Chapter 9 #2
As it was afternoon, there were more people about, but she tried the same ruse as before and saw a man some way behind them who seemed vaguely familiar.
Then she recognized him. It was Tom Holloway, the witness to her marriage in Newhaven.
As she walked on she decided there was only one explanation for that.
Her husband was having her followed. Perhaps he had also been responsible for the earlier occasion.
He had not seemed very surprised when she had informed him.
Eleanor felt a burst of anger. Because he was incapable of decent behavior did he suspect her of clandestine meetings? It was incredible. It was despicable.
Suddenly an even worse suspicion flew into her mind.
What if he was planning some harm to her?
He had never wanted to marry her after all.
Now he found himself irrevocably linked to a woman with whom he had nothing in common; a woman who shunned him; a woman who carried a child that had caused a rift between him and his brother and could cause his financial ruin.
“Ma’am! Mrs. Delaney!” It was Jenny’s breathless complaint that made Eleanor aware she had speeded up almost to a run. She slowed her pace. The maid looked at her strangely but said nothing, and Eleanor did not offer an explanation.
Common sense returned. If Nicholas felt bound, he had only to surrender all rights to his brother and be free and wealthy once more.
She wondered, though. During that heated quarrel with his brother he had said he would not do that, and men were ridiculously prideful creatures.
Would it seem better to him to arrange the death of herself and her child than to back down on his word?
It seemed incredible, but Eleanor had a low opinion of men these days.
She remembered Lord Middlethorpe saying, “Jealousy is a not very pleasant face of possessiveness.” Did he know that all Nicholas felt for her was a mad kind of possessiveness—a possessiveness fueled by goodness knows what jealousies of his twin brother, who, by the fluke of a few minutes earlier entrance into the world, had everything while he had nothing?
She discovered she was sitting in her room shaking, with Jenny rubbing at her hands. She had no idea how she had come there.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Dizzy. I came over faint, Jenny.” She must never express her fears to the maid. “I must lie down.”
“Do you wish me to send for the doctor, ma’am?”
“No, no. I will be fine. I just need rest.” She was sorry to be snapping at the maid, but she needed to be alone. She needed to think.
When Jenny had gone Eleanor lay staring at the ceiling. Am I mad? Is this some freak of pregnancy? Could a husband really plan the death of his wife in this modern age?
Is he perhaps mad? He is charming and intelligent, but could he not be those things and deranged as well? Perhaps Lord Stainbridge knows this; perhaps that is why he wants to take me and the child into his protection.
But, said the voice of sanity, Nicholas has been nothing but kindness. To an unwanted wife who brings him no advantage he has never raised his voice, never mind his hand. What could possibly now prompt him to violence?
The Frenchwoman. Perhaps Madame Bellaire has finally agreed to marry him and he wants to be free.
Eleanor instinctively laid a protective hand on the swelling mound of her abdomen. What should I do?
What can I do?
Go.
Go where?
Of course, there was nowhere to go. Return to her brother was impossible, and she knew that if she went to Lord Stainbridge Nicholas would bring her back. Lord Stainbridge was not the man to be able to prevent it. Besides, she trusted the earl no more than she trusted his brother.
Like a fresh breeze common sense returned and her fantastical imaginings shrank away. She must have been reading too many Minerva novels! From seeing Tom Holloway in the park, she had constructed a plot of heinous evil equal to anything thought up by “Monk” Lewis or Mrs. Radcliffe.
Eleanor rose from the bed and flung back the curtains to let in the clear warmth of the sun. Then she sat at her mirror and talked sense to herself.
So, you are married to man who does not love you. He is kind, generous, and leaves you in peace. Many women pray nightly for such! He has never given you any cause to believe the wickedness you have been imagining.
So, you think you have been followed. Twice in four months. The one time might have been an innocent stroller, and Mr. Holloway has as much right to walk the streets as any other person.
And what of that conversation you overheard by eavesdropping, and that you have held against him?
He said he would not give you up to his brother.
What have you to complain of in that? If that last remark of his was tasteless, he was out of temper.
He had been provoked by his brother and said something he probably regretted a moment later.
Having straightened out her thinking, Eleanor made a resolution.
She would stop avoiding him. If he goes to a whore, she told her reflection sternly, at least he does not come from her to you with false protestations of love.
If he leads a life of dissipation, at least he does not let it invade his home to offend you.
If you have any hopes he will one day tire of it all and turn to you and your child, you had best prepare the way by being a pleasant companion now.
The Eleanor in the mirror nodded and smiled.
Eleanor did not admit to herself that her happiness with this resolution sprang from the fact she wanted to see Nicholas, but she certainly found it no hardship to hold to this resolution. She canceled her engagements for the day and stayed in the house, hoping to see him.
The first result of this, however, was far from desirable. As Eleanor sat reading in the drawing room, Hollygirt came to her. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. You said you were not at home, but the gentleman who has called says he is your brother.”
Eleanor was stunned. Nicholas had warned Lionel never to try to contact her.
As she sat in silence trying to decide her best course of action, Hollygirt spoke again.
“Mr. Delaney gave me instructions you were never to be at home to Sir Lionel, but the new footman admitted him, and the gentleman is most insistent. He said it was an important family matter. Perhaps I could ask him if he wishes to leave a note.”
Despite her earlier good intentions, the fact that Nicholas had given the servants instructions to deny her without consulting her decided Eleanor to see her brother.
In view of all his earlier fine talk about independence, she thought her husband had overstepped his authority.
After all, she was in her own home, surrounded by her own servants.
If Lionel said one word out of line she would have him thrown out, and take pleasure from it.
“Show my brother up, Hollygirt,” she said firmly. “We shall not require refreshments.”
The butler paled. “Are you sure that is wise, ma’am?”
“He is my brother. Show him up.”
As soon as Lionel stepped into the room Eleanor told him he had five minutes, no more.
His friendly smile was undimmed, though his pouched eyes darted about, valuing everything in sight. “Tut tut, Nell. What a way to greet your only brother.”
Faced with him she found the residue of fear that had haunted her evaporating, and she replied with tolerant contempt. “Dear brother. Who has always been so kind and thoughtful.”
“Can you deny,” he asked with a grand gesture, “that I had a hand in bringing you to this magnificence?”
Eleanor was struck dumb. She should have known Lionel did not know the meaning of guilt and always convinced himself he had acted for the best. He usually managed to convince others, too.
She abandoned all thought of bringing him to a sense of his wickedness. “Oh, sit down, Lionel, and tell me your business. You’ll be sooner gone.”
He sighed and looked pained as he arranged himself in a chair. “You always were ungracious, my dear. I have merely come to give you cognizance of my approaching nuptials.”
Eleanor stared. “You are to marry?”
He beamed. “My dear sister, when I saw the bliss to which marriage has transported you—from afar, alas—I was tempted to assay … In fact, I have proposed and been accepted.”
“Whom have you raped,” she asked viciously.
“Tut tut. No wonder your husband is much away from home if that is the tone of your conversation.”
Eleanor had regained her temper and did not allow this to rile her. She smiled sweetly at him. “But what of our inspiring marital bliss?”
His smile was equally sugared, and equally false. “Precisely, my dear. My idea of marital bliss is that the husband be free to do as he wills while the wife sits quietly at home.”
Eleanor caught her breath at this too-accurate description of her life. Trust Lionel to hit a painful target. “And does your future wife know this?”
“Of course not.”
“Who, in heaven’s name, have you found to have you?”
His amiability was undisturbed. “You would not know her. Your taste in companions has, I must admit, always been excellent. Deborah is, I regret to say, of the merchant class. But rich. Very, very rich,” he fairly cooed.
She shook her head. “I might have known. Are you rolled up then?”
He took no offense. “By no means. A prudent man takes steps in advance. Even Mr. Derry might take exception to a potential son-in-law with the duns at the door. As it is, I have invested your money in a few improvements to the house and a few handsome trifles for Deborah, and all is settled. Most handsomely.”
Eleanor felt her first stirrings of unease. “How old is your future bride, Lionel?”
“Oh, very young. Seventeen. A tender bud, young enough to shape into a lady, I believe.”
“God, it’s indecent! Surely even a tradesman must have heard something of your reputation. You probably owe him money.”