The Memory of Your Kiss (12 page)

Probably not
, he admitted. But she was. He felt sorry for her. She had seemed so full of honor and so caring. He recalled her rescuing that child on a street in Bath.

He was also angry and resentful that just as he had been unable to come to her aid three years ago, he could not do so now. Besides miles and miles of distance that intervened, there were all those layers of social decorum. He quickly reminded himself that that oh-so-innocent bride had perpetrated a great hoax on him. Still, he wondered what these recent events might have done to that lively young woman who had argued so engagingly about equality between husbands and wives.

He heaved a long sigh.

McIntyre looked up from a ragged newspaper. “Bad news?”

“Not really. Legal matters that are largely irrelevant—and likely to remain so.”

McIntyre gestured at the newspaper. “The
Times
says the Allies are amassing great forces near Leipzig.”

“That ought to keep the little corporal out of our hair for a while,” Richardson said as he put the finishing touches on a drawing.

Harrelson had been absorbed in his letter. “Celia says life in London is full of balls and routs. She says society takes its lead from the regent in virtually ignoring the king’s illness.”

“ ‘Celia says—’” Zachary teased. “That girl is not married or engaged yet?”

“No.” Harrelson wore a smug expression. “I guess she’s waiting for something better than a town dandy.”

Zachary worried about Harrelson’s relationship with the charming Celia, so he now cautioned in a serious tone, “You watch yourself, Trevor. Girls like that do not stick around long.”

“What do you mean ‘girls like that’?” Harrelson challenged.

Zachary held up his hands in mock defense. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s just that proper young women need to marry—
especially proper young women of modest means—which Miss Carstairs is.”

“I doubt Celia is husband hunting.”

Richardson emitted a bark of laughter. “All women are husband hunting! If they aren’t, their mothers are. And their mothers are very likely to take the traditional view that a bird in the hand is by far the wisest position to take.”

“Celia ain’t like that and her mother trusts her judgment.” Harrelson sounded defensive.

Richardson shook his head in a show of despair. “Our friend appears to be a likely candidate for parson’s mousetrap. I suppose he will just ignore the ladies at the ball tonight.”

“You hope,” Harrelson scoffed.

I
n
the weeks following Sydney’s devastating discovery of her husband’s infidelity, the atmosphere in the Earl of Paxton’s elegant town-house turned rather chilly. The servants went about their duties quietly and efficiently, and the principal parties of the house—all except the mistress—continued to attend the usual social affairs. However, a sense of subdued apprehension prevailed. The master and mistress of Paxton House maintained polite decorum with their servants and family members. Their communication with each other was merely courteous formality in front of others and mostly strained silence when they happened to be alone together.

Sydney spent a good deal of time privately warring with herself over the situation. She knew that pride—both hers and Henry’s—was exacerbating matters, but she could not bring herself to make overtures to him.
He
was the one in the wrong.
He
was the one who had broken sacred vows. Indeed, he had taken those vows with no intention of living up to them! She recalled Zachary’s toast at the wedding celebration. Good heavens! Zachary had known. Had made a joke of it. She felt so stupid, so betrayed by Henry, but also by Zachary.

Nevertheless, this estrangement was not the way she wanted to live the rest of her life. Henry was a major element in her life and would always be so. She simply had to come to terms with that fact. She was not the first woman to make such a heartbreaking discovery. But how—how did one go on from here?

As they had for some time now, these thoughts dominated her mind one morning. After visiting the nursery and playing with Jonathan until time for his nap, she sought futilely to escape in Mrs. Edgeworth’s new novel. She sat on a comfortable couch in her private sitting room. Usually she felt relaxed and content in this room for which she had herself chosen the furniture, draperies, and wallpaper in soft blues and greens with touches of gold and yellow. She had reread the same paragraph three times already when there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” she called.

Aunt Harriet entered. “Might I have a word with you, my dear?”

“Of course.” Sydney was curious at the somewhat nervous tone in the usually unflappable Harriet Carstairs. She put her book aside and moved to allow her aunt room beside her on the couch.

Aunt Harriet sat and clasped her hands in her lap, then cleared her throat. “I—uh—I do not mean to intrude—but that is precisely what I am doing. I hope you will not be angry with me, but I wish to talk with you about—about you and Henry.”

Sydney felt herself go very still. Embarrassed and apprehensive, she groped for a reply.

“Oh, dear. I have offended you,” Aunt Harriet murmured.

“No. I could never take offense at frank talk from you, Aunt Harriet. I—I just do not know what to say. It is all so muddled, you see.”

“I know, my dear. Many a woman has endured the neglect and indifference you must be feeling.”

Something in her aunt’s tone caught Sydney’s attention. “Surely Uncle Charles never—”

“Had a mistress? In a sense, he did. My rival was the sea. And eventually I lost him to her.”

Sydney reached to take the older woman’s hand in her own. “I am so sorry. I had no idea you felt that way. So
that
is why you opposed Herbert’s going into the navy.”

“I held out as long as I could. He started pestering to go to sea when he was twelve. But, as they say, blood will tell. It seems my son has the same saltwater in his veins as his father had.” She gave a rueful smile. “However, that is not what I came to say to you.”

“Oh?”

“No. I simply wanted you to know that you are not without support—a shoulder to lean on, if you need it.”

“I do need it,” Sydney admitted. “I just do not know how to handle
this. You know the circumstances of my marriage. I did so want to be a good wife to Henry. I thought he deserved that much from the Waverly family. But I did not count on a marriage that is such—such a—a
sham
.”

Aunt Harriet, still holding Sydney’s hand, squeezed it affectionately. “I know, my dear. You must do what others have done before you: carry on. Hiding away like this is not the answer.”

“And I feel so stupid,” Sydney went on, not heeding her aunt’s words of comfort. It was as though, beginning to talk about it openly, she could not stop. “It has gone on for—for
years
—and I had no inkling.” She stifled a sob. “Why, I even felt sorry for that—that woman when I heard her story. And all this time she was—they were laughing at me. The whole
ton
was laughing at me.”

Aunt Harriet stood, placed her hands on her hips, and looked down at her niece. “That is not true. Were you not wallowing in self-pity, you would realize that people who are important to you do not waste time and energy on such affairs and others simply do not matter.
You
are keeping the tongues wagging by becoming a recluse.” Her tone softened. “Come now, Sydney. You have never been one to run away from a problem.”

“What can I do now? Everyone knows—”

“Very little. Celia and I have put it about that you have been seriously ill. A stomach problem. You were on the mend, then had a relapse, but we are sure you are doing much better now.”

Sydney smiled weakly. “You did that for me? Lied?”

“We told a small falsehood. You have not been yourself lately. We will not have scotched all the rumors—servants do talk, you know—but I think we have controlled some of the damage.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Aunt Harriet extended her hand. “Come. You have indulged yourself quite long enough. You must join Celia and me in receiving callers this afternoon. A little rice powder will convince others that you are recovering from ill health.”

Sydney rose and allowed herself to be led into her bedchamber, where she and Aunt Harriet chose a not very flattering puce-colored day dress to help reinforce the ruse of ill health. Sydney turned this way and that in front of the cheval glass.

“I may fool society,” she muttered, “but what
am
I to do about Henry and—and—”

“Lady Ryesdale,” Aunt Harriet supplied calmly from where she sat on a plush bench, her back to Sydney’s dressing table.

“That Ryesdale woman. I just cannot bear the images that keep haunting me.” She began to pace about the room. “What am I to do?” she wailed. “Just pretend nothing happened? Pretend she does not exist? Pretend that child was never born?”

Aunt Harriet rose, caught Sydney’s arm, and steered her to the window seat. Sydney gazed, unseeing, as a soft, drizzly rain sent rivulets of water down the panes.

“Give yourself some more time if you need to,” Aunt Harriet said in a matter-of-fact tone. “However, ultimately, you must arrive at some sort of compromise with your husband.”

“
I
must compromise,” Sydney said bitterly.

“Yes, you. Despite persistent rumors of divorce in royal circles, it is not an option in those you live in—even if Henry would consider it, and, frankly, my dear, he would not. Very few men would.”

“I know—”

“But beyond that, as a divorced woman, you would become a pariah. You would certainly lose all contact with your son. I know how fond you are of Marybeth and Geoffrey—as well as Lady Amy and Lady Ann. You would be lost to them too.”

Sydney took a deep shuddering breath and put her face in her hands. “Henry would never be so cruel.”

“He
could
be. Who knows what measures a man with injured pride might take?”

They sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes as Sydney digested these facts. None of this was news to her, but having it aired aloud in blunt terms was jarring. Then another thought occurred to her.

“Aunt Harriet? You have talked with Henry?”

Aunt Harriet nodded. “He asked to speak with me after breakfast when it was clear to all of us that you would—again—not be joining us.”

“He told you he is willing to give up his—his liaison with Lady Ryesdale?”

“No. He did not say that. But he did voice genuine regret that you have been so profoundly hurt by his actions.”

“And what happens when he tires of her and—and he turns to a new mistress and then another and another—and he brings some horrible disease home to
my
bed? That happens, you know.”

Aunt Harriet shook her head in a gesture of impatience. “Yes, it does, but I doubt that is the case here. Face facts, Sydney. This is not about you alone. Try to see that this—this unfortunate situation—directly involves three basically decent people and two innocent babes—not to mention several others on the sidelines.”

“I know,” Sydney whispered. “In my head, I know, but—”

“But your pride has taken a serious blow.” Aunt Harriet put a comforting arm about her niece’s shoulders. “Still, I watched you deal in a very practical way with the consequences of your father’s illness. I am confident you will come out of this a stronger person.”

“I—I hope so.”

“Then you will make amends with Henry?”

Sydney nodded. “In a few days. I need to think about it some more.”

“Don’t wait too long, my dear.” Aunt Harriet rose. “Now—ring for Maisie and let us prepare to put the harpies of the
ton
in their place.”

And that is precisely what the Carstairs ladies and the Countess of Paxton managed to do that afternoon and the next. The tension between the Earl of Paxton and his wife eased considerably, but they still had not talked things out.

Then, as so often happens, life intervened to make that matter far less important.

Sydney had taken special care in dressing for the evening meal the second day after her discussion with Aunt Harriet. She wore a teal silk gown she knew to be one of Henry’s favorites and the diamond necklace and earbobs he had given her on the birth of their son. He stood and gave her an approving smile as she entered the drawing room. Aunt Harriet and Celia were there before her and sat sipping sherry. When it was just the family for the evening meal, Marybeth and the twins—twelve and thirteen now—were often allowed to join the adults. The three young girls had glasses of lemonade and chatted excitedly about a proposed boating trip on the Thames. Henry handed Sydney a glass of sherry and she deliberately chose a seat next to the one he had occupied when she arrived. He gave her a questioning look; Aunt Harriet gave her an approving one.

When Mr. Roberts announced supper, Aunt Harriet and Celia
shepherded the girls ahead of them with Sydney and Henry bringing up the rear.

Henry leaned close to murmur for her ears alone, “Does your appearance tonight hold special promise for me later?”

Feeling warmth rush to her face, she inclined her head and said, “I think it’s time we talked.”

“Yes. Past time,” he said. “I must go out this evening—I promised Hoffman—but I shall make a point of returning early.”

She nodded. Frederick Taunton, Viscount Hoffman, was a special sporting friend of Henry’s.

The table conversation was amiable and forgettable. Afterwards, Henry excused himself and the six females of his house—along with the ever-present Brownie—retired to the music room, where Marybeth and the twins showed off their latest achievements on the pianoforte.

Before retiring to her own bedchamber, Sydney made her customary trip to the nursery to check on her son. She lingered over his crib, once again marveling that she had been so blessed with this perfect little human being. She could tell that she surprised Maisie when she chose a filmy nightgown and told the maid to leave her hair loose tonight. She settled down to wait for Henry.

She waited.

And waited.

It was after midnight when she heard a door open and close in the adjoining room. Then she heard it open and close again.

Still she waited for him.

Anxiety was replaced by annoyance, then anger. Finally, she charged through the connecting door to his room. It was empty. She closed the door firmly, crawled into her bed, and turned out her gas lamp. She was absolutely furious with him. If he came in this very moment, she would pretend to be asleep.

But he did not come, and eventually the sleep was not feigned.

Sometime before dawn she heard muffled male voices in the other room. Henry and his valet, Brewster. No. Three voices. What was going on?

Then she clearly heard Henry say, “We shall be back before she wakes up.” This was followed again by a door opening and closing. She considered rising and confronting Henry, but was deterred by the presence of that third male voice.

Later in the morning, as Sydney sat in the library reviewing some papers the Paxton steward, Mr. Stevenson, had sent on from Windham, she heard a loud commotion in the foyer adjacent to the library. First, loud frantic knocking at the outer door, then loud urgent voices.

“Careful of his arm.”

“Show us to his lordship’s chamber. Now!”

“Y-yes, sir.”

When Sydney opened the library door, the scene she beheld sent chills along her spine. Henry lay on a stretcher being carried above stairs by two men following a Paxton footman. He was covered by a blanket, but she saw blood on the part of his shirt that was exposed. Behind the stretcher was Henry’s friend, Lord Hoffman, and an older man carrying a black bag—obviously a doctor.

“Oh, good heavens! What happened?” she demanded.

Hoffman paused on the third step, but waved the group on. “There’s been an accident, my lady.” He retraced his last steps and guided her back into the library, closing the door.

“An accident?”

Hoffman paused and ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, what can it matter now? It will be all over town by noon. Paxton has been shot.”

“Shot? Why? How? What happened?” She tried to control her panic. Still standing, she leaned against the library’s heavy oak map table.

Hoffman looked embarrassed. “It was a duel.”

“It was
what
?” She could not believe her ears.

“A duel. With that hothead, Kingsley. Paxton
deloped
—sent his shot into the ground. Kingsley did not.”

“Good heavens. H-how badly is Henry wounded?”