Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (22 page)

T
he day after the christening it poured with rain, much to Bella’s alarm as an inexperienced hostess. What was she going to do with a houseful of guests on a wet Sunday afternoon after Matins and luncheon? She need not have worried. The bishop retired to his room to read sermons, the older ladies gathered round to sew church kneelers and assassinate characters and the younger ones obligingly played with the children and cooed over Marguerite and the Bayntons’ new baby, Jonathan.

The men had vanished—some, Bella knew, to play cards or billiards, well away from the bishop’s gaze, the others to the stables. She sat and watched the children, rescued the babies from being over-cuddled and thought of very little, lulled by the patter of rain on the windows and the hiss and crackle of the big fire in the grate.

Then John Baynton came in, rain spangling his hair, and bent to whisper something in Anne’s ear. She looked up at him and whispered back and Bella read her lips.
I love you too.
The look on their faces as John straightened
up and touched his wife’s hair before he went out again took Bella’s breath away.

It had been so fleeting, that tender, loving moment, and yet it showed her exactly what was missing from her own marriage more vividly than a thousand words could have done.
I am a coward
, she thought.
I must tell Elliott how I feel. I will talk to him when the guests have all gone.

She got up and wandered through the house and at last found herself beside the window seat in a littleused wing and sank down to watch the rain running down the windows. The weather was crying for her—she did not need to shed a single tear of her own. Inside she was cold, even though she tried, the sensible, rational, stoical part of her tried, to say nothing had changed, that she should still be happy and content with what she had. Elliott had never pretended to love her; he was nothing if not honest. It was she who had changed, she who had fallen in love and now wanted the impossible, his love too.

Once she had dreamed of a knight on a white charger, come to rescue her. And the knight was really an evil goblin and she had deceived herself into love. And now she could be happy again, if she could only remember how to be the sensible, patient Bella again, to have no expectations other than to work hard and do her duty. But this time she really had fallen for the true knight, the honourable man who rescued her from the dragon.

He had given her his protection, his rank, his body, his name for her child, his kindness—and it was not enough.

‘Bella? Here you are! Your are freezing—look at your hands, they are positively blue.’ And here Elliott
was, come to rescue her from her own folly once more. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold—whatever are you doing here?’

‘I wanted some peace and quiet before I joined the guests,’ she explained, letting her hands lie limp between his big, rough warm ones as he chaffed them. ‘I didn’t notice how cold it was.’

‘Come along and get warm.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. She got up and produced a quite successful smile. ‘I will come and try to get warm.’ But she carefully freed her hand from his and walked alone down the passageway.

‘The house to ourselves,’ Bella said as she waved at the Duke of Avery’s carriage, vanishing into the fog. ‘It was a lovely house party.’ So much to do to take her mind off her marriage, so many people to talk to. Now they were alone again.

‘But three days is quite enough,’ Elliott observed. He put his arm round her shoulders and Bella slid out of the embrace as they turned. ‘Are you feeling all right this morning?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Bella lied. She had hardly slept, tossing and turning, troubled by her thoughts and knowledge that she should tell Elliott how she felt.

‘Come into the drawing room,’ he said, his hand gentle but inexorable under her elbow. ‘I don’t think you are well, whatever you say, and there is something I must tell you.’

‘I’m all right,’ she snapped, cornered.

‘Bella, what on earth is the matter?’ Elliott shut the
door and came to stand in front of her before the fire. ‘This is not like you.’

‘No,’ she said slowly, feeling all the old restraints and certainties falling away. ‘No, it isn’t. But you see, I have been thinking and, Elliott, I am sorry, but I find it hurts so much now. I should never have married you.’

‘Arabella, darling.’ Elliott managed to fold her tight into his arms. ‘Listen to me, you really are not well. You are tired. Your nerves are still not calm after the birth. You—’

‘Don’t
darling
me!’ Her face was crushed against his waistcoat and her arms pinned to her sides. His body was hard and strong and her own body stirred in treacherous arousal. Arabella kicked, making no impact at all on his Hessians with her indoor shoes.

Elliott held her away from him a little, his hands tight on her shoulders. ‘Arabella, stop this. I don’t understand why you bring this up now. Of course we had to marry, it was the right thing, you know that.’

‘Yes, of course it was, once you knew. Don’t you see—’ Bella stared at him, trying to make him understand what she was only just beginning to comprehend herself ‘—I should have gone the moment I realised Rafe was dead. Now we are trapped. I cannot even run away and leave you—Viscount Hadleigh would not seek a divorce. You are stuck with me and I will be a good wife and breed sons for you. I suppose it will be…convenient.’

‘It is not convenient, damn it.’ Elliott was losing his temper now too. His eyes were dark sapphires, his mouth a hard line. ‘It has never been
convenient.
I did
not want to marry you. But I had to and I have had to learn to live with the emotional baggage our marriage brought with it and you will just have to learn to live with it too. I thought I had,’ he added bitterly.

Elliott, her tower of strength, her refuge, her honest friend and her lover, was telling her the truth at last. ‘Emotional baggage,’ she said, all the anger gone, her voice cold and flat to her own ears. ‘Of course. You are naturally gallant, naturally kind, but it must be a strain. I thought I was happy. I should be. I am so
sorry
I cannot be happy.’ She twisted in his grip and broke free, ran to the door without looking back.

‘Arabella, stop,’ Elliott called after her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To find my sister. I am going to the War Office. Why haven’t they written to tell me where she is, where they are paying her widow’s pension?’ She needed someone to love, someone to love her. Someone who would understand.

There was something in the utter silence that stopped her in her tracks, sent her back to the doorway. ‘Elliott? What is it? Have you heard something?’

‘Negative news,’ he admitted. ‘I was going to tell you this morning. There is no trace of Margaret. It seems her marriage to James Halgate was never legal. After the battle of Vittoria where he was killed she seems to have slipped from the records.’

‘Meg? But they must know where she is.’

‘They do not know. Arabella, listen to me.’ He took her by the upper arms as though to restrain her. ‘Spain is a vast country, in chaos. This was more than two
years ago. Perhaps she has remarried, settled out there, or—you must face it, my dear—she may have died.’

‘No! No, I will not believe it. Take me to London, Elliott.’

‘It is pouring with rain, you need rest, you have a baby and there is nothing you can do in London, Arabella. I am so sorry. We will think about it, find some contacts in Spain—I can send someone to investigate. But not now, this minute. You must see it is not rational.’

‘No, of course not.’ Rational? He wanted her to be rational? She was weary of being sensible and stoical. Something cold and hard settled over her, something like the bitter determination that had seized her when Rafe left. Elliott did not love her. Perhaps he could not love, not after an upbringing by remote parents, after a brother who hurt and rejected him. He did not understand how she felt about Meg and Lina, so she must find them herself.

Perhaps if they had a little time apart they could see their feelings for each other more clearly. Perhaps she could learn to do without love. She would come back, of course. It was her duty to be a good wife, to give Elliott an heir, to give Marguerite a proper home. But just now she could not bear to be here.

‘No. Of course not.’ She turned on her heel and walked away.

What had happened? What had gone wrong? Elliott stared at the half-open door feeling as though his heart had been wrenched out of his chest.

He thought he had made her happy and secure at least, but it seemed it was an illusion that something had shattered and now he did not know how to build it up again.

She would be in her bedchamber, he guessed. Toby sat outside, whining. Elliott tapped on the door, then turned the handle. It was locked. With a muttered oath he strode down the corridor to the sitting-room door. Locked. The nursery door was locked too. He knocked again. ‘Arabella?’ Silence.

Elliott wheeled round and stalked back to his own room, went through the dressing room and tried the interconnecting door. Locked. ‘Arabella, will you please let me in?’ He banged on the panels with his closed fist. From close by there was the thin wail of a child abruptly wakened. He felt his temper slipping; Marguerite should be in the nursery with her nursemaid. He banged again, harder with no response.

Locked in the safe were duplicate keys for the whole house. It took him a matter of minutes to return with the ones for the whole suite of rooms. ‘Arabella, if you do not open the door I will.’

He waited and at last the door opened. Arabella stood there, pale and dry-eyed. ‘Please do not make so much noise, you will frighten Marguerite.’

‘Then do not lock the doors,’ he said, walking past her into the room.

‘I do not want you here. I do not know what to say. I am sorry, I should never have spoken, I just lost my…my will, I suppose.’

‘Unfortunately for what you want, Arabella, this
happens to be my house, you are my wife and that is my daughter.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Oh, yes, my daughter. Do not attempt to take her away from me—the only person who would suffer from that is her.’

‘I was not—’ She broke off and turned away to stare out at the chill wet world outside. ‘I made vows, Elliott, and I will keep them.’

‘Then talk to me, Arabella!’ He took her arm, pulled her to him. Even as he spoke Elliott knew he was too rough. He opened his hands a little, but kept her close.

‘I do care for you.’ Arabella sounded weary. ‘I have cared for you almost from the beginning. I admire you and I think you kind and strong. You know I have felt a strong attraction for you or I would not have come to your bed as willingly as I have done. But none of that alters the fact that I should not have married you. Somehow I should have managed. It was wrong and selfish and now we are both hurt and I do not know how to make it better. Please, go away.’

‘Arabella, you cannot shut yourself away up here,’ Elliott said harshly. ‘The servants will be wondering what on earth is going on.’

‘Tell them that I am having the vapours or some such female affliction that men think we are prone to.’

Elliott turned on his heel and walked out. He had never heard that brittle tone from Arabella, never seen her so dully angry or refusing to try to please him. Part of him knew she had the right to express her feelings, however much they hurt him. Part of him, the part that was wounded by every word, wanted his compliant, sweet-tempered wife back again.

Bella watched from her window as Elliott rode out, his gun slung over his shoulder, his shot belt across his chest, the pointers running at the horse’s heels. Despite the cold, dank fog he preferred to be away from her. She could not blame him, only herself. Something had snapped, something that, looking back, she supposed she must have kept tightly chained up for years and years.

Years of being the peacemaker, the dutiful daughter. Years of obedience and austerity, of loss and sadness. Then Rafe had betrayed her and she had not even had the words to hit back at him. Now Elliott’s words had finally broken the fraying ropes around her restraint and it had spilled out, the confusion and hurt and distress. If she could only have told him she loved him…but that would have been even worse. Would he have lied or would he have told her, kindly and with pity, that he could not return her love?

The urge to go and pick up her child and cuddle her was almost overwhelming—someone, at least, loved her unconditionally and she could love her back without reserve.

No, there were three: Marguerite and her two sisters.
Where are you, Meg and Lina?
she asked herself as she had, so often. Surely she would know if they were no longer alive? She had to hang on to that thought.

The hurt and the anger stirred again, making her feel sick. She so rarely allowed herself to be angry, let alone give way to it as she had just now.

Bella leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Today she would huddle like a wounded animal in her
lair, holding her baby. Tomorrow…tomorrow she would go to London and take Marguerite with her.

Then when she had done all she could to find her sisters she would apologise to Elliott, promise to never speak of her feelings again and, somehow, come to terms with what her marriage was now.

Then Marguerite woke and began to gurgle. ‘I’m coming, sweetheart,’ she called. ‘Mama’s here.’

Breakfast was harder than she could have imagined because Elliott behaved so impeccably. He was polite, he smiled and when she sent the servants from the room and tried to speak of the day before he simply shook his head. ‘No, it is all right, Arabella. We will forget it and go on. Your nerves were overwrought after the house party.’

She wanted to apologise, to try to explain—not how she felt, but why her self-control had given way. But if he wanted to pretend it had never happened then what could she do but go to London with all that unsaid between them?

There was a tap on the door. ‘My lord, excuse me.’ It was Henlow and behind him Bella glimpsed some men in working clothes clustered in the hallway. ‘Turner has sent to say there is flooding all down the Cat Brook. He’s worried the dam at the mill race might give way.’