Those Endearing Young Charms (16 page)

"It must have been a very great shock to him," said Emily softly, although she was thinking of her husband. "He must have loved her very much to have waited for her for so long."

"He wasn't in love with her," said Lord Brockenham. "He was talked into it. People said she had waited for _him_ and so he felt obliged to marry her."

Was that how Peregrine felt about Mary? Emily wondered. But his welcoming kiss that had been meant for Mary was not that of a cold man who had fallen out of love a long time ago. Oh, dear, perhaps he loved Mary still! Perhaps he had not had a mistress. Perhaps that shadowy woman she had sensed in his life was his longing for Mary. And thus her thoughts went round and round like a fire dog turning the spit.

When the earl at last came to claim her and suggest a walk in the garden, Emily, near to tears, snapped that she was hungry, had had practically no food all day, and did he mean to _starve_ her?

Looking into her angry, troubled eyes, the earl felt depressed and sad. It was all hopeless. There was no way Emily was going to fall in love with him now. He led her into supper and treated her with aloof courtesy.

Emily thought he would surely notice her misery and at least ask her what was wrong. She did not know that she merely looked sulky, since a young and beautiful face is not made to reflect tragedy.

Out in the ballroom, as if to mock her, the band began to play Thomas Moore's beautiful song written to celebrate the Duke of Wellington's marriage to his Kitty. "Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms" seemed to pound against her ears.

Like Emily, the earl felt so sick and miserable that he thought she might have at least asked him what the matter was. But Emily simply thought he looked bad-tempered and bored.

By the time they were in their carriage and heading homeward, they had both given up any attempt at conversation. The earl was thinking that it was a dismal state of affairs when a man comes home to an empty bed while his young bride sleeps with the cat.

But when they reached their town house, his courage had somewhat returned. Emily looked so beautiful, so fragile in the swaying light of the carriage lamp. He would take her in his arms and kiss her. If she rebuffed him, then that would be the end of that. But at least he could try.

It was like a douche of cold water to find the Ansteys sitting there waiting for them. The earl bowed stiffly and begged to be excused. He muttered something about seeing them at a more respectable hour and took himself upstairs to bed, leaving Emily to comfront them alone.

The Ansteys assumed Emily had heard all the gossip about Cordelia Haddington. Therefore, a bewildered Emily found herself being hugged and kissed and _mourned_ over as all the burning, malicious on-dits about Cordelia rose and fell about her ears.

She put up one little hand as if to ward off the clamor. "Enough!" said Mary to Mr. and Mrs. Anstey, noticing her sister's white and stricken face. "I feel we have done a terrible thing. Poor Emily did not know anything of this."

Emily could only nod dumbly.

Then she remembered the earl saying, "There is no other lady in my life ... now, Emily," and took faint heart, facing Mary proudly and saying, "I did not know the name of the lady. But Peregrine did tell me there had been ... someone ... but that there is no longer."

There was a silence. Then Mrs. Anstey began to cry -- great, gulping sobs. "Tell her," she wailed.

"Tell me what?" demanded Emily, as rigid as a soldier on parade.

Mr. Anstey sighed heavily. "He was seen driving in the park just the other morning with Cordelia Haddington."

This was true. Cordelia had all but thrown herself under the wheels of the earl's carriage and he had taken her up for a short distance before setting her down outside her house.

"I don't believe it," whispered Emily. But look how ready she had been to believe such a short time ago that Peregrine was in love with Mary.

"I'm afraid it is," said Mr. Anstey. He went on to explain how they had heard all the gossip about the Earl of Devenham and _her_ in Malden Grand, and how they had come to town but had waited for information from their scouts before coming to call. "For, mark my words," said Mr. Anstey, "we were not about to believe the first tattletale from town. We had to find out for ourselves."

Weary and defeated, Emily sighed and raised her hand to her bosom.

"Wait for me here," she said in a dull voice. "I will leave with you directly."

Once in her room, Emily rang for Felice and harshly ordered the maid to pack. "You must not tell my lord I am leaving," commanded Emily, looking so stern that Felice decided it would be the best policy to obey. She knew her mistress had never quite forgiven her for throwing the cat out of the inn window.

The cat, Peter, yawned and stretched and then began to yowl in protest, as the bandbox with the air holes was produced.

For once, Emily was deaf to his pleas of distress. He was thrust in roughly, and the lid was put securely down. For a while, the large cat kicked and scratched and even succeeded in rolling the box over on its side, but this new hardhearted Emily merely righted the bandbox and told him curtly to be quiet.

Peter's feelings were deeply hurt. He lay in the blackness of the bandbox and sulked.

When at last the packing was finished, Felice realized she was expected to carry the trunks down the stairs without the aid of even a footman, for Emily did not wish to alert her husband. Emily felt she could not bear to look at him again. Felice and Emily finally suceeded in getting all the baggage into the hall, and the Anstey servants carried the bags out to the carriage.

"Did you leave a note?" asked Mary, as the carriage rolled away.

"Why? I have nothing to say to him," said the Countess of Devenham, and turned her face to one side to hide the large tear that was beginning to slide down her cheek.

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*Chapter Ten*

It was no consolation to Emily that the democratic rain which was slowly turning Malden Grand into a swamp was probably ruining the London Season.

To Mary's distress, Emily did not want to talk about her marriage. Apart from asking Mr. Anstey to contact his lawyers and set the annullment in motion, Emily refused to refer to the subject again. She had not wanted to linger in London, although her parents had assured her that the earl did not know the address in Russell Square. She was not afraid he would come looking for her, but she was very much afraid of seeing him again and suffering the resulting pain.

Far better to sit among all the glittery newness of The Elms, listening to the unremitting pitter-patter of the rain, sewing, reading, and talking to one large sulky cat who had not forgiven her for stuffing him in the bandbox.

Outwardly, her life had not changed so very much since the days before her marriage. Often Emily wondered how she had ever managed to bear the monotony of the long days. The worst thing she had had to face on her arrival home was that she loved her husband. The fact that she hated him and felt he had treated her shamefully did not alter that love. Instead of the radiant love Mary felt for her vicar, it was a sad, yearning longing that made the days lie heavy and the nights a torment.

The Ansteys had once more fallen from social grace. No one in the county would believe that Emily had left her husband, for surely one did not leave a rich earl. No, it must be the other way around. The Earl of Devenham had discovered he could not bear to stoop so low. That was the story that Lord and Lady Harrison put about, and they told it so often that they forgot the original spite that had prompted the fiction and came to believe it themselves.

Peter the cat felt his lot was a hard one. His mistress was silent and gloomy and only petted him in an absentminded way. He hated the rain. He hated the tyranny of the servants and the nasty-smelling newness of everything at The Elms.

Then one day the rain stopped and the sun blazed down, warm and golden. Mist rose from the water-logged meadows to be burned off during the day. Lakes dwindled to puddles and the puddles disappeared, leaving everything freshly washed and smiling under the warm rays of the sun.

Peter bided his time. He was not allowed out of doors. Emily felt she had spent too much time cat-chasing. The cat had been trained to perform his necessary functions in a box of gravel.

But the warm days were agony for Emily. Yearning and longing doubled as one golden day led to another. At last, Emily could bear her self-appointed prison no longer and took her book out to the garden and sat under the shade of a large oak. Large white clouds puffed across the blue sky like galleons under full sail, and busy birds pecked for worms on the grass. The French windows of the drawing room stood open.

Peter cautiously stuck his large head around one of the doors. The air smelled sweet. He saw Emily, her fair hair bent over her book. Slinking on his belly, he crept like a shadow across the grass. He reached a gap in the hedge, hesitated, turned his head, and looked back at his mistress. As if aware of the cat's gaze, Emily put down her book and looked up. Peter dived through the gap and ran off down the road.

Emily frowned. Had that been the cat escaping? She picked up her book again, but found the words kept blurring and sliding away. With a little sigh, she arose and went to look for the cat.

Peter played the whole day, chasing birds and hunting voles and field mice. Toward the end of the afternoon, he felt weary with all the unaccustomed exercise and tried to decide whether to find his way home and eat or to lie down and sleep. There was a bridge over the River Axe which skirted the village.

It was in full spate, rushing and tumbling over the rocks into the deep pool below the bridge. Peter leaped up onto the parapet. The old stone was warm beneath his paws. He stretched out, full-length, above the rushing river and instantly fell asleep.

His awakening was rude and terrifying. He felt himself seized in a cruel grasp and looked up into the faces of a ring of village boys. "Let's 'ave an 'anging," said one, producing a length of string. This was greeted with cheers, while eyes roamed this way and that, looking for a suitable tree on which to hang the cat.

Mad with terror, Peter bit, clawed, and twisted until one vicious slash caught his captor on the cheek. The boy dropped him, and with a yowl of terror, Peter dived over the parapet and fell like a stone into the pool below.

He surfaced, green eyes bulging with fear, and struck out for dry land. Above him, a jeering voice called, "Let's stone the cat. Let's stone the **** to death!"

* * * *

It was then that she began to cry. She had not cried since that one tear had been shed in the carriage. Now she sobbed and sobbed as if her heart would break. She could not think about her husband's arrogance or his infidelity. She could only remember the charm of his smile and the strength of his body.

Then she heard a carriage on the road. Mary and her parents had left to shop at a nearby town, and Emily felt she could not bear to receive callers. She would hide in her room and when Parsons, the butler, came to fetch her, she would tell him to say she was not at home.

In the cool, dim quiet of her bedroom, where the shutters were closed to keep the sun from fading the carpet, she bathed her face and changed her gown. She was twisting her curls into a knot on top of her head, when Parsons scratched at the door.

"I don't care who it is, Parsons," called Emily. "Tell them I am not at home."

There was a short silence, and then Parsons' voice, muffled, came through the door, "It's his lordship, my lady."

Emily stood very still.

"Your husband, my lady," said Parsons in a louder voice.

Emily took a deep breath. He had come after all. Perhaps he had merely come to arrange a divorce.

But she would give herself just one more chance. Surely such a great love could not remain unrequited.

She called, "I will be with his lordship directly," and with trembling hands began to apply a little rouge to her white cheeks.

The Earl of Devenham stood in the hall, his eyes on the stairs. He had come to berate her, to tell her he had had enough of her and her family. It had been the final humiliation to find she had crept from his house like a thief in the night.

Parsons appeared at his elbow to say that cakes and wine had been set out in the drawing room, but the earl snarled, "I will wait here. Leave me alone."

The hall was silent and dim and smelled of paint and varnish. He heard a light step on the stairs and looked up.

Emily stood on the first landing, looking down at him. She looked thinner. Her dress was of plain white muslin and her golden curls were scraped up on top of her head. Two patches of rouge burned on her white cheeks.

The earl of Devenham thought, all in that moment, that he had never seen such a beautiful sight. His pride fell about him and he held out his arms.

Emily walked slowly down the stairs toward him, hope dawning in her eyes. His arms closed about her and held her close. "Emily," was all he said, but he said it with that strange husky, seductive note in his voice, and she turned her lips up to his.

"My lady!" screamed a small voice behind them.

The earl released Emily and turned around, his eyes blazing with rage. The Ansteys' knife boy stood there with blood running from a cut on his forehead, his jacket dusty and torn.

"What the deuce do you mean by this impertinence?" raged the earl.

"It's the cat!" wailed the boy, staring at Emily and ignoring the earl. "It's in the river and the boys are throwing stones at it. I tried to stop them, but they beat me and kicked me..."

And with that, the thoroughly overwrought knife boy sank down onto the hall floor and cried and cried.

The earl took one look at Emily's stricken face, and jerked the boy roughly to his feet. "Look, my lad," he said. "You've behaved like a Trojan so far, and I want you to be brave a little bit longer. Lead us to where you saw the cat."