Whom the Gods Love (43 page)

It was waiting at the door when he arrived. Alfred stood holding the horse and craning his neck to watch a maidservant do up her hair in an attic across the way. Julian told him they would be leaving directly and went to ring at the door.

Marianne was waiting for him in the Turkish parlour. She had found a mauve silk dress of Mrs. Falkland's that was to be given to parish relief. It was too tight across the bosom, which did not seem to displease her. Julian suddenly remembered Luke's account of Mrs. Falkland's return from her visit to Cygnet's Court:
A silk dress the colour of lilacs . . . One of the sleeves was all but ripped away.
... Yes, there were traces of mending at the shoulder, so faint they would be noticed only by someone who knew to look for them. Still, knowing what he knew now, he could well understand why Mrs. Falkland had not wished to wear this dress again.

Marianne preened before the looking-glass. "Don't my amethyst brooch look well on this? And there's the sweetest shawl to match—I'm sure Alexander never gave
me
one half so nice. Where are we going?"

"To Hampstead, to call on Sir Malcolm."

"But why?"

"Because you are going to tell him who killed Alexander."

*

Before leaving Alexander's house, Julian wrote a note asking one more person to join him at Sir Malcolm's. He gave the note to Luke to deliver, then set out with Marianne for Hampstead.

Sir Malcolm had been watching for them and opened the door without their having to ring. "Come into the library," he whispered. "I don't want Belinda to hear us."

"How is she?" Julian asked, once they were secluded in the library.

"Better. Still keeping to her room. She can hobble about a bit, but we don't encourage it. Eugene is with her. I haven't let her or anyone else know you were coming. Even if you hadn't enjoined secrecy, I would have done all I could to spare her an encounter like this." He looked at Marianne with a repulsion he could not conceal.

Before she could retort, the door opened, and Mrs. Falkland limped in, leaning on Eugene's arm. "I'm sorry," Eugene said helplessly. "I couldn't stop her coming down. She saw you from her window and said she'd come down alone if I didn't help her."

Sir Malcolm hastened to her. "My dearest girl, sit down—here, where you can put your feet up." He helped her to one of the leather sofas. "You ought not to have come here—it can only distress you—"

She said in a cold, quiet voice, "Was it really necessary to bring that woman here?"

"It ain't as if I wanted to come," Marianne rejoined.
"He
made me." She jerked her head at Julian.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Falkland," said Julian. "I would have avoided it if I could."

Mrs. Falkland looked at Marianne more closely and caught her breath. "She's wearing my dress!"

"What if I am?" Marianne tossed her head. "You'd thrown it away, and I haven't a stitch of my own. I had to get myself up respectable, didn't I, if I'm to be paying calls. Mr. Kestrel says I'm to tell everyone who killed Alexander—though I'm sure I can't think how, when I've been laid up in lavender for weeks and know less about the murder than anyone—" 

"What's this all about, Mr. Kestrel?" broke in Sir Malcolm. "Do
you
know who killed Alexander?" He added eagerly, "And Belinda's accident: can you tell us now who you think caused that?"

"What are you saying?" Mrs. Falkland looked up swiftly. "Mr. Kestrel, who do you think was responsible for my accident?"

"I hadn't meant to speak of that yet. I don't wish to tax your strength too far—"

"You must tell me at once! I have a right to know! Who is it you suspect?"

Julian saw she was not to be put off. He turned to Marianne. "Mrs. Desmond, will you be good enough to leave us for a time?"

"I don't see why I shouldn't hear it, the same as her—" 

"I'm afraid I must insist."

She pouted briefly, then slipped her arm through his. "Well of course,
if you
ask me, Mr. Kestrel."

He escorted her out. Seeing Dutton in the hallway, he beckoned to him. "Will you take Mrs. Desmond up to the drawing room? And, Dutton," he added softly, holding him back for a moment, "see that she remains there."

He returned to the library. "I'm afraid you must go, too," he told Eugene. "When you're needed—and you
will
be needed—you'll be called."

"But—" Eugene broke off, looked at Julian uncertainly, then nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll be in my room." On his way out, he stopped to lay a hand on Mrs. Falkland's shoulder. She closed her eyes briefly and covered his hand with hers, then motioned him to go.

Sir Malcolm stood beside her sofa and held her hand between both of his. She leaned forward tensely. They both gazed expectantly at Julian.

He drew a long breath. "Mrs. Falkland, you asked me who I believe caused your accident. If you must have an answer—"

"I must."

"Then I believe it was you."

29: Far above Rubies

"What?" Sir Malcolm stared at Julian. "You must be mad! Belinda cause her own accident?"

"Yes. Mrs. Falkland drove those nails into her saddle. She was thrown because she wished to be."

"But that's preposterous! It's ludicrous! Belinda, tell him—tell him—" His voice trailed away.

She was looking up at Julian, pale but composed. "How did you know?"

"To begin with," he said gently, "you admitted you'd been to the stable to see Phoenix the night before the accident. That showed you had an opportunity to slip into the saddle room. Of course that would have meant nothing, standing alone. The idea of your inflicting such an injury on yourself, in your condition, seemed, as Sir Malcolm says, preposterous. And yet you were in the best position of anyone to arrange the accident. You knew your groom's routine, your horse's temperament, the contours of your saddle. You alone could determine whether and when you went riding, how you seated yourself on the horse, and when the girth was tightened.

"Still, I mightn't have thought to suspect you if it hadn't been for two other circumstances. The first was your refusal to countenance anyone else's being accused. You steadfastly absolved every suspect, declined to believe in anyone's guilt. But more important, there was Eugene. After Alexander's death, you promised him he needn't return to school before the autumn. Suddenly, uncharacteristically, you broke your word and insisted on sending him away at once. After your accident, I saw why: he was the only person with a concrete motive for wishing Alexander to die childless. So he must go. But not back to Harrow—that was too close. People might say he could have returned secretly during the night. No, he must go all the way to Yorkshire. And when it turned out he hadn't gone after all, you were horrified—not because you feared he'd caused your accident, but because he'd thrown away the alibi you tried to give him."

She said quietly, "What a monster you must think me." 

"No. I don't believe you did any of this with cruelty or indifference. I doubted your innocence, but never your grief."

"I do grieve. I knew I would feel pain, but I didn't expect such agony as this. I dream about it every night—the baby, I mean. I dream I'm holding it in my arms, and it clings to me and cries, and I say, thank God, it's alive, I can still save it! And then I wake up alone in the darkness, and I know that if I had it to do over, I should do exactly the same."

"Why, Belinda, why?" Sir Malcolm knelt beside the sofa, still clasping her hand. "What did he do to you—what did that devil incarnate do to you—to drive you to such a desperate act?"

"You know?" She looked at him in wonder. "You know he was a devil?"

"Yes." Sir Malcolm gathered her against his breast and looked up grimly at the portrait of Alexander. "So you needn't be afraid to tell us the very worst."

"You're so kind to me. I don't know how you can be. Whatever Alexander was, he was your son—his child would have been your grandchild. But you don't understand—I must make you understand—"

"When you're ready, my dear. When you feel strong enough."

"I'm ready now. Please let me go. I can't speak, I can't explain, if you hold me."

He brought over a chair and sat beside her. Julian sat on her other side, but a little way behind, where she could not see him. She would find this hard enough, without being reminded of the presence of a man she hardly knew.

"I became engaged to Alexander at the end of my first season. When you're eighteen, brought up as I was and not yet married, you don't know anything. You feel confident and ready to take on the world, but you don't know what the world is. You only see the parts of it that are considered fit for your eyes. I did know there could be tragedy even in the heart of fashionable London—that husbands could be weak or cruel, and wives could be made to suffer. My mother's second marriage, to Mr. Talmadge, had been very painful. But I was very young then, and Mama always took pains to make me believe I was safe and protected—that nothing like that could ever happen to me."

Her voice caught. She swallowed hard and resumed, "So when I met Alexander, I was proud and foolish. Being reckoned a beauty and a catch on the marriage mart had gone to my head. I was sated with admiration. Men told me they were my slaves, and I had contempt for them. What man of any worth would be a slave, even to the woman he loved?

"Alexander Falkland was no one's slave. He was charming, he was considerate, he made me feel admired and adored—but there was something elusive about him. He would laugh, and I wouldn't know why. He would look pensive, and I couldn't tell if he was thinking of me or of something a thousand miles away. And then, everyone admired him so, and how could I help but want what all the world esteemed so highly?

"He offered for me, and I accepted. I was happy at first, or I thought I was. We had a whirlwind wedding tour, then before I could draw breath, we plunged into our first season. You know what we became—how popular, sought-after, emulated we were. It was all Alexander's doing. He decorated our house, chose our servants, our guests, our menus. I wasn't his helpmate—I was merely one of his
objets d'art.
But I didn't understand that then. I was too caught up in the excitement of being one of London's foremost hostesses—at the age of nineteen!

"I never thought about how he could afford to pay for it all. I had an idea that the income from my property wasn't nearly enough, but I knew he had investments, and he was so clever, I thought he was more than equal to making us rich.

"I knew Mr. Adams, of course. Alexander introduced us and said Mr. Adams was advising him about his investments. We used to invite him to our parties—the larger affairs, not the dinner parties. Alexander said people couldn't be expected to sit down in intimate surroundings with such a person. But he was always gracious to Mr. Adams when they were together, and I took my lead from him. I was brought up to be courteous to people like estate agents and solicitors, and that was how I thought of Mr. Adams.

"This past March, Alexander told me that some of his investments had gone wrong. He sat beside me and held my hands and talked to me very earnestly. He said he was over head and ears, he owed thirty thousand pounds, and he hadn't the money to pay it. He couldn't legally sell or encumber my estate, and if he sold off smaller things, like paintings or furniture, the tradespeople would know we were in dire straits, and they would all begin dunning us. There might even be an execution in the house. And he told me over and over how sorry he was about it all.

"The strange thing is—I was glad. For a long time, without quite admitting it to myself, I'd felt a disappointment with our life together. The excitement and admiration were starting to pall. I was tired. I didn't care so much about being a celebrated hostess. And I hardly ever saw Alexander alone anymore. If we had to economize, we couldn't always be going out or giving parties. We would have to spend more time quietly at home—perhaps even retire to my house in Dorset. I suddenly realized how much I missed it.

"But I saw he didn't share my feelings. He loved our life—he didn't want any of it to change. All he cared about was finding some means to right our affairs. He said our obligations to tradespeople weren't of any account—it was only the thirty thousand pounds that threatened us with ruin. Then he told me Mr. Adams had bought up the debt. I said, But that's good, isn't it? You're on friendly terms with him—surely he'll be reasonable and give you time to pay?

"He said he had no power to sway Mr. Adams, but
I
might if I chose. I said, But I know nothing about money matters. What could I say that would have any weight with a man like Mr. Adams? Alexander said it wasn't my words that would move him, but my—my face, my—" She stopped short, forced herself to go on. "He used the most graceful language. He said I had only to look on Mr. Adams with favour, smile at him, have him to dinner. He made it sound such a trifle—the very least a wife ought to do for her husband.

"My mind kept rejecting what he said,
willing
me not to understand. When at last I couldn't mistake his meaning, I was horrified. I would have died sooner than dishonour him and break my marriage vows. And he wanted to barter me away! I didn't know if he was proposing an actual criminal connexion or merely a dubious friendship. But what did that matter? It was all one to me. I refused. I can't think what I could ever have said or done to make him believe I would do anything else.

"I ought to have left him then—either sought a formal separation or gone quietly home to Dorset. He wouldn't have dared to stop me and risk my telling people what he'd proposed. Even the most hardened profligates among his friends would be disgusted. But I stayed. I was proud. I couldn't bear people to know how he'd meant to humiliate me,
sell
me. I had better motives, too. I knew that Eugene admired him, and he'd had few people to admire. He was ashamed of his father—I didn't want to make him ashamed of his guardian, too. And, finally, there was you, Papa. You loved Alexander, and I knew you would be broken-hearted to learn what he really was."