Married to a Perfect Stranger (10 page)

Conolly glanced at the mantel clock. “Is that the time?” he exclaimed. “Lord, I've overstayed my welcome abominably.” He turned to Mary. “I can only plead the excellence of your hospitality.”

“Don't be silly. It's not that late.” She looked from one man to the other, trying to figure out what had just happened. What had Conolly meant by “explorations”? Why had John cut him off?

Conolly rose to go. The Bexleys stood to walk with him to the door. Mary rang for Kate as she passed the bellpull. When Kate brought their guest's coat and hat, Conolly turned to Mary, smiled, and bowed. “Thank you very much for your kind hospitality, Mrs. Bexley. It's been a most enjoyable evening.”

“Good,” said Mary with a smile. “I hope we will see you again soon.” When the door was shut behind him, she added, “I like him. I'm so glad we invited him.”

John nodded and turned back to the parlor.

“What did he mean by ‘explorations'?” Mary asked as they sat down again.

“Nothing.” John had retreated behind a barrier of hooded eyes.

She felt a spark of irritation. “It didn't seem like nothing. It seemed as if you didn't wish to have it mentioned.”

“Nonsense.”

Mary's irritation increased. It was as if John wasn't really paying attention, now that their guest was gone. “Wasn't it surprising to find that Conolly is related to Lady Castlereagh?” From his reaction, she was sure John hadn't known.

His laugh was curt. “That's one word for it.”

“What's another?” Mary wanted the John of an hour ago back again. How could he be so clever and confident about his work and so dense about everything else?

He paused and then said, “Complicated,” in a dismissive tone.

But Mary didn't wish to be dismissed. “In what way?”

John's gesture seemed to say that she couldn't possibly understand. And that he had no intention of trying to explain it to her. “The dinner was very good.”

“Well
managed
?” snapped the part of Mary who wasn't going to be labeled negligible ever again.

John stiffened, but he really looked at her, rather than at some indefinable object beyond Mary's grasp. “You aren't going to begin some sort of brangle, are you? Because I'm really not in the mood.”

“And have far more important things on your mind?” said Mary, responding to his tone.

“Yes, Mary, in fact, I do. As I think a wife might have the sense to know.”

Afraid of what she might say if she stayed, Mary turned on her heel and walked up the stairs to her bedchamber. Her solitary bedchamber. Where she vented her temper by pounding an innocently ruffled pillow into complete submission.

Mary tossed and turned all night and woke full of confusion. The new Bexley household had received formal calls from several sets of family friends. All of them belonged to their parents' generation, however, and Mary had struggled to find common ground for conversation, beyond news of home. Though the exchanges were cordial, it was quickly clear that these visitors would be acquaintances, sources of practical information perhaps, but not friends. Their visits made Mary feel her distance from her family more acutely. She had no one to look to for advice.

As a solace, she took her watercolors to the garden. She had a lidded jar for water and a neat little case for the paints. She wanted to be outdoors, even though the day was cool and overcast.

The space was empty when she unlocked the gate and went in. She sat in a secluded corner and opened a small folding easel her father had given her years ago. Uncapping the jar, she wet her brush and swept it lightly over a sheet of paper. Then she held it poised over the row of colors and waited. Soon her hand began to move. Color and shape flowed over the page. A face began to form. Gradually, it revealed itself as her youngest sister, Petra.

Mary smiled as she added detail. Petra always joked that their father, Peter Fleming, had finally given up on having a son when he named her. Petra hadn't turned out boyish, but she was certainly the liveliest of the five Fleming sisters. Mary added a highlight to capture the twinkle that animated Petra's hazel eyes. The portrait showed the characteristic tilt of her head, the mischievous quirk of her mouth.

Mary's hand slowed as she acknowledged how much she missed her. They'd been able to exchange occasional visits while she lived at Great-Aunt Lavinia's, but that wouldn't be possible now. London was too far. Her older sisters Eliza, Lucy, and Sophia, all married, the first two with small children, were too busy to make such a journey. And Petra was being presented to Bath society when the season began there next month; she'd be fully occupied. Mary wouldn't see any of her family any time soon.

And with that thought Mary acknowledged that she was terribly lonely. She'd been shoving aside the emptiness that had been building in her since she arrived in town, refusing to examine it. She was married; she was settled; this was her life. But she still felt so cut off from her husband. When they'd first married—it seemed so long ago now—they had talked more. Hadn't they? She was sure they'd talked more. About…she didn't remember specifically. Indeed, the memories of those first weeks of married life felt dim and pallid.

Much of their talk had involved preparations for his long voyage, she realized. There had been so many details to settle and items to procure. They had worked together to gather them all in the short time he'd been given. Then he'd gone away for months and months, and he'd come home a different man.

But still absorbed by his work, she thought. Or…even more absorbed.

When his orders for the China mission first came, he'd been amazed. She was sure she remembered that properly. He'd marveled about the significance of the opportunity and his great good luck in being named to the group. Hurrying to prepare, he'd included her in the decisions about what to pack. He'd asked for her opinions; she was certain that he had. She'd struggled to come up with some; she remembered that, too.

Now, he seemed more deeply involved than ever in his job. He'd come to life last night, talking to William Conolly. But, beyond mere anecdotes of his travels, he didn't want to talk to her about it. He'd pointedly excluded her.

She remembered the two drawings of John she'd compared in Somerset, and she wished she had them with her to study again. The John who had come home in August was so much more compelling than the one she'd married. And what would portraits of her own face from two years ago and now show? Just as much change perhaps. No, certainly. Because she wanted so much more than she'd dreamed of then. She wanted John—all of him.

It was all such a muddle. What was she going to do?

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, replied a stern inner voice, so strong she could almost hear it in the still autumn air. It sounded rather like her mother. Mary sat back and took a breath. She wasn't the meek girl who waited for orders and did what she was told. What was she going to do? She was going to decide precisely what she wanted and find a way to get it.

Sitting straighter on the bench, Mary noticed that Eleanor Lanford—or rather, the Dowager Countess St. Clair—was walking slowly along one of the garden paths toward her. Here was another person in her life who had turned out to be someone else. When she caught Mary's eye, the old woman raised a hand in greeting. Mary composed herself and went to meet her. “Hello, uh, my lady.”

The old woman's smile shifted. “Ah, someone told you.”

“Yes, my…”

“Please. I thought you were going to call me Eleanor.”

“That was before…”

“My dear, if I cared about such things, I would have announced the title myself. If I'd even bothered to speak to you.” Her smile grew larger. “Or come to live here, for that matter, which I would not have.”

Mary had to laugh. Still, it was different knowing her neighbor's rank. She wouldn't have felt so comfortable when they first met if she'd been conscious of talking to a countess.

“What have you been painting today?” Mary shrugged, not certain she wanted to show her sister's portrait. The glance she got in return was uncomfortably keen. “Walk with me a little,” said Eleanor, and she took Mary's arm.

They strolled a path that curved around the far end of the garden. The wind had been freshening, and now a gust shook the branches above them. Yellow leaves swirled through the garden. “There will be rain soon,” Eleanor said. “I must go in. You should, too.”

Watching the scudding clouds, Mary had to agree. Would she see her new acquaintance at all once winter descended? She'd barely begun to know her.

“My granddaughter Caroline is coming tomorrow to stay with me for a while,” the old woman said.

“Have you many grandchildren?” Mary replied politely.

“Six. Caroline is the oldest girl. Nineteen.”

She spoke the final number as if it was ominous. Her tone, and wry expression, roused Mary's curiosity. “You'll be happy to see her.”

“Very,” was the firm reply, as if the remark had been a challenge. “Come to tea tomorrow and meet her. I think you'll like her.”

“I…thank you. I'm sure I shall.”

With a smile and a nod, Eleanor turned toward the gate. Mary went to collect her painting gear, her mood buoyed by the invitation.

Back home, she returned her paints to the parlor across from John's study. She'd set up this chamber as her retreat, studio, and sitting room, and now she traded her brushes for a pencil and sketchbook. Eleanor's face emerged on the page, Mary's hands confidently filling in a portrait that spoke more than she could ever have put into words. She was unaware of all else until the impulse to draw had spent itself. Then she stood back and looked at what she'd created.

Here was her new friend—gracefully aged, elegant, and…sad? No, that wasn't the right word. Weary…pensive…distressed? No…troubled. That was it. That fit what she saw in the face on her page. Troubled about what? Slowly, Mary tidied her materials away. Probably she couldn't help. Eleanor seemed far wiser than she. But she would keep an eye out for any opportunity.

* * *

“You know, I don't see why I was chosen over you to go to China,” John said to Conolly as they left the office to find sustenance at midday. He'd been chewing over this puzzle in the back of his mind since Conolly revealed his ancestry.

“I expect they wanted the best man for each place,” Conolly replied, with no sign of discomfort at the frankness of the question. “They knew you'd do well on the voyage, and they knew I could manage all the information flooding into our offices alone. Because I am a ‘blinkin' marvel' at the job.”

John smiled at his friend's cocky grin. “You are that. But that's not how it's done, Conolly. Men get preferment based on who they know.”

“Less now than in the past. British interests are more far-flung and complicated every day. You can't run that kind of enterprise strictly on patronage.”

John hoped this was true. Indeed, he was counting on it. But just this morning he'd heard of a senior appointment that was clearly based on lineage rather than ability. He named the man now, “LaRoche.”

Conolly shrugged. “There is the way things were done, and there is the future. We are betwixt and between. Family connections matter. I'm sure they always will. But they aren't everything.” If he realized why this topic might be of particular interest to John he didn't show it, for which John was grateful. With a nod, he let it drop.

Near the end of the working day, he went to hand in an important report. “What's the gist of it, Bexley?” asked his superior Harkness as he took the pile of pages.

“We need more information sources inside China,” John said. “Someone with access to the emperor's court, preferably. Perhaps one of the mandarins who disagrees…”

“No nobleman would betray his sovereign for pay,” said a drawling voice from the outer office. John hadn't seen Fordyce come in. “It's called honor, Bexley. Noblesse oblige. Not something you'd know anything about, I suppose.”

“A mandarin isn't a noble,” John replied. Fordyce's ignorance was almost as galling as his insults. Almost. “He's a bureaucrat. And often quite susceptible to bribery.”

“Very true,” said Harkness. “I must read this.” He waved them both away.

John walked out. Unfortunately, Fordyce followed. “I suppose you have to memorize facts when you don't know any important people,” he said.

“Memorize?” The word so misconstrued and belittled the nature of his work—their work, actually, if Fordyce ever did any. It was what they did with the flood of facts that inundated the Foreign Office that mattered. “Can you really not bother to use whatever brainpower you have?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If I thought so, I might grant it.”

“What?”

“What indeed? I haven't time for this.”

Back in the room he shared with Conolly, empty just now, John couldn't quite settle into the pleasure he usually found diving into waiting stacks of intelligence. Fordyce might be a snob and an ass, Conolly might be reassuring, but it was still true that a powerful family made a vast difference to a man's prospects. Hearing news like LaRoche's appointment could be discouraging.

John sat back in his chair. He didn't have aristocratic parents, but he had ideas. He'd discovered that he had more energy and determination than Fordyce could imagine.

He shook his head. Before his trip to China, he'd pottered his way through his workdays, the Foreign Office merely his lot in life. He'd ambled through life without significant highs or lows, not giving anything much thought. How had he stood it? Would he really have gone on like that for…decades? John's mind crackled with denial. The point was moot. He'd…woken up, and nothing was going to stop him now.

* * *

After they finished dinner that evening John headed for his study, leaving Mary alone in the parlor. When he went up to his desk, he always said it would take him only half an hour or so. Perhaps he even believed it. But once he started working, he hardly ever emerged before she went up to bed. She pointed that out. He denied it.

Restless, annoyed, Mary couldn't settle to a book or sewing. On impulse, she fetched a warm shawl and her bunch of keys and let herself quietly out the front door.

Their neighborhood was deserted at this time of night. Still, she wouldn't have considered lingering outdoors if she hadn't had a key to the private garden. No random passerby could get in there, and none of the neighbors were likely to be out.

She walked quickly across, unlocked the gate, and slipped inside, closing it securely behind her. As she moved along the gravel path to the center of the space, a late September moon lit her way. Puffs of wind set the tree branches rustling. It was a world of black and silver, secret and separate from the everyday. A thrill went through Mary; she'd so seldom been outside alone in the night. It felt daring and yet safe in this secluded enclosure. She pulled her shawl close around her and sat down on one of her favorite benches.

Shadows dipped and shifted. The lighted windows around the square seemed to recede. Mary began to feel unmoored, like a boat adrift on a powerful current.

A strong gust of wind lifted a branch higher, and Mary realized that she could see into the study on the second floor of her house. She stood and moved around the tree. There was John, outlined by golden candlelight, bent over his papers. She couldn't make out his expression from this distance, but she imagined he was intensely focused, his thoughts a thousand miles away from her. Her connection to her husband felt like these windblown branches. They swayed a little closer to each other and then away, pushed by forces beyond her control.

Above, in the window, John rested his forehead in his hand, a tired gesture. Of course his work was important. She would never argue that it was not. She only wished to be included, to enter more fully into this pivotal part of his world. He had to understand this.

Mary walked back to the gate, unlatched it, and stepped through. As she did, she thought she saw someone crouched near their front parlor window. She stopped, staring, trying to separate a human figure from the general darkness. No one should be about at this hour. She stared at the house. Nothing. It must have been a bit of shadow shifting with the wind.

She gazed up at John one last time. He straightened as if he could feel her gaze and looked around. Though she knew she couldn't be seen, Mary looked back at him, willing him to recognize her presence. Of course, he didn't. She walked swiftly across the pavement and back inside.