Chapter 27
MARIANNE
Marianne had seen the change in Lucien the second Henry had called her Mama. It was instantaneous. Whatever warmth had graced his countenance had faded away. A hardness settled over his features, and his eyes had seemed to darken, if such a thing were possible.
She felt the chill move in between them, replacing whatever warmth that had existed. But why? What had vexed him so?
She wanted to ask him in that very moment, to confront him, but Henry was right in front of them. She couldn’t.
Instead, she swallowed her dismay.
She turned away from Lucien and focused on Henry. “I am pleased as well,” she said. “Would you like to go inside and take luncheon?”
He nodded and took her hand. Then he turned and also took Lucien’s. But unlike their walk out to the gardens, the ease had gone from it. Lucien didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared ahead, that dark expression once more on his face.
Perhaps it would fade. This was something he had to grow accustomed to. The idea of her as Henry’s mother. She hadn’t thought of herself as such either at first, but of course she knew she would. Perhaps so would he.
Yet by the time they returned to the house, Lucien’s mood appeared to have grown even more grave. He turned to her. “I think it is best if Henry and I take luncheon together. You must be quite fatigued. You should rest.”
He didn’t want her there. That much was clear.
She wet her lips and then clenched her jaw.
Instead of replying verbally, she simply nodded her head.
He wasn’t going to let this go. Things were changing again.
Exhaustion spread through her body, and her limbs felt heavy as she withdrew like a chastened creature.
She had done nothing wrong. Neither had Henry.
Indeed, this was Lucien’s fault. He had brought her here.
He had been unclear about how he saw their life together.
Of course, the boy would form an attachment to her if she were going to be dwelling permanently in his life.
It would’ve been better if Lucien had simply installed her in one of the estate cottages for a few months.
But no, he wanted her to be kind to Henry, to establish a rapport with the boy.
And now that she had, now that they were close, it wasn’t right either.
The man was a study in contradictions.
She went up to her chambers and entered the space, the door banging shut behind her.
“What has occurred?” Juliet asked immediately, appearing as if by magic.
“Nothing has happened.”
“Do not take me for a fool,” Juliet said, rushing over to her. She had been busy making the bed, but now her attention was entirely on Marianne. “Your eyes are awash with tears. You are about to dissolve into misery. I know you well.”
“I am not,” Marianne replied, although her chin already wobbled.
“Come now,” Juliet said, wrapping her arms around her. “What has he done?”
“How do you know he did anything?” Marianne asked. Those tears were now coursing down her cheeks, and her shoulders trembled as she wept.
“Sit,” Juliet said and escorted Marianne to the chairs in front of the fire. The fireplace was not exactly blazing, but the fire that Juliet had made in the morning was still burning. The warmth was pleasant, but not overpowering, and provided a little comfort.
“We went to the maze together, and it was lovely, and I had a wonderful day. He kissed me. We lay together—arm in arm.”
“You consummated your marriage?” Juliet gasped.
“No, no,” Marianne said quickly. “We both fell asleep in Henry’s chamber whilst he was unwell, and he crawled out of bed in the morning to play with his toys. Lucien and I kissed, and then we kissed again in the maze, and it felt as though everything was as I privately hoped it would be. But then—”
“Then?” Juliet said, her tone sharp.
“Yes, then. Henry referred to me as Mama, and Lucien changed before my very eyes. I could tell he was uncomfortable.”
“I see,” Juliet said tersely. “And then what?”
“And then nothing,” Marianne replied, shrugging. “He grew cold again as he does. And then when I wanted to take luncheon with Henry, he dismissed me to my chambers like an errant girl. And here I am weeping upon your shoulder.”
Juliet sat up and wrung her hands, holding them in her lap.
“How long will you permit him to use you thus?”
Marianne looked down at her feet, which hung above the floor, given how high her bed was.
“Up until now, we were naught to each other.”
“No, you weren’t—because of his behavior. You must speak with him. Tell him that he cannot continue to treat you in such a manner.”
“Perhaps I need to grant him time to become accustomed.”
Juliet took a deep breath. “I know this is unwelcome, but I must tell you what I have heard below stairs. And it is not simply idle gossip. It is from people who knew him and his first wife, and how they lived together. They were cold to each other. He was cold to her. They said in the beginning, he lavished gifts and attentions upon her. Granted her every desire. But then a change came over him quite suddenly. He scarcely addressed her anymore. They took their meals separately and resided apart sometimes. He was with her as he is with you. Alternately warm and distant.”
“It sounds as though he turned from warmth to coldness,” Marianne corrected her friend. “As if perhaps he loved her, and then found her not to be what he had believed.”
“Her maid, Maisie, told me that she was quite wretched. Lady Wexford, that is. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to with all her heart, but he spurned her repeatedly. You must not find yourself thus situated.”
Marianne thought about this. She thought about everything.
Lucien had told her his marriage had been an unhappy one.
She knew this. But she was not his first wife.
She was not the same person. And every account he had given her suggested there was more to it.
Was there? Was it just as simple as his mercurial personality having rendered the union untenable?
Perhaps his first wife was the way she was because of his behavior?
She sat back. What was she to do?
She nodded at Juliet. “You speak truly. I cannot allow him to continue this way. I will speak to him.”
“Very good,” Juliet replied, “but not in your current state. You look as though you have passed the night in your gown.”
“I did,” she said.
“Well,” Juliet said. “I think what you ought to do is take a bath, don your finest morning dress, dress your hair properly, and apply some rouge to appear at your best. He must see all that he may forfeit by continuing to act like a horse’s arse.”
Marianne let out a laugh. “If Sister Bernadette heard you using such language, you would be upon your knees in penance for hours.”
“She has heard me speaking thus, and in fact, she has made me pray like that as well. And once she washed my mouth out with soap. It was most unpleasant.”
“I see,” Marianne said, her spirits lifting as she always did when she spoke to her friend.
“Well, you are under no threat of having your mouth washed out here. But do not let Mrs. Greaves hear such language.”
“I think her rebuke would be far sterner than soap in the mouth,” Juliet said as she pulled an evening primrose colored dress from the armoire.
Then she rang for the footman to bring up the hot water for a bath.
By the time the afternoon hour approached, Marianne had bathed, slept for a few hours, and dressed in her prettiest gown.
She hadn’t applied rouge as Juliet had suggested.
She wanted to look like herself. Still, she had put on some of her oils as well as lip pomade.
When she made her way to his study, her resolve strengthened.
She would speak to him. She would tell him that she could see what was happening between them, and she was not going to let him withdraw again.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” he called.
When she did, he looked up, their gazes meeting. For a brief moment, she saw a smile on his lips, and it emboldened her. But then it was gone.
“Marianne,” he said. “Are you well?”
He was asking her if she was well, as though she were an acquaintance he had encountered by happenstance. Not the woman he was married to. Not the woman he had passionately kissed in the maze just hours before.
“I am unwell.” She took a seat unbidden. It was her house as well as his.
“I cannot bear it,” she began.
Lucian looked up as though stung by a bee. “Cannot bear what?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Your changeability. I could understand it to a degree when you were sometimes warm and at ease with me and at other times remote—when we were in a marriage in name only. But we are no longer—”
“Aren’t we?” he said, tipping his head to one side.
“Unless you make a practice of lying arm in arm and kissing your wives in name only while falling into hedges, then no, this is no longer a charade.”
He raised his hands. “I should not have kissed you. It was wrong of me. I was swept away. And I shouldn’t have put my arm around you in the night, but I was so tired, and I was so distraught over the boy’s condition.”
She raised her hand, staying him with a gesture.
“I will not have it. I will not have you make light of what passed between us, and most certainly not with paltry reasons such as you were tired. You were not tired in the maze. I do not know what ails you, but I shall not live my life side by side with somebody who constantly alters how he acts towards me. You are as ice one moment, then passionate and kind and act as though you want me in your life the next, and then you cast me aside like some cur as you did this afternoon. I will not suffer it. Why are you like this? Pray, explain yourself.”
“I am as I am,” he said bluntly. “And I owe you no explanation.”
“But you do. You married me. You made me Countess of Wexford. You brought me into your home and told me to be kind to your son, and I was. I am.”
“And I am grateful,” he replied with a shrug.
“But the moment he called me—the moment he referred to me as Mama, your countenance became as stone.”
“You ought to have corrected him,” he said. “When he called you Mama, you should’ve told him that you are not his mother and that you never will be. The boy must not be confused.”
“He must not be confused? You are the one who installed a woman in his household and told him that she would dwell here permanently.”
“As a friend,” he said. His tone was one of exasperation.
“And what did you expect would come of it? You wanted me to spend time with him. You wanted me to learn not to be so reserved with him, to tolerate the soiling of my gowns.”
“Yes, I wanted you to be kind to my son whilst you resided here. I did not want you to take the place of his mother.”
“Is it because you and his true mother have unfinished business between you?”
Lucien scoffed. “Well, considering she is deceased, I would say there can be naught between us.”
“Much can remain between the living and the dead,” Marianne replied.
“I should know. My father is deceased, and there are a great many things between us. Words I wish I had spoken. Answers I wish he had given me. No, he has departed this world and is no longer here to be my father in this miserable dance, but he is yet present in my thoughts and heart. As I suspect she lingers in yours. I had supposed that maybe you were still in love with her, but it is now plain to me that perhaps you never loved her at all. Then what troubles you?”
“That is not your affair,” he said. “I wish for you to leave me be. I wish for you to play your appointed role.”
“Which is what?” she asked. “Because my role, as was agreed between us, did not include such intimacies.”
“No, and neither did it include being called Mama,” he said. “Let us simply conclude this arrangement as intended. In but a few weeks, the two of us can part ways.”
She stilled. He wished her gone. He no longer desired her presence. Perhaps he had never wanted her at all. Mayhap she had been mistaken in all. Here she was haranguing him like one unhinged.
She let her arms fall. “Very well. If such is your desire, then I shall leave you be. We shall resume our arrangement as first agreed. Deceive yourself if you will that nothing has transpired between us. We both know the truth.”
With that, she turned and left, shutting the door with force behind her—knowing very well that this was something a willful child might do, and something that Sister Bernadette would surely reprove.
But so be it. As she walked up the stairs, she pressed her lips together.
She was resolved that no servant would witness her tears.
However, when she arrived at her bedchamber, where Juliet already waited, she gave way to tears at once and collapsed into her friend’s embrace.