Читать книгу The Bridal Quest - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 10

THE NEXT MORNING, Irene glanced across the table at her sister-in-law. Maura was unaccustomedly pale, and her lids were heavy and dark. If it were another person, Irene would have wondered if she had not imbibed too freely at the Spences’ ball last night. Perhaps, she thought, Maura was not feeling well. She had been remarkably silent ever since she sat down at the breakfast table this morning, and she had merely picked listlessly at her food.

Irene glanced down at her own plate. She noticed that she, too, had not eaten much. However, she knew the reason for her own state. After her ill-fated stroll with Lord Radbourne, she had spent the remainder of the ball fuming. She had wanted to leave the party altogether, but Maura had refused to consider it, and Irene had finally slipped out of the ballroom and found a quiet nook along the gallery, where she had spent the rest of the evening.

Though she had been undisturbed, it had scarcely been a pleasant hour, for in her mind Irene had gone over and over Lord Radbourne’s rude behavior and her own appalling lapse of good sense. Even when they finally left the ball and she was able to seek the sanctuary of her own room, she had not found any peace. She had gone to bed but had tossed and turned, her thoughts still occupied with the shocking kiss on the terrace.

It had been hours before she could go to sleep, and even after she finally slipped into slumber, she had been disturbed by hot, lascivious dreams, awakening with her heart pounding and her skin sheened with sweat.

As a result, she had come down to breakfast a trifle late, feeling as if she had not slept at all, and had pushed her food around on her plate, eating little of it.

Irene nibbled another bit of egg and glanced around the table at the others. She noticed that Humphrey and her mother were also sneaking small worried looks at Maura, and Irene wondered again what had gotten into Humphrey’s wife.

Almost as if in answer to Irene’s thought, Maura raised her head and looked at Irene, saying, “I don’t know why you were so anxious to leave the party last night, Irene. It quite spoiled the evening.”

Irene raised her brows. “I had a headache. But we did not leave, so I cannot see how your evening was affected.”

“Irene…” her brother said quietly, a note of warning in his voice.

Irene glanced at him, a twinge of hurt going through her. Was her brother so in the thrall of his wife that he would discourage her from expressing her opinion?

“Well, Humphrey, it seems a reasonable question, does it not?” she asked levelly.

“It isn’t that.” He looked distressed, casting another glance at his wife. “Must we discuss this at the breakfast table?”

Lady Claire spoke up hastily, saying, “It was a lovely party, was it not? I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Didn’t you, Humphrey?”

“Yes, Mother, of course I did.” Humphrey smiled at the older woman fondly. “I was glad to see you so entertained.”

“It was a very pleasant time,” Maura agreed. “And I do not mean to criticize, Irene. I just wish that you would make a little more effort. It was so good of Lady Haughston to single you out, and then I saw you walking with that man. Who did you say he was, Mother?”

“Lord Radbourne,” Lady Claire answered. “Yes, I was quite amazed when Maura pointed him out to me and said you had strolled about the room with him. I had not seen him before, but Mrs. Shrewsbury told me that he was the Bankes’ heir who was kidnapped years ago. Such a sad tale…” She shook her head, tsk-tsking over the story.

“Yes, but the important thing is that he is said to be worth a fortune,” Maura put in. “A highly eligible man. And you did not make the slightest push to interest him, I warrant. Instead, you came back wanting to leave straightaway.”

“I am not interested in Lord Radbourne,” Irene said flatly.

“Of course you are not!” Maura exclaimed. “You are never interested in any man! You are the most unnatural person…. I cannot understand you. Sometimes I think you simply want to thwart me.” Maura glared at Irene, her mouth drawing into a childish pout.

Irene stared at her sister-in-law. Even for Maura, this behavior was a little unusual. “Maura, it has nothing to do with you,” she began reasonably.

“Oh, do not speak to me that way,” Maura snapped, picking up her napkin and tossing it down onto the table. “I am not a child. You talk to me as if I were a fool. Of course it has something to do with me! You refuse to marry, when any normal woman would be eager to do so. But you would rather remain here the rest of your life, even if it means being a spinster with no life of your own. You would much rather interfere with Humphrey’s life—always telling him what to do and how to act—”

Irene gaped at the other woman, stunned by Maura’s words.

“And you!” Maura went on, turning on her husband. Tears welled in her eyes. “You cannot seem to get through the day without asking your sister what you should do. ‘What do you think about this, Irene?’” she mimicked, her voice dripping with bitterness. “‘What should I tell Lord This or Sir That?’ You never ask my opinion, yet I am your wife!”

Humphrey blinked in surprise, for a moment speechless. Then he leaned forward, reaching out a hand to Maura, saying, “My dear…how can you think that? Of course I am interested in your opinion.”

“Hah!” Maura jumped to her feet, shaking off his hand. “You care nothing about me. Nothing at all!” With a sob, she turned and ran out of the room.

The other three people at the table stared after her.

“Humphrey! Irene!” Lady Claire said, her voice worried. “Why—What—”

“Perhaps I should leave, Humphrey,” Irene began stiffly. She had always known that Maura did not like her any more than she liked Maura, but she had been unprepared for the level of dislike in her sister-in-law’s voice.

“No, no,” her brother said hastily, pushing back his chair and standing, looking from the door to Irene, then back to the door. “I suppose I should go after her. I don’t know…she is so…volatile these days.” He turned back to Irene, a frown forming on his forehead. “I apologize. I am sure Maura did not mean it. She is fond of you, of course, just as she is of Mother. It is just—Well, she did not want to tell anyone just yet, but I can see that I must tell you. Maura is in a delicate condition.” His face pinkened slightly at his words, and he smiled in an almost abashed way.

Irene looked at him blankly, but Claire cried out in pleasure, “She is going to have a baby? Oh, Humphrey!” She clasped her hands together at her bosom, her face bright with excitement. “How wonderful! You must be so happy.”

“A baby?” Irene looked at her mother, then back at her brother. She smiled and stood up, then circled the table and hugged him. “I am so happy for you.”

“I knew you would be. I told Maura it was foolish to think you might not be,” Humphrey said with naive candor. “She is not herself these days. You can understand why she said what she did. It is foolish, of course, but I know she did not mean to say anything unkind.”

“Of course not,” Irene lied.

“But, Irene…” He took her hand between his. “Will you try to avoid any unpleasantness for the next few weeks? I am sure she will grow less emotional. Right now it is laughter one minute and tears the next with her. It seems that the slightest thing upsets her.”

“Of course. I promise I will mind my words,” Irene agreed, though her heart sank at the prospect of walking on eggshells around Maura for the rest of the pregnancy. Unlike her brother, she suspected that Maura would play up her condition for all it was worth until the very end. Even longer, in fact. After Maura gave birth, she would doubtless demand even more consideration as the mother of Humphrey’s child.

“Thank you.” Humphrey beamed at her. “I knew I could count on you.” He gave her hand a final pat and turned away. “Now I had better go up and talk to her. She will be feeling so distressed at the thought that she may have wounded you.”

Irene watched her brother go without comment. She seriously doubted that Maura felt any remorse for what she had said, but she would not say so to him. She was well aware that Humphrey’s love for his wife blinded him to all her faults.

She turned back to her mother, who was looking after Humphrey, her face soft with a tender happiness. Lady Claire shifted her gaze to Irene, and Irene watched the pleasure slowly fade from her face.

She felt a pinprick of guilt. If anyone had been distressed by her exchange of words with Maura, it had been her mother.

“Oh, dear,” her mother said with a sigh. “I fear it will be a difficult few months. Maura will doubtless be…very sensitive.”

“Doubtless,” Irene agreed drily. “Do not worry. I promise that I will try my utmost to curb my tongue with Maura.”

“I know you will, dear.” Lady Claire mustered up a smile, but it quickly fell away. She glanced toward the open door guiltily and dropped her voice. “I fear it will be hard to do. I mean no disparagement upon your brother’s wife, but…”

“I know you do not, Mother. No one could be sweeter tempered than you are. The truth is that Maura is difficult at the best of times.”

“It is hard on a young couple, having a mother live with them. I do wish that your father had left us a larger portion. Would it not be darling to have our own little cottage?” She smiled to herself as she thought about it.

“Yes, it would.” Irene’s musings were less sweet than her mother’s. “Father should have provided better for you.”

“Well, what’s done is done.” Even now, Irene knew, Lady Claire was reluctant to speak ill of her husband. “We must simply work as hard as we can at making the house run smoothly. Maura will need help, surely, as she becomes more advanced in her condition. Of course, she may prefer having her own mother and sister, although the house will be a little crowded if they come.”

Lady Claire paused, frowning a little as she thought. “Perhaps I should not have danced so much last night. I could see that Maura was not well pleased with my standing up so frequently with my cousin. It might not have been appropriate.”

“You would never conduct yourself any way but appropriately,” Irene assured her mother. “There was naught amiss with you dancing with your cousin and friends. You have lived among the ton all your life, and you know far better what is appropriate than some daughter of a Yorkshire country squire recently arrived in the city.”

“Irene!” Her mother cast an anxious glance at the doorway, then turned back to her. “You must not say such things. You promised that you would make more of an effort to get along.”

“I will,” Irene said disgruntledly. “But that does not mean that I cannot have my own opinions. However, I promise that I will refrain from mentioning them in front of Maura. But only for your sake, Mother, not because I feel any regard for Maura’s opinions or her sensibilities. As far as I’m concerned, Maura’s skin is about as tender as an elephant’s hide.”

Her words surprised a gurgle of laughter from Lady Claire, who quickly covered her mouth with her hand to hide the sound as she shook her head reprovingly at her daughter. Then she took a sip of tea and set her cup down, saying brightly, “Well, now, after we finish breakfast, we must go through the yarns and pick out something for a baby blanket. Won’t it be fun, making things for the baby?”

“Oh, yes.”

Her mother chattered on, paying no attention to the dryness of Irene’s tone.

“Booties and caps and little sweaters—oh, there is nothing sweeter than baby clothes.”

Irene supposed it would be a pleasant task if she had more affection for the mother-to-be. However, it was important to keep her mother’s mind on enjoyable topics and off the worry of displeasing her daughter-in-law, so Irene went along without protest, retiring to her mother’s room to pull out yarns and knitting instructions, and listening to her mother chatter on about cradle caps, embroidered gowns and receiving blankets. It seemed that the arrival of a baby would require more articles of clothing than a bridal trousseau.

She tried to steel herself for the task of keeping Maura happy. It would be, she thought, an impossible goal, but still, for her mother’s sake, Irene knew that she had to try. It galled her to think of catering to Maura’s whims, of biting back her own opinions whenever they disagreed with her sister-in-law’s, of putting on a pleasant smile whenever Maura chose to criticize her. However, if she did not do those things, she would, she knew, subject her mother to endless worry. Claire would take it upon herself to apologize and excuse and try to please Maura if Irene crossed the woman, and Irene could not bear to think of her mother debasing herself in that way to a woman who should be thanking her stars that she had Lady Claire for a mother-in-law.

More than ever, Irene wished that she could take her mother away from this house. But she was well aware that the few options for earning money that were open to a gentlewoman, such as hiring out as a governess or a companion, would not provide enough income even for them to let rooms. Part of the compensation in such jobs was the provision of a genteel place in which to live, but one could not bring along a dependent to live there, as well. And even if she could provide enough money by doing one of those things, or by taking in sewing or working in a shop somewhere, her mother would be aghast at the idea of leaving her son’s house to move into some small place on their own. It would reflect badly on Humphrey for them to do so, Claire would explain, and she would never do that to her son.

Irene’s thoughts were bleak as she contemplated how their lives would change with the coming of a new baby. Maura would be even more puffed up with her own importance at producing a child for Lord Wyngate, especially if it turned out to be a boy and heir. Irene could well imagine the sort of sweetly pitying remarks she would make to Irene regarding the fact that she would never know the satisfaction and joy of motherhood, the needling about Irene’s wasted opportunities and lack of effort to acquire that most basic of necessities for a woman: a husband.

She was relieved that Maura stayed in her room all morning, not emerging until after luncheon. But the pleasant interlude could not last, and early in the afternoon Maura rejoined Irene and Lady Claire in the sitting room, where Claire had already begun work on knitting a blanket.

Maura was a trifle paler than usual, and she played the role of invalid to the hilt, sending servants to fetch her shawl, then her fan, then a stool upon which to set her feet, and letting Lady Claire tend to her, tucking the shawl in around her and jumping up to reposition the stool when it did not exactly suit Maura. However, Irene kept her tongue still, maintaining a pleasant smile on her face as she listened to Maura prattle on about the upcoming blessed event, interspersing her remarks with frequent sighs and complaints.

When one of the maids came into the room to announce a visitor, Irene was grateful for the diversion. It was with some amazement, however, that she heard the maid announce that Lady Haughston had come to call. She glanced toward her mother and saw an equally puzzled look on her face. Francesca Haughston had never been a frequent caller to their home, and since Maura had arrived, her calls had stopped entirely. Irene could scarcely blame her; she would have avoided Lady Maura’s conversation herself, if only she could.

But it seemed strange that Francesca should suddenly have reappeared, especially after she had sought Irene out last night at the party. However, Maura clearly saw nothing strange about the other woman’s arrival. She beamed at Lady Haughston and greeted her effusively, then proceeded to chatter away for the next few minutes without giving Francesca a chance to interject anything more than an occasional “Indeed?” or “Oh, really?”

It did not surprise Irene that Francesca soon began to stir a little restlessly in her seat, and she suspected that their visitor would cut the call short at the first chance she had. Sure enough, when Maura at last paused for a moment, Francesca quickly jumped into the brief silence to tell them that she was sorry she could not stay any longer.

“I was about to take a ride through the park,” she explained. “And I just thought I would drop by to ask Lady Irene if she would care to join me.”

Maura’s face fell almost comically, and Irene hastened to speak before Maura could come up with some reason why she could not spare Irene’s company this afternoon.

“Why, yes, Lady Haughston, that sounds most pleasant.”

Irene rang for a servant to fetch her a bonnet and pelisse, and whisked Francesca out of the room, warding off Maura’s broad hints about a ride doubtless being just the thing she needed to cure her feeling out of sorts.

“Oh, no, dear sister,” Irene told her with syrupy smile to match Maura’s own. “I am not at all sure that that would be the best thing for you. You must be very careful now, mustn’t you? You know how your back was aching just a few minutes ago. I fear a carriage ride would not be at all the thing for you.” She gave her a significant look and appealed to Lady Claire. “Don’t you agree, Mother?”