Rebel Heiress (19 page)

‘It has hardly worked out that way.'

‘As if you needed to remind me! Instead, I became ill on that
cursed, fever-stricken tub of a boat, and had to return, ingloriously, a sick man. And still all might have been well. That night when I met you, walking, alone, on the road to Marchmont, I thought fate was on my side at last. We were destined for each other.' His hand was moving gently now, warmly, just inside the neckline of her dress, as if it, too, were speaking, pleading with her.

‘And what went wrong?' It was an effort to keep her voice cool.

‘Why, everything! Oh, I was a fool, a coward, a craven. Tell me, if I had asked you to marry me, that night in the moonlight, would you have said yes?'

Why deny it? ‘Of course I would,' she said.

His hand bruised her shoulder. ‘Oh, God, I thought so. But, fool that I was, I thought I must wait, must make all straight with Lady Marchmont before I was free to speak to you. And in the meantime —' He paused, at a loss for words.

‘In the meantime it all began again. Is that what you would say?' Gently, reluctantly, she pulled away from him.

‘Curse me, yes. She was so pleased to see me, so concerned over my health. I told her about you: our meeting, what I felt. She was delighted, or pretended to be. It would all arrange itself. She would be my spokesman with your father, but in the meantime she was so lonely, so unhappy, she had missed me so much … But I swear to you, Henrietta, that of this plan of hers, this idea of using you as a screen for a continuing liaison with me, of that, so help me God, I had no idea. When she spoke so suddenly to your father the other night, I merely thought that, driven into a corner, she was protecting herself as best she might. I could not blame her; I know what he is like when he is roused, and although he has had his suspicions this long time past, he had never —' He faltered.

‘Never seen them proved before.'

‘No. And, Henrietta, for his sake, not for ours, he never must. He is a proud man; too proud to bear it. Suspicion is one thing; proof might kill him.'

‘I believe you,' Henrietta said. ‘I only wish you had thought of it sooner.'

‘Oh, God, do you not think I do too? But you must understand. I did not know him. To me he was merely the unloving figure behind Lavinia, the cruel, the captious, the jealous husband.'

‘That was what she told you?'

‘Of course. When he was kind to me, as, at first, he often was, I thought it was but his pride, his sense of duty. He would not show to his ward the harsh side he displayed to his wife. It was only when I saw him with you, Henrietta, that I realised how much I had been mistaken in him.'

‘Or misled?'

‘Yes, if you like, misled. But do not blame poor Lavinia too harshly; you must realise that she did not understand what she was doing.'

‘Did she not?'

‘Poor girl, how could she? Her father, you must know, was a timeserving country parson. Her mother — well, the less said about her the better. She made her husband's fortune by marrying him, and taught her child nothing but the principles of expediency on which she had always acted. With such parents, how could poor Lavinia be other than what she is?'

‘Poor Lavinia,' Henrietta said reflectively. ‘Well, sir, I have listened to you now, very patiently, you must admit, and for longer than I intended, and you have said nothing to dissuade me from giving you back this ring. Please, let us not speak of it further. I cannot pretend I have not cared for you. I will not pretend I am not suffering. But there is nothing, in this world, for us. We must part, and the sooner it is over the better.'

But once again he refused to take the ring. ‘Henrietta, have you understood me so little? If you will not for my sake, I beg you to think a little of your father. Imagine what he will feel if he hears, far away as he will be, that our engagement is at an end. Think what he will suffer, for himself as well as for you.'

The hand that held out the ring sank to her lap and she gazed at him, horror-struck. ‘I had not thought…'

‘Then think now. It will be confirmation of all his worst fears.'

‘And it will be true,' Henrietta said austerely, as she rose to leave him.

‘Oh — truth…' His hand on hers detained her. ‘Have you not yet been long enough in this world, Henrietta, to know that the greatest truth may still be the greatest selfishness? Stop thinking, for a moment, of yourself, and think of him. For his sake, only, I beg you will continue publicly engaged to me until he returns from Russia. I will be not trouble to you, I promise, in the meantime. I have my orders at last. I had been waiting
the opportunity to tell you. I leave tomorrow for London. The next day, I hope, I shall be on my way to Spain. If I can get myself killed — gloriously if possible — in the coming campaign, I promise you I will do so. If not, at your leisure, when your father is returned, you may jilt me how you please. But for now, for all our sakes, keep my ring, Henrietta.'

She was crying too much to speak. Silently, his handkerchief to her eyes, she let him put the ring back on her finger and kiss her hand. Then, with a smothered exclamation, he pulled her to him and his lips sought hers; pleading, demanding, commanding. She could not help it. For a moment, she was all his, her lips answering him, her whole body shuddering in helpless ecstasy towards him. Then, memory returned. Half an hour ago he had held Lady Marchmont thus.

She pulled away. ‘Good-bye, Mr. Rivers.' Half blinded with tears, she left him.

Alone, at last, in the sanctuary of her room, Henrietta sat for a while, quite still, hands close folded in her lap, defying the tears to fall. It was all too horrible for their easy solace. Charles Rivers and Lady Marchmont. Lady Marchmont and Charles Rivers. It had been there all the time, so obvious that she could not see it. Such an easy dupe as she had been; led by the nose; a convenient screen for their amours. How could she not have guessed? And yet, how could she have imagined anything so sordid? And, all the time, throbbing below her own pain and shame, exacerbating them almost beyond endurance, was her anguish for her father.

As she sat there, hating herself, she could hear carriages rolling away down the drive. Now that Lord Marchmont had gone, his political friends were leaving too. No wonder they did not stay; no wonder they tended not to bring their wives and daughters. How much did her father know? How much suspect? Something, of course. Why else had he returned home so unexpectedly only the other night and thus precipitated her
disastrous engagement. If only she could hurry after him, catch him before he left, tell him the whole wretched story and beg him to take her with him, away from it all.

She could not do it to him. He had already refused, on good grounds, to take her with him. Nothing she said would change him now; it would merely mean that he went on his dangerous mission haunted equally by anxiety for her and by rage with his wife. It was all misery, all wretchedness together, and, in many ways, the worst of all was that try how she would she could not quite bring herself to hate Charles Rivers. When she reminded herself of how he had betrayed her, of how, even today, he had pretended to set her father on his way and then crept back to keep his shameful assignation with Lady Marchmont, she could not help remembering the warm pleading of his arm around her, the intoxication of his kiss. Admitting, now, that she had loved him at first sight, she could not resist the seductive argument that it must have been mutual. ‘Whoever loved that loved not at first sight?'

He had flung it at her that he would do his best to get himself killed. She could not bear it; could not imagine facing the news, and her own responsibility for it. If it happened, she would never forgive herself. So — what to do? Having abandoned the thought of writing to her father, she began instead to compose a letter to Charles Rivers and found it just as impossible. The fifth illegible and much-crossed sheet had just joined its fellows in her waste-paper basket when a little scratching on her door heralded Lady Marchmont.

She was pale, but composed. ‘I know.' She recognised Henrietta's instinctive recoil. ‘You do not wish to speak to me; nor do I blame you, but, Henrietta, we must talk. You must do something, or they will fight.'

‘Fight?' But she saw it at once. How could she have been so stupid? Plunged in her own private hell, she had not thought of this hazard. Cedric had been angry enough for anything, and Charles — Charles had promised to get himself killed. Horrible. And horrible, too, to remember that he had once told her he had his reasons for not fighting Cedric Beaufrage. Now she knew all too well what they were. ‘I think you will have to stop them,' she said.

‘I cannot. Charles refuses to speak to me, and Cedric is neither to hold nor to bind. Everyone is gone but the Miss Giddys, and they are no help! I don't care what you do,
Henrietta, or how you do it, but something must be done if you do not wish to have their blood on your hands.' And then, as Henrietta still sat mute. ‘Oh, God, I wish my husband was here! He would not sit, consulting his own pride, when my son's life was at stake.'

‘Pride?' Was it true? Was she really so far gone in self-pity? Or — was not this the excuse she needed for doing what she wanted to do anyway? ‘Where are they?' she asked.

‘Oh, God bless you, Henrietta! Cedric is in the billiard room. Charles is in the study, writing a letter. To you, I have no doubt. Henrietta —'

‘No. We will not discuss it. Any of it. Now, or ever. Not if I am to continue in the same house as you, and, for my father's sake, I see that I must. Have I your promise?'

‘Yes. Anything! Only, hurry, Henrietta. I think they are only waiting for the changing bell to ring and the Miss Giddy's to go upstairs, and then it will happen, somehow … anyhow.'

‘Then you had best go down and keep Cedric company until I have changed and can relieve you,' said Henrietta drily. ‘They will hardly quarrel in front of one or the other of us.'

‘I pray God they won't. But, later, over their wine … They will be alone.'

‘Yes.' It was the obvious time. An ‘accident' with a glass of wine, a word, a blow, a challenge, and an early morning meeting from which only one would return, and he to face exile. ‘I will speak to Charles,' said Henrietta.

She found him in the study, with the same sort of pile of scribbled paper beside him that she had left in her own room. ‘Henrietta!' He jumped to his feet at sight of her and came forward eagerly. ‘I had not hoped … I have been trying to write to you. This is like you; this is goodness indeed. Can I… Henrietta, may I hope?'

It was incredibly more difficult than she had imagined. ‘No …' She hesitated. ‘I do not know. Nothing now. Mr. Rivers, I am come to you on Lady Marchmont's entreaty. She is afraid … afraid of what you and Lord Beaufrage may do.'

‘And she had the impudence to come to you!'

‘She says you will not speak to her.' Impossible not to find this heart-warming. Impossible, too, not to hate herself for doing so.

‘How can I! She who has ruined all my hopes of happiness with her wiles. Henrietta, only give me a breath, the merest
hint of hope! Tell me that I may come back to you in a year … in two years … when this war is over. I will do anything … anything you say.'

She stood silent, looking up at him, twisting his ring on her finger. ‘I cannot,' she said at last. ‘Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. How can I, now, so soon, after such a —' She paused, at a loss for words. And then, as his hand closed over hers. ‘No! Not that way, Charles.' She pulled away from him. ‘I must think; I must recover; try to see my way. Only, Charles, promise me you'll do nothing desperate. Not now … not later?'

‘I promise.' He stood there, very straight, the blue eyes seeming to read her heart. ‘You're right, Henrietta. I have no right, after what has passed, to ask you for more than the pretense of an engagement, for your father's sake, but whatever you may feel, you cannot prevent me from looking on myself as engaged to you. Whatever happens, I am your man. And, one other thing: You'll let me write to you? Please? After all, it would be — expected.'

‘And to her?' She could not help it.

‘No!' Explosively. ‘To you; for you only. Damnation!' The study door had opened behind her.

‘Oh, my gracious me.' The oldest Miss Giddy started dramatically at sight of them. ‘What have I interrupted! How could I be so wanting in tact? But it is for dear Fanny,' she explained as she advanced into the room. ‘The second volume of
The Wanderer
. Dear Madame d'Arblay. Such an improving writer, even if her husband is French. Dear Lady Marchmont said it was in here; on the desk, she thought. My goodness, what a monstrous deal of paper you have used, dear Mr. Rivers. You must have been so occupied' — here an arch look for Henrietta — ‘that you quite failed to hear the changing bell. It will be dinner time in ten minutes.'

‘Thank you for reminding me, Miss Giddy.'

She was behind him now, and for a moment his eyes met Henrietta's in the old, shared amusement. ‘I think you will find your volume here.' He moved swiftly between her and the desk before she could lay her birdlike hands upon his papers. ‘You may rely on me,' he told Henrietta across her. ‘Always.'

‘So gallant.' Miss Giddy took the book. ‘So romantic.' As he left them. ‘So mysterious.' Hopefully.

‘So nearly dinner time,' said Henrietta, and made a life-long enemy.

Cedric did not appear at dinner, his mother reporting, with a meaning smile for Henrietta, that he had decided to ride over and dine with a friend beyond Cumber. So, after all, Henrietta thought, making a pretence at eating, that scene with Charles Rivers had been unnecessary. How like Lady Marchmont to have double-ensured herself against disaster. And yet, she could not but be grateful to her. Indecisive though it had been, and unsatisfactory in its interrupted conclusion, the brief scene with Charles had left her feeling less wretched than she would have believed possible in the disaster of the morning.