Once and Always
Page 56
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De Salle unhesitatingly reached for the proffered bottle, explaining as he did so, “I went to your house when I learned of the duel earlier this evening, but your man said you were out for the evening and wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone.” He took a long swallow of the strong whiskey and handed the bottle back to Jason. “So I went after Dr. Worthing and we came here, hoping to stop them.”
“We should have let them shoot themselves,” Jason said disgustedly, then clenched his teeth and stiffened as the needle again pierced his jagged flesh.
“Probably so.”
Jason took two more long swallows of liquor and felt the stuff begin to numb his senses. Leaning his head back against the hard bark of the tree, he sighed with amused exasperation. “Exactly what did my little countess do to cause this duel?”
De Salle stiffened at Jason’s affectionate phrasing and his voice lost its polite friendliness. “As nearly as I could tell, Lady Victoria supposedly called Wiltshire a dandified English bumpkin.”
“Then Wiltshire should have called her out,” Jason said with a chuckle, taking another swig of whiskey. “She wouldn’t have missed her shot.”
De Salle didn’t smile at the joke. “What do you mean, ‘your little countess’?” he demanded tersely. “If she is yours, you’re taking your time making it official—you said yourself the matter wasn’t settled. What kind of game are you playing with her affections, Wakefield?”
Jason’s gaze shot to the other man’s hostile features; then he closed his eyes, an exasperated smile on his lips. “If you’re planning to call me out, I hope to hell you can shoot. It’s damned humiliating for a man of my reputation to be shot by a tree.”
Victoria tossed and turned in her bed, too exhausted to sleep and unable to still her churning thoughts. At daybreak she gave up trying and sat up in bed, watching the sky change from dark gray to pale gray, her thoughts as dismal and bleak as the morning promised to be. Propped up against the pillows, she plucked idly at the satin coverlet, while her life seemed to stretch before her like a dark, lonely, frightening tunnel. She thought about Andrew, who was married to another and lost to her now; she thought about the villagers she had loved from childhood and who had loved her in return. Now there was no one. Except Uncle Charles, of course, but even his affection couldn’t still her restlessness or fill the aching void inside her.
She had always felt needed and useful; now her life was an endless round of frenzied frivolity with Jason paying all the expenses. She felt so—so unnecessary, so useless and burdensome.
She’d tried to take Jason’s callous advice and choose another man to marry. She’d tried, but she simply couldn’t imagine herself married to any of the shallow London blades who were trying so hard to win her. They didn’t need her as a wife; she would merely be an ornament, a decoration in their lives. With the exception of the Collingwoods and a few others, ton marriages were superficial conveniences, nothing more. Couples rarely appeared together at the same function and, if they did, it was unfashionable for them to remain in each other’s company once there. The children born of these marriages were promptly dumped into the hands of nannies and tutors. How different the meaning of “marriage” was here, Victoria thought.
Wistfully she recalled the husbands and wives she’d known in Portage. She remembered old Mr. Prowther sitting on the porch in the summers, determinedly reading to his palsied wife, who scarcely knew where she was. She remembered the look on Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace’s faces when Victoria’s father informed them that, after twenty years of childless marriage, Mrs. Makepeace had conceived. She remembered the way the middle-aged couple had clung to each other and wept with unashamed joy. Those were marriages as marriage was surely meant to be—two people working together and helping each other through good times and bad; two people laughing together, raising children together, and even crying together.
Victoria thought of her own mother and father. Although Katherine Seaton hadn’t loved her husband, she had still made a cozy home for him and been his helpmate. They did things together too, like playing chess before the fire in the winter and taking walks in the summer twilight.
In London, Victoria was desired for the simple, silly reason that she was “in fashion” at the moment. As a wife she would have no use, no purpose, except as a decoration at the foot of the dining table when guests were expected for supper. Victoria knew she could never be content if that was her life. She wanted to share herself with someone who needed her, to make him happy and be important to him. She wanted to be useful, to have a purpose other than an ornamental one.
The Marquis de Salle truly cared for her, she could sense that—but he didn’t love her, regardless of what he said.
Victoria bit her lip against the pain as she recalled Andrew’s tender avowals of love. He hadn’t really loved her.
The Marquis de Salle didn’t love her either. Perhaps wealthy men, including Andrew, were incapable of feeling real love. Perhaps—
Victoria sat bolt upright as heavy, dragging footsteps sounded in the hall. It was too early for the servants to be about, and besides, they practically ran through the house in their haste to satisfy their employer. Something thudded against a wall and a man moaned. Uncle Charles must be ill, she thought, and flung back the covers, hurtling out of bed. Racing to the door, she jerked it open. “Jason!” she said, her heart leaping into her throat as he sagged against the wall, his left arm in a makeshift sling. “What happened?” she whispered, then quickly amended, “Never mind. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get a servant to help you.” She whirled around, but he caught her arm in an amazingly strong grip and hauled her back, a crooked grin on his face.
“I want you to help me,” he said, and threw his right arm over her shoulders, nearly sending her to her knees beneath his weight. “Take me to my room, Victoria,” he ordered in a thick, cajoling voice.
“Where is it?” Victoria whispered as they started awkwardly down the hall.
“Don’t you know?” he chided thickly in a hurt tone. “I know where your room is.”
“What difference does that make?” Victoria demanded a little frantically as she tried to shift his weight.
“None,” he said agreeably, and stopped before the next door on the right. Victoria opened it and helped him inside.
Across the hall, another bedroom door opened and Charles Fielding stood in the doorway, his face anxious and worried as he pulled on a satin dressing robe. He stopped with only one arm in its sleeve as Jason said expansively to Victoria, “Now, li’l countess, escort me to my bed.”
“We should have let them shoot themselves,” Jason said disgustedly, then clenched his teeth and stiffened as the needle again pierced his jagged flesh.
“Probably so.”
Jason took two more long swallows of liquor and felt the stuff begin to numb his senses. Leaning his head back against the hard bark of the tree, he sighed with amused exasperation. “Exactly what did my little countess do to cause this duel?”
De Salle stiffened at Jason’s affectionate phrasing and his voice lost its polite friendliness. “As nearly as I could tell, Lady Victoria supposedly called Wiltshire a dandified English bumpkin.”
“Then Wiltshire should have called her out,” Jason said with a chuckle, taking another swig of whiskey. “She wouldn’t have missed her shot.”
De Salle didn’t smile at the joke. “What do you mean, ‘your little countess’?” he demanded tersely. “If she is yours, you’re taking your time making it official—you said yourself the matter wasn’t settled. What kind of game are you playing with her affections, Wakefield?”
Jason’s gaze shot to the other man’s hostile features; then he closed his eyes, an exasperated smile on his lips. “If you’re planning to call me out, I hope to hell you can shoot. It’s damned humiliating for a man of my reputation to be shot by a tree.”
Victoria tossed and turned in her bed, too exhausted to sleep and unable to still her churning thoughts. At daybreak she gave up trying and sat up in bed, watching the sky change from dark gray to pale gray, her thoughts as dismal and bleak as the morning promised to be. Propped up against the pillows, she plucked idly at the satin coverlet, while her life seemed to stretch before her like a dark, lonely, frightening tunnel. She thought about Andrew, who was married to another and lost to her now; she thought about the villagers she had loved from childhood and who had loved her in return. Now there was no one. Except Uncle Charles, of course, but even his affection couldn’t still her restlessness or fill the aching void inside her.
She had always felt needed and useful; now her life was an endless round of frenzied frivolity with Jason paying all the expenses. She felt so—so unnecessary, so useless and burdensome.
She’d tried to take Jason’s callous advice and choose another man to marry. She’d tried, but she simply couldn’t imagine herself married to any of the shallow London blades who were trying so hard to win her. They didn’t need her as a wife; she would merely be an ornament, a decoration in their lives. With the exception of the Collingwoods and a few others, ton marriages were superficial conveniences, nothing more. Couples rarely appeared together at the same function and, if they did, it was unfashionable for them to remain in each other’s company once there. The children born of these marriages were promptly dumped into the hands of nannies and tutors. How different the meaning of “marriage” was here, Victoria thought.
Wistfully she recalled the husbands and wives she’d known in Portage. She remembered old Mr. Prowther sitting on the porch in the summers, determinedly reading to his palsied wife, who scarcely knew where she was. She remembered the look on Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace’s faces when Victoria’s father informed them that, after twenty years of childless marriage, Mrs. Makepeace had conceived. She remembered the way the middle-aged couple had clung to each other and wept with unashamed joy. Those were marriages as marriage was surely meant to be—two people working together and helping each other through good times and bad; two people laughing together, raising children together, and even crying together.
Victoria thought of her own mother and father. Although Katherine Seaton hadn’t loved her husband, she had still made a cozy home for him and been his helpmate. They did things together too, like playing chess before the fire in the winter and taking walks in the summer twilight.
In London, Victoria was desired for the simple, silly reason that she was “in fashion” at the moment. As a wife she would have no use, no purpose, except as a decoration at the foot of the dining table when guests were expected for supper. Victoria knew she could never be content if that was her life. She wanted to share herself with someone who needed her, to make him happy and be important to him. She wanted to be useful, to have a purpose other than an ornamental one.
The Marquis de Salle truly cared for her, she could sense that—but he didn’t love her, regardless of what he said.
Victoria bit her lip against the pain as she recalled Andrew’s tender avowals of love. He hadn’t really loved her.
The Marquis de Salle didn’t love her either. Perhaps wealthy men, including Andrew, were incapable of feeling real love. Perhaps—
Victoria sat bolt upright as heavy, dragging footsteps sounded in the hall. It was too early for the servants to be about, and besides, they practically ran through the house in their haste to satisfy their employer. Something thudded against a wall and a man moaned. Uncle Charles must be ill, she thought, and flung back the covers, hurtling out of bed. Racing to the door, she jerked it open. “Jason!” she said, her heart leaping into her throat as he sagged against the wall, his left arm in a makeshift sling. “What happened?” she whispered, then quickly amended, “Never mind. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get a servant to help you.” She whirled around, but he caught her arm in an amazingly strong grip and hauled her back, a crooked grin on his face.
“I want you to help me,” he said, and threw his right arm over her shoulders, nearly sending her to her knees beneath his weight. “Take me to my room, Victoria,” he ordered in a thick, cajoling voice.
“Where is it?” Victoria whispered as they started awkwardly down the hall.
“Don’t you know?” he chided thickly in a hurt tone. “I know where your room is.”
“What difference does that make?” Victoria demanded a little frantically as she tried to shift his weight.
“None,” he said agreeably, and stopped before the next door on the right. Victoria opened it and helped him inside.
Across the hall, another bedroom door opened and Charles Fielding stood in the doorway, his face anxious and worried as he pulled on a satin dressing robe. He stopped with only one arm in its sleeve as Jason said expansively to Victoria, “Now, li’l countess, escort me to my bed.”
