Chapter 10 #2
He glanced at Verity then, not with any particular warmth, but with a new and more evaluative interest, as though seeing her not as a wife, but as a problem to be resolved.
She had not yet paused in her speech, now recounting some trivial slight delivered by a neighbor with a degree of indignation that seemed wholly disproportionate to the offense, and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he had failed to anticipate just how thoroughly she would come to occupy his attention in the most unwelcome of ways.
Accidents happened, after all. And women, in their long skirts, were forever tripping and falling. If such a fall were to occur at the top of the stairs, it might well resolve the issue for him.
Such a thought ought to have scared him.
To so deliberately plot the demise of another.
But William had long ago come to accept the fact that he was quite different from others, unburdened by conscience as so many were.
And such thoughts, if anything, settled his mind with a quiet, practical ease that suggested he had already accepted it, had already begun to consider the particulars of how such a thing might be accomplished without undue complication.
It was not a matter of malice, not in any meaningful sense, but of convenience, of necessity, and he had never been inclined to deny himself what was necessary simply because it might be viewed unfavorably by others.
Across the room, Verity smiled.
It was not a pleasant expression. So unpleasant, in fact, that for a moment he wondered if perhaps he were not the only one hatching plots and schemes. Then he dismissed it just as quickly. What could she do, after all?
Verity continued speaking without pause, her voice carrying easily through the room as she recounted the minor absurdities of local society and the many refinements she intended to introduce upon her return to London, though the subject itself held little real interest for her beyond its utility.
It served its purpose well enough, providing her with the opportunity to observe without inviting observation in return, and she made use of that advantage now, allowing her gaze to rest upon her husband with quiet deliberation even as she maintained the appearance of trivial engagement.
William had grown quieter, which in itself was unremarkable, but there was a difference in the quality of that silence that did not escape her notice, a particular stillness that suggested his thoughts had turned inward in a more purposeful way than usual, and she understood without difficulty that such moments rarely produced anything of value beyond his own self-interest, a tendency that neither surprised nor troubled her given how entirely consistent it had proven since their marriage.
He had already fulfilled the purpose for which she had married him, and that purpose had never extended beyond the immediate advantages his name and position had afforded her, advantages that were now secured.
His continued presence offered no further benefit that could not be more effectively managed in his absence.
Indeed, the longer he remained, the more apparent it became that he represented not an asset, but a hindrance, a persistent inconvenience that demanded attention without offering any meaningful return upon the investment of it.
Her gaze lingered upon him for a moment longer, assessing without sentiment, and she found nothing in the observation to alter her conclusion.
He was adequate when necessity required it and now that necessity had passed.
A woman, once married, could never again be relegated to that strange purgatory that existed only for those on the cusp of womanhood--be alluring but not fast, be intelligent enough to hide the fact that you are, be seductive and yet innocent at once.
Then, as her unmarried state had resembled purgatory in her mind, widowhood represented a kind of freedom she dreamed of.
There was no affection to complicate the matter, no attachment to soften it, and she had never been inclined to burden herself with either where they did not serve her interests, a clarity that rendered the path forward not only obvious, but entirely untroubling.
Marriage, as she had always understood it, was not an end, but a means, and now that the means had delivered its intended result, the question was not whether she would remain bound by it, but how best to alter her circumstances without compromising the advantages she had already secured.
Widowhood presented itself as the most efficient solution, offering a degree of freedom that few other conditions could rival, and one that would place her beyond the immediate constraints imposed by a husband whose presence had ceased to be of value.
William’s habits would facilitate the transition, for they were neither discreet nor easily concealed, and the world had already taken sufficient notice of them that a gradual decline in his health would excite little curiosity, particularly if it unfolded in a manner consistent with excess rather than any singular event.
William drank as he always did. His lack of restraint was never in question, and that alone was to her advantage, for she had no need to persuade him, no need to encourage him to take another sip of the already altered spirit that was, minute by minute, bringing her closer to the quiet fruition of her plan.
The method was subtle and necessarily slow, though not without early effect, for he already appeared somewhat pale, a detail remarked upon that very morning by one of their neighbors, and she had taken note of it with quiet satisfaction.
The process would continue as it had begun, with small, consistent additions that required no variation—a drop here, another there, the faintest trace along the rim of his glass—each measure insignificant on its own, but collectively sufficient to produce the gradual decline she required.
It was that consistency, rather than any dramatic gesture, that would ensure the desired result, and it would do so with very little risk to her, a fact she understood perfectly well given the particular advantages afforded to her position.
A woman, after all, was easily dismissed, easily overlooked, and, more often than not, entirely underestimated, and she had long since learned how to make such assumptions serve her rather than hinder her.
Her attention shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the sideboard where the decanter rested, though the movement was slight enough to pass without comment, her expression unchanged as she continued speaking.
Then she turned back to him, her gaze dropping to the now empty cut crystal glass in his hand.
“Oh, heavens! What a terrible wife I am to sit here prattling on while you are withering with thirst. Shall I get you another brandy, my dear husband?”
William looked down at the glass, almost as if surprised to realize it had been drained. “If you don’t mind,” he said, all politeness despite his cold gaze. “I find myself suffering the most wretched aching head. Brandy should ease it tremendously.”
She rose then, her movements unhurried, crossing the room with the same composed ease she brought to all such actions, and as she poured, her gaze settled briefly upon the amber liquid as it gathered in the glass, her attention not on the drink itself, but on the quiet certainty of the process it now represented.
There was nothing in the gesture to distinguish it from habit, nothing in her manner to suggest the direction of her thoughts, and when she returned to her seat, her voice continued as it had before, steady, unbroken, entirely inconsequential in its subject.
“Mrs. Grant looked positively dreadful in that walking costume she wore!” She handed the glass off to him as she spoke, knowing full well that it was the sound of her voice which was currently driving him to drink.
William did not look at her, which suited her perfectly well, for it confirmed what she had already determined, that he saw nothing beyond what he expected to see and would therefore miss entirely what he had no reason to anticipate.
It was an oversight she had no intention of correcting, and as she observed him now, taking in the faint tension in his expression, the inward cast of his thoughts, she found nothing in it to suggest awareness, nothing that required adjustment to her approach.
“In truth,” she said, as though continuing some trivial point already well underway, her tone light, her expression composed, “I do not think the color suited her at all, though she seemed quite determined to insist upon it regardless.”
William lifted the glass to his lips, taking a healthy swallow.
And Verity had to fight the urge to preen like a puffed up peacock.
He thought her stupid and stupid people were never seen as a threat.
“She should have remained in pastels,” Verity noted, nodding her head decisively as she did so.
“Those dark colors against her dark hair—why she’s likely to terrify small children.
They will think her some sort of witch or devil! ”
“Do stop talking about gowns and costumes, Verity,” William said, his voice sounding suddenly very tired. “I bet of you, speak on another topic if you must speak. In truth, I think I should prefer silence.”
“As you wish, husband,” she said with false meekness. And all the while, he continued sipping at the very tool she was using to orchestrate his bitter end. And her freedom.