The Husband Plot Page 4

  There must have been nearly a dozen women in the drawing room. Lisbeth recognized most of them. Some had even been part of the disastrous house party for her Wedding That Didn’t Happen. When the footman announced her – boomed “Mrs. Hathorne” so the whole house could hear – all eyes turned to Lisbeth.

  She summoned her most polite expression of boredom and sought out her hostess. Annabelle practically glowed, like an angel in a Caravaggio painting bestowed with the light of God. She was a famed beauty of their generation, with hair so gold Rumpelstiltskin might have spun it, and skin that was creamy and pale, and a tall figure that suggested perfect curves beneath her gown.

  Today, she wore a pink dress with gold trimming and a matching turban twisted about her head. Everything about her was so much more elegant and pretty than Lisbeth, whose ostrich feather had caught in the door of the carriage and she feared was looking a little rumpled. Surely Annabelle had never even thought of the humiliation of a husband who wouldn’t kiss her properly.

  “Mrs. Hathorne, how good of you to come!” Annabelle took up Lisbeth’s hands in greeting. “I believe you know everyone here, but let me reintroduce you as you have the pleasure of a new name.”

  Lisbeth smiled and curtsied as Annabelle introduced the guests one by one. They all tried very hard to keep emotion out of their expressions, but she could still read it: confusion that she would be so friendly with Annabelle, horror that she would show up at Lord Gresham’s house the day after her marriage, pity that she was not the hostess, or perhaps pity that her new name did not carry a title with it.

  Lisbeth let it all wash over her shoulders. She did not need the ton’s sympathies. They couldn’t understand that she hadn’t wanted to marry Lord Gresham, nor that she had found herself a good arrangement now. They would find comfort in their own situations by judging hers.

  Let them. As long as she could keep on doing whatever it was she wanted to do.

  “Do take a seat. May I pour you a cup of tea?” Annabelle ushered her to a vacant chair while a footman materialized to offer a plate of refreshments. Lisbeth helped herself to a watercress sandwich and cheese puff, then accepted the tea Annabelle handed her.

  “Now then,” Annabelle said, seating herself beside Lisbeth, “shall we get started, ladies?”

  The group quieted. Annabelle introduced the topic by reading a recent article from The Times on transportation; then she asked whether it was a cruel and unusual punishment to send a man to a new land with no means of returning.

  Lisbeth spent a few minutes watching the discussion. Most of the ladies seemed to have attended before, for while a few looked a little alarmed at the topic, no one balked at the idea of discussing such a thing. Still, they danced around opinions, instead quoting their husbands or fathers or vicars.

  When no one had said anything of particular interest, Lisbeth cleared her throat and leaned forward. “What about when it is children? I have read reports that children as young as seven have been torn from their mother’s arms and sent to Australia. Is that not cruel and unusual?”

  “But they are criminals, Mrs. Hathorne,” one of the ladies – an older woman, with silver hair beneath her cap – objected. “If a mother can let her child become a criminal by the age of seven, she has no business being with it.”

  The woman beside her – likely her daughter – concurred. “Is it not better to deport the criminals early, when they are harmless children, then let them grow to be strong men who can rape and kill us?”

  Lisbeth tried to remember the duo’s names. She had met them during her previous Season, but they had hardly crossed paths more than twice. The elder was a baroness, she believed, the younger still on the marriage mart.

  Yet their identities escaped her. So she had to launch her attack without the pleasure of lashing their names to her words. “When was the last time a woman of good birth was raped by one of these criminals?”

  At this, more ladies than just the duo gasped.

  “I cannot remember such a case,” Lisbeth pressed on, “yet you use it as evidence in favor of sending children across the world.”

  “You make a fair point, Mrs. Hathorne,” Annabelle said, calmly raising her rose-painted teacup to her lips. “I often feel the points our newspapermen make are based in fear rather than rational, fact-based arguments. In the case of children, I wonder, Lady Pemberly, if you consider there to be a threshold at which point they should be transported? Is it a suitable sentence for any level of crime, or is there a severity of the trespass that would lead to the sentence?”

  The hour allotted for the salon quickly disappeared in debate. As carriages started arriving to take the ladies home, the conversation returned from the benefits of a sliding scale of justice to regular civilities, asking who would be at that evening’s ball, trading little pieces of gossip, and promising to call on each other in the morning. A few of the ladies had kind words for Lisbeth, but she felt for the most part they held themselves away, still wary of the scandal tainting her name.

  Lisbeth knew it would have been much worse, had she not married Adrian.

  Annabelle turned from paying farewells to grasp Lisbeth’s hands again. “Must you rush away like everyone else, Mrs. Hathorne? If not, I should love to steal a few minutes of your time.”

  The name was still so strange. Lisbeth winced inwardly every time she heard it, as if someone had mistaken her identity. She couldn’t possibly be Mrs. Hathorne. That person must be old and tired of kisses and ready to spread gossip in broad whispers.

  “I should be delighted, and please call me Lisbeth. As you said in your note, we are much too familiar to be formal with one another.”

  Annabelle sparkled at this. “You make me a happy woman, Lisbeth. Let me finish my farewells, and then we shall sit down to chat.”

  The drawing room was fast feeling cavernous as it emptied of ladies. When the last guest had left, Annabelle led Lisbeth to a smaller sitting room on the ground floor, overlooking the back garden. As she went, she described the rooms they passed through, noting the family portraits and French mirrors and Ottoman carpets.

  Lisbeth had been to the house before, of course. She had been given a tour by Lord Gresham himself, with her mother as chaperon, just after their engagement was announced. Luckily, she wasn’t a woman who enjoyed decorating, otherwise she likely would have had the color of the curtains chosen – perhaps even ordered – by the day of their wedding.

  Seeing it all again now, Lisbeth was surprised by how disinterested she felt. She really couldn’t care less that the wall was covered with ugly old portraits, or that the hallway was so dark one needed lamps on at all hours of the day. It felt exactly like visiting anyone else’s house: she could admire and appreciate it, but she certainly didn’t want to live there.

  Annabelle led her to an elegant little table overlooking the garden, which boasted a few evergreen hedgerows among the brown of March. “I am so glad you came this afternoon, Lisbeth. I wasn’t sure you would. After all, you have every right to hate me until the day you die.”

  From another woman, the words may have come off insincere, or perhaps obsequious. But Annabelle matched them with such an earnest smile that Lisbeth couldn’t help respond in kind.

  “That would be rather unsporting of me, considering I am now a married woman myself.”

  “Lucky Mr. Hathorne. I only heard the good news of your engagement last week. I have to say, I was a little disappointed, as I was hoping to prove myself your friend this Season. We had the Duke of Harrodshire ready to dance your first set, you know.”

  Lisbeth smiled. She had heard about the Duke of Harrodshire’s offer, as well as his tendre for a certain widow in Wickhamshire, from her friend Alice, and she was heartily glad not to have to rely on such a trick to earn the esteem of society.

  “Tell me about Mr. Hathorne. I understand he is the son of the Duke of Berkwell’s second son?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bartholomew Hathorne, his father, owns a number of interests i
n the West Indies. Mr. Adrian Hathorne and his sister, Miss Mary, were born there, but they have been raised in His Grace’s household since they were young.” It was about all she knew about Adrian. He was claimed as the legitimate son, though his complexion was so different than his sister’s that one might assume Mr. Bartholomew Hathorne was fudging some details.

  Annabelle smiled in encouragement. “When did you meet him? Was it romantic? I understand he is only recently come to town.”

  “Actually, we did not meet until yesterday at the wedding ceremony.” Lisbeth paused, flickering her eyes across Annabelle’s perfect face to gauge her response. Perhaps Annabelle had assumed Lisbeth and Adrian were a love match, given Lisbeth had surrendered Lord Gresham on account of love. The lady’s brow furrowed in confusion, but otherwise, Lisbeth could find no hint of judgment. Yet.

  “It was my preference,” Lisbeth continued. “He could not come to London before this week, so either we could meet a few days before the wedding or wait until the day-of.”

  “It certainly adds excitement to the day,” Annabelle murmured. “How do you find him? Are you glad you waited until the wedding day to meet him?”

  This was, perhaps, the question Lisbeth had avoided asking herself all day. Had she known that Adrian was so handsome, would she have been able to marry him? Had she had a conversation with him, would she have wanted to marry him?

  Was she glad that she had married him, now that she had done both those things?

  “He is very handsome,” Lisbeth answered Annabelle. “On a superficial level, I’m very glad I didn’t know that beforehand, for I’m not sure I would have the courage to marry him.”

  “Courage to marry a handsome man?” Annabelle laughed. She sobered, however, when she realized Lisbeth hadn’t said it as a jest. “I suppose beauty can be intimidating. Still, I’m sure he was just as intimidated by you when he saw you under your veil.”

  Lisbeth couldn’t help raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I do not pretend to be beautiful, and now that I am a married woman, I suspect it is of little issue, either way.”

  Annabelle blinked at this. Then she pressed on, “What of his character? Are you happy with what you find in that quarter?”

  “We have only had limited conversation thus far,” Lisbeth admitted. She wasn’t sure whether to disclose he hadn’t wanted her to attend the salon. It was an argument they hadn’t yet settled, and somehow it felt disloyal to air such a disagreement when Adrian hadn’t had a chance to apologize to her for his obtuseness.

  “Ah yes, I suppose you had other activities last evening.” Annabelle’s lips spread as if with a secret. “It is wicked of me to ask, so tell me to mind my own business if you like, but how did you find your wedding night?”

  Lisbeth might as well have stepped into a winter wind, so thoroughly chilled was she by this question. It was terribly familiar, for two women who only had in common a discarded fiancé. Lisbeth should shut Annabelle up and return the conversation to something safe, like sharing news of dear Alice, shut up in confinement in Cumbria. For surely Annabelle would never understand how Lisbeth had found the wedding night. Surely no man had ever gasped in dismay after kissing Annabelle’s lips, or run away in horror after touching her body. She likely never stood still, either, getting lost in her own hopes and dreams while the man mustered the courage to do his duty.

  Lisbeth opened her mouth to change the subject. But Annabelle looked so friendly and kind – and, after all, must know a fair amount about a husband’s activities, since she was twice married – that what Lisbeth ended up saying was, “I found it disappointing and confusing, if I may be honest.”

  Annabelle reached out and took her hand again. Even though Lisbeth’s palm was clammy, she didn’t withdraw. “You are not the first bride to feel that way. Was it very painful?”

  Lisbeth understood what she was asking. Her mother had now twice given her the speech on what to expect: her husband would guide her through it, there would be a moment or two of pain, and then from there it would improve into an experience that she would learn to enjoy. She had stolen copies of bawdy books from her father’s library, too, studying illustrations of various positions men and women (and sometimes men with men or women with women or men with two women) found themselves in.

  Which meant she couldn’t answer without admitting the truth.

  “It wasn’t painful,” she said, her voice evaporating to some high-pitched whisper. “For it didn’t happen.”

  From there, the truth tumbled out, without Lisbeth quite hearing her own words. Annabelle’s gentle fingers strengthened their grip on her hand, a friendly presence until Lisbeth had finished with Adrian fleeing the room.

  “I see what you mean. Dreadfully disappointing and confusing.”

  There were hot tears stinging Lisbeth’s eyes, which she refused to let spill. She raised her chin as high as she could. “I can only conclude that my husband is not interested in his marital duties, for I literally repulse him.”

  Annabelle offered her a delicate muslin handkerchief. “Dear Lisbeth, I cannot conclude the same. We do not have enough information. There are a hundred reasons why Mr. Hathorne may have behaved as he did. You may be right that the reason is damning: for example, he may have a mistress who had slaked his needs earlier in the day. But let us be generous for a moment. Perhaps he had a sudden upset stomach and wanted to protect your eyes. Perhaps he had drunk too much and realized he could not perform as expected. Perhaps he was simply overtired from a momentous day. We cannot know why he behaved as he did, so we must not draw conclusions based on such speculations.”

  Lisbeth tried to remember how Adrian had looked at her just before he fled. His green eyes had been sharp, but with what? She’d assumed disgust. Could he have been sick? Or drunk?

  She wasn’t sure anymore. She only knew it was just after he touched her breasts that he ran. And he hadn’t come back.

  “You are a beautiful, delightful woman,” Annabelle said. “I have every confidence that Mr. Hathorne will return tonight ready to enjoy all you have to offer. Just be sure he sees to making it an enjoyable experience for you as well as himself.”

  Lisbeth returned the handkerchief. “You are kind, Annabelle.”

  “May I call on you this week to find out how it goes?”

  “I would be delighted.” Lisbeth was a little surprised to discover it was true. Already, she felt she and Annabelle would be close friends, no matter how strangely their relationship had started.

  The thought reminded Lisbeth who Annabelle’s bedfellow was.

  “You won’t share this conversation with Lord Gresham, will you?”

  Annabelle drew a cross over her heart. “I will mention only that you attended my salon and we have made friends. Anything more you say is always secret with me.”

  “Thank you.” Lisbeth couldn’t quite make the words mean all that she was grateful for: the afternoon discussion, which was stimulating and illuminating and thrilling in all the ways Lisbeth loved; the friendship, which was unexpected and wonderful; and for somehow knowing that Lisbeth had needed to share her story, humiliating though it was.

  Annabelle glowed again. “Of course.”

  Returning to her carriage, Lisbeth felt weary but lighter. She didn’t know what to expect from the evening, but she didn’t feel quite so frightened when she pictured facing Adrian again.

  Six

  Chapter Six

  Adrian returned to Number 73 for supper. Everything about the meal felt a little stilted, a little performed. They ate in the dining room, whose formal eight-foot table stretched too long between the two of them. The meal was an interminable six courses, all served on the fine china and silver that came as a gift by way of his grandmother. Even Lisbeth – though beautifully elegant in her silk gown and pearls set in her chestnut hair – would have been better suited in a ballroom than a quiet supper with her husband.

  Adrian had no objection to a well-appointed outfit, but he would prefer they settle
into their reality rather than pretend to be something they weren’t.

  He resolved not to let it rattle him, however. His goal that evening was to better acquaint himself with this wife of his, and hopefully consummate the marriage. The last thing he needed when he returned to Kingston was a wife in England claiming their marriage was a farce.

  “Mrs. Siswell told me she is still new to your household, so she and I both have to learn what your favorite meals are,” Lisbeth said as a footman served him a plate of meat and potatoes. “I thought we might as well start with my favorites and see which you and I have in common.”

  Adrian nodded. He wasn’t particularly picky about English food. He’d never met a meal he couldn’t eat.

  “Do you like roast pheasant?” Lisbeth prodded.

  He took a bite. The meat was well-prepared: tender, juicy, and flavorful – perhaps even beyond the standard English seasoning of pepper. He gave Lisbeth another nod. “This is quite good.”

  She smiled, though Adrian couldn’t help but notice it was a tight-lipped affair. It was more that she closed her mouth into a firm line than twitched it into a smile. He remembered how Robert had made her laugh at their wedding breakfast. He wondered if he would ever be able to do the same.

  In the same moment, he dismissed that as a silly thought. He had no need to woo his wife or to make her into a pet whom he enjoyed teasing. He’d be leaving her behind in a handful of months; he needed only see to her satisfaction, make sure she was left well-appointed in household, wardrobe, and bank account. As long as Lisbeth supported him in name on this side of the Atlantic, Adrian would consider it a successful marriage.

  “I spent some time this morning acquainting myself with the library,” Lisbeth said from far down at her end of the table. “Your collection has great variety, though it is smaller than I anticipated. Are there any other books tucked away that belong with our library?”