An Infamous Marriage (7 page)

Chapter Six

January 1812

On a dull, gray morning a few weeks before her second anniversary, Elizabeth sat in the parlor before a crackling fire and tried to think of something new to write to her husband.

She had the last letter she’d received from him, written some three months ago, spread open on the sofa beside her. He must have written at least once since then, a letter even now on a ship crossing the Atlantic or making its way down the St. Lawrence River. She liked to imagine that he might be writing her at this very moment, thousands of miles away, telling her how he’d passed Christmas among his fellow officers and the handful of settlers farming Upper Canada. It was romantic of her, foolishly so, but she’d taken a great fancy to Jack for the sake of his long, amusing and affectionate letters. He had the gift of painting pictures with words, and anything he wrote about could hardly help being of interest to her because it was all about places she could only dream of ever seeing herself.

She’d even set aside a marquetry keepsake box just for his letters, and in the privacy of her bedchamber she often took them out and read them in order, kissing each missive as she refolded it and put it away. And on those nights she always had trouble falling asleep, but she didn’t mind, because she lay awake imagining Jack’s homecoming, when surely they would finally consummate their marriage.

More and more, she suspected she’d fallen in love with her husband. That idea filled her with dismay, for she had no reason to believe he returned her sentiments. The affection in his letters was comradely, brotherly, full of gratitude for the care she was taking of his mother and of Westerby Grange, but never passionate.

It made composing her replies dreadfully difficult. She longed to send him clever, entertaining letters that would make him fall in love with her, too, but she didn’t know how. She’d never been a gifted letter writer.

His latest spent two pages describing a council with chiefs from half a dozen Indian tribes. He couldn’t tell her what they’d discussed, he said, which led her to conclude it must have been about wooing the tribes as allies in the event tensions with the Americans led to war, but he told her how the Indians had looked and what they had worn, and of the dances the chiefs’ followers had engaged in before and after the council. She could only tell him of her hopes for the spring’s lambing. He told of tasting a strange concoction of dried buffalo meat and berries some of the tribes of the prairie ate as a staple. All Elizabeth could offer in return was that this year’s Christmas pudding had been especially rich and full of raisins. Compared to his life, hers was inexpressibly dull.

She sighed. If she could not entertain and enrapture, at least she could reassure. She dipped her quill in the inkwell and began by informing him his mother continued in good health and cheer. She had grown a little more confused in Elizabeth’s time at the Grange, but she looked likely to live on indefinitely. A few months ago, Elizabeth had hired a sturdy young woman from the village to help her and Metcalf with the heavy work of taking care of an invalid who could no longer wholly control her bodily functions.

Not that Elizabeth would share the more unpleasant details with her husband. He need only know that his mother enjoyed having poetry read to her, and that she often asked about him. She rarely remembered that her son would turn thirty-three in April and was a lieutenant-colonel in Canada, but Jack had seen her state for himself before he left. He did not need reminding.

With that subject exhausted, she added a paragraph about Sir Richard, who planned to stop at Westerby Grange for a few days that spring on the way south for his annual visit with his elderly officer friends in Bath and London. She’d grown quite fond of Jack’s uncle over the past two years—his direct, forthright temperament was a breath of fresh air—but she had already told Jack about Sir Richard’s brief stay last October, and there was only so much that could be said about a visit that hadn’t happened yet.

As Elizabeth twirled her quill between her fingers and pondered how to make life on a farm anything other than dull to a man who sat at Indian council fires and ate dried buffalo meat, she heard a knock at the door.

She set her pen down with a happy sigh. Likely it was only Purvis, come from the farm with some problem or question requiring her attention. She hoped it would be nothing serious, but something interesting enough to add meat to her letter. Even better would be Eugenia Ilderton or Augusta Rafferty come to call, but she doubted they would venture out of Selyhaugh on such a cold day.

Molly, the housemaid, appeared in the parlor doorway. “Lady Dryden, ma’am,” she announced.

Elizabeth concealed a frown. Why had Selina Dryden finally condescended to call on today of all days? She wished it wasn’t too late to have the servants announce she wasn’t at home to visitors, but she’d never had an unwelcome caller before, not unless she counted Sir Richard Armstrong for the first quarter hour of his first visit.

“Show her in, please, and ask Cook to send tea,” she said.

Moments later, Lady Dryden sailed into the parlor, red-cheeked from the cold and wearing an unmistakably triumphant air.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Elizabeth concealed her wariness as best she could. “Please come and warm yourself by the fire. I hope Sir Henry and your family are all well.”

Lady Dryden settled herself on the other end of the sofa, stretching her feet toward the hearth. “Is that Colonel Armstrong’s latest letter, my dear Mrs. Armstrong?”

She managed to make the innocuous question sound sinister, and Elizabeth fought the urge to snatch the paper away like a schoolgirl caught with a love letter. Instead she folded it and set it on the table beside her and out of her visitor’s line of sight. “Yes. Jack is in York—the one in Upper Canada, not ours—and he has been hunting buffalo with the prairie Indians.”

Her visitor favored her with a malicious smile. “That is not all he has been doing, or so my informant tells me.”

What on earth?
“Your informant?”

“Oh, did I never tell you I have a cousin married to a merchant in Montreal?” Lady Dryden asked with a little laugh. “I suppose it must have slipped my mind. Dear Kitty and I aren’t always the best of correspondents, but when she heard
this
particular
on-dit
she said she could not wait to take up her pen, since she was sure I would want to hear anything concerning a certain military gentleman belonging to Selyhaugh.” She opened her reticule and drew out a letter, closely written in a feminine hand.

Good God, what had Jack done? He hadn’t even mentioned Montreal in his last two letters. For all Elizabeth knew he had spent the entire time in the comparative wilderness of Upper Canada. Whatever had happened, she didn’t want to hear it from Selina Dryden. “I hope you have not come all this way only to pass along gossip,” Elizabeth said, “for I never listen to it.” She got to her feet, hoping her guest would take the hint. “I beg your pardon, but Mrs. Armstrong will be expecting me to read to her.”

Lady Dryden kept her seat. “Surely she hasn’t enough of her faculties left to know if you are a quarter of an hour late. If I were you, I would want to know. No wife should remain in ignorance.”

Elizabeth knew she ought to walk away, but she stood arrested in place.

“Shall I read you the significant portion?” Without waiting for a response, Lady Dryden smoothed the paper and began. “‘I never would have supposed from Colonel Armstrong’s behavior in this town that he is a married man. He certainly never speaks of his wife. Indeed, he has made many an inroad in the hearts of the fair, but until yesterday he showed no partiality to any
English
lady, though he is said to have a half-breed Indian woman in his keeping as so many of our gentlemen do.’”

Elizabeth took a slow, deep breath. She did not expect Jack to be perfectly faithful to their unconsummated marriage over an absence spanning years, and she could hardly accuse him of flaunting his affairs under her nose when he was an ocean away. But neither had she expected him to act in Montreal society as though he were a single man, and to never even speak of her existence.
She
thought of
him
every day, after all, and spoke of him all the time. Her heart pounded. Why did Lady Dryden have a cousin in Montreal, and why must she be such a dreadful gossip? Yet Elizabeth stayed still even as her visitor’s laughing eyes seemed to cut her like a knife.

“‘Last night all that changed, and all anyone can talk of is how he sneaked into the home of the fur merchant James Mannering last night and
carried off his beautiful wife, Helen,
who is now in his keeping. Everyone expects Mannering to challenge Armstrong to a duel, but perhaps he will not, since he is a craven sort and much older than the one who put a cuckold’s horns upon him. If it came to swords, Armstrong would surely win, but with pistols the case might be more even.’”

How could he?
How could he?
How could the same man who wrote such thoughtful, amusing letters show so little respect for her, or even for himself? He wanted to rise in the army, but wouldn’t this tarnish his reputation in the sight of his superiors? Nothing could possibly excuse so infamous a course. And, oh, God, what if there
had
been a duel, and with pistols, and he’d been wounded or even killed? Elizabeth wanted to kill him herself, just then. But she could not bear the thought that someone else might have done it, months ago, and made her a widow again, all unknowing.

“I hope I have not shocked you too greatly.” Lady Dryden’s voice dripped with false kindness. “But I
do
always think a wife should know of such matters.”

At least when you are the one fortunate enough to inform her,
Elizabeth thought. “Why should I believe a word you say?” she ground out. She wouldn’t put it past Lady Dryden to lie. After all, she had never been a friend to Elizabeth or anyone else named Armstrong.

The older woman smiled. “I’ve never pretended to be your dearest friend, but I would never lie about something that could be disproven so easily. You may read the letter yourself, if you like. I assure you I didn’t invent Cousin Kitty or spend hours writing a fake letter from Canada.”

Put that way it did seem absurd. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to read it.”

Lady Dryden refolded the letter and tucked it back into her reticule. “As you wish. What will you say to him about it, when next you write?”

“That can be none of your concern, ma’am.”

Lady Dryden only laughed. “If I were you, I would remind him—”

Of what Elizabeth never learned, for Molly burst through the door and ran into the room. “Oh, ma’am,” she said, panting for breath, “Metcalf sent me to say the old mistress has fainted and she—she isn’t breathing right.”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Lady Dryden.

Elizabeth glared at her. “Please leave at once. If you wish to be of use, send for Mr. Elting.”

Lady Dryden arose with great dignity. Elizabeth didn’t stay to see her out, instead taking the stairs to her mother-in-law’s room at a run. She found the lady crumpled on the floor by her chair, unconscious but laboring for each breath. Metcalf stood wringing her hands while her assistant, Jane, knelt at Mrs. Armstrong’s side.

After a single wild moment’s panic, Elizabeth began issuing orders. “Metcalf! Hurry to the stables and send Joseph for Mr. Elting.” By no means was she going to rely on Lady Dryden to summon the apothecary. “Molly, Jane, help me get her into bed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the servants chorused. Metcalf left the room at a run. Elizabeth listened to make sure the elderly maid didn’t fall on the stairs even as she moved aside a chair and a table to clear a path for Jane and Molly.

Elizabeth tried everything she knew to awaken her mother-in-law. She used smelling salts, she called Mrs. Armstrong’s name, she loosened her clothing. Nothing helped, and soon her breathing slowed and took on a rattle.

Mr. Elting hurried in just after Mrs. Armstrong’s final breath, as Elizabeth closed her eyes for the last time. “I’m afraid you’re too late,” she murmured. Another death. Surely she’d seen more than her share since coming to Selyhaugh.

He drew closer and checked for a pulse or breath, then stepped back with a sober nod. “What happened?” he asked.

She blinked back tears. “I think it was an apoplexy. Metcalf said she fainted and fell from her chair.”

He pursed his lips, considering her. “You do understand,” he said after a moment, “that there was nothing you, or I, or anyone else could have done. You’ve been a good daughter to her these past two years. If she couldn’t know it, all her old friends saw it and honored you for it.”

Elizabeth blinked harder and bit her lip. Between her grief for her mother-in-law and her fury at her husband’s perfidy, she hardly understood what she felt. But she did know she wasn’t ready for anyone’s sympathy.

Fortunately Mr. Elting took his cue from her and soon left her alone, promising to speak to the vicar about burial arrangements.

* * *

Elizabeth found much to keep her occupied until nightfall, but then she could no longer put it off. She must write to Jack and tell him his mother was gone.

Had it happened even a day before, it would have been so much easier. She was fond of her mother-in-law, and she had almost loved Jack, who wrote such fascinating letters and had parted from her with such a warm and thorough kiss.

Now as she stared at the expanse of blank page before her, all she could see was her husband with another man’s wife brazenly in his keeping while she, Elizabeth, dutifully cared for his mother and his lands. Why, he might be bedding the woman at this very moment! He led a life of joy and adventure, leaving her to death and—and
sheep.

Some part of her knew she was being unreasonable. He could not know his mother had died today, and therefore he ought to be mourning. But, try as she might, Elizabeth couldn’t make herself produce the letter she would’ve written before she knew.

She took a deep breath, dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote.