Chapter 16 #3
That evening they attended the Drury Lane Theater to see Othello. It was the first time Beth had visited this theater and she looked around for caged birds but found none. Perhaps Lord Deveril’s words had been meaningless.
The great Kean was playing Iago with truly menacing cunning.
The actress playing the part of Desdemona was an ethereal vision with soft white hair rippling loose down her back, her gown of floating white and silver scattered with twinkling stars.
A few lines had even been added to the play to refer to this whiteness, contrasting it with the Moor’s black.
Beth had always thought Desdemona an interesting part, her plight that of a woman maligned and stripped of her reputation.
For the first time she saw similarities to her own situation except that she had destroyed her reputation herself, and she and her husband had managed to sort it all out.
She shivered slightly when she thought of the end of the play, Othello strangling his wife in a jealous rage.
It was fortunate that she and Lucien were more sensible—and yes, self-controlled—than the characters on the stage.
Beth admired the interpretation of the actress, however. She brought intelligence and dignity to the part. Beth consulted her program to see that the actress was Mrs. Blanche Hardcastle. In brackets after her name it said, “The White Dove of Drury Lane.”
A chill crept down her spine. Without moving, Beth slid a glance at her husband. He was absorbed by the performance but nothing on his face betrayed personal involvement. Had Lord Deveril’s words had meaning?
Then Desdemona floated into a dance, executed with marvelous fluidity of movement and classic elegance.
Beth looked at her husband again and the chill seemed to eat into her bones.
The smile on his face could only be called doting.
Was this, in fact, where he had disappeared this afternoon with such alacrity, not in search of news?
Of which he had significantly found so little.
Beth looked back at the exquisite creature on the stage.
She couldn’t blame any man for loving such beauty.
How could Lucien’s interest in Beth Armitage be more than dutiful when the White Dove was waiting for him?
Marital duty. The phrase he had used. Though once Beth would not have cared, now to be taken in the marriage bed out of duty was unbearable.
Had his considerate reasons for not consummating the marriage been merely a polite fabrication to disguise his unwillingness? After all, on that last night her willingness must have been clear, and they had both known he could overcome her fears if he tried.
The pain Beth felt was so deep she was surprised he could not sense it. But why should she expect him to be sensitive to her hidden hurts when his true love moved fluidly on the stage before him?
How cloying he must have found her, thought Beth, when he wanted only to return to his true friends and his true love. If there had been any way, Beth would have fled, never to face her husband again.
The horror passed, as such things are inclined to. By the time of the first intermission Beth was able to discuss the performance in a rational way and even compliment the leading actors. She listened closely to every word her husband spoke, but he said nothing exceptionable about the White Dove.
Then it was back to watching the lady once again and trying unsuccessfully to block all awareness of Lucien’s warm reaction to the performance.
Beth was pleased with herself. She behaved throughout the evening with calm good breeding, steadfastly ignoring the cold, hard lump of pain which had taken up residence in her heart.
When they returned to Marlborough Square they took supper.
The duke and duchess retired, leaving Beth alone with her husband.
She looked up to see him thoughtfully studying her, and she had a moment’s paralyzing horror that Lucien might choose this night, of all nights, to demand his right to her bed.
“You look tired,” he said. “We should never have gone out on our first night back. You mustn’t let us bully you, Beth. If you don’t want to dance this mad caper then say so.”
“The duchess says I must be established. And presented.”
He grimaced. “I suppose so. But that doesn’t demand constant socializing. Maman is a creature of extremes. She either lives very quietly at Belcraven or descends on Town like a hurricane, unable to leave any moment untouched. You don’t have to play the game by her rules.”
“I have to do something,” Beth said and then regretted what might sound like a plea for his company.
“There are any number of more stimulating events. I’ll see what lectures are scheduled at the institutes. If you like, I’ll introduce you to Fanny Ball. She’s the sister of a friend of mine and a regular blue stocking.”
For some reason this did not attract Beth. Was she so changed? “I don’t know,” she said, then added impulsively, “I would like to visit the Delaneys.”
He smiled. “A wonderful idea. Tomorrow afternoon?”
“Will they be at home?” Beth asked, meaning in the formal sense.
“There’s no point in any of that with Eleanor and Nicholas,” he said carelessly. “If they’re out we’ll do something else and visit them another time. Go look over the Royal Academy, perhaps. You may want to buy a picture or two. If you’re, for bed,” he added cheerfully, “I think I’ll pop out.”
And I know where, thought Beth bitterly.
Her choice appeared to be between dragging him to his marital duties or waving him off to his mistress. With a very tight smile she did the latter and marched up to her lonely room.
For his part, Lucien went to his club and had a miserable time.
He was depressed by those who took the military situation seriously and irritated by those who carried on as if there weren’t a battle in the wind at all.
All the time he was wondering what would have happened if he’d given in to his baser instincts and carried Beth up to her bed and seduced all her fears away.