by Mary Balogh
But how could one share with a man who was so totally unresponsive?
Except in bed. She could please him there as he pleased her. She could have basked in the glory of their nights together. She could have lived on the love she received and gave there.
But she could not. If anything, the very satisfactory nature of their sexual life made her more dissatisfied. He had always admitted to an attraction to her. And it was becoming increasingly obvious that the attraction was only physical and that that was the reason he had married her. He wanted her for his bed. He would put up with the irritation of her presence in his home during the days so that he might use her at night.
It was not a flattering realization. She felt very much less of a person than she had done before her marriage. And so she had to fight on. If she did not, she would have to sink her mind in the degradation of knowing herself her husband’s plaything and nothing else.
Sometimes she hated him.
And at the end of the first week she became aware of the loneliness of their existence and wondered with some unease if they would ever visit or be visited. How could she invite visitors if she had never been presented to any of their neighbors?
The dissatisfaction began at about the same time as she discovered that she was not with child. She was severely disappointed and depressed for a few days, though she told herself how ridiculous she was being. There had been only the two weeks of their marriage and the one encounter the week before that. Perhaps by the end of the next month she would be more fortunate. Or at the end of the next. Perhaps she would have to be patient for several months.
But she was six and twenty, the same age as Ellen, who had two children already, and a year older than Alex. Perhaps she would never have children of her own. Perhaps in addition to everything else, their marriage would be childless.
It was a ridiculous fear after two weeks of marriage.
She was very relieved at the invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, and James’s acceptance of it.
“How old are they, James?” she asked when they were in the carriage on their way to Moorton Grange. “Do they have a family? Will we be the only guests, do you suppose, or will there be others?” She felt as excited as if she were a girl again on her way to her first party. And in a way there was something quite new in all this. She was going to her first entertainment as Madeline Purnell, Lady Beckworth. She would be meeting her neighbors for the first time.
He was sitting against one corner of the carriage, looking at her with eyes that might possibly hold some amusement. It was so hard to tell with James. “In their fifties, probably,” he said. “They have five children. The three oldest are married and away from home. I am not sure about the other two. I have no idea if there will be other guests or not.”
“But the invitation said evening party as well as dinner, did it not?” she said, looking at him in some triumph. “That must mean there will be other guests.”
“I suppose so,” he said.
He seemed more approachable than usual. Madeline glanced down at her pale green dress beneath her pelisse. “Will any of them mind that I am not in mourning?” she asked. “I look very noticeably not so next to your black, James.”
“Why the devil should I care if they mind or not?” he said.
“Your father was their neighbor,” she said.
He laughed and turned to look out the window. “Well,” he said, “I should care if you were in mourning, Madeline. I have already told you what I would do with anything black you chose to wear in defiance of me.”
She sat back in her seat, her mood deflated for the moment. “There was no need for that,” she said. “You know there has been no question of defiance. You have no cause to speak as if you are cross with me.”
“Then why do you worry about what our neighbors will think?” he said. “Your business is to please me, is it not? Do you care what your neighbors think of you?”
“Yes, of course I do,” she said. “I am to live here for the rest of my days as your wife. I must live close to them for the rest of my life also. I hope to make friends and friendly acquaintances. Of course I care about pleasing them. And as for pleasing you, if I were to make that the sole aim of my life, I would be doomed to terrible failure, wouldn’t I? You are impossible to please.”
“It pleases me when you are not constantly crossing my will,” he said.
“If you want a docile little mouse,” she said, “you married the wrong woman.”
And she felt thoroughly cross, her mood of a few minutes before in ruins. Her evening was spoiled. Except that she was not going to allow him to do any such thing to her. She was not going to allow him to dash her spirits whenever they had the misfortune to be in company together. She had set out to enjoy the visit, and enjoy it she would.
She turned a sunny face to her husband again a couple of minutes after their last words.
“Will we be able to entertain, James?” she asked. “Dunstable Hall is such a splendid place for guests.”
“You are the mistress of the place,” he said. “If it pleases you to entertain, then we will entertain.”
She laughed lightly and looked at him with twinkling eyes. “If it pleases me?” she said. “Can it be that you think it part of your business to please me, James? As it is mine to please you? And will I please you if I turn out to be an accomplished hostess? Will you be proud of me?”
“You are in a strange mood,” he said. “Like a child being given a treat.”
“But I am being given a treat,” she said. “I am being taken to the Hoopers’ party and my husband has just said that we may entertain if it pleases me. James—” she stretched a hand across the distance between them and laid it lightly on his, “you are in grave danger of becoming human.” She laughed gaily.
But of course, she thought a few moments later, having retrieved her hand and turned to look out the window and try to revive her spirits yet again, he took it all wrongly. His jaw set even as she laughed at him, and his eyes blazed at her.
“It pleases you to mock me,” he said. “That is all I get for trying to treat you with some kindness, Madeline?”
“But I was not mocking you,” she said, her eyes widening in dismay. “I was teasing.”
“Pardon me,” he said, “but people who are scarcely human do not always recognize teasing.”
“Oh, you are being ridiculous!” she said.
“Of course,” he said, turning his head away from her.
MOORTON GRANGE was a sizable gray stone house, though it was not nearly on the scale of Dunstable Hall. There were several guests. James realized by the effusive, yet rather anxious greetings of Mr. and Mrs. Hooper that he and Madeline were the guests of honor. They and their neighbors were doubtless curious to discover if he would be like his father, or if they might look to him as more of a social leader in the community. Although he had grown up at Dunstable Hall and lived there until four years before, he was in all essential ways a stranger to them.
He presented his wife to Mr. and Mrs. Hooper and Miss Christine Hooper—Timothy Hooper, it seemed, had moved away from home just the year before; to Reverend and Mrs. Hurd; to Mr. and Mrs. Trenton, Mark Trenton, and Miss Henrietta Trenton; to Mr. Palmer and his sister; and to Carl Beasley, whom he was surprised to see if indeed the party was in his honor. And there were more guests still to come.
Madeline fairly sparkled, of course, as she always did in company. He could see that within ten minutes of their arrival she had enslaved most, if not all, of the company. And during dinner there was a great deal of animated conversation and laughter from the other end of the table, where she sat at Mr. Hooper’s right.
“We have arranged for music and cards, my lord,” Mrs. Hooper explained to him. “My Christine wanted dancing, and I am sure the young people would have enjoyed it, but we said no for this occasion on account of the recent passing of your father.”Miss Palmer played the pianoforte after dinner, and Mark Trenton sang. Miss Hooper played the
harp, and Madeline was prevailed upon to play the pianoforte too, though she protested laughingly that her neighbors might never again press her to do so.
“Well, Beckworth,” Carl Beasley said at James’s elbow, “so you have come home.”
“As you see,” James said. “And you are still Peterleigh’s steward?”
Beasley inclined his head. “I believe we were all somewhat surprised to learn that you were bringing home a bride,” he said. “Did you discover that after all the great love of one’s life can fade? Or did you consider it expedient to add a wife to your new title?”
“Perhaps you would prefer to discover the answer for yourself over the next few years,” James said.
They had been friends of sorts at one time—as far as he had been able to form any friendship during his growing years. They had ridden together, fished together, dreamed of their future together. Carl had been the ward of the Duke of Peterleigh, the son of a cousin of the duke’s. He had come to live on Peterleigh’s estate at quite a young age. As had his sister, Dora.
“Ben and Adam Drummond would not come tonight,” Carl said with a half-smile. “I am afraid I am a more curious fellow.”
“I am obliged to you,” James said.
The Drummond brothers were prosperous tenants of Peterleigh’s. They were a little older than he and Carl, and never close friends of his. They were never anything to him, in fact, until their younger brother, John, married Dora.
“Had you heard that John Drummond is back?” Carl asked, looking casually about him, and watching his former friend at the same time.
“No,” James said just as casually. “I have not had a chance to hear much local news.”
“Some people have wondered if that fact precipitated your decision to return so soon after the death of your father,” Carl said.
Yes, Benjamin and Adam would doubtless wonder. And perhaps John. And Carl himself.
“No,” James said, “I had not heard.”
“My sister has four children now,” Carl said.
“Has she?” James was watching Madeline receive the praise of their neighbors on her performance and laughing and taking the offered hand of Mr. Palmer to rise from the bench.
He could feel the blood pounding at his temples. Dora was back. As simply as that. Years before, he had felt that he had moved heaven and earth and not found her. Yet now he had been back for two whole weeks and not known that she was there too.
She had four children. Dora with four children. Three of them John Drummond’s.
He would see her again. He would see what had become of her, what he had done to her.
And he would see his child at last. His son. He had throttled that much information out of Carl, though never the boy’s name. He would be almost nine years old now.
“I must go and make the acquaintance of Lady Beckworth,” Carl said with a smile.
James watched him cross the room to her. He soon had her smiling and talking with animation. Carl was a tall, athletic-looking gentleman, whose blond wavy hair always looked slightly tousled. James had not realized until that moment how attractive his former friend had grown.
MADELINE HAD ENJOYED THE EVENING vastly. She had remembered Alexandra’s saying how wonderful and friendly a part of the country Amberley was and how different from the place where she had grown up. And she herself had been at Dunstable Hall for more than two weeks without any communication with their neighbors beyond a few tentative nods at church. But all was to be well after all.
“Miss Palmer is to call for tea tomorrow, James,” she said in the carriage on the way home. “She seems a very sensible lady. She taught at a girls’ academy for four years, but came back to keep house for her brother.”
“I am glad you like her,” he said.
“Miss Trenton and her brother are to call one day so that I may go walking with them,” she said. “And Mr. Beasley has offered to take me riding about the Duke of Peterleigh’s estate. His grace does not come home very often, he says.”
“He used to come for a few weeks in the summer,” James said.
“Well, I am glad he is not here,” she said. “I have never liked the man since the time when he was supposed to be promised to Alexandra and gave her that famous snub the evening she became betrothed to Edmund instead. You were there too. I remember feeling amazed that you could look so fierce without actually doing violence.” She laughed.
“She was intended for him from childhood on,” he said, “but I can only feel thankful that he did see fit to snub her. She might still have married him else.”
“Mr. Beasley is his relative?” Madeline said. “And he has chosen to remain as the duke’s steward. He is very amiable.”
“He was Peterleigh’s ward,” James said.
“He has a sister too, doesn’t he?” she said, turning her face to him in the darkness of the carriage and smiling. “It is a pity she and her husband were unable to attend tonight. Her husband is one of the duke’s tenants. He has been unwell. Mr. Beasley said we will ride by their farm and call upon her.”
“If you wish to go walking or riding anywhere, Madeline,” James said, “You have only to tell me so and I shall take you. You have no need to impose on neighbors.”
“Impose?” she said. “But they all offered. I did not beg. Besides, doing things together is part of friendship, is it not? And I am determined to make friends among our neighbors here.”
“I won’t have you on Peterleigh’s land,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, looking at him, amazed. “Because he snubbed your sister, James? But that was such a long time ago. Besides, he is not in residence and is not expected. Mr. Beasley says there is a splendid orchard and organgery beside the house.”
“I said you will stay away from there,” he said.
She was silent for a moment. “I take it that is an absolute command?” she said.
“Yes.” He was not looking at her. His profile was set and hard. “Stay away from there, Madeline. And from Beasley.”
“Oh, now I understand,” she said. “Mr. Beasley is a young and single gentleman. A handsome one too. You are suspicious and jealous. That is what this is all about, is it not?”
He looked across at her, his eyes very dark in the shadows. “It is not at all the thing for a married lady to be riding about with a single gentleman,” he said.
“Oh, nonsense, James!” She clucked her tongue and turned her head away to the window in annoyance. “You just do not wish me to make friends, that is all. You want me all to yourself, though why you want that is a mystery to me, because you clearly dislike me and disapprove of everything I say or do.”
“I do not dislike you,” he said.
“Then you must be a very good actor,” she said.
“Madeline,” he said, “I don’t …”
“I wonder you do not lock all the doors in Dunstable Hall and bar all the windows,” she said. “You could carry the keys in a large bunch at your waist. And allow me outside only when I am chained to your wrist or with one of the Cockingses on either side of me, perhaps.”
“You are being foolish,” he said.
“But of course,” she said. “In your eyes I am capable of nothing else, am I? And if you think I am going to obey you in this matter, James, then you will be sorely disappointed. I will choose my own friends and occupy my time with them as I please. And if you don’t like it, then you really must lock me up or beat me.”
“Beasley means mischief,” he said. “Stay away from him, Madeline.”
“Are you going to make me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
“If I possibly can.” he said.
And so she was annoyed again, furiously annoyed, her evening finally in ruins. She had thought to be friendly with him on the way home. She had thought he would be pleased that she liked their neighbors and was already making friends among them. And he had looked so very handsome all evening in his own austere way, dressed in his black mourning clothes. She had felt
near to bursting with love for him.
But there was definitely no pleasing him at all. It was tempting, for very pride’s sake, to give up the attempt. But giving up would mean a lifetime of very real misery. Perhaps the misery was to be there anyway, but she was not going to hold the door open and invite it in.
“Would you care to organize a dinner for a few weeks in the future?” he asked. “It would make you happy to do that, would it not, Madeline?”
It was surely an olive branch. She turned to smile dazzlingly at him. “Yes,” she said, “that would be lovely. Perhaps by then I will have met even more people, and we can invite them all.”
“I will leave the planning to you, then,” he said.
“James,” she said later when they were in their bedchamber, “I have seen very little more of this place than the house and the immediate grounds. Talking this evening about walking and riding with other people has whetted my appetite. I think I will go riding tomorrow.”
“But not alone,” he said. “Or if you do, you must keep to the roads and pastures. Not out onto the moors. You will get lost.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, “I am not a child.”
He came across the room to where she was standing beside the bed. “And I am not a man to be defied at every turn,” he said quietly to her. “I know this area well. The moors are dangerous, Madeline. It is very easy to get lost out on them. I will have your promise not to ride out there alone. Not for years to come, at least. Now, if you please.”
“James,” she said, smiling and touching his chest with one light hand, “I will promise on condition that you promise to take me riding out there within the week.”
“You want me with you?” he asked.
“Yes, I want you with me,” she said, letting her other hand join the first. “You are my husband, aren’t you? My bridegroom of one month? Promise to take me riding.”
“So that we can quarrel every step of the way?” he said.
“I will not promise unless you do,” she said. “I shall go out onto the moors every day of my life just to defy you and then we will quarrel even more. Take me?”