Never Call It Love (23 page)

***

Late
that night, after the last of Moira's other guests had left, Patrick lay in the
ornately gilded bed in her room. She was astride him, her head, with its
waist-length black hair, flung back, her lovely face distorted as she strove
for her climax. She reached it and collapsed, still shuddering, upon his chest.
After a while she rolled to one side and lay with her head on his shoulder.

Moments
passed. Then she nuzzled his lean cheek. "A penny for them."

"I
was thinking of how beautiful you are."

He
had been thinking something like that. But also he had been thinking of
Elizabeth. She had appeared considerably less than beautiful beside that tree,
body awkwardly bent, face strained with her efforts to control that
grotesque-looking cur. And yet there had been something about her at that moment,
something lonely and vulnerable, that had stabbed him to the heart.

Moira
asked, "As beautiful as your wife?"

She
too had seen the awkward figure beside the tree, and had been freshly aware of
her own graceful beauty. And yet she had felt painful anger, too. No matter
that the Englishwoman was, and probably would remain, neglected by her husband.
She was still the wife of Patrick Stanford, fourth baronet, and might soon be
the mother of the fifth. In short, by some inexplicable mischance, she occupied
the place that should have been Moira's.

Patrick
said, "This is scarcely the time, or the place, for us to be discussing my
wife."

"My,
how proper we are." She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at
him. "An honorable man does
not discuss his wife while in bed with
his mistress. Is that it?"

Gaze
directed past her at the ceiling, he said nothing.

His
silence stung her into recklessness. "But I scarcely see how she could be
considered sacrosanct," she went on. "I have not mentioned it before,
but if Lady Stanford is so virtuous, how is it that she, a bride of four
months, appears to be at least six months pregnant? I imagine that the whole
neighborhood is wondering about that."

"Then
let them," he said furiously, "if they have nothing better to do. But
you and I are not to discuss it Do you understand!"

Eyes
narrowing, she smiled. Then she leaned down to him, full breasts flattening
against his chest, and kissed him on the mouth. "Have a care,
Patrick," she said. "I am not some servant girl, to be spoken to any
way you please. Someday you will use that tone once too often."

It
was not until the next night that Elizabeth had a chance to tell her husband of
Donald's impending visit Around ten o'clock she was seated at her dressing
table, too keyed up with mingled anticipation and anxiety to even think of
sleep, when she heard Patrick's footsteps approaching along the corridor.
Quickly she laid down her brush, and with hair hanging loose around her
shoulders, crossed the room and stepped out into the hall. Hand on the knob of
his own door, Patrick turned to her with a surprised look.

She
said, "I have something to tell you. Donald Weymouth is in Dublin. He
wrote me, and I replied, inviting him here for a three-day visit. He will
arrive on the tenth."

She
spoke calmly, and with lifted chin. But Patrick could see in her gray eyes a
fear that he would forbid Weymouth to enter his house. Again, as when he had
seen her standing beside the tree with her hand on the collar of that lunging
cur, he felt a stab of pity and vain regret. "What is Weymouth doing in
Dublin?"

"His
bishop sent him to a synod as an observer." She paused, and then added,
careful to keep all reproach out of her voice, "I would have consulted you
before I answered his letter if you had been at home, but you were not."

When
he made no reply, she asked, "Well, do I have your consent to receive
him?"

"You
have." If she could derive any comfort from seeing her milksop parson, let
her do so.

"Thank
you," she said, and started to turn away.

"Did
you say he will arrive on the tenth?"

She
turned back. "Yes."

"Then
I will make a point of being home for supper that night, so that I too can
welcome him."

Her
voice trembled. "I would appreciate that very much. Good night." She
went into her room.

After
a moment, Patrick entered his own room. How was it, he wondered, that he had
gotten himself into this quagmire? Here he was, married to a woman who not only
loathed him, but somehow had the power to keep him feeling guilty. Just now,
even the gratitude in her eyes had made him feel ashamed. He started to take
off his coat, and then, with an oath, put it on again. He would not try to
sleep. As he passed the library, he had seen Colin replacing a book on a shelf.
Best to go down,
challenge his brother to a chess game, and try to pretend for an hour or so
that he too was still a bachelor.

At
her dressing table, Elizabeth resumed brushing her hair. So at least Patrick
was prepared to behave decently to Donald. But still she must worry about
Donald's first sight of her. In her letter she had told him that she expected a
child, but had not said when. The moment he saw her, he would know that she
must have become pregnant well before the date of her marriage.

She
thought of the night after Christopher's trial ended, when she and Donald had
driven alone back to that empty house north of London. He had been careful to
come no farther than just inside the front door. What pain he would feel now,
believing that soon after that night she had granted wantonly to another man
what he had forbidden himself even to ask of her.

But
better, far better, to have him believe that than to have him know the truth of
how her child had been conceived.

She
had a sudden chill sense that she should have told Donald not to come here. But
no. She could no more have denied herself the chance to see him than a starving
person could refuse a sip of broth. She laid down her hairbrush and moved
toward her bed.

***

On
the afternoon of the tenth, she was standing at the window of her room when
Donald, on a bay horse, rode through the wrought-iron gate into the
cobblestoned courtyard. All that day she had scarcely stirred from that window,
lest he arrive without her knowing it at once. Heart beating fast, she left her
room and went down the stairs.

Clarence,
one of the red-haired footmen, had already opened the massive front doors. She
went out onto the terrace, and then paused, looking down. Back turned, Donald
was saying
something to Padric, the elder of the stableboys. She moved down the stone
steps. "Donald."

He
whirled around, joy in his face, and took her outstretched hands. In that first
moment she knew with mingled elation and despair that her love for him had
lessened not one whit. Nor had his own feelings changed. His love for her was plain
in his thin face.

Then
his gaze swept down her body. After a moment she saw the surprise in his hazel
eyes turn to shocked realization.

She
said again, "Donald." This time it was a plea.

Despite
the sudden pallor of his face, he managed a smile. "How are you,
Elizabeth?"

"I...
I am well." she withdrew her hands and turned to Padric. "Please take
care of Mr. Weymouth's horse. And then have someone bring his saddlebags up to
his room."

As
she and Donald climbed the front steps she said, "I am sorry that there is
no one else to welcome you. My... my husband is out just now, and so is his
brother. But probably they will both be here for supper." She paused.
"Was your journey from Dublin pleasant?"

"Very
pleasant."

"I'm
glad." She was aware that even as they exchanged these formal courtesies,
their eyes were carrying on an entirely different dialogue.

When
they reached the vast entrance hall, she said, "Clarence, this is Mr.
Weymouth." Then, to Donald: "Clarence will show you to your room.
Will you be ready for tea in half an hour?" She gestured toward the
library's open doorway. "We will take tea in there."

"Splendid."
He was looking at the twin staircases and the shadowy gallery above them.
"I trust they don't keep you awake every night."

"They?"

"The
ghosts. Surely all the ghosts in the county must flock to such an ideal
promenade."

She
laughed. Darling Donald! Despite the shock and pain the sight of her swollen
body had brought him, he was able to make a small jest. "No ghosts,"
she said.

When
he entered the library half an hour later, she was already seated at the tea
table. She poured his tea and added a teaspoonful of sugar. As she handed him
the cup, she saw that he too realized what she had done. With no need to ask
how he liked his tea, she had added sugar automatically, just as she had done
so many times back at the Hedges.

Stirring
his tea, he asked abruptly, "When will your child be born?"

She
was glad that he had brought himself to ask that question right away, so that
they could put it behind them. "Ten or eleven weeks from now."

"I
see." Just as she had known he would, he forbore asking more questions or
making any comment. Instead he said, "I often see your mother. You will be
glad to know that she is well."

"And
not too lonely?" She felt a pang as she thought of her mother, deprived of
both son and daughter.

"Oh,
she's lonely. But in the past few weeks I have managed to interest her in the
church mission society, and that seems to help."

"What
is it like to be the new vicar?"

He
smiled. "Everything is much the same as it was under the old vicar. The
sexton still gets drunk and goes to sleep in the graveyard. Old Mrs. Crawley
still sings too loud and off-key, and then snores through most of the sermon.
And Mrs. Canby is still as alert as a bird dog to see that no Low Church
tendencies creep into the liturgy."

Elizabeth
smiled. "And Sally Cobbin? Did she marry the butcher's son?"

"She
did."

As
they went on talking of people in that little English village, she had a sense
that everything that had happened in the past ten months had been a bad dream.
Once more her brother was a student at Oxford, her mother had nothing worse to
worry about than lack of money, and she and Donald were talking over teacups in
the side parlor at the Hedges, with their whole lives stretching serenely
before them. Then the tall clock in the corner struck five. Reluctantly she
rose and pulled the bell rope, so that someone would clear the tea things away.

***

Patrick
not only appeared well before the supper hour to greet the guest. He was also
courteous, even pleasant, throughout the meal. As Clarence moved around the
table, pouring the sherry that was to accompany the soup, Patrick asked,
"Did you buy your horse in Dublin, Mr. Weymouth?"

"Yes.
I plan to resell him in Waterford before I sail."

"Take
him to Hadley's stables. Hadley is always ready to buy a good saddle horse, and
he pays a fair price." He paused. "Does your family keep
horses?"

"Yes.
Carriage horses, of course, and three hunters. Then, there are the farm horses.
We use Clydesdales for heavy hauling."

Patrick
nodded. "I too prefer them to Percherons."

With
relief Elizabeth saw that the conversation was launched upon a safe topic. It
was Colin who, much to her surprise, displayed hostility toward the guest. When
a lull in the talk came about midway of the meal, Colin turned to Donald and
said, "Tell me, Mr. Weymouth, what are your views on predestination?"

Patrick
laughed. "Listen to my brother! Here is a man who doesn't go to church
three times a year, and yet he wants to talk about predestination."

Colin's
dark eyes shot Patrick an angry look. "But I
read. A man doesn't have to go
to church to form religious opinions."

Donald
said lightly, "I hope you do not influence others to stay home with their
books on Sunday. As it is, we poor parsons find ourselves preaching to rows of
empty pews."

Colin
said evenly, "Considering the confusion that Calvinist doctrines have
brought to the Anglican church, I am not surprised."

Elizabeth
looked at Colin with amazement. She recalled now that one night over a chess
game he had mentioned Calvin, and she had said that "a friend back in
England, the new vicar of our parish church," had for a time been
interested in Calvinism. Colin had remembered that bit of information, and was
now using it to attack Donald. Why? What had gotten into her usually quiet and
even-tempered brother-in-law?

Patrick
said, "Colin, you don't give a tinker's dam about Calvin, any more than I
do. Now, to get back to horses." He turned to Donald. "If you want to
ride one of my hunters tomorrow, please do so."

"Thank
you. Perhaps I shall, sometime before I leave."