Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
If (when?) you argue with your husband, I recommend the use of blunt facts. Gentlemen so rarely hear the truth.
Imoved to the small parlor next to the drawing room before ringing for Crumpsall and asking him to summon my husband. I heard Burnsby’s cane tip-tapping down the corridor before he walked in, his eyes pinched and chilly. He bowed. “Lady Burnsby.”
I rose, hands clasped at my waist, and did not curtsy. “Lord Burnsby.”
“I trust you have something imperative to say. I just finished my toilette and have not yet broken my fast.”
I refused to consider why he was rising so much later than his normal practice and waved him toward a chair. “Would you like me to ring for tea?”
“No.”
“Buttered toast? Cheese? Perhaps a slice of gingerbread?” I asked with an air of unruffled hospitality.
“No.”
Burnsby was squinting at me like a mulish schoolboy. I assumed the role of a governess, sat down, and gestured toward the chair opposite me. He reluctantly joined me, plucking at his kilt until the pleats lay neatly.
“The situation is untenable,” I said, politely enough.
I was coming to understand my husband. As Mima had mentioned, Burnsby refused to acknowledge facts that he found disagreeable. He went his own way, and his previous wives had allowed themselves to be trampled.
“Sophonisba Ainsworth and I cannot reside under one roof. Moreover, I do not wish to encounter her in any establishment that I might visit. You should buy her a house and move her to it.”
“This is her home,” Burnsby said, with surprising force.
Or not surprising, if I conceived of “Sophie” as his true love. A true love he hid in a mountain range and visited once a year.
“Your son will inherit this abbey, will he not?”
“He shouldn’t count on it,” Burnsby spat.
I’d forgotten that he had threatened to disinherit Lance—but Godric had said that was legally impossible.
“The law will not allow you to disinherit Lancelot,” I pointed out.
Burnsby let out a harsh laugh. “The law will bend. My fellow lords will be appalled, recognizing that my sainted father is turning in his grave. The faults of that race, the spice of the devil, will never defile the honored Burnsby line.”
“The only faults that threaten the Burnsby lineage are your own: arrogance, bigotry, cruelty, and stupidity overlaid by a thin veneer of the gentleman. We both know how shallow your adherence to propriety is. Colette’s intelligence and beauty can only—”
“She is a blot on the fair face of creation!” Burnsby called shrilly.
(I didn’t think it was possible to loathe my husband more than I already did: Welcome to reality.)
“You are that blot,” I retorted. “You. Dishonoring three wives, imprisoning your only daughter, now trying to disinherit your only son for the sin of marrying an exquisite, aristocratic Frenchwoman. Shame on you.”
He gaped at me, momentarily silenced. I had the feeling that no one—except, perhaps, Lance—had spoken so forthrightly to Burnsby.
“No legal grounds exist to disrupt an entailed inheritance,” I said. “Even if you managed it, you would be cutting off your nose to spite your face, Burnsby! You have no other heir. Would you prefer that the Burnsby title be relinquished to the king to reward the latest sycophant to the Crown?”
“You shall bear me a male child.”
I snorted. “You’re joking. I will never allow you near me. Moreover, you are too old to father a child. You are seventy years old, Burnsby. Most men die in their sixties, and you yourself told me that the majority of your schoolfriends have passed away.”
His chin trembled with agitation, but I kept going. Women had been far too reluctant to remind him of his frailties.
“Which brings me to the subject of Sophonisba Ainsworth. What do you think will happen to her when Lancelot inherits? Will your mistress be welcome at the next Christmas celebration, when Colette holds the title of Lady Burnsby?”
Burnsby’s eyes blinked rapidly, his throat moving as if he was suppressing one angry outburst after another.
“Colette is unsentimental and French. She will evict your mistress immediately, and your Sophie would be lucky to take her plumed bonnets with her.”
He got that. I saw it sink in.
“However, I have no intention of leaving that unpleasant task to the future Lady Burnsby.”
His brow furrowed. No, his brow is always furrowed. It furrowed more.
“I will allow Miss Ainsworth to remain in the abbey until the first of February, after which I shall have her thrown out,” I announced, a placid mask fixed to my face. “I would advise you not to test me, Burnsby. In France, it is grounds for divorce to bring a mistress into the family home.”
He let out a raucous crack of laughter, a sound I’d never heard from his (supposedly) cultured lips. “Typical of Froggies, and not true in England.”
“Requests for divorce are adjudicated before the House of Lords,” I said, catching his attention.
“Whether I am successfully granted divorce or annulment hardly matters, does it? How much your former colleagues and schoolmates—those who are still alive—will enjoy hearing about this vulgar little hideaway. You will be the talk of every ballroom and gentleman’s club for months, if not years. ”
He sucked in air. “You would not dare!”
I laughed. “I shall enjoy it.”
“No decent wife would share intimate details of her marriage!”
“Is that how you kept your former wives from screaming about their mistreatment? You misjudged me, Burnsby. Appealing to propriety won’t work.”
He was thinking as fast as he could, his nose quivering like that of a cornered rat.
“Perhaps they’ll call Ophelia to testify,” I continued. “She will describe fourteen years of being confined to a freezing nursery, treated like the dirt beneath your feet, never permitted to have an adequate wardrobe or a personal maid, never allowed to eat in the dining room!”
He turned an unattractive shade of puce. “Poppyc—”
I cut him off. “Do you think your daughter’s testimony won’t matter because you consider her peculiar? You saw her last evening. No gentleman will understand how you could consign an obvious innocent, one of the most beautiful young ladies they’ve ever seen, to live with an ill-mannered harlot.”
I rose to my feet. “I have made changes in the household, which you will accept without question and maintain in my absence. Aunt Mima and Ophelia shall both have personal maids. The household seamstress will fashion new wardrobes appropriate for their age and station. Several people whose employment had been unfairly terminated will be invited back to the household at a higher salary.”
“Why do you think I would agree to any of that?” Burnsby snarled. “Even if you got on your knees and begged, after this display of insolence, you’d be lucky to find yourself eating anything more than bread and water! You’re just a woman!”
“I have already written a letter to my father, and placed it in Sir Godric’s safekeeping in the event that I find myself locked in the dungeons,” I said (untruthfully, though it wasn’t a bad idea).
“I’m afraid that you won’t like the contents, which I directed him to spread far and wide.
Moreover, Sir Godric will be most unhappy to learn of any mistreatment.
He is so powerful, isn’t he? Beloved at court, I understand, as well as famous for his bad temper. ”
Fury was evident in the jiggling of Burnsby’s knees, visible as his kilt had slid up, revealing an unattractive stretch of pallid, wrinkled thigh. His gaze followed mine, and he yanked down the fabric.
“You will be sorry for this,” he said, his voice rasping.
“I trust you already are,” I retorted. “You imagined that I could be destroyed by casual cruelty, as were Hecuba and Alice? I wouldn’t be surprised if your first wife wasn’t crushed by you as well.
” I showed him my teeth, for all the world like one of the wolves in the forest. “You made a mistake, marrying me.”
“I can plainly see that you are no lady,” he said. The real Burnsby gleamed in his eyes: cold, superficial, even sadistic.
I let my smile widen because I would be damned if I let him frighten me. “On that front, and that front alone, we are well matched.”
“You’ll be sorry,” he rasped again.
“A threat as flaccid as you are,” I remarked. “I’ll be living for years after your death, an event that you ought to consider imminent, Burnsby.”
“Poppycock!”
“A trifle vulgar,” I commented. “Isn’t cock one of those words that a true gentleman never allows to pass his lips?”
The blood had drained from his face, leaving spots of red in his cheeks. I hadn’t known he wore rouge as well as lip color. Perhaps he and Sophonisba shared a pot of color.
“You are an ignorant fool,” he spat. “Don’t you appreciate that I can invalidate your bid for annulment in the simplest of ways? And I shall.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I had one more thing to make clear.
“Ophelia plans to move to Paris. Naturally, you will give your daughter an excellent dowry, identical to or larger than that you settled upon my sister. I shall visit your solicitors in London to assure myself of your generosity.”
“Ophelia won’t move anywhere!” he hissed. “My daughter will remain here where she won’t embarrass me.”
“You are afraid that Ophelia will embarrass you, when polite society will have so much else to chortle over?” I gave him a sympathetic smile, as false as his marriage vows. “Perhaps she will join me in the townhouse in London, where I shall be residing without you.”
“My wife lives with me, in Scotland!”
I laughed. “You gave up the right to dictate my circumstances the moment you dashed ahead of me into the abbey, so eager to greet your strumpet that you didn’t escort your new wife through the door.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Lady Burnsby!” he hissed.
“Jealous? Of Sophonisba?” I curled my lip. “During our marriage, you have repeatedly shown yourself to be slow in understanding, but your delusion that I care for you in a romantic sense—which I have never implied in word or vow—is astonishing.”
His gaze was burning with rage. “Perhaps you forget that under the laws of England, wives have no power nor—”
“The House of Lords,” I reminded him, following it up with a blinding smile.
“It speaks to your startling embrace of vulgarity that you have donned that kilt, caterpillar, and bonnet again today. I don’t mind telling you that the costume will feature in my testimony before your peers, including the fact that, by my calculation, your mother illegally designed the tartan at a time when wearing it was prohibited.
It’s legal these days, but . . .” I shook my head perplexedly.
“Perhaps I shall add a charge of insanity.”
His eyes were bulging, and sweat was beaded on his forehead. I decided it was time to wrap up the conversation. Despite my homicidal fantasies, I didn’t want my husband to drop dead before my eyes.
“I have one more point to make. While we remain under the same roof, if you denigrate your daughter by comparing her to a caterpillar or a crow, I will throw Ainsworth, her trashy wardrobe, and that execrable portrait into the snow—even if it’s Christmas morning. Do I make myself clear, Burnsby?”
“You would not dare!” he hissed.
Again.
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Yes, I dare. I am Lady Burnsby, a title you granted me.”
With a jerky motion, he stood up and raised a curled fist, as if he might try to strike me.
“Hit me, and I’ll kick you in the furry caterpillar. Don’t think you can drag me out on the ramparts and toss me off, either. You haven’t the strength for it.” I went ahead and said it, because, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.
“You haven’t the balls.”
“I was bitterly deceived in you,” he wheezed. His eyes glowed with malice. “Beware, Lady Burnsby. I shall invalidate your annulment plea.”
I shrugged. “Had you kept to the script with which you wooed me, I would have adhered to my script as well. Now I intend to take a French lover and flaunt him all over London. You want another son? Perhaps he can give it to you.”
My erstwhile husband stared at me as if I’d grown horns.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he bleated.
Was that the third time he said it?
“I dare,” I repeated, tired of the whole conversation.
“Why shouldn’t I, in light of what you have done?
By the way, you and Miss Ainsworth will be dining alone, with the Christmas meal the only exception.
The rest of us shall eat in the library.
On your birthday, we will gather in the drawing room before adjoining for dinner, likely the last meal of your life with your daughter, and certainly the last with your son. ”
He stared at me, his jaw moving in an unattractive fashion, side to side, the way grasshoppers chew grass.
“I believe we understand each other, Lord Burnsby. Buy a house and move the woman out before the first of February, or I shall evict her well before the snow melts.”
I started walking around him when I noticed that Godric had entered the room. He was standing in the door, his shoulders almost filling the opening, his mouth a firm line.
I’ll admit it: My heart leapt. He was my refuge in the abbey.
Putting a finger to his lips, Godric grabbed my hand and drew me out the door and along the corridor until we reached a sizable niche in the wall. Dropping my hand, he lifted the heavy vase that had presumably replaced a Madonna.
A door silently swung open.
A second secret passage!