He crossed the room amiably and stood behind his wife's stool. Hetherington too strolled across to the pianoforte and leaned an elbow on it while he watched Amelia singing.
"May I join you, ma'am?" Mr. Mainwaring asked, and seated himself beside her on the sofa.
They conversed about the recent weather, about common acquaintances, about the social activities they had both engaged in since his arrival. He told her about some changes he planned to make in the estate. In particular, he planned to extend the stables and to hire more gardeners to tame the general wildness that surrounded the house.
"Does this mean that you plan to make Ferndale your frequent home, sir?" Elizabeth asked.
"Oh, yes," he replied. "I like it here very much. My estates in Scotland and northern England are rather too remote for frequent visits, and London is rather too busy and too superficial for my tastes. I believe I shall spend a large part of each year in residence here."
Elizabeth smiled. "I am sure your neighbors will be very happy to have Ferndale occupied again," she said.
He looked at her intently. "And you, ma'am?" he asked. "Will you be happy to have me live here?"
"I?" she said. "Why, yes, sir, I value your acquaintance."
Hetherington had moved back across the room and sat now in the chair closest to the fire with his book. He propped one foot against the hearth rail and appeared to become immediately absorbed in its pages. Elizabeth judged that he was out of earshot of their conversation unless he made a deliberate attempt to listen.
"Will I be speaking out of turn, ma'am," Mr. Main-waring continued, "if I say that you are one of the main reasons why I have decided to make Ferndale my principal home?"
Elizabeth looked at him, troubled. "It is perhaps unwise to allow one person to influence one's decisions," she said. "People can disappoint us, you know."
He was silent for a while, watching her. "May I hope, Elizabeth?" he asked.
She was distressed. She eyed Hetherington uneasily, but he seemed to be engrossed in his book. "For friendship, yes, sir," she replied hesitantly
"But not for anything more?"
"I do not believe so, sir," she said.
He continued to gaze at her. "Does your position as a paid companion make you hesitate?" he asked. "It need not, you know. Your breeding proclaims you every inch a lady, and I find nothing shameful in being forced to work for a living."
"I am not ashamed either," she replied.
"There is someone else, then?" he asked. "Your affections are engaged elsewhere?"
How could she reply? Elizabeth gazed at her hands, which were twisting uncomfortably in her lap.
"Pardon me, ma'am," he said, reaching out and touching her hands briefly. "The question was impertinent. Please do not distress yourself. I believe Bertha and Amelia have tired of their music. Shall we set up a card table?"
He had risen to his feet. The last words were spoken more loudly. Elizabeth gratefully allowed herself to be drawn into the evening's activities. She escaped to her room as soon as she decently could, having avoided any more private conversation with Mr. Main waring and without having given Hetherington any further opportunity to cut her with words. She lay down half an hour later, hoping fervently that the weather would have changed by the morning so that there would be no possible obstacle to her going home early.
Chapter 8
"I must see him for myself," Elizabeth was saying. "I cannot believe it. I will not. He loves me. There is some terrible mistake."
"There is no mistake, love." John's voice was very gentle but equally firm. He was kneeling on the floor in front of her chair. He seemed always to be kneeling before her. "I have talked to Papa and there is no mistake. The man is an out-and-out scoundrel."
"No!" she said, covering her ears with her hands. "No."
The tears were flowing again. She was powerless to resist them. She had lost all pride.
"Love, you must get up from there. You must go outside. You must eat," John coaxed.
"No," she said dully. "No."
"What can I do for you?" he asked, genuine pain in his voice. "I cannot be a substitute for that damned Denning -Hetherington, I should say-but let me comfort you, Elizabeth. Lean on me for a while. You have done enough for me in the last years."
"I must see him," she said dully. "I must see him. I must hear it from him."
"He refuses to have any further contact with you, love. Get angry, Elizabeth. Curse him. Yell. But don't keep on grieving like this. Please, love."
Elizabeth sobbed painfully into her hands again.
He gathered her into his arms and rocked her like a child. "It will be all right," he crooned. "Everything will be all right."
"No," she wailed.
She was sweating and struggling, fighting for breath. When she opened her eyes against the darkness, she continued to struggle, completely disoriented. It took a while to understand the strangeness of her surroundings. She was in a guest bedroom at Ferndale. She lay still, listening tensely for a while. Had she said anything aloud? Her nightmares had been noisy at first. Many times she had awoken to find John shaking her by the shoulders, telling her over and over that it was just a bad dream and that everything would be all right. No one at Mr. Rowe's house had ever mentioned hearing her call out in her sleep, though several times she had awoken from the nightmare, her face still wet from the tears.
Damn him! Damn Robert Denning, Marquess of Hetherington. How could she be expected to sleep peacefully knowing that he was under the same roof? Was he sleeping dreamlessly? Or was he restless too, troubled perhaps by his conscience? He did not appear to have one, but perhaps it troubled him in his sleep. The thought was somehow comforting.
Elizabeth pushed back the bedcovers impatiently and crossed the room in her bare feet to the window. She pulled back the heavy curtains and stared out into the darkness. It was still raining, though with less force than during the evening. The sky seemed lighter. There seemed even to be some thinner patches in the clouds, though it might have been wishful thinking that made her imagine it.
She shivered. The room felt chilly and damp now that the fire that had been lit earlier in the day had died down, Elizabeth pulled around her shoulders the dressing gown that Mrs. Prosser had lent her, climbed back into the high bed, and sat upright, the bedcovers pulled to her waist, her arms clasped around her knees.
She relived again those few blissful weeks, the best in their courtship, when they had visited Robert's grandmother frequently and had a chance to get to know each other and brief minutes to touch and embrace. Even at the time Elizabeth had wanted those days to go on forever. Two people had contrived to put a stop to their happiness.
Elizabeth had been surprised one evening at a large ball to have her hand solicited for a dance by Robert's uncle. She had seen him before, had even been introduced to him, but she had never seen him dance, had never seen him pay any attention whatsoever to young women. He was a man of enormous wealth and had a great sense of his own importance. As brother to the Marquess of Heth-erington, he felt himself far removed from the common touch. He was generally disliked, Elizabeth had heard. She was terrified of him, though Robert felt a deep respect, even affection, for his uncle. When he asked her to dance, Elizabeth's amazed reaction was that he must be putting his public stamp of approval on his nephew's courtship of her. She could not have been more wrong.
Although he had led her in the direction of the dance floor, Horace Denning had stopped before they could join a set, bowed in chilly hauteur to his partner, and suggested that they sit out the dance.