Besides, he doesn’t know you or Greywell. George is rather a hermit.”

“I wish you won’t read your poetry about me to anyone else,” she said. “In fact, it would be better if you didn’t write about me at all, Francis. You might leave something lying around that anyone could read.”

He was fervent in his denial. “Never! My poetry about you is locked in a chest each night, and during the day I carry it with me. Even my valet couldn’t catch a glimpse of it.”

“Still . . .”

“Don’t deny me the only chance I have to reconcile my deepest desires with my obvious duty,” he begged.

It didn’t seem to Elspeth that his poetry did anything of the sort, but she made a nervous gesture with her hand indicating she wouldn’t insist. “But I do think you should go now, Francis. I’m a little overwrought and can’t seem to think clearly.”

He smiled sweetly as he rose. “Of course, my love. Don’t fret yourself with what happened. I’ll be stronger next time. Just working on the poetry will help me restore my thoughts of you to a higher plane. Trust me.”

Elspeth not only didn’t trust him, she didn’t trust herself. When he had left she went directly to bed, though it was still early. Only after she had pulled the blankets over her did she remember she hadn’t gone to say goodnight to Andrew. Bone-weary with the emotional turmoil of the day, she nevertheless rose again and put on a dressing gown before trudging up to the nursery. Andrew was already fast asleep, and Bates regarded her with what Elspeth could only assume was infinite disapproval. She said a wary goodnight to the wet nurse and returned to her chamber, determined to do better the next day with regard to her charge.

* * * *

For several weeks both Francis and Elspeth behaved in an almost seemly fashion. Of course, Francis agonized in his poetry over what a struggle it was, and Elspeth spent many sleepless hours at night congratulating herself on the restraint with which they both acted. But she was aware, as Francis must have been, that there was an undercurrent of severe physical tension between them.

To offset this, Elspeth spent extra time with Andrew, she visited Emily Marden more often, she worked at renovations in her bedchamber and the Queen’s Closet. Occasionally, when she was sure no one was around, she snuck a peek at some of Greywell’s more enticing snuffboxes. Unfortunately, there were mostly naked women on them, and she would have been more interested in seeing some naked men.

Abigail Waltham appeared at Ashfield less often, though she did sometimes come to visit. “Your father wrote that he’s thinking of coming to stay with you again,” she said one day in June.

Elspeth had heard nothing of the plan, and wasn’t at all sure she liked it. With her father in the house, she couldn’t very well see Francis as often. It would have aroused his suspicions, though she assured herself there was nothing of which he need be suspicious. She and Francis were behaving themselves remarkably well. It did occur to her that Mrs. Waltham might have written to him to suggest such a step. “Had you been corresponding with him regularly?” she asked, not meeting Abigail’s eyes.

“Of course. Ever since he left here.” Abigail was put out that Elspeth would think her connection with Sir Edward was so unimportant as to have terminated the moment he was out of sight. “Doesn’t he write you?”

“Not very often,” Elspeth admitted. “I haven’t heard from him in over a month.”

“Does Greywell write you?”

“Of course. I heard from him this morning.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Only that a battle was brewing. Apparently Bonaparte has gathered a considerable army about him. Greywell says there’s a reckless gaiety in Brussels; everyone knows how important this battle will be, and that it won’t be an easy one for Wellington and our allies to win.”

“So he intends to stay there until he sees the outcome?”

“I presume so. Certainly he made no mention of coming home.”

Abigail regarded her closely. “Do you care?”

“It would be nice for Andrew to see his father.”

“For yourself, I mean. Do you want to see him?”

Elspeth felt herself stiffen. “He’s my husband. I would be pleased to have him home.”

Her companion snorted. “He’s worth two of that Treyford fellow, my dear girl, though I doubt you realize it. The sooner he returns, the better.”

Elspeth did not disagree with her, nor did she mention that Greywell had written that Wellington had accepted Greywell’s offer to act as an aide to the general. That was a piece of information she did not intend to tell anyone, mostly because she didn’t know how she felt about it. There would be plenty of time to consider it in private, and no reason to alarm anyone in the household.

For it was alarming news. Greywell had been a soldier much earlier in the Peninsular War, but he had sold out after an injury temporarily disabled him. It was while he had been in London recuperating that he had met his first wife, and there had been no thought of his returning to battle after that. To Elspeth his desire to immerse himself in the deadly duel now indicated that he hadn’t considered his son, but was still in a kind of desperate mourning for Caroline.

When Abigail left, unsatisfied with Elspeth’s response but unable to get her to say more, Elspeth went straight to the Queen’s Closet to pen a letter to her husband. Perhaps it was a tinge of her own guilt that made the letter sound rather sharp to him when he read it.

My dear Greywell, I am not at all pleased to hear you have agreed to act as one of Wellington’s aides. Have you forgotten your responsibilities to your son? The poor child has already lost his mother; how is he to manage if he should lose his father as well? Of course I would raise him to the best of my ability, but your recklessness appalls me. Pray reconsider taking such a drastic step. You say there is an immensely important battle in the offing and that Wellington needs all the help he can get. Is it
your pride which dictates this step, or some other part of your character? In either case, I consider it highly ill advised.

Greywell received the letter as he was dressing to attend the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the 15th of June, when rumor had it that battle would ensue before the night was out. He had, for several months, refused to attend the entertainments which might have distracted him from his grief and from his work, but be had eventually realized that more business took place at these social gatherings than in all the negotiation chambers he had yet entered.

So it was nothing new for him to attend a ball, though the thought still rankled with him. He had not found it necessary to mention them in his letters home, fearing Elspeth would hardly understand the necessity. What he didn’t need was some acerbic comment from her on his social life. And now this! How did she dare to advise him of where his duty lay? She knew nothing whatever of the matter. And perhaps, somewhere in him, he knew she had a grain of truth on her side. If he was killed, poor Andrew would be an orphan—but at least he would be there to carry on the Greywell title.

As he stood patiently waiting for his valet to achieve perfection in his cravat for the distinguished occasion ahead of him, Greywell mentally composed an answer to his wife’s letter, something that would give her a proper setdown, but he hadn’t time to actually put pen to paper before he had to leave.

* * * *

The news of the Battle of Waterloo reached Elspeth when she was sitting in the garden with Andrew. Francis was the one to bring it to her, and he knew little beyond the fact that there was a tremendous death toll for the English, though they had eventually proved victorious, with their allies.

Elspeth hadn’t told him of Greywell’s involvement. “Oh, my God,” she said, scooping up the child to hold him protectively in her arms. “When did you hear? Was Greywell in the battle? Is he all right?”

Francis frowned at her. “Why would he have been in the battle? He’s one of the diplomats.”

The child was regarding her with large eyes, uncomprehending of all her words, but aware from her tenseness that something was amiss. She ran a hand gently through his soft hair, trying to calm herself before she spoke. “He wrote me that he’d become one of Wellington’s aides,” she admitted, not lifting her eyes to Francis. “I wrote back trying to dissuade him. But I haven’t heard from him since. Have you seen a list of casualties?”

“No. I was told about it, and several names were mentioned. Not Greywell’s. Which doesn’t really mean anything. For God’s sake, Elspeth, why didn’t you tell me?”

There was a hum of bees in the hollyhocks nearby and the smell of new-mown grass. Elspeth had a terrible premonition she would always remember this day, with Francis standing there looking down at her as though he’d somehow been betrayed by her not confiding in him.

“I didn’t tell anyone. The news would have caused too much anxiety, without there being the chance of anyone doing a thing to change matters.” She stood up with Andrew still in her arms. “I’m going to take the child in now. Find out what you can for me, will you, Francis?”

“Certainly.” He hesitated for a moment before asking, “May I come this evening? You’ll want someone to keep you company.”

“Thank you, yes. That’s very kind of you.”

“Do you still want me not to tell anyone?”

“It would serve no purpose to mention it now. The battle is apparently over. Either Greywell is safe, or he isn’t. I’ll just have to wait for word.”