Grahame, Lucia (17 page)

"I think that is a most unsuitable idea," said my
husband, in a chilly voice that brooked no compromise. "You tire so
easily, Fleur, I'm sure you would find the trip fearfully exhausting."

It was clear that he was dead set against the notion. I was
surprised. Never had he rejected any proposal of mine so unequivocally.

He seemed equally displeased when Lady Whitstone sent us the
letter announcing her intention to favor us with a visit. After showing it to
me he proposed, with a flash of that old, acerbic sparkle, that perhaps it was
time for a holiday in France. I demurred, saying that I felt very remiss at not
having made the acquaintance of my mother-in-law long ago. My husband shrugged
and yielded.

Lady Whitstone's stay with us was not a pleasant event. Lord Whitstone
did not accompany her—I had once been given to understand by a remark of Lord
Marsden's that Whitstone had a poor opinion of my husband, who did not share
that worthy nobleman's enthusiasm for slaughtering foxes.

When I finally laid eyes on Lady Whitstone, I was astounded by the
resemblance between parent and child. My husband was a perfect, albeit
masculinized, replication of his mother: the pale complexion, hers; the
white-gold hair, hers; the haughty bearing, the cool gray eyes, the excruciatingly
high-bred nose, and the clean line of the narrow jaw, all hers. Only his dark
lashes—hers were as light as her hair—and equally firm, but more generously
formed mouth suggested that his sire might have contributed anything at all to
his makeup.

My husband had been tender enough of my feelings to warn me in
advance that Lady Whitstone was obsessive about rank and ancestry. In fact, he
added almost nonchalantly, he was certain that she would never have married his
father were the Camwells not one of the richest families in England, while her
own family, the Cercys, equally ancient but far more distinguished, had fallen
upon hard times. His voice was casual, but with an undertone that suggested he
judged her harshly on that score.

It was no surprise, then, that one of Lady Whitstone's earliest
conversations with me, almost entirely one-sided, was a general dissertation on
the importance of maintaining the purity of good blood. Sometime during the
conversation, she asked me what my father's name had been. When I told her, she
gave me a quizzical look and then went on to decry the unfortunate modern
trend, among so many people of impeccable genealogy, to take a mate from the
inferior classes, thus polluting England's finest stock with every sort of
undesirable characteristic.

It was a theme to which she invariably returned on the rare and
brief occasions that my husband left us alone together. Then one afternoon, my
husband was called into the village on an urgent matter which seemed likely to
occupy him for several hours. Almost as soon as he had gone, Lady Whitstone
began to bombard me from across the tea table with more details about the
Camwell family's origins, wealth, and noble connections than I had ever wished
to know.

When she had finally exhausted the tiresome subject of the
Camwells, I scarcely had time to offer her another cup of tea before she began
tracing her own immaculate Cercy lineage back to the Battle of Hastings.

"You mentioned that Hastings was your father's name. But
you
went by a different one," she suddenly interjected into her monologue.
"Deslignères, was it not?"

I froze. I had mentioned my father's name to her, but I had never
told her my grandmother's. This was the first indication she had given of the
extent of her interest in my origins, and although I was not warmed by it, I
was mightily impressed. I had been very vague about my early life in our
conversations. My husband, of course, knew the name I had used before I married
Frederick, but I was pretty certain, from Lady Whitstone's atrocious accent,
that she had not heard that name from him; she must have somehow found it out
for herself. It could only be from the records of my marriage, in Paris, to
Frederick. To think the woman would have gone to such lengths!

"Yes," I said, wishing that she might revert to the less
volatile subject of William the Conqueror.

"And this grandmother of yours, who raised you, her name was
also Deslignères?" persisted the intrepid researcher, leaning toward me
and looking somewhat like a well-kept vulture.

"Yes," I repeated, astounded by the depth of her
genealogical excavations. "Deslignères," I then added, giving it the
correct pronunciation.

"And your mother's maiden name?"

"Deslignères, again," I replied with the utmost politeness.

"What a curious coincidence," she observed. "Or did
all the women in your family marry relatives?"

It was at this moment that my husband slipped like a pale shadow
into the room.

"So it
was
nothing so very important, after all,"
said Lady Whitstone of the matter which had taken her son from her side.
"Really, Anthony, you are far too quick to respond to every bumpkin's
imaginary troubles. It breeds disrespect."

By now I had acquired the distinct impression that behind her
elegant and richly clothed exterior beat a heart that harbored very little
affection for her son.

"Do you think so, Mother?" said my husband,
indifferently settling into a chair.

"You have always known my views on your relations with those
people, Anthony. You encourage them to forget your station."

"As if they could!" he murmured. Then, inclining his
head toward me, "She thinks I do not take sufficient advantage of 'those
people,' Fleur, and instead encourage them to think poorly of me. What is your
opinion on the subject?"

"I have never heard you spoken of with anything but respect
and affection, Anthony," I told him truthfully.
So there!
was the
message I flashed simultaneously at Lady Whitstone from behind my lashes.

"Well, that is only to be expected—I'm the king of the castle
and
you
are, after all, my wife," said my husband, in a tone of
such cynicism that I was momentarily shaken.

"And every day I see the lengths to which you go to be worthy
of such regard," I added with a warmth that astonished me.

He sent me a look that all but pierced my heart, but his face
closed up when his mother spoke again.

"Oh, let's not argue about such paltry things, darling. Fleur
and I have been having such a lovely tea. You must try some of this lemon
cake."

My husband ignored that proposition and instead lounged in his
chair, as
fain
é
ant
as a squire at the end of a long day's hunt.

"And what have you and Fleur been talking about?" he
asked carelessly.

"Oh, this and that," said Lady Whitstone with a little
laugh. "Indeed, I can hardly recall now
what
we were speaking of
when you burst in upon us."

"Indeed?" remarked my husband, stretching out his legs.
"Perhaps I can assist your memory."

His mother blanched.

"I can remember," I interjected, for I had no confidence
in my languid husband's ability to defend me. "You had concluded that I
was a bastard and were taking the opportunity to remind me that my mother was
one, as well. That
was
your point, was it not, Lady Whitstone?"

Without his having moved a muscle, I imagined for a moment that my
husband's demeanor had become alert and watchful. I shot a glance his way, but
he was only examining his fingernails.

"Is that so, Mother?" he asked idly, with his gaze on his
hands.

"Certainly not!" protested Lady Whitstone, with what
seemed to me unnecessary vigor in the light of his apparent unconcern. "I
was merely curious about what seemed to be an odd coincidence."

"Then let me enlighten you on that subject," I said.
"Like you, my grandmother did not approve of intermarriage between people
of different stations in life. In fact, she did not approve of marriage at all.
She never married. But I think you already know that. You appear to have taken
great interest in the matter and to have done a fair amount of digging on your
own."

I expected Lady Whitstone to protest angrily, but she did not.
Instead she continued to cast furtive looks in the direction of her impassive
son.

"Yes, indeed," I went on. I was beginning to enjoy myself.
"Bad blood is a terrible curse. And do you know the worst of it, Lady
Whitstone? I will tell you—it's this. I do not even know
who
my
grandfather was! Why, he might have been anybody—the butcher, the baker, or the
candlestick maker. Just think, perhaps he was even your own father—or your
husband's—if either of them were inclined to flout their domestic
obligations!"

This was an outright lie. I knew exactly who my grandfather had
been. My grandmother had impressed his name upon me, for very much like my
mother-in-law, she had adored titles almost as much as she had adored wealth.

Lady Whitstone had gone whiter than ever.

I could not imagine what might be my well-bred husband's response
to my outrageousness. There was no excuse for it, other than that she had
driven me to the wall with her questions and insinuations. Surely he would be
horrified —not only by the appalling freedom of my speech but also at the
discovery that I really had no claim to respectability at all.

But when I finally dared to steal a glance in his direction, I saw
that he wore an expression of pure delight. He had eased back even further into
his chair and was beaming at me affectionately.

"Well, how do you like that?" he said, turning to his
mother. "Tell me, have you now managed to accomplish everything that you
set out to do here?"

"I don't know what you mean, Anthony."

"You've insulted me, you've insulted Fleur, and you've
insulted the whole village. Short of inviting you to whip the stableboy or to
beat the dogs, I cannot imagine how we can possibly provide any further
amusement for you." He came lazily to his feet and strolled over to pull
the bell-handle. Within seconds a housemaid appeared and was sent to fetch Mrs.
Phillips, the housekeeper.

"Mrs. Phillips," said my husband when that lady arrived,
"it seems that my mother has been called back to Yorkshire rather
suddenly. Please arrange to have all her things packed as quickly as possible.
She will depart for the station within the hour."

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Phillips tonelessly, but she moved
with an alacrity that suggested real enthusiasm.

"This is ridiculous, Anthony," said his mother through
her teeth when the housekeeper had gone. "Whitstone is not expecting me to
return for another fortnight."

"Well, do whatever you like, Mother," returned my
husband amicably. Then he added, in a voice of steel, "But if you choose
to remain here you'll have to be content to wear nothing but the clothes you
have on your back, for I guarantee you this, everything else you own will be on
the next train to York."

"I have always said you had a vicious streak, Anthony,"
said his mother. "It was that foul-tempered wet nurse of yours, I'm sure
of it. There was venom in that girl's milk."

"That must be it," he retorted with a laugh, and then
added in that low and dangerous tone, "But you should thank your stars
that where you are concerned, I have had the patience of Job."

They glared at each other like snakes.

In spite of the intense hostility between mother and son that this
incident exposed, not to mention the equally violent antipathy that had arisen
between Lady Whitstone and me, all three of us fell back upon our good manners
pretty quickly and papered over the rift with one final pretense at mutual
civility.

We drove together to the railway station.

There we exchanged chilly but polite farewells. We had just put
Lady Whitstone on the train, which was about to pull away, when a young man
raced up in a dogcart. Tossing the reins to his groom, he gave a joyous whoop,
leaped from his seat and dashed to catch the train. The groom lowered himself
slowly to the pavement and came around to the head of the shuddering, exhausted
horse, which was completely blown from its exertions and all but bleeding from
the nose.

My husband's face darkened alarmingly. He watched the train
disappear and then strolled over to the groom, whose face was strained with
worry.

"Why was this horse driven so hard?" inquired my
husband. His tone was casual.

"Young Lord Percy had a bet with his father, sir, that he
could leave ten minutes later than Lord Sparling insisted he must if he were to
have any hope of catching this train," replied the groom in an
expressionless voice.

"I see," said my husband still in the same neutral tone.
He continued to observe the trembling animal. Finally he said, "I suppose
you'll leave the creature at the livery stable here until he's thoroughly
rested."

The groom bit his lip; it was plain to see that, behind his
unexpressive manner, he was angry and upset. How could he not feel humiliated
by my husband's self-righteous interference in a matter over which the groom
himself, it seemed, had very little control?