The Buccaneers (45 page)

The event itself, the stupefying fact that she had run away from his bouse—and by a mean egress, with his stable-boys as witnesses—and the strain of preserving an impassive exterior delayed his full consideration of his scene with Annabel. No sooner had he realized that jealousy might be appropriate than, a self-disciplined man, he had deferred indulgence of the emotion. Only when he had retired to his grand gloomy bedchamber and dismissed his valet did he allow himself to dwell on her saying that she “loved” another man. He had believed what she said about there being no misconduct: that the man didn't know. Yet it came back to him that she had lied about the five hundred pounds being for a charity. There also came back to him his mother's face on Boxing Day, when she spoke of Annabel's indiscretion in the Correggio room, and the day after, when he told her that Annabel was refusing him his rights.

Now he saw that jealousy was uncalled for. It was a case of theft. Annabel had withheld something that belonged to him. A thief had taken it (or meant to) from her—that is to say, from him. It was not that he had failed as a husband. Annabel's affections, flighty to begin with, had been alienated by Another.

The brooding Duke interpreted his misfortunes in the perspective of a very personal
Weltanschauung.
He viewed the God of the Church of England as a master Clock-maker who had designed an eternal machine which He kept wound up and which needed no repair save when damaged by Nihilists or Republicans. (Or, the Duke now added to the list of trouble-makers, contumacious wives.) Too modest to aspire practically to more than tending to common clocks, in this realm of secret pleasure the Duke had always had his dreams. At Eton he had passionately followed reports of the construction and triumphant public début of Big Ben, and he had gone on to examine foreign achievements. That clock in Munich with its mechanically gesticulating figures of a king and queen and musicians had, almost, tempted him to travel, as the Colosseum and the Alps had not. Without going abroad, he had conceived of an even finer wonder-works: At the first stroke of noon, doors would open on a platform onto which a throng of wooden figures, shining with gilt and the brightest possible red, green, orange, and violet, would step in order. A king and queen would bow to each other, a mitred bishop would raise his crook, a soldier aim a gun, a blacksmith strike an anvil... each figure performing its divinely appointed, divinely timed, role.

The microcosm of human society which the Duke had an ineluctable obligation to govern fell short of his ideal. The Duchess failed to curtsey to the Duke, or turned up in the slot belonging to the milkmaid... or the key in her back unwound crazily and her springs flew apart.

It was typical of her that she had gone out into the street bare-headed! How (the Duke asked the world defensively) could he have been expected to know that she wasn't simply going to her room, when she left her hat in his study?

But while the Duke did not underrate Annabel's imperfections, he admitted to himself that he had been inept. He had wanted a young maiden whose foot, under his careful schooling, would grow to fit the glass slipper. It might have been wiser to seek a woman whose feet were full-grown, whose record of performance could be analyzed like that of a race-horse.... But such thoughts, irresistibly as the defective apparatus in the wooden Annabel's spine, sent him whizzing back to his distaste for marrying a woman who wanted to marry a duke.... He had longed for an Impossible She who would appreciate his position—and not want him because of it.

Next morning he walked down through St. James's to his club. His intention was to avoid the unseen glances of his servants—he knew there were glances!—and hear nothing that would remind him of his wife, but he had forgotten that the matter ramified beyond his household. His was a Tory club. Thwarte of Honourslove—whom Annabel had mentioned and not mentioned—had withdrawn from the Lowdon bye-election, citing “personal reasons”; and no fewer than three members, among them the venerable Lord St. Alfont, the Duke's godfather, alluded to a rumour that Thwarte was about to leave the country. Before the Duke went home, he wrote a letter and rang for a servant to deliver it to Chancery Lane.

 
At eleven the next morning, Mr. Cyril Dinsmore of Dinsmore, Fortescue, and Ford conducted the Duke to the heart of a labyrinth of darkish rooms stacked with deed-boxes and trusted that His Grace and the Duchess were well; he regretted not having had the pleasure of seeing Her Grace since the wedding. He blinked three times in rapid succession when the Duke said heavily: “The marriage must end. She has left me. By the door to the mews, in full view of my servants.”

Mr. Dinsmore, whose wizened mien suggested a diet of ink and parchment, was the grandfather of four young children with whom he played lawn-cricket every week-end when weather allowed. “Poor boy,” he thought, “so that's why he came here instead of summoning me. But that charming girl!—
Poor boy?!
You're a dead stick, sir!”—“An informal separation,” he offered, “not infrequently eventuates in reconciliation.”

The Duke's lips stiffened. “Impossible. The marriage must end.”

“Your Grace envisages divorce? On what grounds? Desertion? Adultery?”

“She has told me that she is ... attached to someone but that there has been no misconduct. I believe she is truthful. I believe ...” With stronger conviction, the Duke said: “For two years she has refused to ... perpetuate the ducal line.”

Sighing, Mr. Dinsmore (of such stuff are eminently successful family-solicitors made) quelched sentimental considerations, deftly put questions, and quickly perceived that the answers formed a not-unfamiliar pattern.

The Duchess had asked for money for a person whom she refused to identify but who she stated, unasked, was not Mr. Guy Thwarte. She stated that she wished to leave the conjugal abode but not because of a man whom she admitted to “loving” but did not name. Mr. Thwarte had abruptly cancelled his political plans and was reportedly leaving England and his family estate.

Having ascertained these facts, Mr. Dinsmore deliberated for a few moments before he gave an opinion. “Certainly, refusal to perform what a learned jurist has termed”—he coughed—“ ‘the most obvious duty of a wife' is cause for divorce, as is desertion. If there is adultery, the co-respondent could be jailed and sued for damages. If the parties are taken
in flagrante delicto
—”

The Duke's face puckered. “I prefer,” he said fastidiously, “to avoid the sensational.”

“Your Grace is too young to remember when the Duchess of Newcastle left the conjugal abode—with a foreigner of lower class, a Mr.... Opdebeck.” Mr. Dinsmore clucked at the uncouth name. “After a hue and cry over the Continent, they were caught, although they were using an alias....
There
was sensation for you! And the press, Duke, is far more licentious today.”

“I only want it over with,” the Duke said bleakly, “as soon and as quietly as possible. I do not want anyone fined or gaoled or, or ... I am not vindictive. I only want—
never to see her again.”
He turned a proud cold face to his adviser while his fingers moved as if twisting some minute object. “I must be at Longlands for the County Assizes, and I wish to have a plan decided before...”

Silently supplying “my mother knows,” Mr. Dinsmore proposed: “If so, Your Grace, let us review the possibilities.”

 
Since Annabel's unexpected visit, Miss Jacky March had quivered through gradations of amazement, horror, and, yes, something like exultation! at behaviour so unlike her own. She felt drawn to a compatriot who would demonstrate that
one
American scorned the greatest marriage in the United Kingdom! (Other than Royal, Miss March corrected herself, scrupulously; but, of course, Royal marriages were inviolable.) She could not jeopardize the network of noble friendships that was her very life; could do little to help, and nothing openly; yet there were tiny practical details which dear Laura, so intellectual, might not have thought of.

Miss March had heard the Dowager Duchess congratulate herself on having found for her “perfect daughter-in-law” a lady's-maid who was loyal to the Family. She opened a quaint
papier-mâché
box, looked through its contents, murmured, “Yes, they would do,” and procured a sheet of note-paper. A conscientious frown crinkled her delicate withering face as she began a letter pointing out to “My dear Laura” that, obviously, Annabel must have a maid who was loyal to
her
:

 
When Miss Testvalley delivered Corisande and Catharine, fatiguingly rapturous over their experiences as bridesmaids in Norfolk, to Champions, Lady Glenloe was not there. She had left a note explaining that Lady Brightlingsea had implored her to come to Allfriars, as Lord Brightlingsea was seriously ill. Seadown and Lord Richard were coming to see their father, but she needed Lady Glenloe's company and support.

Miss Testvalley read the note with acute interest. Her mind flew to poor silly Jacky March, a letter from whom lay beside Lady Glenloe's, and who must not first learn of the absent-minded peer's fatal illness by seeing his name among the Deaths in her morning paper. “My dear,” she wrote, “I have sad news which I wish I could give you in person, knowing how grieved you will be to hear....” She was sure, in a P.S., that A. would be grateful for the kind suggestion as to a lady's-maid communicated by an unknown friend.

Dear Jacky had the crotchety innocence of an American spinster; no—Miss Testvalley quickly enlarged her generalization—the innocence of an American. Unlike the English, she always assumed the best. “Whereas nothing evil under the sun can astonish me.... Not,” Miss Testvalley—who was alone in the sitting-room—muttered with a fine Italian shrug, “that I am exactly English, spinster or no.” Jacky lived in a choice cranny of the world of fashion; she got on well with Lady Churt; she helped make matches that were often, at best, convenient, with the innocence of an ostrich. Apparently it hadn't entered her head that Annabel might be guiltily in love with someone. (The Reverend Mr. March's broad-mindedness presumably had not extended to adultery.) Or if it
had
entered her head, Jacky supposed that Annabel enjoyed the same rarefied sentiment that she herself entertained for Lord Brightlingsea. Miss Testvalley had decided long ago that only ignorance of passion had enabled Miss March to spaniel at heel the very people who had insulted her. That, and—but was it cause or effect?—a deranged sense of reality. A phrenologist palping that busy little head under its curls true and false would certainly be struck by the development of Miss March's bump of self-delusion.

 
 
The still more engrossing news awaiting Miss Testvalley at Champions was that Sir Helmsley Thwarte at Honourslove had had another fall and was back on crutches, poor gentleman. After a moment's disappointment and concern, she felt an ashamed relief that she would not, immediately, have to discuss his son with him while concealing what she had learned from Annabel.

On the day after her return, she received a basket of yellow roses from the Honourslove conservatory and a basket of blushful grapes from the grapery, with a note eloquently expressing Sir Helmsley's vexation that he could not bear the jolting of a carriage even when his destination was his Laura—for whose comforting presence he longed, for reasons
trop complexes et pénibles
to confide to a letter. Miss Testvalley composedly asked the man who had brought the offerings to thank Sir Helmsley on behalf of the young ladies and herself and extend their kindest wishes for his rapid recovery.

Later in the day, following a conversation with the Honourslove messenger, who had partaken of a meal below-stairs, the housekeeper approached Miss Testvalley in the hall with avid speculation in her eyes: “They do say Sir Helmsley's that beside himself because Mr. Guy won't be in the Parliament. Right wild, he is!” Folding her arms over an imposing black wool bosom, the woman paused, in evident expectation of a good long talk. With a nod and a non-committal “Oh?” Miss Testvalley went past her into the library.

Refusing to gossip about the Family helped preserve a self-respect often bruised by disdain or thoughtless discourtesy from above. Having had more than her fair share of “the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes” (not that she was always patient!), Miss Testvalley sometimes reminded herself that the cultured Greeks to whom Roman citizens used to entrust their sons' education had the legal status of slaves. That was a sour consolation. She found healthier recompense in the play of her nimble irreverent mind over the absurdities of the great. But she would not chatter about them—even if she antagonized domestics already hostile toward a person who put on airs, though her
clothes
were
mended
!

Like all the county, Laura Testvalley knew about Sir Helmsley Thwarte's near-criminal thriftlessness. (She had discovered the falsity of the rumour that his son too was feckless and had married for money.) She had heard of Sir Helmsley's legendary uncontrollable fits of rage, ugly and even dangerous; and she knew from personal observation that he was vain (but what man was not?).