"Secrets of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

CHAPTER 8

THE DUKE of Cranwell was riding in the hills outside Bath with his friend Joshua Stonewall very early the following morning. It felt good to be away from city streets and crowds of people. With Josh he could relax and talk if he wished or be silent if he preferred. That was the mark of true friendship, he felt. He had never done so much talking and so much listening as he had been forced into in the last three days. When one was in society it was necessary constantly to maintain a conversation, even when there was nothing to say. And he was so tired of it all. He longed to be at home in his own company again.

Josh had suggested the ride when they were both at the theater the previous evening, though he had been planning one anyway. Sitting idle in his inn room until it was time to fetch the ladies to the Pump Room was something he could not do day after day. He must have some exercise and some space around him. He liked Bath; it must be one of the most beautiful cities in all of England. But he would never be able to live in a large center. He felt hemmed in. He felt as if his identity was being sapped by the demands of society around him. He was becoming less an individual than an anonymous member of the British aristocracy.

He had noticed that fact particularly the evening before. At the theater people had bowed and curtsied to him wherever he turned. And it had taken him a while to realize that he was being paid more deference than most of the people around him. Clearly it was his title that had drawn attention. In the course of two days news had circulated that there was a duke in residence at Bath. Thus he was treated as if he were someone of particular importance.

It was quite comical, really. He felt like a rather ordinary person. At home, although he was treated with a respect that he took very much for granted, he felt that he earned the esteem of his tenants and neighbors. He worked as hard as any of them did, doing as much manual labor as they as well as much paperwork and managerial duties. He never felt as if he was deferred to merely because of his superior rank. His dukedom meant very little to him as such, though he admitted freely to himself that he enjoyed the benefits that it had brought him, in particular his home. Montagu Hall and its vast estates were very dear to him.

"Do you spend much time at home, Josh?" he asked his friend curiously, reining back his horse so that they rode abreast.

"At Oakland?" Joshua asked. "Not more than I have to. M'mother lives there, of course, and I have to pay a duty call twice a year or so. Why?"

"Don't you have the urge to live on your land," Cranwell asked, "and to get to know how it works? Don't you ever feel that you want to get right into the land and make it work for you?"

"Good Lord, no!" Joshua said emphatically. "What do I pay a bailiff and laborers for?"

"You spend all your time, then, moving from one fashionable spot to another?" Cranwell said.

"Why have money if one can't enjoy it?" his friend. asked. "I go hunting and shooting in season, spend part of the year in London, parts in Brighton or Bath or Tunbridge. I even went to Harrogate last year. All that way because I heard the delectable Miss Weston would be there. She was, and her betrothal was announced two days after my arrival!"

Cranwell laughed. "I shall have to have you come to me at some time," he said. "I shall teach you to get down on your knees and take up a fistful of good black soil. Your life is too frivolous, Josh."

His friend laughed too. "And yours too mundane for me," he said.

Cranwell drew his horse slightly ahead again. How strange it was sometimes to find how different other people could be from oneself. His life would seem so rootless, so pointless if he lived as Josh did. He really did wish he could go home, or at least that a term of one week or perhaps two could be put on their visit. Unfortunately, Lady Cavendish appeared to be more intent on staying at least a month. And Fanny would doubtless do her part to see that that time would be extended.

She was doing very well in her debut in society. They had been here only two days, and already she had gathered a small court of admirers as well as a group of young lady acquaintances. Last evening Captain Penny, Winston Bowen, and two or three other gentlemen with whom she had danced at the ball had come to pay their respects to her, and she had detained each of them with her bright chatter. He was aware that her position as his sister probably accounted for some of the notice that was being taken of her. But despite that fact, she was a very pretty girl. He had not particularly noticed before, but now he could see her with new eyes. She was almost as tall as he and very slender. Her cheeks were always flushed pink and her eyes sparkling with zest for life. Her hair was the feature that she hated because it was no decided color. But its high gloss prevented it from ever being labeled mousy.

He did not want Fanny to attach herself too soon to one man. He had already resigned himself to spending the following spring in London so that he could introduce both his wife and his sister to the ton during the Season and see them properly presented at court. There Fanny could look around her in more leisurely fashion for a husband. Even then she would be but eighteen. But even so, it was gratifying to see her gaining practice at mingling with people of her own class and making some connections that could be reestablished in London.

Cranwell thoroughly approved of her friendship with Penny. He was a silent young man but perfectly respectable. In fact, if Fanny were to choose a husband soon, she could hardly do better than to pick such a man. His reticence would balance her exuberance, yet it did not denote weakness, Cranwell guessed. The man was, after all, a military hero.

Bowen too seemed to be a perfectly acceptable suitor. Cranwell had watched him carefully the day before and approved of his gaiety and charm. He had looked for irresponsibility in the one and lack of sincerity in the other, but there had been no signs of either. During yesterday's walk, Bowen had climbed the hill with Fanny, but he had not monopolized her company, as was most proper. At the top he had shown concern and kindness to Hannah by perceiving her tiredness. The evening before he had conversed with the whole party amiably during one interval but had not hung around them to make his stay an unwelcome length. In fact, Cranwell had not even seen him again during the rest of the evening.

He had not missed noticing, either, the attention Bowen paid Sarah. He was her cousin and, of course, must know the scandal of her past. Yet he did not shun her. He stood by her. Cranwell could admire his loyalty.

Bowen was the only person with whom he had seen Hannah conversing the previous evening. The man seemed to have the gift that he himself did not have: the knack of conversing easily with all kinds of people and getting them to respond.

Cranwell was becoming downright troubled about Hannah. She had not enjoyed the play, though she had dutifully claimed to do so when asked by her grandmother on the journey home. And she had not responded to any of his overtures at conversation. He really had tried. He had had no distractions that evening, but for once had been free to devote his whole attention to his fiancee. But it had been hopeless. She had rarely responded with more than a monosyllable to even his most careful questions.

Had he made a mistake in engaging himself to her so precipitately? he wondered. It was true that he would hate to have a prattling wife, but could not a silent one be almost equally provoking? When he had chosen, he had considered only his own satisfaction and comfort. It had not entered his mind that his chosen bride might also have ideas of what constituted happiness. Perhaps Hannah had an active aversion to him. Perhaps she had been given no choice in the question of his proposal. Maybe she had been forced in some way into accepting. It was a humbling thought.

He did not know whether he should bring the matter into the open and ask her outright, or whether it was better to leave matters as they were. After all, even if she freely admitted to him that she did not wish to be his wife, there was little they could do about the matter. Only she could break the engagement, and if she did so, she would be in deep trouble with her father if it was true that he had forced her into it in the first place.

Cranwell sighed. Life could be so complicated when one became involved with another person.

"Should we turn back, Cran?" Joshua asked from behind him. "We will have to do so now if we are to attend the Pump Room this morning. I should hate the thought of missing a whole morning's gossip."

Cranwell laughed. "And I should hate to face my ladies if I fail to arrive in Laura Place in time to escort them," he said, turning his horse's head in the direction of Bath again.

"You certainly have a handsome trio," Joshua said. "It don't seem fair, Cran, that you never make an effort to go into society, yet when you do appear, you are surrounded by all the most handsome females. Lady Cavendish is always held to be the most striking of the ladies above forty. And Lady Hannah is lovely. It shouldn't be allowed, my friend, that you can rob the schoolroom before any other male has a chance to put in a bid."

"Josh," Cranwell said dryly, "you have had chances galore these past ten years. I can remember the time when any one of half a dozen very eligible young ladies would have taken you at the drop of a hat. But you were always too much afraid that if you got leg-shackled you would have to stop your eyes from roving."

"Ah, very true," Joshua sighed. "And it becomes harder as the years go by, my friend. The ladies become lovelier, I would swear. Take Lady Fanny, for example. Pure English rose, Cran. And have you noticed that young cousin of Lady Murdoch's? Or have your eyes been too taken with your betrothed? Pure loveliness, Cran. A body to die for. And that hair! Do you think an introduction yesterday afternoon is enough of an acquaintance to enable me to call on her while she is confined to her lodgings? A deuced inconvenient accident, that."

There was a noticeable pause in the conversation. "I think you are a better judge than I, Josh, of what is correct social behavior and what is not," Cranwell said.

"Come with me," Joshua suggested. "You are better acquainted than I. This afternoon?"

"I think not," Cranwell said hastily. "I am not much in the way of paying calls on strange ladies, Josh."

His friend sighed with exaggerated frustration. "I may be doomed to wait until she is able to go abroad again," he said. "The delectable Miss Fifield! Ain't she Viscount Laing's cousin or something like that? I see I shall have to cultivate his friendship. Perhaps I shall have better luck with him than with you, Cran."

They rode on in silence again.

Cranwell was still furious with himself about the evening before. It had been horrifying enough to find himself trapped into going into Lady Murdoch's lodgings with her in order to carry Sarah up to her room. He could not imagine any other lady of his acquaintance even dreaming of making such a request. But there had been no way he could avoid the task, short of being extremely rude himself. But why could he not have performed the task in silence and left again?

But no! He had had to look at her before picking her up. He had had to look and notice the pale, drawn expression on her face, which somehow only succeeded in making her look even more beautiful than usual. He had had to give himself time to realize that she was in pain. And he had felt a sympathy for her, a quite unreasonable desire to comfort her. Instead of picking her up and carrying her upstairs with his mind fixed firmly on his farms or his coming marriage or some equally safe topic, he had held her and allowed memory to wash over him. Just thus she had felt on their wedding night when he had carried her to their bed to make love to her: surprisingly light, warm and soft against him. Just so she had smelled, a light fragrance that appeared to come from her hair. Just so she had twined her arm around his neck.

By the time he had deposited her on her bed, he had almost allowed himself to forget what she was. For one mad moment he had wanted to follow her down onto the bed, to cradle her head against his shoulder, and to soothe away the pain. He had resisted. Thank God, he had resisted! But even then he had not been content to walk away. He had turned back, quite unaware that he was about to do so, and apologized for calling her a whore. And he had meant it. He should not have meant it. He must never soften his heart to that woman. But he had done so.

What had she said? She had said that he had spoken only the truth. She had made no attempt to deny his charges. She never had, in fact, once he had confronted her with the truth. Of course, by that time she had already lived the great lie. But he must give her credit for that one thing: she had never denied the truth once he knew it. She had never tried to justify herself.

He had never lived through such a terrible night as his wedding night. He shuddered at the memory now. May God protect him from having to live through anything as horrifying ever again. He had loved her totally, as perhaps only a solitary person can love once his heart is given. And he had trusted her utterly. It had never even entered his head that perhaps she was not the pure, quiet young innocent she appeared to be. His shock on discovering that she was not a virgin had destroyed in an instant all his determined efforts to be gentle with her and to show by his every movement and every touch that he loved and worshiped her. He had completed the act of love in a blind and bewildered fury.

And she had not denied any of it. She could have lied and said it had happened only once, a youthful indiscretion, perhaps. He probably would have believed her and forgiven her. He probably would have grown to love her again almost as much as he had before. But she had clearly implied that she had lain with men more times than she could count. She had not denied his charge that she was a whore.

He hated even to remember the night and the two days that followed this discovery. He had ridden around the countryside, eating and sleeping at inns, he supposed, though he could never recall any of them. He had tried to assimilate his new knowledge, had tried to adjust to this new picture of Sarah. His wife! He had finally faced the numbing reality that he was married to a whore, and he had asked himself honestly if anything could possibly be made of the situation. An annulment was out of the question. He had consummated the marriage. The prospect of divorce and all the publicity that would be involved in such a rare occurrence were not to be contemplated.

Three days after his wedding, Cranwell returned to her uncle's house. He knew that he must face Sarah, talk to her now that the passion had gone, see what could be worked out between them. He hated to remember.

Her aunt was bewildered, her uncle closer to anger. It was obvious that they did not know the truth of why he had sent her back. She was outside somewhere, they told him, where she had been all day and every day since her return. He found her sitting on a stile quite close to the house, but out of sight of its windows. She was sitting with hunched shoulders and was staring ahead of her.

"Sarah," he said when he was no more than eight feet behind her.

Her back stiffened but she did not turn around. "Go away!" she said.

"Sarah, we must talk," he persisted.

"There is nothing to say," she said. "You must go away."

"Sarah." He walked up beside her and rested his arms along the fence. "There must be more to say. I must know more. I cannot believe… I cannot, Sarah."

"Why?" she asked, and she turned to look at him half-defiantly, half-coquettishly. "Do you not think I am pretty enough to attract lovers, your grace? I do assure you there are other men who would disagree with you."

He frowned. He felt some revulsion. "Talk to me," he said. "Let us have done with this barrier between us, Sarah. We are husband and wife. Let us talk."

She looked ahead of her again. "I am bad," she said. "I have been since I was very young. I first lay with a man when I was but seventeen. And I have done so numerous times since. You see those hills and those trees?" She pointed ahead to the hills that rose in the distance. "They have been my bed so many times that I have lost count. I am bad. You have married an evil woman, your grace, a whore, as you yourself said. And I married you because I wanted a different life. You were right." She shrugged and turned to smile at him.

The smile seemed grotesque to him. It was like a caricature of his Sarah who was before him. He felt that he was seeing her for the first time.

"Perhaps you would like to go up into the hills with me now," she said, that smile still on her face, her eyebrows arched inquiringly, her eyes on his.

He put his head down on the fence between his hands. "Oh God, Sarah," he said, "I could not have been so mistaken. Could I?”

"You should have known," she said in a careless sort of drawl that he hardly recognized as her voice. "You must be a dreadful innocent."

"God, what are we to do?" he asked.

She did not answer. When he lifted his head again it was to find her staring stonily ahead of her.

"Do you have any feeling for me, Sarah?" he asked, dreading the answer. "Do you have any love for me at all?"

She laughed, a light flirtatious sound that made him grit his teeth. "What do you think, your grace?" she said. "What do you think?"

His mind flashed back to his courtship of her, to the friendship they had seemed to share, to their wedding, to the consummation of their marriage. Could this unfeeling coquette possibly be the same woman as the one he had loved with such passion and such tenderness? Surely only some unusually fiendish woman could act such a part so convincingly. She had played the part of young innocence without a flaw. He felt a deep revulsion for her, a fear almost.

He turned away from her and left her uncle's house without further delay. And this time there was no indecision left. He would not, could not go through life shackled to such evil. Even divorce was preferable. He had to be free of her. He would never know a moment of peace until she was no longer a part of him. He rode straight to London to consult his lawyer, whom he had not seen in five years, on the validity of his case against his wife.

He had not seen her since, though he had weakened enough when the deed was accomplished to instruct his lawyer to settle on her enough money to allow her to live independently of her relatives and of her former profession if she so chose. His lawyer had advised against such a move, but he had done it anyway.

Josh was quite right, though. Sarah was even more beautiful now than she had been when he had loved her. Her body had a woman's maturity now. Her face had the beauty of one who has experienced something of life. And her hair was still her crowning glory. Her titian hair. Damn!

Lady Cavendish had invited several friends and acquaintances to call on her for tea after luncheon. She and the girls, therefore, were contented to stroll in Sydney Gardens for a mere hour after breakfast before returning to Laura Place to rest and to prepare themselves for the exertion of entertaining.

Cranwell was quite delighted to have still more free time before the inevitable visit to the Upper Assembly Rooms again in the evening. It was to be a ball night again. He went to the coffee shop on North Parade that he had visited the day before with Josh. It was a place for men only, a gathering ground for relaxation and conversation more than for the drinking of coffee. He joined a group of new acquaintances for a while and spent an interesting half-hour solving with them all the problems of Europe and the spreading power of Bonaparte.

He was joined there by Winston Bowen, who seemed delighted to see him, and was soon drawn a little apart from the main group, which had now moved on into solving all of Britain's trading problems.

"All alone, Cranwell?" Winston asked.

"Yes," the other answered with a rueful smile. "There is a tea party this afternoon, you know. Strictly ladies' business. I have escaped."

"Ah," said Winston, "and were your sister and your betrothed bent on escaping also?"

Cranwell looked his enquiry.

"They were arriving to call on Sarah as I was leaving a short time ago," Winston said. "Very kind of them, in my opinion. Lady Murdoch had already left, but Sarah is still unable to put her foot to the ground."

Cranwell frowned. "Indeed?" he said.

"But they are charming ladies," Winston said. "Your fiancee does credit to your taste, Cranwell, and your sister to your influence."

Cranwell inclined his head and then looked curiously at his companion. "You, of course, know of my connection with Miss Fifield," he said.

Winston smiled. "You need not fear that I shall say anything to anyone else," he said. "Sarah is my cousin and as dear to me as a sister. I would do everything in my power to protect her reputation. You are not thinking of causing any trouble, are you, Cranwell?"

The duke looked at him levelly across the width of the table. "Miss Fifield is no longer any connection of mine," he said. "Her affairs are none of my concern." He winced inwardly at his unfortunate choice of words Winston smiled again. "I wanted to be sure," he said. "I value your acquaintance, Cranwell, and that of Lady Hannah and your sister. But I should have to forgo the pleasure of continuing the connection if you meant my cousin any harm." His eyes looked with a steady sincerity into those of the other man.

He left soon afterward, leaving Cranwell slightly apart from the group, whose conversation had become loudly argumentative. He had just discovered a new dimension to the character of the gay and charming Lord Laing. The man had a depth of character that he had not suspected. He undoubtedly enjoyed the social life of Bath, and he seemed to like the company of Fanny, yet he would give it all up out of loyalty to Sarah if he had to. He had made that perfectly clear. Cranwell was in no doubt that Bowen had been warning him in a very tactful manner that if he intended to make trouble for Sarah, he would have her cousin to contend with. And Bowen would be no mean adversary. He had a powerful and athletic physique.

Cranwell absently turned his coffee cup in its saucer. The woman might not be worth such devotion; in fact, she undoubtedly was not worth it. But he must still admire such loyalty. Such a man would be a thoroughly desirable husband for his sister. He certainly did not want her to make her choice in any hurry, but if it should happen that she became attached to him and he to her, then he himself would be foolish indeed not to encourage the match.

And why did he feel strangely comforted to know that Sarah had someone of steady character to stand by her? She was not entirely alone.

He frowned suddenly and pushed his chair from the table. He raised a hand and gestured a farewell to the men around him. He left the shop deep in uneasy thought. Fanny and Hannah had gone to call on Sarah? And just on the day when he had been relieved to know that there would be no awkward meetings with her.

Why had they done such a thing? They were supposed to be at Laura Place with Lady Cavendish entertaining all the callers who were expected. He could imagine how it might have come about. Lady Murdoch would have arrived and announced that Sarah was unable to come as she must still rest her sprained ankle. And Fanny, probably, would feel sorry for her, at home alone, and would announce her intention of going to Brock Street. Hannah would go along to keep her company. Of course, the idea might have been Hannah's. She was the one the afternoon before who had wanted to make sure that Sarah was given a personal invitation to tea.

Under any circumstances he would have been annoyed at such an occurrence. Under the particular circumstances he was furious. Fanny knew the truth. She knew that it was improper to consort with Sarah, and she knew that it was against his express wishes. Yet she had deliberately and behind his back sought out that woman. And she had seemingly done nothing to guard Hannah against such impropriety. He would certainly have something to say to her when he saw her later.

And why had Sarah let them in? It would have been very easy for her to have them denied entrance. She could have pleaded indisposition. He had commanded her the day before to stay away from both girls. Was she deliberately defying him? Was she courting the friendship of his sister and his fiancee merely to provoke him? Was she deliberately flaunting her knowledge that he would not expose her true identity to anyone? There must be some way he could remove her more permanently from his own sphere and that of those who were dear to him.

He had commanded her! He came to an abrupt stop-in the middle of a busy Cheap Street and almost laughed aloud. What right did he have to command Miss Sarah Fifield to do anything? He had forfeited the right to have any control over her actions when he had divorced her four years ago. He was behaving for all the world as if she were still his wife.

Was she still in as much pain today as she had been the night before? he wondered. He must ask Hannah later. If she was, perhaps he should suggest to Lady Murdoch that another physician be consulted. Was the present one sure that a bone had not been broken? It must be set properly immediately if such were the case, before permanent damage was done.

Cranwell stopped again, as abruptly as before, and right in the middle of the road he was crossing. He must be taking leave of his senses. What concern of his was Sarah's sprained ankle?

An angry carter shouted abuse at the Duke of Cranwell as he turned his team to avoid an accident and almost collided with a gig coming in the opposite direction.