The Lady's Tutor (29 page)

“I talked to my mother today, Edward.”

There.
Relief
mingled with dread.

“Of course. It’s Tuesday.”

The sudden acceleration of Elizabeth’s heartbeat drowned out the
clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the bump and grind of the carriage wheels.

“I told her that I wanted a divorce.”

“And you expect your mother to influence your father on your
behalf.”

He did not sound surprised. His voice was calm, reasonable,
slightly sympathetic. The same voice that had spoken to her in his darkened
bedroom, telling her things she would rather not hear.

She strove to restrain a surge of desperation. “You have a
mistress, Edward.”

“I have told you that I do not.”

“I do not think the courts will believe you.”

“Elizabeth, you are incredibly naive. If you were to have a lover,
then most certainly I could sue you for a divorce. The most you, a woman, could
ever hope to obtain if you proved that I kept a mistress is to sue for
separation.

Elizabeth was stunned. “I don’t believe you.”

The Bible had clearly stated that adultery was grounds for divorce
. . .
if the woman was adulterous.
It had said nothing about a man’s
infidelity.

“If you could prove that I beat you outside the realms of ordinary
chastisement,’ then perhaps the courts would feel different. But I don’t beat
you, Elizabeth. You have everything a woman could possibly want. A home,
children, a substantial allowance. If you stand up in front of a court and
claim that you want a divorce because I do not frequent your bed, I will not be
able to protect you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The court would see you as a nymphomaniac, a disturbed woman who
needs the help of a doctor. There are many asylums that specialize in the
treatment of mentally deranged women. They could recommend that you be
committed to one.”

Elizabeth’s lips were suddenly dryer than tinder. “And you would
let them.”

“You would leave me no choice.”

“Then I will sue for separation.”

“I would rather see you in an asylum. It would garner more public
sympathy.”

It was becoming increasingly harder to remain calm. “Edward, you
do not love me.”

“No, I do not.”

“Why continue with this farce of a marriage?”

“Because my voters do not think it is a farce.”

Fog pressed against the window; a dim light proved to be a
streetlamp. Hours earlier it had been a golden orb; now it was a dingy circle
of light.

A
rustle of clothes sounded in the heavy darkness, followed by a creak of
springs. Elizabeth’s clenched hands were suddenly clasped.

Gasping, she turned toward Edward. A week ago she would have taken
this unexpected contact as a promising sign. Now she uselessly jerked her hands
to free them.

Edward was surprisingly strong. “Elizabeth, I do not understand
what has happened to you. A week ago you were content. There are things far
more important than sharing a man’s bed. We have two sons; you have been an
invaluable asset to my career. It is demanding, but there are rewards. You are
one of the most respected women in England. I know you love Richard and
Phillip. You must know that a woman who sues for divorce or separation does not
receive custody of her children. A father is a child’s lawful guardian; a
father has the right to protect that child until he is eighteen. If the father
deems that the mother threatens his child’s welfare, he has the right to remove
the child from the mother’s influence. Do you know what that means?”

She ceased struggling.

Oh, yes, she knew what that meant.

Not only would she lose her children if she was granted a divorce
or separation, she would lose them now if she did not continue as they had
carried on for the past sixteen years.

“I understand, Edward.” Her voice was hollow.

He released her hands and patted her cheek. “I thought you would.”
Another rustle of cloth and a squeak of springs signaled he returned to the
other side of the carriage. “I have been meaning to tell you. You are looking
decidedly dowdy. While your gowns must be tasteful, of course, there is no need
to look like a frump. Hammond’s wife, now, is quite charming. Perhaps you
should ask for the name of her modiste.

“By the bye, Elizabeth. You will not admit Countess Devington into
my home ever again.”

lizabeth stared at the groom’s gloved hand, then at the ornate
knocker that was clearly engraved with COUNTESS DEVINGTON. The brittle staccato
sound of brass banging brass cut through the sickly pale sunshine.

The town house was Edward’s home; she would abide by his dictates
inside the house, but she
would not
bow down to his will like a child.
She would visit whom she liked . . . and today she would visit with the
countess.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with the countess’s offer that if
she ever needed to talk, her door would be open. Elizabeth could not talk with
her own mother. She certainly would not burden the Bastard Sheikh’s mother.

The white door swung open. A butler stared impassively first at
the groom and then at Elizabeth.

She gave him her card, the corner folded down. “I would like to
see Countess Devington, please.”

The butler bowed, revealing a full head of short, curly black
hair. “I will see if her ladyship is at home.”

Elizabeth nodded her head at the groom in dismissal. “Tommie, you
may wait by the carriage.”

Tommie, the young boy of nineteen who had gotten sick before the
fog unexpectedly descended five nights ago, doffed his wool knit hat. “Very
good, ma’am.”

She watched weak rays of sunshine play on the brass knocker. Dark,
angry,
frightened
thoughts clouded her mind.

Edward had threatened to take her sons. Then he had threatened to
commit her to an asylum.

She could not live like this.

Scarce minutes passed before the butler returned. He bowed again. “If
you will follow me, Mrs. Petre.”

She followed behind him, heels muffled on the Oriental runner that
lined the floor of the oak-paneled hallway. Light filtered through skylight
windows, danced across gleaming wood. At the end of the corridor the butler
opened a door, revealing a stairwell. It, too, was lighted by a skylight.

He silently walked down the steps in front of her, back ramrod
straight—Beadles would be envious of his posture. Abruptly stopping, bowing, he
opened the door at the end of the staircase and stepped back.

Hot, heavy, moist steam billowed out into the stairwell. Elizabeth
curiously stepped through the doorway.

She had heard of steam rooms, but she had never seen one. Nor, she
realized with shock as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, was she seeing
one now.

The countess leisurely swam toward Elizabeth in a bath the size of
a pond.
And she was not wearing a bathing suit.
The pale lines of her
naked body reflected beneath the steam and the water.

Elizabeth had never seen a
naked woman other than herself.

“Countess Devington,” she stammered. “I beg your pardon, I did not
mean to intrude. The butler—I will call another time, when it is more
convenient.”

Soft laughter drifted up from the water. It was as uninhibited as
was the Bastard Sheikh’s. “Elizabeth, my dear, don’t be silly.”

“But you—you’re—” She sucked in thick, heavy steam.

“Bathing.” The countess possessed none of Elizabeth’s modesty. “I
thought you might be curious to find out about life in Arabia.

Bathing is very important to the Arab people, both to the men and
to the women. I grew quite fond of the Turkish bath, so I installed one here
when I returned to England.”

She lifted slender arms out of the water and clapped her hands. It
afforded Elizabeth a perfect view of her breasts. They were round and firm, not
at all what one would expect in a fifty-seven-year-old woman.

Elizabeth quickly averted her eyes.

This was absurd. She had handled an artificial phallus; surely she
could overcome her embarrassment at seeing another woman’s naked body. But no
matter how hard she tried, she could not gaze at the countess.

“Joseffa, take Mrs. Petre behind the screen and help her disrobe.
She is not yet used to our ways.”

A tiny, wrinkled woman wearing a gown that could only be described
as a roll of silk wrapped about her body, purposefully stepped toward
Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stiffened with alarm. She was English, not Arabic, and
she was not about to expose her
udder
breasts and
flabby
hips. “I
really do not think—”

“In Arabia, the women in the harem bathe together. It is a time to
laugh and talk and relax without the interference of men.” The countess’s voice
was wistful. “I am sorry if this embarrasses you. I thought perhaps you might
enjoy one of the more pleasurable Arab customs, but I see that I was wrong....”

Elizabeth unaccountably felt stuffy . . . and childish. She
uttered the first excuse that came to mind. “I do not know how to swim.”

“The
floor of the bath is graduated; the one end starts at three feet deep and goes
to five feet at the farthest end. It is far more safe bathing here than in the
ocean. But if you truly do not wish to join me, please don’t think I will be
offended. It is not a European custom; many English people find it repugnant to
bathe daily, let alone to bathe communally.”

Elizabeth
was not certain if she had been insulted or not. She bathed . . . daily.

“It is not that I find it repugnant, Countess Devington, it is
just...” She took a deep breath, almost choked on the thick steam. “I have
never before been in a complete state of undress in front of anyone”—
save
for her husband, but that memory was better left alone—
“Even the doctor did
not see me when I gave birth to my two sons. . . .”

“Then
you are fortunate the doctor delivered a bouncing baby boy and not a pair of
tonsils.”

The countess’s cynical remark surprised a laugh out of Elizabeth.
Caught off guard, she was ill prepared to fend off the surprisingly strong hand
that grabbed her arm and commenced dragging her toward the rear of the room.

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, closed, opened.
The little old lady—an Arab lady, Elizabeth surmised by her dark skin, but then
again, perhaps not. Muhamed was European and she had thought
him
an
Arab—was like an ant relentlessly pulling twice its weight behind it.

Muffled laughter swirled the steam—it came from the countess.

Lips compressed, Elizabeth tried to pull free, then realized
struggling was more undignified than being dragged. A large lacquered screen
loomed out of the hot mist. Before Elizabeth could gather her bearing, the
little old lady shoved her behind the screen and proceeded to snatch at her
reticule, her cloak, her hat, her gloves.
Hands were everywhere.

This was too humiliating for words. Elizabeth had never been
manhandled. As a child, a word of criticism had been enough to command
obedience. She simply had no reference to compare this incident to.

Suddenly, she was pivoted so that her back faced the old Arab
woman. Elizabeth tripped, fell forward with hands outstretched. Only to slam
into a moist enameled wall. Small, adept hands attacked the buttons lining the
back of her dress.

Elizabeth tried to turn around. “Please do not do that. I do not
want—
stop,
please—” But despite her protests, the buttons were freed and
the heavy wool dress was being peeled down over her shoulders.

She forgot dignity; she forgot that English ladies do not raise
their voices. “Countess Devington!”

“Joseffa does not understand English when she does not want to,”
the countess shouted back, her voice strangely choked. “It is not your time of
month, is it?”

Mortification singed Elizabeth’s skin. There were some things one
did not mention,
ever.
Not even woman to woman.

She twirled free of the marauding hands, clutched the bodice of
her dress. “I said
stop that!”

Snorting, the little old woman stepped back with her hands on her
hips. She let loose with a string of totally incomprehensible words.

Arabic, Elizabeth presumed. But it certainly sounded nothing like
what the Bastard Sheikh spoke. He sounded erotic, sensuous. This woman sounded
. . .
venomous.

“That is quite enough, Joseffa!” The countess’s command pierced
the steam.

The old Arab woman glowered at Elizabeth in silence.

Elizabeth pulled the dress more tightly against her chest. “What .
.. what did she say?”

“There is no need to translate.” The countess’s voice was
closer—she had swum to the deeper end of the pool beside the screen.