Breaths of Suspicion (4 page)

We said little more as Lord Esher once again claimed her
attention
. Across the table, Viscount Palmerston continued to ignore Lady Dacre. She did not seem concerned, though during the course of the dinner there were occasions when her eyes flickered in consternation about the table, and her colour seemed to heighten. There was also the occasional inadvertent twitch of her mouth, a parting of the lips, and from time to time she gave a little jump as though she had been pinched. I noted that these tended to coincide with the occasions when I was unable to see Palmerston’s left hand, which from time to time dropped beneath the table while he conversed with the lady on his right.

‘So your husband is not able to attend this evening?’ I inquired of Marianne, eventually, dragging my attention from the curious events at the other side of the table.

‘We were to meet here,’ she replied, a little tartly. ‘Then I received a note this evening. It seems he is forced to attend to certain military matters in his regiment.’

If I knew Hilliard, they would be taking place in a
bordello
in Panton Street. I did not advise Marianne of my suspicions. She probably held similar suspicions of her own.

The evening proceeded well enough. After dinner we moved into the ballroom, where there was some playing of cards and a little discreet music. Viscount Palmerston sat well apart from Lady Dacre, paying close attention to a much younger woman whose name I have now forgotten. And Lady Dacre seemed not in the slightest interested in conversing with him.

Now, I’d always been of the view that if you wished to maintain secrecy in a liaison, it’s a mistake to completely ignore the lady in question even if you think you are being clever in doing so, to avoid suspicion. Particularly if the liaison is the subject of common gossip. I could see that Charles Greville was of the same opinion as me as he cast a worldly eye over the couple. But even Cupids as experienced as old Pam can get things wrong from time to time. The Viscount and the Lady were fooling no one. They would have been wiser to hold occasional conversations: turning their backs on each other only heightened my curiosity, and sharpened my amused suspicions, as well as those of Greville. Particularly after recalling the quickened breathing and the little jumps that had earlier occurred when the Viscount’s hand had wandered under the damasked table.

As for myself I took the opportunity to move around the assembly and made sure that I engaged myself in conversation with those whose acquaintance with me was of a narrow nature, but who might be of assistance to me at some time in the future. But rather late in the evening I became aware that there was one person missing from the gathering.

Marianne Hilliard.

I found her on the terrace, beyond the open French windows. She was alone in the cool night air, staring out over the lawns that extended into the darkness. The light from the room fell on her bare shoulders, and the necklace at her throat glittered as I walked towards her.

‘Madam, are you well?’

She turned her head slightly, and one hand rose to her throat, as though to caress the necklace, or perhaps to draw attention to the rise of her bosom. The scrap of lace seemed to have disappeared. ‘Mr James. I am quite well, thank you. But the heat in that room … I thought I would like a little air.’

‘Not without a gentleman in attendance,’ I replied gallantly.

‘I had a desire to be alone.’

‘Then I shall withdraw, if you wish.’

She looked directly at me. Her gaze was fixed on mine. There was a certain deliberation in her eyes, which gave me pause. Her slim fingers teased at the necklace. ‘No, that would not be my desire, now that you are here.’

I moved towards her, stood at her side, placed one hand on the stone balustrade in front of us. The silence extended; the moon was bright above us, the shadows ahead dark and deep. I felt that there was something in the air, a palpable tension, an uncertainty. And a thought came stealing to me: had Marianne Hilliard stepped out onto the terrace knowing that I would follow her?

‘You know my husband well, I believe, Mr James?’ she asked quietly after a little while.

The question was unexpected. I was somewhat breathless with anticipation. ‘I have known him for some years … though not
intimately
,’ I stammered.

‘And you knew his boon companion, the unfortunate Lester Grenwood.’ There was a bitterness in her tone. After a few moments she added, ‘Would it shock you if I were to tell you I do not grieve at Grenwood’s demise?’

I was certainly surprised at her expressing the feeling, but I remained silent. The only personal regret I felt over Grenwood’s drowning in Bruges was that he had died still owing me money.

‘I put it to Grenwood’s account that my husband has turned into a dissipated drunkard,’ she said with a sudden violence.

The stone of the balustrade was cold under my hand. ‘Madam …’ I began

She turned to face me. ‘My husband will not be at his club this evening, will he, Mr James? The meeting he attends will be of a dissolute nature, a disgraceful, immoral activity which he chooses to undertake rather than join respectable company.’

I had no idea how I should respond, so remained silent.

‘For my part,’ she said in a strained tone, ‘Our marriage began in hope. I was aware of his weaknesses, indeed I was specifically warned about them. But I thought I could draw him away from such companions as Grenwood: I thought I could prevail upon him to give up lascivious pursuits. But as soon as our first child was born I saw less and less of him; a second child did nothing to draw us closer together.’ She was silent for a little while. ‘My father died two months ago.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hilliard. I did not know.…’

‘He was never a man for Society. But he was a wise and careful man. He had successful investments in banking. And he loved me dearly. The settlements he made … Crosier was much
disappointed
. I know now he married me merely for my … prospects. The settlement disappointed him, but I imagine he still had hopes of future inheritances. But my father’s will dashed such hopes. My father’s death has left me a wealthy woman. And through trustees I can control my own destiny. My husband is unable to interfere, or get his hands on the funds available to me.’

I shuffled, uneasy at the bitterness in her tone. But as she stared at me I felt there was an underlying tension that I found disturbing. And I could not understand why she was speaking of such
personal matters in this manner. Then her next words completely sank me.

‘I have decided that I shall leave my husband. He shall have an allowance. But I intend to be a free woman.’

My mouth was dry. ‘I am sorry to hear of this, Mrs Hilliard. Surely, arrangements can be made for a reconciliation—’

She shook her head. ‘It is far too late for that. I am decided. Oh, I’m aware that once I have separated from my husband invitations to evenings such as this will no longer be extended to me. Society will close its doors. It matters not. I intend to take my children and live in Paris. And I shall regard myself as a liberated woman.’

Her eyes held mine. ‘A liberated, if occasionally
lonely
woman.’

Now I’ve already made it clear to you that I was not a man inexperienced in dealings with the tender sex. I had not lacked for relationships with bored wives, thrill-seeking widows or
good-time
-hunting dollymops. And I was also aware that words between a man and a woman are not necessary in certain situations: it is as though thoughts can be communicated in the ether, intentions laid bare, offers made and accepted without being openly expressed. This was one of those moments. Marianne Hilliard had told me about the collapse of her marriage and her dislike of her drunken, dissolute husband; she had exposed her intention, the manner in which she now intended to conduct her life in future; and buried within this unexpectedly intimate confession was something else, a possibility, an invitation, unexpressed, but there nevertheless.

It was the reason why, some hours later, I was seated in the bedroom assigned to me, with my body on fire, my eyes on the clock, waiting until the house was quiet, the last servants gone to bed, the silence settling on the creaking walls of the old house. She had said nothing direct to me, she had issued no verbal invitation, we had come to no expressed agreement, but I knew in the depths of my soul that she would be expecting me, she would be waiting there silently, in the warm darkness of her room until I came to her.

I tell you, boy, a man experienced in the ways of women knows these things.

So I waited quietly until at two in the dark morning. I picked up my candle and eased open the door of my bedroom, stepped silently into the dark passage beyond.

A single light gleamed on the stairs and cast a faint glow on the high ceiling but the corridor itself was unlit. I had noted earlier that Marianne’s room was a little way distant from mine, behind a bend in the corridor, and I moved hesitantly in that direction, shielding the candle with my left hand. I walked on soft feet, slipper-shod, quiet, and the house was silently conspiratorial about me except for the occasional creaks and groans of ancient timbers. I passed a shuttered window and caught a ghostly glimpse of my face, pale, candle-lit, seeming to glow with desire at the thought of the woman who I knew was waiting for me, tense, expectant, willing.…

In my careful progress it seemed an age before I reached the corner in the corridor; there I paused, took a deep breath, calmed my excited nerves. It’s always thus, isn’t it, before you reach the moment of attainment, the satisfaction of an uncertain conquest? I paused, then moved on. The door to Marianne’s bedroom was a few yards away. I hesitated again, took a tremulous breath and eased my way around the corner. I walked softly, more quickly now to the door, gathered myself for a moment as my heart hammered, and the blood thundered in my veins, then I raised my hand to tap quietly on the panelled wood.

I never touched the door, for further down the corridor I suddenly caught the gleam of another light.

Biting my lip, I stepped back, quickly snuffed my candle and moved away silently until I regained the cover of the corner I had just rounded. I waited, hardly daring to breathe while I considered what I should do. I still burned for what I was convinced lay waiting for me beyond that bedroom door and I was reluctant to
retreat from my prize, seek my own room immediately. Rather, still uncertain, I waited, watching for the approaching dim glow of the shielded candle in the corridor.

He came softly, a thief in the night like me, almost silent on his own slipper-shod feet. He held the candle low in his right hand, extended carefully in front of him as he guided himself with his left hand on the wall beside him. As he approached I could see he was somewhat
deshabillé
, his thinning hair disordered, his baby face shining, his shirt gaping, his pantaloons untrussed. And it was with a sense of shock that I saw him finally pause, then stop uncertainly at Marianne’s door. He looked about him, and I cleaved to the dark wall of the corridor. My heart thudded against my ribs as I saw him raise a hand, tap at the panelled door.

There was a long, excruciating pause. He tapped again, lightly still but more urgently and the light of the candle wavered, began to splutter. I thought I detected a rustling sound from inside the bedroom but it might have been my imagination. I caught a glimpse, a gleam of light under the door and then there came the sound of a bolt being carefully withdrawn. There was a brief pause, then the door moved, inched open and the candle in the corridor was raised higher as the man used his free hand to push lightly against the door.

It was then that I recognized him and swore under my breath.

The door slowly opened wide. Marianne stood there like a vision of unbridled desire, her own candle raised to her cheek, the flickering light gleaming on her almost naked shoulders. Her hair was loose, unbraided, and hung about her like a cloud; she wore a shift only, and as I saw her standing there with shadowed, barely covered breasts I knew that I had been right, there on the balcony. Marianne had been expecting me, she had been waiting in the darkness, knowing that I would come to her, feeling what I had been feeling, the churning excitement of a heightening desire. I thought I detected a gleam of tense anticipation in her eyes but
as she raised her candle higher I saw the gleam die, to be replaced with a flash of horror as she recognized the man who stood before her.

She gave out a low gasp of distaste. The man in the corridor stood still, transfixed. The candle in his hand shook, sending dancing shadows across the corridor. Unable to contain myself in my own lustful disappointment I stepped forward, eased my way towards the door where Marianne stood thunderstruck, glaring at the surprised man in front of her.

‘Madam,’ I heard him gasp throatily, ‘Lady Dacre—’

Marianne stepped back, still holding the door but her features were frozen with shock. Her glance slipped past the unwelcome intruder and I knew she had caught a glimpse of me in the shadows of the corridor. Then her eyes turned once more to the man who stood helplessly, impotently, in front of her and she raised her head in a gesture of furious pride and closed the door firmly in his face. I heard the bolt slam home with a determined clang.

A burning sensation rose in my throat and I clenched my fists helplessly, frustrated in my desires: I knew Marianne Hilliard would not be opening to another knock that night. I stood just behind the man with the guttering candle and he stepped back, almost colliding with me. He turned and I saw his wide-eyed surprise, as he stared at me, for some moments uncomprehending, failing to recognize me immediately.

Then he bared his ivory false teeth in frustration, disappointment and chagrin. His bald head shook from side to side and he crouched as though his stomach ached in shame. ‘The wrong door,’ he moaned low in his throat. ‘The wrong damned door!’

Making no further acknowledgement of my presence, he turned away and with spluttering candle extended he shuffled away, back down the corridor, mumbling almost incoherently to himself.