Leading Lady (51 page)

“She is,” Noah replied. “Why don’t you go back over there?”

Jude smiled. “She seems a nice girl.”

“A very nice girl. Now, go invest a little time in your own love life, for a change.”

****

Waiting outside Muriel’s house, Guy cut an elegant figure in his black tailcoat and white waistcoat, but his expression was as wretched as she imagined hers to be. “I tried to meet you.”

“I know,” Muriel said.

“Did you see her?”

“Let’s go inside.”

He followed her into the house. In the parlour, she dropped into a chair instead of the sofa so that he would not be able to sit near her. When he stood awkwardly inside the doorway, she said, “Will you close the door, or do you want the servants listening?”

Either way, she realized she did not really care. What was
one more morsel of gossip after the feasts she had already provided for them?

He did as she asked and then walked over to stand in front of her chair. After a hesitation, as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, he lowered himself to one knee.

“I didn’t go to the party,” Muriel said.

“You didn’t?” His shoulders sagged visibly. “Thank you, Muriel.”

“It wasn’t for your sake.” She realized she was being cruel, but after suffering such cruel treatment herself all evening, it felt good to lash out. “I simply changed my mind.”

Guy studied her face, blue eyes lifeless. At length he said, “I’ve always prided myself on not being easily manipulated. But you’ve been using me from the beginning, haven’t you?”

Muriel drew in a long breath, let it out. “I’m sorry, Guy.”

A tortured moan rose from his throat. “Sorry?”

“I was so angry I couldn’t think straight. Douglas—”

“I don’t want to hear about your pathetic brother!” he snapped, but then he seized her hands and pressed them to his chest. “But you’ve come to care about me, Muriel, haven’t you? Even a little?”

She pulled her hands from his desperate grasp but said as gently as she could manage, “I’m sorry, Guy. Please go away. Perhaps she’ll take you back if you ask her.”

So little had he meant to her that she was surprised at how hard she wept when he was gone. She could not stop associating the look upon his face as he begged her to love him, with that on Douglas’s as he mourned over Bethia’s lack of affection.

You didn’t send Guy a hateful letter,
she reminded herself.

No, what she did was worse. She had cultivated the affection of a young man and then cast him off when her plan did not produce the euphoria she had anticipated.

Bethia never pretended to love Douglas. As for the letter, would not she herself have sent a far more scathing one to
Richard Whitmore had he followed her about town and even out of town?

Douglas was your brother,
she thought in an attempt to shut out the accusations grinding away at her mind.

It worked for only a second, for on the heels of that came the reminder that Guy Russell had sisters who probably cared just as much for
his
well-being.

Thirty-Eight

“Mummy!” Georgiana cried, pitching her little body into Muriel’s arms on Sunday.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Muriel kissed a rosy cheek and picked up the package lying on the parlour sofa cushion. “Look what Mother brought you.”

For the half hour that followed, Georgiana alternated between sitting in her lap, hopping down, playing with her new doll, demanding having
The Land of Long Ago
read aloud, and climbing down before Muriel was halfway finished.

“Where is her nanny?” Muriel asked as her already-strained nerves were bristling beneath her skin.

Georgiana brightened. “Where is Nanny?”

“I sent her on an errand, sweetheart, remember?” Muriel’s mother said gently, then pulled the bell cord. Florence came straightway.

“Come, Miss Georgiana,” the maid said. “We’ll have a tea party.”

Georgiana shook her head. “Don’t want to. Want Nanny.”

“How about if we go into the kitchen and ask Cook to make biscuits?”

“Chocolate?” Georgiana asked.

“Yes, dearest,” Muriel’s mother replied.

Muriel waited until the door closed after the maid and child, and turned to her mother again. “What sort of errand?”

Her mother hesitated, and then the corners of her mouth dipped into a righteous frown. “I discharged her.”

“You
what?
”

“She was too strict. She forced Georgiana to help tidy the nursery. I telephoned you about it, but you wouldn’t make time to speak with me.”

“Mother.” Muriel groaned as the little bit of stamina she
still possessed drained from her pores. She did not even have the strength for a decent fit of anger.

“I never made
you
do servant’s work,” her mother said defensively. “Nor the boys.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“And just what do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know what I mean.” Muriel kneaded her forehead. “Perhaps, just perhaps we would all be happier.”

“Nonsense. Bernard’s happy.”

“Well, bully for Bernard.”

“Don’t use vulgarities, Muriel,” her mother scolded. “And
you’re
happy.”

“Well, bully for me.”

****

She forced herself out of bed at nine Monday morning, padded to the parlour in her wrapper, and asked the telephone operator to connect her with the offices of
Illustrated London News.

“Mr. Gatcomb isn’t in yet,” said the male secretary who answered. “I believe he’s looking up leads for a story.”

That sounded ominous.

“I expect he’ll be here after lunch,” the voice went on. “Would you care to leave a message?”

“Yes, this is Lady Holt from the Royal Court Theatre. I will appreciate your informing Mr. Gatcomb that he must disregard an accusation I made against a certain person in the heat of anger Saturday evening. Tell him I was mistaken. He’ll know what you mean.”

“Very well, Lady Holt. Shall I have him ring you?”

“I’m not home. But do give him the message.”

“I’ll deliver it personally. And might I say my wife and I enjoyed seeing you in
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
last month.”

“Thank you.” Next, she telephoned her house.

“Has Prescott telephoned or come by?” she asked Mrs. Burles.

“Why, no, your Ladyship,” the housekeeper said. “Isn’t she there with you?”

Yes, silly me, she’s standing right here at my elbow.
Muriel restrained herself from voicing the sarcastic comment because excellent housekeepers were hard to find. “No. If she shows up at the house to collect her letter of reference from Mrs. Godfrey, please ask her to stay. Tell her it was all a mistake that we’ll straighten out when I get home.”

There was a hesitation, then, “She keeps the letter in her handbag, your Ladyship.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Ah . . . can’t say, your Ladyship.”

Muriel grimaced. Mrs. Burles knew exactly why, and so did she.

“Well, if you hear from her at all before I arrive home, ring me here.”

****

With the children grown and her mother practically housebound, Muriel’s parents had no more need of a coach and driver. Her father either walked or took an omnibus the one mile to the offices of Sun Insurance. Therefore, on Tuesday Muriel hired a coach for her mother and herself to visit Bernard and his family. She left Georgiana in Florence’s care, fearing the strain upon Agatha. That’s what she told herself.

The vicarage was of mellowed gray stone, situated across from Holy Cross Church in the village of Gleadless. Six-week-old Norman Pearce lay nestled in Agatha’s arms in the small parlour, his wisps of lashes resting upon his cheek.

Muriel leaned close to weave her fingers through the infant’s fine brown hair. How she envied him his untroubled sleep! “I thought only girl babies were supposed to be sweet.”

“So did I,” Agatha confessed, smiling. She was still pale and gaunt, but she and Bernard had assured Muriel that she was gaining strength by the week.

Bernard had cooked lunch, roasting venison a parishioner had given them with potatoes and carrots from another
parishioner’s garden. The loaf of bread and a chocolate cake came from the village bakery.

“It’s just until Agatha gets on her feet again,” he said at the table. “I’m sorry it’s so plain.”

“No, it’s delicious,” Muriel lied, teeth grinding a bite of venison so dry that it refused to disintegrate. Afterward, while Agatha put Sally and the baby down for naps and Mother dozed in a chair by the fireplace, Muriel asked her brother why the parish did not provide a cook.

“It’s a small parish,” he replied. “When I was hired, we were informed there were just enough funds for a day maid or cook. Agatha knew how to cook, so she decided she would rather do that than clean. We did all right until this latest pregnancy.”

“I’d like to hire one for you.”

Bernard glanced at their mother. “That’s very kind of you, Muriel,” he said with voice low. But I can’t accept your offer.”

“But why? I can easily afford it.”

He rose from his chair and went over to the hall tree to take down her cloak. “Come, let’s take a turn about the village.”

They strolled together, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Smoke rose from chimney pots of stone, brick, and half-timbered houses flanking the lane. Pine needles crushed beneath their feet, and browning clematis vines against picket fences gave off pleasant, earthy autumn aromas. Fortunately, most villagers were either at work or school, or were kept inside by the late-October chill, so there were no interruptions from parishioners desiring to chat.

“Mother and Father have already offered. But I can’t put Agatha under that obligation to her in-laws. Mother . . .” Bernard winced. “Well, she tends to meddle.”

“Does she?” Muriel said dryly. “All the more reason you should allow me. I’m the last person to offer you advice. If I ever
do,
you should do just the opposite.”

His hazel eyes gave her a sidelong look. “What’s wrong, Muriel?”

She sighed. “I did something . . . very bad.”

“What sort of thing?” he asked.

“Just . . . something. Everyone despises me now. Even Jewel.”

Mercifully, he didn’t press for details. Nor did he make light of her remorse by assuring her that Jewel could never despise her.

“I love my work. But it’s hard to bear the cold looks.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t have thought I would have minded so much.”

He patted the hand tucked into his arm. “Well, you have to make amends.”

“I tried that once before.” She could not bring herself to admit to him that they were not genuine. “It . . . didn’t keep. No one will believe me this time.”

“They will eventually, if you stay constant. Nothing showy or grand, mind you. No flattery. Just ask forgiveness of whom you need to and repair what you can of the situation.”

She gave another brittle laugh. “
No
one is going to forgive me. And as far as repairs go, I doubt that this can be undone.”

Even if Bethia decided to forgive Guy and take him back, how could she help but wonder if another betrayal lay in the future?

“That doesn’t absolve you from trying,” Bernard said. Again the sidelong look. “You take too much upon yourself, Muriel. You don’t have to go it alone. God can move people’s hearts.”

Uh-oh.
She hated it when he changed from brother to minister.

“But you have to give Him
yours
first,” he went on.

His voice was soothing, his tone nonjudgmental, his eyes warm. Strong was the temptation just to turn herself over to the prompting she could feel within her.

And then the moment passed. Bernard may not judge her, but he did not know the half of what she had done. God knew it all, and as little as she knew Him, she knew He
was not pleased. Better to hide from God until she could at least make an effort at amends. Better to confess sins in the
distant
past than those so fresh that the repercussions were still ringing in her ears.

“Muriel?” her brother said.

She turned her face from him long enough to blink once, twice, clear the sheen over her eyes. “When we come back for Christmas,” she said, “we’ll talk again then.”

“Christmas . . .” he said sadly.

“I promise.” Muriel nudged his side. A playful gesture to cover up the heaviness of her heart. “It’s only two months away. Meanwhile, let’s talk about hiring that cook.”

****

Bethia was certain it was quite by accident that Muriel and Guy had chosen a relatively
convenient
time to send a cyclone through her life. The seamstresses had managed fine without her last week, and now, with the Royal Court closed until Friday’s dress rehearsal, she did not have to stir from the house if she did not wish to. Mostly she kept to her room. She found it impossible to lose herself in the pages of a novel, but did manage to sketch several costumes for Dion Boucicault’s comedy in five acts,
London Assurance,
which was to follow
The Bells.

On Wednesday morning, nine days after the breakup, she was relieved to have the house to herself—at least as far as family was concerned. Her father had left for a meeting of his camera club, her mother and Sarah were helping plan the sponsors’ Christmas party at St. Matthew’s Home for Foundling Girls, and William was at work. For a few hours, she did not have to put on any sort of brave front.

She was seated by her bedroom fireplace, combing hair still damp from her bath, and trying to pay attention to chambermaid Susan’s account of a cousin’s witnessing a monkey loose at Regent’s Park, when Claire Duffy came to her room. The housekeeper was a Rubenesque woman of sixty-three who
still moved with the grace of a ballerina. There was nothing graceful about her stiff posture at the moment.

“Mr. Russell is downstairs.
Guy
Russell.”

A surge of joy automatically lifted Bethia’s spirits.

Mrs. Duffy’s scornful voice brought them back down to reality. “Shall I send him packing?”