THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WERE SURPRISINGLY TRANQUIL ones. They were filled with activities, ones that were largely shared by Peregrine and Grace. They had both sensed that the honeymoon period of their marriage was over and that a more difficult period, even possibly a disastrous one, was ahead for them. And both resisted the change and clung desperately to the quiet and affectionate closeness they had shared for more than a year.
They attended the opera together and heard the famous Madame Catalani in Atalida. They attended the Hanover Square Rooms one evening and listened to the concert there in company with a large gathering that included four of the royal dukes and Princess Alexandra, mother of the Princess of Wales. They watched a splendid and colorful military review in the park one afternoon and attended St. Paul’s together for the Easter services. They visited an exhibition of paintings at Somerset House and another of paintings of famous cities at the Panorama. They visited the Tower again and spent a full afternoon in the armory there.
They attended some of the quieter evening entertainments as well as the balls and routs that attracted large squeezes. They spent a few evenings at Mrs. Eunice Borden’s salon, meeting and conversing with the writers and poets and political figures with whom she liked to surround herself. She was a small, rather heavyset, curly-haired widow, somewhat younger than Grace, a particular friend of the Earl of Amberley. Indeed, Grace began to wonder with some curiosity if perhaps she was his mistress. His lordship was always there when they were, and he never left before them, however late they lingered.
Somehow, although they attended several of the more glittering entertainments of the ton, they avoided any more uncomfortable evenings like that of the first ball. And yet they both knew that they were living through an interval that could not last. And they both knew that they could not prolong it indefinitely. Although they never spoke to each other of their deepest desires, each wanted to go home, away from London, away from all those forces that seemed to be conspiring against their happiness. And yet each silently consented to stay.
And even in the midst of the tranquillity, there were still signs of strain. They met Lord Sandersford on more than one occasion, though Grace contrived never to be alone with him. At the opera one evening she declined his offer to take her into the corridor for some fresh air between acts, although he had looked to Peregrine for permission and had received a nod in return. And she sat next to Perry for the rest of the performance, their arms not quite touching, conversation between them dead, both of them taut with stress, while Martin and Ethel, Priscilla and Mr. Johnson laughed and exchanged comments on either side of them.
And there was the morning when they called at Cavendish Square to find Priscilla in mingled elation and despair. Four young ladies and three young gentlemen had arranged an expedition to Kew Gardens for the afternoon.
“But Lucinda declares that she will not go as she has no particular beau,” Priscilla said, “though I have assured her that Mr. Johnson will be quite delighted to offer his free arm to her. It really does not signify that the numbers are not quite even.”
“And yet,” her mother said, “you must imagine how you would feel, Priscilla, if it were you without an escort.”
“I would die,” Priscilla assured the room at large.
Peregrine laughed. “If you think that Miss Stebbins would not die an equally horrid death to be escorted by an old married uncle of yours, Priscilla,” he said, “perhaps I could make up the numbers. Would you mind, Grace? We have no other plans for this afternoon, have we?”
Grace encouraged the outing. It was just like Perry to step in with such cheerful kindness to save a poor girl from embarrassment. She did not even mind when he arrived home late in the afternoon and came directly to her sitting room to throw himself rather inelegantly into a comfortable chair so that he might tell her all about the expedition. It seemed that he had undoubtedly made a mortal enemy of Mr. Francis Hartwell, who had been forced to escort Miss Stebbins during the whole afternoon because Lady Leila Walsh had laid claim to Peregrine’s arm. He was laughing by the time he finished.
“Do you think I might get called out onto a frosty heath at dawn, Grace?” he asked. “It sounds a deuced uncomfortable prospect to me.”
“I don’t think there are any frosty heaths left at this time of year, Perry,” she answered, “even at dawn. I would say you are safe.”
“Thank heaven for a wife’s common sense,” he said, laughing again. “Ah, you have finished embroidering that sprig of flowers, Grace, and I looked forward to watching you do it. What a shame. Kew had nothing to compare with it in beauty, you know.”
“Silly,” she said, holding the cloth up nevertheless so that he might see better the work she had done during the afternoon.
And there was that uneasiness in her again. It was not jealousy. She was not jealous of the young and vital Lady Leila, not suspicious of her husband, not accusing in any way. Only left with a feeling that there was perhaps more rightness in Perry’s being with her and with those other young people than there was in his being with his own wife. And did he realize it too? Or would he come to do so soon?
Their own dinner and evening party were set for a day one week ahead of Lord Sandersford’s two-day house party in the country. They had invited him—how could they not without admitting to each other an awareness of a potentially explosive situation they had never referred to? And they had invited all their acquaintances from both their homes as well as Peregrine’s mother and aunt and cousin, who had arrived from Scotland a couple of days before, and a few other young people to make the gathering merrier.
Grace had been apprehensive about meeting her mother-in-law, but when they called upon her in Charles Street the day before their party, they received a gracious welcome. Peregrine’s mother offered a cheek for his kiss and then hugged him. She stretched out both hands to Grace, looked her up and down, declared that she was in good looks, and then hugged her too. Perry winked at her over his mother’s head.
Mrs. Campbell, too, Peregrine’s aunt, greeted her with affectionate courtesy and proceeded to tell her that of course she had still not forgiven young Perry for imitating her late husband’s Scottish accent so mercilessly during their last visit into England that a footman had burst into laughter and slopped a soup tureen over the tablecloth and almost got himself dismissed.
“I protest, Aunt,” Peregrine said, laughing. “I could not have been above fourteen at the time. Ah cuid nae be sae ill-mannered noo, ye ken.” He dodged her flying hand and caught her around the waist in order to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek.
“Grace, my dear,” Mrs. Campbell said, “how do you endure it? You must be a saint, for sure.”
They all laughed, and Grace felt accepted as one of the family.
And throughout the five-course dinner at which she presided the next evening, she continued to hug to herself that warm feeling of belonging. She looked down the length of the table to where Peregrine sat, entertaining his mother on his right and Ethel on his left, and felt again how wonderful it was to be a married lady with a definite place in society. And she marveled anew at how she could have lived for so many years at the rectory in a type of suspended animation. Then she caught the rather mocking eye of Gareth, seated halfway down the table.
And she knew she would not be able to avoid him for the whole evening. A chill of something like fear set her to refusing her favorite dessert and stumbling in her conversation with Mr. Stebbins beside her.
They had thought that perhaps the younger people would wish to dance. But no one suggested it. They seemed content for a while to entertain themselves at one end of the long drawing room by playing the pianoforte and singing. And then they formed two teams for charades and played with a great deal of shrieking and laughter. Some of the older people wandered over to watch while others stayed closer to the fire and talked.
Peregrine had been drawn into the game in order to make up even numbers and was having so much success that he was being loudly accused of cheating by the opposing team. Grace sat behind the teapot, talking to Lady Amberley and her mother-in-law until both ladies smiled at an unusually merry burst of laughter from the opposite end of the room and strolled across to see what was happening. Grace was not at all surprised when Lord Sandersford took their place almost immediately.
“There is something quite strange about this situation, Grace,” he said. “The bulk of your guests amusing themselves with great energy at the other end of the room while you sit here behind the teapot in demure domesticity. The Grace I knew would have been in the very center of that activity.”
“The Grace you knew was considerably younger, Gareth,” she said. “Would it not look extremely peculiar for a matron of my age to be romping with the very young?”
“And yet your husband does,” he said quietly.
Grace said nothing. She stacked the cups more neatly on the tray beside her.
“I could do violence, Grace,” he said. “I want to shake you out of your torpor.”
“You are quite unrealistic,” she said. “You expect me to be as I was fifteen years ago. I was only a little past twenty then. I am close to forty now. I cannot stay a girl forever.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Age has nothing to do with the question. You were alive then. You are half-dead now. You have been avoiding me, Grace. Are you afraid of me?”
“Of course I am not,” she said, her eyes dropping from his momentarily. “But you cannot expect me to seek you out either, Gareth. I am married to Perry.”
His lips tightened. “I might end up doing murder, you know,” he said. “Look at him, Grace. Look at the man to whom you insist on remaining loyal. He is a boy. A thoughtless, laughing, undoubtedly empty-headed boy. Though I will grant you, a tolerably pretty one. And you call him husband? I will not accept it. I give you due warning that my patience is running out. You cannot tell me that you feel any attachment to him beyond some gratitude, perhaps. He did rescue you, I grant, after Paul died, though you might have come to me if only you had known that I was widowed and back home.”
Grace’s silence was stony.
“He was at Kew with Lady Leila Walsh last week,” he said. “Did you know? Did he remember to tell you? Oh, with a few other young people as well to add some respectability. But very much with her, nonetheless. Do you not know that she means to have him, Grace, and that he has every intention of being had? If it is not already an accomplished fact, that is. Are you blind, or do you refuse to see?”
“And do you mean to have me, Gareth?” she said in some anger. “And do you believe that I have every intention of being had?”
“No,” he said, “to the second half of what you said. You are a coward, Grace. You are afraid to examine the state of your own heart and act on what you find there. Are you afraid of the scandal? Are you afraid your Peregrine will divorce you? It is very unlikely, I do assure you. He will be happy to let you go your way while he goes his. And I do not care that much”—he snapped his fingers—“whether we can be legally wed or not when you come to me. We belong together. We will be married in all ways that matter.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know that you do not set much store by marriage, Gareth.”
He laughed and tried to take her hand, but she moved it away in order to adjust the angle of the teapot. She was finding his presence suffocating again. She was very aware of him, as she always had been—of his broad shoulders and his long-fingered hands, his dark hair and handsome face. She was aware and she was frightened. She could feel the pull of his power over her, but did not know the nature of that power. Did she still love him? Or did she hate him? Was she afraid of him? Or was it herself she feared?
“Sometimes,” he said, “and with great relief, I see flashes of the old Grace. There was pure spite in those last words, my dear. You are still angry over my desertion, are you not?”
“My son lived the whole of his life without a father,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I was not responsible for his early death, Grace.”
“And the whole of his life as a bastard.”
“I am sure your family was far too well-bred ever to use that word in his hearing,” he said.
“But it was used in my hearing,” she said. “And it was used by a few to comfort me after he died. I must be relieved, it seemed, to know that my son would not grow up to know himself a bastard.”
“Come on,” he said, his voice grim at last, “tell me more. This has to all come out before we can get anywhere, you and I. I think we may even come to blows before it is all over. But, yes, Grace, I mean to have you. And you will have me. Because at the bottom of your anger is your love for me. So come on. Keep talking.”
“They put the label on the wrong person,” Grace said. “It was his father who was the bastard. And who is a bastard. You are trying to destroy my life all over again, Gareth. I have been happy for more than a year. Happy! But you must kill that happiness. I hate you now as I have hated you for years.”
He smiled. But his eyes were burning down into hers. “This is better,” he said. “Now we are approaching the truth. We are not there yet, but we are on the way. Keep talking.”
“No!” Grace picked up the teapot with hands that were not quite steady and poured some into her empty cup. “Not again, Gareth. I am not going to forget my surroundings again as I did in that ballroom. No.” She drew a few steadying breaths. “Do tell me about your late wife’s property, the one you have invited us to next week. Is it large?”
“It is large enough,” he said, “for us to find some privacy, Grace. We will continue this, ah, discussion there, perhaps even conclude it. We will have everything out in the open that has been festering in you for years. You will have the chance to strike at me with your fists or your fingernails if you wish. But the moment cannot be avoided. I promise you that. Now, Lady Lampman, was there anything else you wished to know about my property?”
“No, I thank you, my lord,” she said. “You have been most specific.”
She met Peregrine’s eyes across the room and did not even try to quell the ache inside her. She knew now that it would not go away and that she could no longer expect Perry to take it away for her.
LORD SANDERSFORD’S HOUSE at Hammersmith overlooked the river and was so beautiful, Ethel declared, that it was amazing that his lordship had not made it his principal seat. But the viscount merely smiled and explained that home is something one feels in one’s blood and heart and has nothing necessarily to do with obvious beauty.
His town guests had been invited to stay overnight. Ethel, Martin, and Priscilla were among this number, as were the Stebbinses and two male cousins of his late wife’s. And, of course, Grace and Peregrine.
Peregrine knew as well as Grace did why they were there, that these two days in the country somehow represented a crisis in their marriage. He had known it from the moment their invitation had arrived, and even before that probably. And he had seen it very clearly at his own home the week before. He had expected Sandersford to contrive to have a private word with his wife there. And he had expected that same look of intensity in their faces he had seen at the ball.
He had expected too that Grace would not be happy afterward, that she would be feeling guilt and uncertainty. The crisis was coming, something far more powerful than had yet happened, and something that could not be averted. Oh, yes, it probably could be prevented, Peregrine granted. If he chose to assert his masculinity, his rights as a husband, there were probably several courses he could take to protect what was his own. He could take his wife home and keep her there. A very simple solution. Or he could confront her with his knowledge, forbid her to speak alone with Sandersford ever again. And he had no doubt that Grace would obey him. Perhaps she would even be relieved to have all the stress of the situation lifted from her own shoulders.
But he could not take either of those courses. He could only take the apparently unmanly course of staying quiet, of leaving his wife free to find out and to live her own destiny. Perhaps it was only in that week of his intense unhappiness that Peregrine realized fully what his feelings for his wife really were. And it was only in the same time period that he realized fully the nature of love. The terrifying nature. For love cannot take anything for itself. It can only give and leave itself wide open and defenseless against emptiness and pain and rejection.
And so Peregrine took his wife to Hammersmith with no comment upon the white, set face that had been hers for all of the previous week or on her eyes, which held desperately to their calmness during the carriage ride, in which they were accompanied by Priscilla and Lucinda Stebbins.
And in Hammersmith he allowed Grace to stay close to him without in any way following her around. He let her take his arm and hold to it throughout the tour of the house given by their host, knowing that that same host was far too skilled a man to allow her to stay there at his side for the whole of the rest of the day and the morning of the next.
They stopped in the gallery that overlooked the river and became so absorbed in examining the rare collection of Chinese porcelain there that they were scarcely aware of the glorious view from the window that had the other guests exclaiming in delight. And in the music room they admired all the various musical instruments collected by Lord Sandersford’s mother-in-law.
“It is as well that we do not own these things, Perry,” Grace said, “or I would spend half your fortune on music lessons so that I could play them all.”
“And I would spend the other half so that I could play them too,” he said. “Then, with no fortune left, Grace, we could wander the countryside, like the minstrels of old, earning our daily bread with our music.”
“That sounds good,” she said. “I will carry the flute, Perry, and you can load the pianoforte on your back.”
They both laughed. “Perhaps it is as well we do not own them,” he said.
And they walked in the gardens and down by the river and agreed with the other guests that they were fortunate indeed to have been granted such a gloriously warm and sunny day for their visit after more than a week of indifferent weather. They stood and watched as two of the cousins rowed Priscilla and Miss Stebbins out on the water, and agreed that they were quite content to keep their feet on firm—and dry—ground.
They sat side by side on the terrace to take tea and listened as Lord Sandersford, at his most charming, entertained his guests with amusing anecdotes of military life. And Peregrine felt Grace’s arm brush his during a gust of laughter over one of the stories, and smiled down at her. Soon after, all the guests retired to their rooms to rest for a while and to get ready for dinner and the evening party, to which several of the neighboring families had been invited.
It would be that evening, Peregrine thought as he stood in his dressing room that opened off one side of the bedchamber he was to share with Grace. He buttoned up his shirt slowly and smoothed out the lace at the cuffs so that it covered his hands to the knuckles. There was to be dancing in the lower drawing room, Sandersford had announced, to accommodate the young people who had been invited. And doubtless the doors onto the terrace would be kept open on such a warm evening.
It would be that evening. He was powerless to prevent it, or rather, he had chosen to be powerless. He must only watch to see that the confrontation when it came was not entirely against Grace’s will. He knew that she did not want it, that she resisted the moment. He knew also that she did want it, that she recognized its inevitability. But even so, the moment must not be forced on her against her will. Against that at least he could and would protect her.
LUCINDA STEBBINS HAD not taken well during the first weeks of the Season. A little overplump for most tastes and with hair that tended to be more yellow than blond and that she wore in an unbecoming style with masses of tight ringlets, she could not lay claim to any great prettiness. And her tendency to become tongue-tied or giggly in company and to blush in uneven patches of red did not add to her attractions.
Yet she was an innocent and sweet-natured girl, Grace knew, and one whom Perry had very kindly taken under his wing. He sat next to the girl at dinner and had her giggling with amusement rather than embarrassment before the end of the first course. And he danced the first country dance with her in Gareth’s large lower drawing room.
Grace was happy to see that one of the cousins led her into the second dance and lingered to converse with her afterward. He was a particularly small and thin young man. It was rather unfortunate perhaps that he tried to overcome these deficiencies by padding out the shoulders of his coat and the calves of his legs and by wearing a lavender and yellow striped waistcoat and extremely high shirt points, and by putting a quizzing glass to frequent and absurdly languid use. Grace had sat next to him at dinner and had found him to be a perfectly sensible young man once she had penetrated beyond the bored superficiality of his opening remarks.
Priscilla, of course, was preening herself before the obvious admiration of the other cousin and two tolerably handsome and eligible neighbors. She had taken well with the ton and was clearly enjoying every moment of her triumph.
“Of course,” Ethel was saying to Grace and Mrs. Stebbins, “Priscilla will not even be eighteen for another five weeks. We have no great wish for her to fix her choice this year. She is far too young to marry. We merely wish for her to gain experience.”
“Lucinda will doubtless be considering some of her offers this year,” Mrs. Stebbins said, “since it is doubtful that Mr. Stebbins will consent to bringing us here for another Season. He is so hopelessly rustic, Lady Lampman. Of course, we wish to choose an eligible husband for her. We do not have to accept the first offer she receives.”
It was strange, Grace thought, that she had never been brought to London for a Season. She could not now remember if there had even been any question of her coming. She certainly could not recall craving any such thing. If she had, doubtless she would have had her way. In those days her father had been quite unable to deny her anything she had set her heart on.
But she had been in love with Gareth by the time she reached the age to make her come-out. And planning to marry him and live happily ever after with him. They were to travel together, visit all the fashionable cities of Europe together. There had been no need of a come-out Season.
She had thought herself very strong-willed and independent, Grace thought now, watching the dancers perform a quadrille and smiling at her husband, who was with a flushed little girl who could not be a day older than sixteen. And yet she must have been extraordinarily like a puppet on a string. Gareth’s puppet. She had been twenty-one years old when he went away. They had been talking of marriage for four years. Had he ever really intended to marry her? The idea that perhaps he had not was a novel one. But not by any means an impossible one.
Gareth had always had his way. They had quarreled and fought, sometimes quite physically, but she could not now recall any important matter on which she had won. Most notably, he had refused to marry her before going away, after giving her any number of very good reasons for not doing so. At the same time he had overcome her objections to their lying together before he went. And she had lain with him with a stubborn and foolish disregard of the consequences and conceived his child.
Far from being the strong and determined girl that she had always thought herself, she had in fact been a weakling. And very, very foolish.
“It was at just such a party that I first met Martin,” Ethel was saying. “I did not like him at first because he rarely smiled. I thought him haughty. But it is amazing how different a person can seem once one makes the effort to get to know him well. Martin is really a man of great sensibility, and he is frequently unsure of himself.”
Mrs. Stebbins tittered. “Papa chose Mr. Stebbins for me,” she said, “because he had a modest fortune and we had an ancient name to uphold. Papa’s great-grandfather was Baron March, Lady Lampman. Unfortunately, his grandfather was a seventh son. I do think it important for fortune and good family to mingle. Provided that the fortune has not been made in vulgar trade, of course.”
Her father should have brought her to town, Grace thought. He should have insisted that she make her come-out, be presented at court, mingle with the ton, meet other young ladies of her own age and other eligible young gentlemen. Perhaps she would have grown up, acquired a degree of common sense long before she had. Perhaps she would have seen Gareth more clearly if she could have compared him to others. Perhaps she would have understood his selfishness sooner.
But would it have made any difference? she wondered. She had been a headstrong girl. Doubtless she would have fought her father every step of the way and closed her eyes and her mind to any experiences that might have saved her from her own future. She had been in love and hopelessly blind. Jeremy, or his older brother or sister, might well have been born a few years earlier if her father had tried to separate her from Gareth.
But had she ever completely shaken off the power Gareth had over her, even though her eyes were now opened? Would she ever do so? She watched him conclude a conversation with a small group of men at the other side of the drawing room and begin to make his way toward her. She knew that it was toward her he came. She knew that this whole party had been planned with her in mind, and especially this evening’s entertainment. Gareth was bound on getting her alone, and he would do so. Partly because Gareth always got what he wanted. And partly because she would not be able to resist finding out what the end of their association was to be. If it was the end that was now coming and not a new beginning. One never knew when it was Gareth with whom one dealt.
Ethel leaned toward her suddenly and whispered for Grace’s ears only. “It is a warm night, Grace,” she said, “and will doubtless be very pleasant outside. You may say that you and I have just agreed to stroll on the terrace if you wish.”
Grace looked at her, startled. But she had not misunderstood. Ethel was flushed and embarrassed, not quite meeting her sister-in-law’s eyes.
“Only if you wish,” Ethel said. “I do not know how you feel. I never did know. But I have liked you this time. And Perry. I like Perry.” She turned back to reply to a remark made by Mrs. Stebbins.
“Not dancing, Lady Lampman?” Lord Sandersford said, bowing in front of her chair and including the other two ladies in his smile. “I grant you that my drawing room is nothing in comparison with the ballrooms you have danced in during the last weeks, but you are used to country living.”
“I have danced once with Perry,” Grace said.
“And you must dance the next with me,” he said, stretching out a hand for hers. “As your host, ma’am, I must insist on it.” His dark eyes looked mockingly down into hers.
“Such a distinguished company, my lord,” Mrs. Stebbins said.
He bowed his acknowledgment of the compliment while Grace could feel Ethel looking at her. She put her hand in Lord Sandersford’s and rose to her feet.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said.
“And now, Grace,” he said, having maneuvered her with consummate skill across the room to the opened French doors, stopping on the way to smile and exchange a few words with several of his other guests, “it is time for you and me to disappear for a while. Is it not?”
“Yes, Gareth,” she said, looking steadily at him, “I think it is.”
He looked at her appreciatively. “You always had the courage to meet a challenge face-to-face,” he said. “I am glad you do not feel it necessary to simper and protest.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we take a turn on the terrace, ma’am? It is, as you just remarked, a warm evening.”
Grace took his arm and walked with him into the darkness of the night.
Peregrine, withdrawing his eyes from the doors, informed Miss Keating with a grin that if she expected him to stop stumbling in his steps, she must find somewhere else to fix her very blue eyes than on his face.
Miss Keating giggled, blushed, asked if Sir Peregrine really thought her eyes blue, not merely a nondescript gray, and proceeded to gaze at him with even wider eyes.