The Lady's Tutor (28 page)

Nausea rose in Elizabeth’s throat at the memory of Edward’s words
that, no matter how hard she tried, she could not forget. Carefully, she set
her cup back, inside the saucer. “Mother, I want a divorce.”

Glass exploded—Rebecca’s teacup. The saucer lay on the dark red carpet
where it had fallen. It overflowed with tea and fragments of delicately painted
porcelain.

A great hush fell over the restaurant as men and women turned in
their seats to see what had happened. At the same time, a footman rushed
forward to clean up the mishap. Elizabeth was acutely aware of the staring
eyes. She was even more acutely aware of Rebecca’s frozen face.

Suddenly the baldheaded maitre d’ was bending over Rebecca and
placing another cup and saucer in front of her. “Clumsy footman,” he said, as
if the man kneeling on the floor were responsible for the broken cup. “Please
forgive us, madam. It will not happen again. May I get you a little something
extra, at no charge, of course ...”

“My daughter and I do not need anything more, thank you.” Rebecca
did not once glance at the maitre d’. Her emerald eyes were fixed on Elizabeth.
“You may leave us.”

“Very good, madam.”

The maitre d’ bowed several times; splinters of light reflected
off his shiny pate. The footman quickly collected the broken porcelain and
wiped up the spilled tea. The staring eyes, finding nothing of major import to
sustain their interest, turned away, leaving Elizabeth and Rebecca alone once
more.

Rebecca calmly reached for the porcelain teapot and filled her
cup. “We will forget what you said, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth worked to swallow past the knot in her throat. “I am a
woman, Mother, not a child. I will not be ignored.”

Rebecca pursed her lips and daintily blew on her tea before taking
a small sip. “Does Edward beat you, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened spasmodically around her cup. “No,
of course not.”

“Then I see no reason for a divorce.”

She took a deep breath, agonizing over her next words, but then
there was no need to because try as she might, she could not hold them back. “He
has not been to my bed in over twelve years.”

Rebecca returned her cup to the saucer with a sharp click. The sound
was repeated a dozen times in the restaurant, from behind Elizabeth, to her
side, in front of her. “Decent wives would thank God every morning and evening
for your good fortune.”

Elizabeth winced at the implication she was not “decent.” She
resolutely raised her chin. “Nevertheless, I want a divorce.”

“You will ruin what your father and husband have worked so hard to
achieve.”

Anger warred with the guilt her mother’s words incurred. “What
about me, Mother? Do I not deserve anything? He refuses to come to my bed, yet
he keeps a mistress. I... he is hardly ever at home.”

“Men will do what men will do. You have two sons—what more could
you possibly want?”

A man!

A man who loved her.

A man who would share her bed and be a father to her children
before they were too old to need one or care if they had one.

“Edward came to my bed when he thought Richard was dying.”
Elizabeth tried to keep the horror and disgust out of her voice, and failed. “He
did not give me a child, Mother, or you a grandchild—he gave his voters a
family.”

Rebecca raised her napkin, blotted her mouth. “It matters little
why your husband gave you children, Elizabeth. The fact is that you have two
healthy sons who are well provided for. How do you think your decision will
affect them? They will suffer. The society they have taken for granted will
outcast them. Their lives will be ruined.”

Elizabeth remembered Phillip’s black eye; Richard’s gauntness; the
countess’s words:
I
did not send my son to Arabia out of convenience,
but out of love.

“They already suffer.”

“We make the best of what we have, Elizabeth. That is all a woman
can do.”

No, that was not all a woman could do. A woman did not deserve to
have her body and her desires ridiculed.

A woman owed it to herself to demand fidelity.

“Perhaps some women. Will Father help me? Or should I get a
lawyer?”

“I will discuss it with Andrew when he has the time.”

As if Elizabeth’s needs were inconsequential to the needs of the
country.

All of her life she had taken second place! Just once
—

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mother. That is all I
can ask.”

“We really must swing by the milliner’s.” Rebecca dropped her
napkin onto the table beside her cup and saucer and scooted her chair back
slightly. “I want a new hat for your father’s speech this Wednesday.”

Instantly, the maitre d’ was there to pull back Rebecca’s chair.
She tugged her gloves on while Elizabeth awkwardly rose, impeded rather than
aided by the maitre d’.

Elizabeth watched Rebecca calmly smooth the wrinkles out of her
gloves as if it were the most important thing in the world. More important than
a daughter. More important than a divorce.

“Would you change anything in your life, Mother?”

Did Father ever give you one single moment of ecstasy that you
would not trade for all the days of your life?

But Elizabeth already knew the answer. The same answer she herself
would give if asked.

Rebecca paused infinitesimally in her grooming. “The past cannot
be changed.” She lifted her hands, deftly readjusted the tilt of her hat. “When
you accept that, you will be content.”

“Then perhaps, Mother, it is best that women not be content.”
Elizabeth’s voice was unaccustomedly brittle. “Otherwise, we would not have the
likes of Mrs. Butler, who is even now changing English law.”

Rebecca
walked out of the restaurant. Elizabeth followed, pulling on her gloves as she
went.

Divorce was not mentioned again. Not in between short rides to
various shops. Not during the longer ride to Rebecca’s house.

The coach turned a corner. Elizabeth grabbed the carriage handle.

Rebecca’s face in the darkening gloom was ghostly white. “Shall
you come in for tea, Elizabeth?”

“No, thank you, Mother. I need to get home so I can dress for
dinner.”

“Ted Hammond is an ambitious young man. He will be very beneficial
to Edward.”

“Yes.”

“Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened about the carriage handle. “Yes?”

“Your decision does not have anything to do with Lord Safyre, does
it?”

Did it?

Was she asking for a divorce because of the Bastard Sheikh ... or
because of Edward? Because she had learned that a woman was not sexually
depraved for wanting fulfillment... or because she lusted after her tutor?

She could feel her mother’s eyes in the darkness . . . and
remembered how they had glared when she danced with the Bastard Sheikh. “You
said that a man such as he would not be interested in a woman like me, Mother.”

“You also said that you found him attractive.”

“And so I do. Edward is a very attractive man too.”

And if her handsome husband would not sleep with her, why would
the Bastard Sheikh?

Elizabeth winced. Especially if he saw her naked.

“I will not have a man like him jeopardizing the careers of your
father and husband.”

The coach pulled to a halt. “Lord Safyre has nothing to do with
Edward’s or Father’s careers.”

That, at least, was true.

The
carriage door opened. Cold air and gathering mist flooded the interior.

“I have packages in the boot, Wilson.”

The
butler, an old family retainer, briefly bowed before offering up his hand to
assist Rebecca. “Very good, madam.”

“Good night, Mother.”

“Elizabeth.” Rebecca paused in the doorway of the coach.

Elizabeth tensed. “Yes?”

“Men are selfish. They will not place the needs of a child before
their own. That is a woman’s duty. A man like Lord Safyre would not want
sons—especially sons that did not spring from his own loins—to interfere with
his pleasures.”

Rebecca stepped out of the coach with a harsh swish of wool; the
door slammed behind her, leaving Elizabeth with the echo of her mother’s words
ringing in her ears. Bracing herself against the jolt of the carriage, she lay
back against the leather seat and watched the passing streets. Lamp boys
scrambled to light the streetlamps for the coming night, leaving a trail of
golden orbs in their wake.

Had she known that it would come to this, she wondered, when she
sought the Bastard Sheikh’s tutelage? Would she have had the courage to seek
him out if she had known that her simple desire to learn how to give her
husband pleasure would culminate in divorce?

If she went through with it, she would truly be alone, without
even the facade of a happy family. Was she strong enough to stand alone?

I
want
you to promise me that you will come to me when the pain of being alone becomes
too great.

Was she endangering Richard and Phillip’s future because she
lusted after a man who was not her husband? A man who, according to Rebecca,
would not tolerate her two sons?

As soon as the coach pulled up in front of the Petre town house,
Elizabeth wrenched open the carriage door and jumped out. Beadles stood on the
bottom step, mouth gaping open at her impropriety.

“Please send Emma up to my room, Beadles.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Elizabeth lifted her skirts and raced up the steps, panting. The
corset was too tight—
she would pass out from lack of oxygen.
Which was
a far more comfortable
sensation than the feel of lead that weighted down her stomach.

The burgundy runner chasing the stairs seemed brighter. More
inhospitable. It had lasted sixteen years and would probably see another
sixteen.

She dreaded the coming night, sitting at dinner, smiling and
pretending. Or perhaps it was spending the evening with Edward that she
dreaded.

He had told her she had great udder breasts when she asked him to
be intimate. What would he say when she asked him for a divorce?

It’s not too late,
the pounding of her heart drummed out. All she need do was run
back downstairs and telephone her mother and say that of course she did not
want a divorce, that the whole idea stemmed from the roast beef she had toyed
with at lunch. No doubt, she could say, it had been spoiled and her request had
stemmed from indigestion.

Upstairs in her room, dark pink roses marched up the walls. She
glanced at the heavy cherry bed in which she had spent her wedding night.

The drapes had been drawn; there had been no warming fire in the
fireplace. The chest drawers had contained her underwear and nightgowns and the
wardrobe had been filled with her clothes, but it had seemed as if they were
someone else’s clothes, someone else’s body that waited between cold, damp
sheets.

She had given birth to her two sons in that bed.
How could she abandon it?

A
soft knock echoed inside the room. Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Mrs. Petre. May I come in?”

She swallowed; her heart settled back into her chest where it
belonged. Emma. Of course. She had asked Beadles to send her up.

Why would she think that her husband would come to her after so
adamantly rejecting her advances? No doubt he was still at Parliament and would
not be home for another hour or so.

“Come in, Emma.”

Emma’s round face was pleasantly familiar. “Shall I run a bath for
you, ma’am?”

“Yes, please.”

Hot
steam writhed above the tub. Elizabeth gratefully slipped into the hot water.

What would the boys think about her decision?

How would a divorce affect their lives at school?

She leaned her head back against the copper tub. And wondered what
kind of bathroom the Bastard Sheikh had. Immediately, a picture of the
artificial phallus flashed behind her eyes.

It had not been nearly as long as his two handbreadths had been.

Elizabeth stood up in the tub in a cascade of water. She overrode
her thoughts by brutally rubbing herself dry, replacing mental pain with
physical pain. After Elizabeth donned her stockings, drawers, and chemise in
lonely solitude, Emma silently dressed her, as if she sensed Elizabeth’s need
for silence.

Edward was waiting downstairs for her, dressed for dinner. He surveyed
her thoroughly, as if she were a horse for sale.
Or a slave on an auction
block.

Taking her cloak, he draped it about her shoulders while Beadles
solemnly watched. Inside the coach she and Edward were enclosed in darkness and
a distance that had nothing to do with the leather seat that separated their
bodies and everything to do with the needs that divided their lives.