Tender the Storm (23 page)

Rolfe was not so particular. He could scarcely wait to have his present assignment over and done with so that he might take up the threads of his own life.
Zoë.
She must be overjoyed at the reports that were coming out of France. Her hopes for her family's welfare must soar. He should write to her, if only to depress those hopes. He very much feared that Zoë's parents had not survived the Terror.

"Why is it called the 9
Thermidor
?"

The question came from Charlotte. For a month and more, since Rolfe's precipitous departure for town, she had made it a habit to accompany Zoë on her morning constitutional when the dowager was still safely at her toilette.

"It's the French calendar," answered Zoë. "We changed all the names of the months and seasons."

"Does this mean that the war between our two countries will come to an end?"

"Rolfe says that's too much to hope for."

"But the news pleases you?" prompted Charlotte gently.

Zoë turned a radiant face up to her sister-in-law. Tears of happiness were quickly blinked away. "Oh, Charlotte," she said, "the gates of the Conciergerie and all the other prisons have been thrown open. Do you see what this means? My parents . . . my family. . ." she choked back a sob.

Rather diffidently, Charlotte patted the younger girl on the shoulder. "What does Rolfe say in his letter?"

Zoë made a derisive sound. "Rolfe, as usual, says very little. It is my friend, Francoise, who keeps me abreast of what is happening in the world."

"I wouldn't refine too much upon it, my dear. You know what gentlemen are. More than likely, Rolfe doesn't wish to raise your hopes. I'm sure it's no more than that." A thought occurred to her. "Francoise? Isn't she the girl who wed that writer fellow a fortnight since?"

"Charles Lagrange," nodded Zoë. "He's a journalist. They are more than halfway persuaded to return to France." On observing her sister-in-law's shocked expression, Zoë hastened to add, "Charles has received assurances that his name is no longer on the proscribed lists. He's a
Girondin
, you see, and they — those few who survived the Terror, that is —are back in favor."

These observations on France's political scene were evidently beyond Charlotte's comprehension. Zoë tactfully changed the subject. "We had better make tracks for home. Emily will no doubt be at the piano, impatient for her music lesson."
                                                        

"I can hardly credit the change that has come over that girl," said Charlotte in some wonderment. "I had no notion that she was interested in music, nor yet had the patience to
practise
so diligently."

"Emily is very talented," remarked Zoë.

A look of pleasure suffused Charlotte's face. "Do you really think so?"

"Really," said Zoë, thinking that Charlotte, with her large blue eyes and a blush on her skin, looked years younger and far from plain. With the right clothes and coiffure, her sister-in-law could hold her own in any assembly of ladies. Not that the dowager would permit it.

"And French lessons too!" said Charlotte.

"Your daughters are born linguists, Charlotte. They'll be conversing in French with their Uncle Rolfe before you know it."

Smiling, Charlotte quizzed, "Is that what you told them?"

Zoë returned the grin.
"Of course.
Children need something to aim for."

"It's very good of you to bother with the children, Zoë."

"It's nothing,"
demurred
Zoë politely. "Besides . . ." she was on the point of saying that she did not have anything better to do with her time and changed in mid-sentence to, "they were bored. And bored children get up to all sorts of mischief."

"I'll say!" answered their mother with feeling.

It was not to be expected that this new rapport between her daughters-in-law would find favor with the dowager. Not that she said as much to them. Nor could she, with anything resembling grace,
complain
about the hours in each day which Charlotte began to devote to her children. But she could make life very difficult for the one who had disturbed the harmony of her days.

Matters were brought to a head when Rolfe sent word that the press of business in town precluded his coming down, as was expected, to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. The dowager passed along that intelligence to his wife over the dinner table. Zoë received the news with a show of indifference which had become almost second nature to her.

More words were exchanged. Zoë said something to which the dowager took exception. She lapsed into silence. The dowager's fury knew no bounds.

"I knew, oh yes, I knew at the outset that this was no love match," she brazenly opinioned. "But I wish you would tell me what you have done to give my son a disgust of his home."

"Mama," reproved Charlotte, "Zoë has done nothing wrong."

With meticulous attention, Zoë stirred the soup in her dish.

Eyes blazing, the dowager rounded on Charlotte. "Don't meddle in things which do not concern you!"

Zoë carefully set down her spoon. "You have no right to address Charlotte in that tone of voice," she said quietly. "Nor do I wish to enter upon a discussion on my private affairs."

"Private affairs!" sputtered the dowager. "There's nothing private about your husband's affairs! Let me tell you, my good girl, the whole world knows that he had mounted a new mistress within weeks of acquiring a new bride."

"I don't believe you!" Zoë cried out.

"If you need convincing, I'll show you the letter I had from my good friend, Sadie Price! Yes, and another which I received from Lady Athol! What's the girl's name?
Rosamund.
An opera dancer with Covent Garden.
Yes, that's it!
Rosamund.
Not that I blame Rolfe for his peccadilloes. The pity of it is that he thought to make you his wife and not his mistress!"

Hot color surged from Zoë's throat to her hairline. "Do you suppose that I should have accepted his
carte blanche?"
she demanded.

"Why shouldn't you? What are you but a little Frog he picked up from some filthy pond? Everyone knows that you French girls are no better than you ought to be. I see it all now! He felt sorry for you! Either that or somehow you trapped him into a marriage he's come to regret. He should have stuck to his own kind. Didn't I tell him so?"

During this tirade, the dowager had started to her feet. She looked around wildly. It was Charlotte's
aghast
expression which brought her to her senses. Slowly, she sank back into her chair.

"Now see what you have done, you
wicked
girl!" she sobbed out. She clutched at her heart. "I'm having an attack. Charlotte, help me, please."

Sighing, moaning, half swooning away, the dowager was helped from the room. Ten minutes were to pass before Charlotte was free to go in search of Zoë. She found her still in the dining room, slumped at the table, her head cradled in both arms. She was so still that Charlotte feared she had fallen into a swoon.
All at once, Zoë
hiccuped
.

"Oh my dear!" exclaimed Charlotte, and in a rustle of skirts crossed the room and swept Zoë against her bosom, as if she were comforting a hurt child. Like a drowning man clutches at straws, Zoë clung to her sister-in-law.

The bout of weeping was to last for several minutes.
Finally, Zoë's hand groped on the table.
It encountered a napkin. She drew it to her face and proceeded to blow her nose. Sniffing,
hiccuping
, smiling feebly, she said, "If Emily could see me now, she would call me a watering pot."

"She would lose all respect for her favorite aunt!" agreed Charlotte amiably.

"Her
only
aunt," corrected Zoë.

Charlotte patted Zoë's shoulder awkwardly. When it seemed that the younger girl had herself in hand, Charlotte seated herself on the adjacent chair. She drew in a steadying breath, released it,
then
drew in another before embarking on what she wished to say.

"My late husband, Edward, had a mistress. All gentlemen do. It means nothing."

"Doesn't it?" Zoë's tears dried.

"No.
Really.
You may take my word for it."

Through the wet spikes of her lashes, Zoë regarded the older girl. "Why do you English wives permit it?"

"Permit it?" Charlotte's face registered perplexity. "Why shouldn't we? It's a blessed relief not to have to tolerate a husband's . . . well . . . one must give one's husband heirs, of course, but, what I mean to say is . . ."

"Yes?"

Breathing deeply, Charlotte concluded, "A gentleman takes a mistress to spare his wife the unpleasantness of the marriage bed."

"Is . . .
is that why Rolfe has taken a mistress —to spare me the unpleasantness of the marriage bed?" Zoë's look was hopeful.

Though she knew herself to be on shaky ground, Charlotte answered with absolute conviction, "Of course it is!"

Hours later, as she undressed for bed, Charlotte found herself still reflecting on the conversation she'd had with Zoë. She thought of her husband, Edward, and of the day he had introduced her to his younger brother, Rolfe.

He'd looked like a young golden demigod as he'd come forward to take her hand. Laughing, Rolfe was always laughing. She had not believed that he could be related to Edward and the dowager. How she had wished, then, that it was the younger son she was marrying. But he'd had little in the way of prospects. And her guardian would never have countenanced the match.

"Rolfe," she whispered into the darkness. "Rolfe." She had never loved anyone but Rolfe. And he did not even know that she was alive. Ironically, it was Rolfe's young wife who had shown her more kindness than she'd met in a long while. Rolfe was never at the Abbey, and the dowager had no thought for anyone but herself.

Zoë was not as she was. Zoë would make Rolfe notice her. Zoë would have Rolfe's kisses, share his bed,
bear
his children. It was inevitable.

She was only four and twenty, thought Charlotte, and already she felt as if her life were over. Zoë was not so poor spirited. Zoë was the sort of girl who made things
happen
.