Sometimes she was glad that Jack the magpie had finally forced things to a head; sometimes she wished with all her heart that the truth had remained buried. She paused. Did she really mean that? Could she honestly wish to have remained in that dreadful half world of unproven suspicions, fretful for answers, afraid of those same answers, and feeling sick with misery that happiness seemed to have slipped away behind her back? She had been aware for some time that Charles was keeping something from her, for she had glimpsed it in his eyes, sensed it in his odd reticence about his visits to London, and felt it in the hesitance of his lovemaking. Something was wrong, but whenever she asked he denied it. Slowly but surely a rift had appeared between them, but he had pretended not to notice, which only added resentment to her burden of hurt bewilderment. From there it had been but a short step to wondering if there was someone else in his life.
Looking back she wished she’d been difficult with him, or had screamed and made scenes, but she hadn’t. What an eeyot he must have thought her. The old pet word brought a lump to her throat, and she clenched a fist and dug her fingernails into her palm, a ploy that always seemed to keep tears at bay, although she did not know exactly why. It had certainly worked during those dreadful moments when Jack’s instinctive thievery had forced Charles’s shabby secret into the open.
The denouement took place in the entrance hall at Marchwell Park. She and Charles were actually staying in the Retreat for Christmas as always, but she had been with her aunt in the main house when he returned from yet another of his unexplained visits to London. The house was full of guests, mostly in their rooms at that moment dressing for the Christmas Eve ball, which that year had a fairy-tale theme. It was evening and she was already in her costume as she ran down the staircase to greet him. She was dressed as Titania, in a gauzy sea green gown and tiny sequined wings. Her hair flowed loose, and her smile was bright, for she had resolved to do all she could to close the chasm that marred her marriage. The delicious fragrance of mulled wine and baking mince pies permeated the house from the kitchens, but it was only afterward that she’d become aware of it; only afterward she’d come to hate it.
Now, as her thoughts wandered back to those final moments, time seemed to peel away and suddenly it was Christmas Eve 1813 again, and the bitterest winter in living memory had just begun . . .
“By all the saints, it’s cold outside!” Charles declared, his spurs jingling on the Tudor-tiled floor as he crossed the hall to the table, where a footman waited to take his heavy olive green greatcoat, top hat, and gloves. In the seconds before the outer door was closed Juliet heard the crunch of hooves on frozen gravel as a groom led his horse away.
Her nerve faltered suddenly, and she hesitated at the foot of the staircase with a hand on the dark wooden rail. Outside icicles hung from eaves and hedgerows, a freezing mist had settled over the land, and chimney smoke was kept close to the ground; but inside all was bright, warm, and welcoming. The customary copper bowl of holly stood on the carved oak table in the center of the hall, its berries bright and cheerful in the light from the wheel-rim chandeliers and roaring fire. The servants had not long finished adorning every sill, cornice, jamb, rail, and alcove with the greenery that was essential for the festive season, and now she was aware of the fresh scent of conifers.
She studied her husband anxiously. Charles was twenty-two, tall and striking, with blond hair and bluer-than-blue eyes, and there was a rugged strength about him that in spite of her unhappiness still drew her like a moth to a flame. His taste was impeccable, from the cut and quality of his greatcoat, to the superb lines of the damson coat and gray breeches he wore beneath it. The ride from London had not disturbed the excellent knot his valet had earlier achieved in his starched muslin neckcloth, nor had exertion wrinkled the fine striped marcella of his waistcoat.
He appeared the epitome of all that was handsome and admired in a gentleman, but in the depth of her heart his unhappy wife had begun to question his faithfulness. There was something going on that he wished to keep from her, and every instinct told her discovering what it was would break not only her heart but their marriage. Was there a more handsome man in all England? she wondered. With his complexion still tanned from the late summer he gave the impression of spending most of his days outdoors, yet of late he had become a denizen of London’s drawing rooms. What did he do when he was away from her? Who was he with?
Conscious that she had remained at the foot of the stairs, Charles waited until the footman had helped him out of the greatcoat before turning. His glance swept over her fairy-queen gown. “How now, proud Titania,” he murmured.