Wife Errant

“Tighter, Henshaw. Tighter. My waist used to be nineteen inches,”
Mrs. Marchant said, holding for dear life to the bedpost while her dresser pulled on the laces of her corset.

“You used to be nineteen years old, too, milady, but that was two decades ago. Why are you wearing this fitted gown?”

“Because Lord James is taking me to a costume ball, ninny, and I am going as a French lady of the eighteenth century.”

“With your arms and shoulders bare?”
Henshaw tsked.

“My face is reduced to a shambles,”
Mrs. Marchant said, but she said it with the complacent air of a rich man complaining of his expenses. “I
must display my arms and shoulders if I hope to receive any compliments. Lord James told me I have arms like the
Venus de Milo.”

“The
Venus de Milo
does not have arms, Mama,”
her elder daughter pointed out. Both Mrs. Marchant’s daughters were allowed to watch the grande toilette. It was their evening’s sole entertainment.

“You must be sure to tell Lord James so, my dear,”
her mother said, with an angry glint. “I am sure all your gentlemen friends enjoy your little barbs quite as much as I do. Tighter, Henshaw. Tighter, I say.”

“Stop, Henshaw! She is croaking!”
Miss Marchant exclaimed.

The dame’s face was indeed scarlet, but it was still distressingly beautiful. It was almost an embarrassment for a daughter to have a mother so much prettier than she was herself. Tess hardly knew which was more harmful: her mother’s excess of beauty, or her total lack of discretion. No one would take Mrs. Marchant for thirty-nine to look at her. And to hear her, one would place her age closer to sixteen.

She still maintained the high-pitched, breathless voice of her youth, nor had her conversation improved with the years. Gowns and coiffures, parties and beaux had always been her main concerns. Now that her husband had left her, she entered into those maidenly interests with the vigor of desperation.

“That will do, Henshaw!”
Mrs. Marchant squealed. “I am squeezed in like dressing in a turkey. Now let us see if we can get the gown done up.”

Mrs. Marchant held her breath while the faithful Henshaw fastened the buttons on an elaborate confection of blue silk with wide panniers. When the closing was achieved, she looked very bizarre and very lovely. The gown displayed not only a tiny waist but a generous expanse of bosom. Her contemporary English coiffure lent an anachronistic touch to the ensemble, like a bishop in full regalia, but minus his miter. Her tousle of blond curls was dressed in the latest vogue, held in place with a silver ribbon. Long kidskin gloves were added, to further confuse the toilette.

“You look beautiful, Mama.”
Miss Dulcie sighed, gazing rapturously.

“You should wear a white wig,”
Tess suggested.

“If you are referring to those three white hairs that had sprung out at my temples, you need not worry, Tess. I yanked them out.”
She patted her curls and made a moue in the mirror. “Thank God I am a blonde. I cannot think anyone spotted them.”

“Actually I was referring to your French period costume.”

Mrs. Marchant ignored this, as she usually ignored her elder daughter’s advice on matters of toilette. The peacock did not go to the sparrow for advice on feathers. She stood back to survey herself in the cheval glass. A petulant smile settled on her lips as she turned this way and that, admiring her fulsome figure. Her husband may have abandoned her, but no one could say it was because she had let herself go. She had never been in better looks than she was at nine and thirty. Were it not for the girls, she could pass for a decade younger, whereas her lord and master, Mr. Lyle Marchant, looked every one of his fifty years.

What was the matter with gentlemen, that they could never keep their hands off the younger ladies? Lyle’s current flirt, a dashing widow named Esmée Gardener,
claimed
to be half Lyle’s age. Liar! It was really too bad of him to have taken up with her. This holiday at Bath was to have been a second honeymoon, although a honeymoon encumbered with two grown daughters was hardly likely to fan the flames of a moribund passion. She had sat still for a series of Lyle’s amours at home at Northbay, but Bath was different.

It was at Bath twenty-two years before that she and Lyle had met and fallen in love. Bath was special to her, almost a shrine. But the first week they were here, he had clapped eyes on Esmée, and that was the end of the honeymoon. He was after her like a hound after a hart. Well, she had showed him this time. She had put his trunks on the doorstep, had had the locks changed, and had informed her lawyer to serve Mr. Marchant with divorce papers.

Her lawyer, a Mr. Pargeter, had not been at all helpful. He had suggested an ecclesiastical divorce, a
mensa et thoro—
whatever
that
might be—should be obtained first, after which an Act of Parliament appeared to be necessary. Parliament was getting a good deal too big for its breeches when it invaded a lady’s private life. To add to her difficulties, Pargeter seemed very unsure that Lyle’s having a mistress entitled her to a divorce, whereas if
she
had a lover, Lyle might turn her off with less difficulty. She had prevailed upon Pargeter to send Lyle a letter hinting at divorce, and meanwhile instituted a case of legal separation.

Pargeter was very insistent that she keep the children. Northbay, the fine estate in Wiltshire where she and Lyle lived, was
her
parental home. Her papa had wisely entailed it on their son, Henry, who was at Harrow, so she would not have to leave Northbay. That would make Lyle sit up and take notice! He was very proud of Northbay; it was a finer estate than his own place in York. Ha! Wouldn’t he hate to have to remove to the Briars! That would bring him crawling back to her.

She shook these old worries from her mind and smiled brightly on her audience. “I am off
,
my dears,”
she said, placing a kiss on her youngest, Dulcie—the image of herself and her favorite. She brushed cheeks with her elder daughter, Tess. Tess favored Lyle in looks, with her crow black hair and serious gray eyes and critical expression.

“What shall we say if Papa comes?”
Tess enquired brusquely.

“He won’t, but if he does, be sure to tell him I am out with Lord James Drake. As it is a private party, he won’t be able to bring his
chère amie.”

“Pity,”
Tess said. “I fancy Esmée would feel right at home at any party the raffish Lord James is invited to. If you
must
act like a loose woman, Mama, I wish you had not come to Bath. Bath is the most straitlaced city in England.”

“Gudgeon. No one goes to London in the dead of winter. But I shall go in the spring and present Dulcie.”

She was out the door on a flutter of fingers, leaving the shambles of her tempestuous toilette behind her. Gowns and petticoats and shawls littered the bed. As to the toilette table, it looked as if a cyclone had hit it.

“Why is she
doing
this?”
Dulcie howled. “A divorced lady cannot present a daughter at court.”

“She should know better at her age,”
Tess agreed.

“Woosha,”
Henshaw said, picking up loose hairpins from the powdered top of the dressing table. “It is her age that drives her to it. It isn’t easy turning forty. She fears she is losing her looks—and her husband.”
The homely Henshaw had never had either of these items to lose, and did not regret it. Living vicariously through her mistress was excitement enough.

“I think she looks as lovely as ever,”
Dulcie said.

“So she does,”
Henshaw agreed, “but it takes two hours to put her in looks now. We used to accomplish it inside of an hour.”

“In her fortieth year, she ought to be cultivating her mind, not her face,”
Tess said.

“When did Papa ever care for a lady’s mind?”
Dulcie countered.

“He never did, and neither does any other gentleman, so far as I know,”
Tess replied blandly.

“It’s not fair,”
Dulcie said, sulking. “You and I must sit home because we have no one to take us to the Assembly Rooms.”

“We could not go in any case. How could we be seen in public when the word
divorce
is being whispered about?”

“Mama is not such a flat as that!”
Dulcie said. “She has not told anyone, and she does not let Lord James take her to public do’s. She only sent the letter to try to frighten Papa into returning. What she ought to have done is speak to Lady Revel. Lord James Drake is her cousin, you must know. The Revels are here in Bath.”

Tess looked interested in this notion. While the Dowager Countess of Revel was a neighbor, the families were not close socially. Tess was only at Revel Hall on public days, or occasionally on the vicar’s behalf to beg for charity. She met the countess at church, or in the village. Lady Revel seemed a good-natured dame, but not one to bestir herself for mere social causes. Perhaps her son would be more useful. “Or Lord Revel,”
Tess said pensively. “He is a man of the world. He could explain to Lord James that he is behaving badly.”

“Revel could hardly complain about that!”
Dulcie said, and laughed. “He is a horrid flirt ... but very handsome.”

“He is a rake, but he has lofty views on propriety. He never carries on with married ladies or
debs. Only lightskirts and widows.”

“But he is much younger than Lord James. Why would his cousin listen to him?”

“Because Lord Revel is top of the trees, and Lord James is only a lower twig,”
Tess replied. “Revel could impede Lord James’s social life, if he cared to put himself to the bother. I shall call on Lady Revel tomorrow morning, and try for a word with Revel as well.”

“Will you really? You are up to anything, Tess. I don’t know how you can be so brave.”

“Nonsense, what has bravery to do with it?”
Tess asked, but she did feel a tremble of apprehension. As she studied her sister’s enchanting face, she felt it might find more success with Lord Revel than her own lesser charms. She felt instinctively that the way to get at him was through a pretty face. “Will you come with me, Dulcie?”

“Mama has asked the coiffeur to call tomorrow morning. I mean to have my hair cut
à
la cheribime.”

“First things first, child. We shan’t be going out to show off our coiffures unless we manage to get Mama and Papa back together.”

“We can always go for rides and walks at least.”

Henshaw shoo’d them out of the room, and the girls went belowstairs in the vain hope that some callers would come to enliven their dull evening.

“We must do something to bring Papa back,”
Dulcie said, thumbing a fashion magazine. “At least until I have had my Season.”

“That sounds very selfish, Dulcie,”
Tess said. “You always think of yourself.”

“So do they,”
Dulcie pointed out. “And it is your fault, Tess.”

“My fault?”
Tess gasped. “Upon my word, you have a lot of gall saying that. If it were not for me, Northbay would be in ruins.”

“Exactly. You do all Mama’s work for her. You even chaperone me, as often as not. Mama knows you keep an eye on things, so she can go on acting the carefree girl.”

“Talk about ingratitude!”

“Oh, I am very grateful—that you have turned Mama into a selfish beast,”
Dulcie said, and flounced out of the saloon.

Tess sat on in stunned silence. Was this her thanks for doing her duty? Someone had to keep an eye on things at Northbay. And an eye on Dulcie, too. The girl had no more notion of propriety than a monkey. Less, and Mama never scolded her.

Tess rose to stride angrily from the room. As she passed the mirror, she caught her reflection staring back at her. That tightly controlled face reminded her of someone ... Who was it? She had seen that air of long-suffering somewhere recently.

It flashed suddenly into her mind. Saint Jerome, in the stained-glass window in the church at home, being lashed and bearing it stoically. The curate had told her it was only a dream Saint Jerome had, although the saint went on to live a life of fasting in the desert, or some such heroic thing. If not a martyr, he was certainly a saint.

Was that how Dulcie saw her? Saints, it seemed, received no gratitude in this world. Dulcie was the favorite of both her mama and papa. It was Dulcie who was to have the Season. There had been some talk of giving herself one when she was eighteen, but she had not raised a single whimper when the idea was abandoned. “Money is a little tight this year,

Tess,”
her father had said. “We’ll take you next year.”
Then he bought himself a new carriage and team. Next year Mama had had a miscarriage, and the year after that, Tess was suddenly too old to make the trip worthwhile. “You would feel a quiz at your age, with all the young debs,”
Mama had said.

Tess went up to her room to brush her hair, vaguely disturbed by her undutiful reflections. But she was right, for all her sense of guilt. Dulcie had said her parents always thought of themselves, and she was right, too, although she ought not to have said it. “It is your fault.”
That was her thanks for being a dutiful daughter and sister.