Whom the Gods Love (44 page)

"Oh, my dear—" Sir Malcolm shook his head. "When I think what you and Verity suffered at his hands, rather than let me be hurt or disillusioned—!"

"Who is Verity?"

"I'll tell you another time. Please go on—I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Alexander and I went on with our lives as before—outwardly, at least. I never saw him in private if I could avoid it. I didn't know what he was doing about his debts, and I didn't much care. We quarrelled once. I wanted to send Eugene back to Harrow, to remove him from Alexander's influence. He wasn't fit to be anyone's guardian. Alexander refused. He said he couldn't afford to maintain Eugene at Harrow when he was at low tide, and I wouldn't lift a finger to help.

"A few weeks went by, and it was the first of April."

She stopped suddenly, as if she had turned a corner and found a sheer drop before her. In a low, slightly shaky voice, she went on, "Alexander asked me to go with him to a hardware showroom in the Strand. I said I should have thought we couldn't afford to spend any money. He said it was all the more important to maintain an appearance of solvency. I agreed. He seemed to be holding out an olive branch, and though I wouldn't find it easy to forgive him or trust him again, it seemed my duty to try. Just before we left, he told me he'd invited Eugene to come with us, but he'd declined. I wasn't suspicious. Why should I be?

"We walked about the showroom arm in arm, and the shopmen fawned on us as people always did when we went out together. I missed the days when that meant something to me—when I took pride in admiration I hadn't earned and friendships I couldn't rely on. When we left the showroom, a woman came running up to us. She was young and blond and dressed like a maid-of-all-work, and she seemed upset. She asked me if I was Mrs. Falkland. I said yes. And she told me my brother had been kicked by a horse and was badly hurt. He'd been carried into her mistress's house and had told her mistress his sister was at a hardware showroom nearby, so her mistress had sent her, the maid, to find me.

"I never stopped to think about whether the story was true. All I thought was, Eugene had changed his mind and come to join us, and now he was hurt and in danger. Alexander was all commiseration. He asked the maidservant if a doctor had been sent for. She said no, and he said we must fetch one at once. I begged him to do so and let me go to Eugene.

"The maid said I would have to go on foot, as our coach wouldn't fit through the entrance to the court where her mistress lived. I said, that doesn't signify, only take me to my brother at once. If I'd stopped to reflect, I would have brought Luke with me. I would have expected Alexander to suggest as much. But in sudden crises, you don't stop to ask yourself if things are making sense. Why would anyone have invented all this? How could I have known it was a lie?"

"You couldn't have known, Mrs. Falkland," said Julian gently. "You did what seemed right at the time. Anyone of character and courage would have done the same."

"I wish I could believe that. I keep going over and over it—remembering, reliving, trying to sort out what I might have done differently. It doesn't do any good. I did do what seemed right at the time. And yet nothing will ever convince me it wasn't my fault.

"The maidservant led me through a narrow passage into a little dark court. Most of the houses were in disrepair, but one at the end had been refurbished. That was where she took me. She let me in at the street door and brought me to a back parlour. She stepped aside to let me go in first, and I found—David Adams.

"Everything was clear to me in that moment. Eugene had never been in the house. It was all a plot to leave me alone with Mr. Adams. And Alexander was behind it.

"I tried to get out, but I couldn't. The maidservant had locked me in. I pounded on the door and called to her, but she didn't answer. I said to Mr. Adams, I assume you have a key to this door. Be good enough to open it at once.

"He said he would, but first he must speak to me. He begged me to forgive him this deception, which had been his one means of gaining an opportunity to open his heart to me. He felt his feelings toward me had been misrepresented—he ought never to have trusted Alexander to convey them. Alexander was vicious, he cared nothing for me, he had no idea how to value me as I deserved. But he—Mr. Adams—loved me, he had loved me a long time, he would do anything for me. He said he asked nothing more of earth or Heaven than to be my champion against Alexander and all the world. If I would only believe in his love, he would lay at my feet his heart, his fortune, and his devoted service.

"Looking back, I think he was in earnest—that he exposed himself to me as perhaps he never had to anyone else. I may have known it even then. But what did it matter? I wanted no part of his love or protection. Protection! This man, who was all on fire to defend me against Alexander, had plotted with Alexander to trick and trap me. He was holding me a prisoner and trying to wrest from me the only thing of value I had left—the only thing Alexander hadn't been able to tarnish, because it was mine alone—my honour. They were both against me; I had only myself to rely on. And I felt, without thinking it out, that my only safety lay in utter, uncompromising rejection of his suit. If I stood firm against him, perhaps I could shame him into letting me go.

"So I was cold and disdainful. I threw his feelings back at him like rubbish I wouldn't deign to touch. It was disastrous. In proportion as he'd been gentle, he became enraged. He shouted at me. I was worthless, a gilt-paper angel, as shallow as the rest of Alexander's set. I let Alexander touch me—that proved I was no better than a whore. He despised himself for loving me. He cursed me, cursed himself. He took me by the shoulders. I cried out to him to let me go. He asked if I was ashamed to be touched by a Jew, if I would go home and wash myself to remove the contagion. I didn't care about his being a Jew—I cared that he wasn't my husband, he had no right to touch me. But I didn't owe him explanations. He was better than Alexander. He ought to have known.

"He didn't know. He pulled me against him. He—he—kissed me. Cruelly, without any love at all. I was shocked beyond imagining. He was so strong, and I was so helpless. I'd always thought of myself as strong, but I'd never been in a struggle like that with a man before. It was like trying to beat back the tide. I couldn't. I tried. Oh, Papa, I tried so hard—" 

"My dearest!" Sir Malcolm held her close to him. "Please don't cry!"

"I can't help it. I'm so ashamed. He was right:
I am a
whore. There's nothing to choose between me and women who sell themselves in Covent Garden. Except that I cost so much more—thirty thousand pounds." She laughed, a little wildly.
"Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. "

Sir Malcolm talked to her soothingly, cradled her against him, stroked her hair. At last she lifted her head from his shoulder. "I'm better now. I'm sorry to have taken on like this. But I've never told anyone about this before, and it seemed to bring it all back."

"He mustn't be allowed to get away with this!" Sir Malcolm fumed. "The brute must be punished—"

"Papa, you mustn't quarrel with Mr. Adams! I couldn't bear a public prosecution—it would splash what I suffered all over the newspapers, make it common gossip in drawing rooms. And he probably wouldn't accept a private challenge. Men of his class aren't accustomed to defend their honour with pistols." She went on more gently, taking his hands, "If he did fight you, he might hurt you, and I won't have you risk your life for me. Or he might simply stand there and let you kill him. I could imagine him doing that. And then you would be ruined, obliged to leave the country. And the worst of it is—Alexander would have won again! He would still be making a hell of all our lives, even from beyond the grave.

"I'll tell you something strange. I don't know if I can make you understand it. After—after what happened at Mrs. Desmond's—I was too overcome at first to think about anything. I remember finding that the sleeve of my gown was torn and draping my shawl so that it couldn't be seen. Then I realized I would have to take a hackney home, and I was afraid I hadn't the money, and I would have to ask Mr. Adams for it. I kept searching through my reticule, and I couldn't seem to find any change. And all the while I wasn't looking at him, but I could hear him walking, walking. Finally I said I wanted to go home, and he fetched a hackney and paid the driver without asking me. I never looked at his face, but I saw his hand when he opened the carriage door for me. It was shaking.

"This is the strange thing, Papa. As soon as I could reflect at all clearly, I knew that I didn't hate him. I was afraid of him—more afraid than I'd ever been of anyone in my life. And I hated what he'd done to me. But I could understand something of what he'd felt—how I'd pushed him beyond endurance. I couldn't have done otherwise, but perhaps he couldn't have, either. It was like one of those Greek tragedies you talk of, Papa, where a god enters into a person and makes him or her do terrible things. Mr. Adams needn't be punished—he'll punish himself. What he did to me was unworthy of him, and he knows it. He'll know it all his life—he'll go to his grave knowing it. So it was as much a defeat for him as for me.

"I didn't hate him. I hated Alexander. He was my husband: he had a duty to protect me. When we were married, I thought he loved me; I knew now that was all a pretence. But even if he felt nothing for me, honour and decency should have compelled him to stand with me against a man who compassed my ruin! Instead he'd allied himself with that man. And then—but you shall hear what he did next.

"I didn't see him for the rest of that day or evening. Next day I asked to speak with him in private. I was very composed—or I managed to seem so. My worst feelings came to my rescue: pride, which wouldn't let me show how humiliated I felt, and revenge, which grudged him the chance to revel in his victory. I didn't tell him what had happened between Mr. Adams and me. He tried to goad or trick me into revealing it, but I wouldn't. I don't think he ever did know for certain, or he couldn't have resisted holding it over my head. All he ever knew was that his notes-of-hand were forgiven. It seems that Mr. Adams can be trusted to fulfill his business obligations.

"But I was telling you about our conversation that morning. I asked him for a legal separation and offered in return to say nothing of how he had tricked me into meeting Mr. Adams. Alexander didn't choose to make a public break. He said we both knew perfectly well I would never reveal what he'd done to me. If I did, I would savage my own reputation. Just having met with Mr. Adams alone would throw doubt on my honour. My whole story was improbable—people were far likelier to believe Mr. Adams was my lover, and we'd had an assignation at that woman's house. He said the woman would swear to it if he asked her. Then he would have grounds to divorce me by act of Parliament, and he would. He said, Is it really worth ruining yourself, bringing fresh disgrace on your brother? And my father—do you want him to despise you? If you and I told conflicting stories, which of us do you suppose he would believe?

"I knew I was defeated. I agreed not to break with him, on two conditions. The first was that he wouldn't—that we would be husband and wife only in name. The second was that Eugene should be sent away at once. Now that I understood fully what Alexander was, I couldn't let Eugene remain under his roof, in his power. Who knew how Alexander might corrupt him—take advantage of his youth and trust?

"So the next day we told Eugene he was to return to Harrow. Alexander made clear that it was entirely my decision, so all Eugene's rage and resentment fell on me. It was hard, his hating me so much, when I only wanted to protect him. And in the end all my efforts came to nothing: he made himself ill by staying out in the rain, so we couldn't send him away. Alexander had won again."

She looked suddenly at Julian. "I wonder what you're thinking, Mr. Kestrel? That our party happened soon after? That I retired with a headache so that I could meet Alexander in the study and kill him?"

He countered gently, "Why don't you tell me precisely what happened that night?"

"I suppose you've guessed the real reason I withdrew from the party. It's because Mr. Adams was there. I didn't know he'd been invited, and when I saw him I panicked. I don't know what I thought he could do to me among all those people. My fear of him went beyond reason. I only knew I had to get away."

Julian saw no need to tell her that Felix had revealed some of this already. After all she had been through, even such a well-intended betrayal of her confidence might pain her.

"I went to my room. I was sick at heart. What did he want from me? Why couldn't he make me the one reparation in his power and leave me in peace? Suppose he lingered after all the other guests had gone, and Alexander made me see him?

"I rang for Martha and told her I had a headache and wouldn't be returning to the party, but I wanted it to go on without me. As long as the guests were there, Alexander would be too distracted to think of me. Martha seemed worried about me, but she didn't say anything. She laid out my nightclothes and said she would be in her room if I needed her.

"I locked my door, but I still didn't feel safe. Alexander had keys to every room in the house. I couldn't rest, didn't dare undress, couldn't settle to anything. Before long I really did have a headache. I—" She stopped short, seemed to change direction. "I lay down on my bed and finally managed to sleep a little. The next thing I knew, I heard knocking. It was Martha, coming to tell me Alexander had been murdered.

"I lost my head. All I could think was that Mr. Adams had killed him, and now he was coming for me. I believe I expected him to burst into my room and carry me away. I thought he could do anything. That's why I screamed. It had nothing to do with Alexander. I was glad he was dead. And I wasn't surprised he'd been murdered. Who could come to know him intimately and not wish to kill him?

"From then on, I walled myself up in silence. I answered questions as briefly as I could. Alexander was dead—there was no reason to wring his father's heart by revealing the things he'd done. And I didn't want the murder solved. It kept me safe from Mr. Adams. He couldn't reveal his feelings for me without courting suspicion that he'd killed my husband."