Читать книгу Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 23

Chapter Thirteen

Mary didn’t feel as if she’d slept at all. Yet the sound of the maid making up the fire and drawing back the curtains the next morning definitely woke her up, so she must have done.

She almost groaned at the thought of facing the day. If only she could pull the covers over her head and hide. Actually, she supposed she could. She could have a tray brought up here, to her room, rather than going downstairs and facing a deserted breakfast table.

While she waited for it to arrive, she heard the sound of hooves trotting past her window. Two sets of hooves. Just as usual. She clenched her fists. While she felt as if her world was coming to an end, her husband and his sister were going out riding. Without a care in the world.

Lord Havelock had exactly what he wanted. Julia was safely ensconced under his roof. Nobody would think it necessary to investigate her hasty removal from Lady Peverell’s care. He’d quashed the potential for rumours by marrying.

Yes, he’d got what he wanted, all right. And now she, his wife, was surplus to requirements. In every single way. He’d even made it plain she wouldn’t be of any help whatsoever when it came round to Julia’s Season.

And very well, it was true that Mary had never had a Season. Didn’t know anyone in society. And had no idea how to handle the bevy of suitors that Julia, with her wealth and vivacity, was bound to attract.

She supposed Julia would need someone like Lady Peverell, who had at least mingled with the kind of people Lord Havelock would consider eligible, to steer her through that rite of passage. But had it really been necessary for him to rub her nose in all her shortcomings like that?

She was already dealing with the knowledge she wasn’t of any practical use around the house any longer. Mrs Brownlow and her team had everything running like clockwork. Even when she consulted Mary about menus it only served to emphasise that Mrs Brownlow knew what were his lordship’s favourite dishes, and what was available locally, and who the best suppliers were. While Mary didn’t.

Making Mary fully aware how useless she really was.

He’d scarcely notice when she’d gone.

By the time a knock on the door heralded the arrival of a couple of maids bearing her breakfast, her insides were so churned up that the last thing she wanted to do was eat. Throw something, yes, that might have made her feel better. But since the man she wanted to aim the teapot at was probably halfway across the county by now, she couldn’t have the satisfaction.

Besides, it hadn’t been that long ago when she hadn’t known where the next meal might come from. She couldn’t squander perfectly good food without suffering a terrible backlash of guilt.

So she accepted the tray, let the maid pour her tea and set a slice of toast on her plate.

And in a cold, leaden voice, instructed one of them to pack her clothes.

‘Of course, my lady,’ said Susan cheerfully, going to the armoire and lifting down the shabby portmanteau. ‘His lordship has said as how you’d be going up to town to buy some new clothes for the Season.’

Oh, had he? Mary took a vicious bite of toast and chewed it thoroughly.

‘And I’m to go with you,’ she said, setting the portmanteau on the floor in front of the open cupboard. ‘Gilbey is preparing the coach,’ she added, reaching up for a gown and taking it off its hanger.

Mary’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Gilbey was preparing the coach? ‘I’m that excited,’ babbled Susan as she draped the gown over the back of a chair. ‘I’ve never been further than Stoney Bottom in my life.’

Mary threw the toast back on to its plate, her stomach roiling. Her husband had given orders to all the servants to hasten her departure, had he? Couldn’t wait to get her out of his house and out of his life, in fact.

It felt like a blow to the gut. So real was her pain that she had to fling back the covers and hurry over to the washbasin, over which she heaved for a moment or two before sinking back on to the dressing-table stool, her face clammy with sweat.

‘Oh, my lady, are you ill? Shall I cancel the coach? You surely don’t want to go anywhere today, if you’re poorly.’

Mary shook her head. ‘I shall be fine in a moment.’ She wasn’t ill. Or at least it was only her husband’s rejection of her that was making her sick to her stomach. The nights spent weeping quietly into her pillow. The days spent sitting alone, feeling thoroughly useless.

And she wasn’t going to get any better by carrying on in the same way. No—the only way she was likely to find a cure was to get as far away from him as she could and lick her wounds in private.

‘Carry on with the packing, Susan.’

‘Yes, my lady, if you’re sure.’

Rather more soberly now, Susan folded and stowed Mary’s new clothes into her old portmanteau while Mary got washed and dressed. Rather shakily.

Her whole body hurt, not just her heart. How could she have let him reduce her to this shivering, quivering wreck of a woman?

Without even trying, that was the most galling thing. He hadn’t made any pretty speeches, or given her flowers, or anything. He’d just brusquely told her his requirements, more or less snapped his fingers, and she’d gone trotting after him, all eager to please. Had kept on trying to please him, day after day.

Even though she knew it was pointless.

Because she’d read that horrid list.

A list, she recalled on a mounting wave of bitterness, she’d had to fit, to pass muster. When she’d had to accept him exactly as he was.

Which was completely and totally unfair.

She came to a dead halt in the middle of the floor, pain and resentment surging through her.

If he could measure out her worth according to some stupid list, then why shouldn’t she treat him to a dose of his own medicine?

Uttering a growl of frustration, she stormed over to the table under the window where she’d taken to sitting to write her correspondence, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, trimmed her pen and stabbed it into the inkwell.

What I want from a husband, she wrote at the top of the page, underlining the I twice.

Need not have a penny to his name, she wrote first, recalling his stipulation that his bride need not have a dowry.

Can be plug-ugly, she wrote next, recalling how hurt she’d been by his stipulation she need not be pretty, so long as he will love his wife and treat her like a queen, not a scullery maid.

Said love will include respecting his wife, being kind to her and listening to her opinions.

Not only will he listen to her opinions, she wrote, underlining the word listen, he will consider them before he pitches her into a situation she would naturally shrink from.

Won’t deny his wife the right to feel like a bride on her wedding day.

Will appreciate having any living relatives—underlining the word any twice.

Need not have a title. But if he has one, it ought to be one he earned. One lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy, she explained, remembering her own brother’s heroic deeds and his death fighting the enemies of her country, is worth a dozen viscounts.

By that time, she’d reached the bottom of the page. And splattered as much ink over the writing desk as she’d scored into the paper.

And had realised what a futile exercise it was.

She wasn’t married to a plug-ugly man who treated her like a queen. She was married to a handsome, wealthy lord, who thought it was enough to let her spend his money however she wanted.

She flung the quill aside, got to her feet and went to the bed, on which Susan had laid out her coat and bonnet.

The coat in which she’d got married. With such high hopes.

Before she’d read his vile list and discovered what he really thought of her.

Well, futile it might be, but she was jolly well going to let him know what she thought of him, too. Before she walked out of his house and his life.

Telling Susan she could go and collect her own things, Mary buttoned up the coat and pinned on her hat.

Then snatched up the list she’d just written, stormed along the corridor to the horrid blue room where her husband had taken up residence and slapped the list on to the bed.

And then, recalling the way the list he’d written had ended up fluttering across the floor when the door shut, and knowing she was on the verge of slamming the one to this room on her way out any second now, she wrenched out her hatpin and thrust it through the list, skewering it savagely to his pillow.

And with head held high, she strode along the corridor, down the stairs and out of his house.

* * *

God, but it had been a long day. He’d kept putting off returning to Mayfield, knowing that when he did return, Mary would have gone. But Julia was tired, cold and hungry, and in the end he’d had to bring her back. Had come upstairs to get changed for dinner.

The first dinner of his married life that he’d have to face without his wife at his table.

He had at least the satisfaction of knowing he’d done what he could to make sure her journey would be as easy as he could make it, without actually going with her. She’d been able to use the travelling coach, which had only just come back from the workshop. He hadn’t had to hire a chaise, and leave her in the care of strangers. Gilbey was an excellent whip. And she had a maid to save her from impertinent travellers at the stops on the way. He—

He came to a halt just inside the door to his room, transfixed by the sight of a single sheet of paper, staked to his pillow by what looked remarkably like a hatpin.

So she had left a farewell note. He’d wondered if she would. Heart pounding, he strode across to the bed, hoping that she... She what? A note that was staked to his bed with a symbolically lethal weapon was hardly going to contain the kinds of fond parting words he wanted to read, was it?

But it might at least give him a clue as to where he’d gone wrong with her. Why she’d withdrawn from him when, to start with, she’d seemed so eager to please. So eager to please, in fact, that after her first refusal, he’d told himself she must be going through that mysterious time of the month that afflicted every woman of childbearing age. It had only been when she’d kept on refusing to allow him into her bed that the chill reality struck.

She simply didn’t want him any more.

Well, hopefully, this note would explain why.

He snatched it up and carried it to the window, so he could make out the words in the fading light of late afternoon.

Only to see the words What I want from a husband scrawled across the top of the page.

With the word I underlined.

A chill stole down the length of his spine as he scanned the whole page. Because it wasn’t just a damning indictment of all his faults. It was worse, far worse than that.

The way she’d set it out, even the way she’d underlined certain words, the very choice of words she’d used—all of it meant she must have read the damn stupid list he and his friends had written, the night he’d decided he was going to start looking for a wife.

A list he’d never meant her to know about, let alone read.

No wonder she hadn’t wanted to sleep with him any more. She must be so hurt....

No—that couldn’t be right. Heart hammering, he strode along the corridors to the bureau in his father’s rooms, where he’d taken to stashing his bills and letters. And found the list locked away, exactly where he’d put it when he’d moved here. Since he had the key on a fob on his waistcoat and that key had never been out of his possession, it meant she must have read it before they reached Mayfield.

And still done her utmost to be a good wife to him. He shut his eyes, grimacing as he recalled one instance after another, when she’d made the best of his blunders while all the while she must have been trying to overlook this.

Well, he’d just have to go after her. Tell her he’d never meant to hurt her...

He got as far as the corridor, before it struck him that he’d never done anything but hurt her. Blundering, clumsy fool that he was...he’d watched her growing more and more depressed with every day that passed, wishing he knew what to say, how to reach her.

And now he saw that it had never been possible. There was no way he could defend the indefensible.

No wonder she’d left him. He would have left him if he’d been married to such an oaf!

He staggered back into his father’s rooms, dropped into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.

What was he going to do? How was he going to explain this to her? Win her back?

Win her back? He’d never had her to win back. Because he’d told her he wasn’t looking for affection from marriage.

And this was why.

When men fell in love, it made them weak, vulnerable. God, he hadn’t even realised he had fallen in love with Mary, until just now, when he’d read her list and realised how much she must hate him. Felt the pain of her fury pierce his heart the way her hatpin had pierced the soft down of his pillow.

His feelings for her had crept up behind him and ambushed him while he’d been distracted by congratulating himself for being clever enough to write that list and pick such a perfect woman.

Why hadn’t he seen that picking the perfect woman would practically ensure he would fall in love with her?

Because he was a fool, that was why.

A fool to think he could marry a girl like Mary, and live with her, and make love to her, and be able to keep his heart intact.

Let alone keep her at his side.

She’d gone and he couldn’t really blame her.

All he could do was hope she’d find the happiness, away from him, that he couldn’t give her himself.

And find some way of coming to terms with it all.

* * *

Gilbey informed Mary that the roads were too bad to make the journey all in one stage, so they stopped at an inn that wasn’t anywhere near as bad as her husband had led her to believe might be the case.

It probably helped that she stalked into the building, still hurt and angry at her husband, and ready to take it out on whoever happened to cross her next. Susan did her part, too, making up the bed in the best chamber with sheets Mrs Brownlow had provided, with such disdain for the hotel’s bedding that all the staff treated Mary as though she was a duchess. But all the bowing and scraping from the landlord and his minions could not quite compensate Mary for the knowledge that when her husband had travelled with her, he’d hired a well-sprung, comfy little post-chaise, rather than put up with the antiquated, lumbering carriage that Gilbey had unearthed from somewhere. When she’d travelled with him, she hadn’t ended up aching all over and feeling so sick and dizzy that she would have cheerfully curled up on the rug in front of the fire, just as long as she could get her head down.

And then, of course, thoughts of spending nights on hearthrugs in front of fires had churned her insides up so much that she could have been offered the finest, softest feather bed, and it would still have felt like an instrument of torture.

* * *

It was past noon by the time Mary reached London the following day. She heaved a sigh of relief when she finally alighted outside one of the largest, most imposing mansions she had ever seen.

Gilbey, and the horrid carriage, disappeared round the side of the house at once. Taking the precious horses to the warmth of their luxurious stables, she supposed. Susan, carrying Mary’s bag, mounted the steps ahead of her and knocked on the glossily painted, black front door.

‘Lady Havelock, you say?’ The butler who opened the door raised one eyebrow in a way that implied he very much doubted it. ‘We received no notice of your intention to take up residence.’

This was a problem Mary hadn’t anticipated, though perhaps she should have done. It was just like her husband to have forgotten to inform the most relevant people involved.

‘Well, I’m not spending another night in a hotel,’ she snapped. One had been more than enough. And she was blowed if she was going to write to him and tell him his servants wouldn’t let her into the house he’d promised she could treat as her own. She’d come to London in part to prove that she could stand on her own two feet. Survive without him. She wasn’t going to crumble, and beg for his help, at the very first sign of trouble.

‘What’s to do, Mr Simmons?’

A stern-looking, grey-haired lady came up behind the butler, who was obstinately barring the way into the house, and peered over his shoulder.

‘There is a person claiming to be Lady Havelock,’ said the butler disapprovingly.

‘Well, the notice was in the Gazette, so I dare say his lordship has married somebody.’

While the butler and the woman she assumed was the housekeeper discussed the likelihood of her being an impostor, Mary’s temper, which had been on a low simmer all the way to London, came rapidly to a boil.

She’d had enough of people talking about her as if she wasn’t there. Of making decisions for her, and about her, and packing her off to London in ramshackle coaches to houses where nobody either expected or welcomed her.

‘It’s all very well thinking it is your duty to guard my husband’s property from impostors,’ she pointed out in accents that were as freezing as the rain that had just started to fall. ‘But if you value your positions at all...’

‘That’s ’er, right enough,’ a third voice piped up, preventing her from saying exactly how she would exact retribution. ‘Leastaways,’ said a small boy, who pushed his way between the butler and the housekeeper, ‘she’s the one wot was wiv ’is lordship when he saved me from the nubbing cheat.’

‘Indeed?’ The butler’s expression underwent a most satisfying change. At about the same moment she recognised the little boy. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been dressed in rags and her husband had been dragging him out of Westminster Abbey by the scruff of his neck.

‘My goodness, but you’ve changed,’ said Mary to the boy. He’d not only filled out, but seemed to have grown taller, too. Of course that might have been an illusion, caused by the fact that he wasn’t cowering. Or wearing filthy, ill-fitting clothes. And the fact that his hair was clean, and neatly brushed.

‘That’s wot plenty of grub and a reg’lar bob ken’ll do fer yer,’ said the former pickpocket, with a grin.

‘He means,’ put in the butler, having swiped the lad round the back of the head, ‘that he is grateful to his lordship for saving him from the threat of the hangman’s noose, taking him in and giving him a clean home where he has regular meals. And though we oblige him to wash regularly, I am sad to say that we are still teaching young Jem to speak the King’s English, rather than the dreadful language he acquired in the gutter that spawned him.’

The hangman’s noose...

Mary’s mind went into a sort of dizzy spin, during which time several apparently random items fell rather more neatly into place. Her husband’s assurance to his sister that he’d made sure she was kind-hearted, her inability to work out how he could have done so, the lad’s pleading for mercy from Mr Morgan and the verger...

And the clincher—this lad’s total lack of fear, even when surrounded by his accusers, threatening him with gaol.

‘No real fear of the noose though, was there, Jem?’ she said acidly. ‘It was just a prank Lord Havelock put you up to, wasn’t it?’

The urchin’s grin widened. ‘No putting anything past you, is there, missus?’

The butler swatted him again. ‘It is your ladyship, not missus,’ he corrected the boy.

It might have been something in Mary’s expression as she realised what a fool her husband had made of her, time after time, or the lad’s vouching for her character, or her own veiled threat—but for whatever reason, the housekeeper was beginning to look rather alarmed.

‘Your ladyship,’ she said, pushing both butler and boy to one side. ‘Please come in out of the rain. We are so sorry you have caught us all unawares.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the butler, wresting his attention from the boy to his new mistress and permitting Mary to finally step inside Durant House.

The hall was massive. And dark. So dark she couldn’t see to the far end of it. That was due in part to the shoulder-high wainscoting, which seemed to suck up what little light filtered in through the few windows that hadn’t been shuttered. She couldn’t see the ceiling either, no matter how far she craned her neck. But from the echo to the butler’s and housekeeper’s voices, she judged it was very, very high. On either side of the hall was a dark and ornately carved staircase, which ran by several stages, interspersed with half landings, up under a series of grimly glowering portraits until all disappeared into the murk above a gallery landing.

She wasn’t surprised her husband had likened it to a mausoleum.

‘We do not, just at present, even have anywhere for you to sit and take tea while we make your room ready,’ said the housekeeper nervously. ‘Everything is under holland covers.’

Mary wondered how the housekeeper would react if she simply went down to the kitchens and made herself a pot of tea?

But the poor woman had probably sustained enough shocks for one day.

‘I dare say you have your very own sitting room,’ said Mary. ‘Which I’m sure you keep comfortable enough for my needs, for now.’

‘Oh, yes, well, I do. Of course I do, your ladyship,’ said the housekeeper, torn between relief that her mistress wasn’t going to demand another room be made ready at once and consternation at having her invade her territory. ‘It’s this way,’ she said, pragmatism winning.

When Susan scuttled off somewhere with her portmanteau, Mary did her best to calm down. It wasn’t fair to take her hurt and anger out on servants.

‘Even if we had known you were coming,’ said the housekeeper apologetically as she poured the tea, ‘I wouldn’t have rightly known what room to show you into. The whole place has got that shabby.’

‘I know that there is a lot of work to be done here,’ said Mary, reaching for a slice of cake. ‘It is, in part, why Lord Havelock married me.’ Though the reminder depressed her, it seemed to have the opposite effect on the housekeeper.

‘Well, now,’ she said, perching on the very edge of her chair, ‘I’m that glad to hear it. That agent who acts for his lordship—well, I suppose he thinks he has his lordship’s best interests at heart, but—’

It was like a dam bursting. The housekeeper had clearly been storing up a lot of grievances. As they all came pouring out, Mary helped herself to a second slice of cake and turned her chair so that she could rest her feet on the fender. Her appetite had come roaring back now she was at journey’s end and there was no risk of getting back into that vile coach again. And met a housekeeper who was actually glad she’d come. And had a task to perform that would bring benefit to not only her husband, but to all the souls who lived in Durant House.

‘I think,’ said Mary, once she felt she simply couldn’t cram in any more of the delicious fruit cake, ‘that you should show me all over the place. So that I can get an idea of exactly what will be required.’

* * *

The tour took them right up to suppertime. Mary had known that titled families often owned houses in the town as well as having country estates, but somehow she’d never dreamed her husband would own such an impressive, if sadly neglected one. Neither he, nor his father, the housekeeper informed her, had taken any interest in the maintenance of what had originally been built as something of a showpiece.

Now every room cried out for attention. No wonder he’d moved into a set of cosy apartments and rented this place out. Not only was the amount of work required daunting for a bachelor, it was just too large for one person to live in alone.

Though living here alone was to be her fate, she reflected gloomily.

She felt even more alone when, at suppertime, the housekeeper came to escort her to the hastily tidied dining room and led her to the solitary place at the head of a table that could easily have seated thirty.

As attentive footmen served her course after course, she recalled her bold words about how a lick of paint and rearranging furniture could make any place feel more like home. She almost snorted into her soup. It would take more than that to make this dining room a comfortable place to eat her meals. But since she had no intention of leaving, she would just have to think of something else.

Perhaps there was a smaller, more convenient room in which she could eat her meals. Straight after the last footman had removed the last dish from the table, she went to see if she could find one. And very soon came across a little drawing room off the back of the entrance hall that overlooked the central courtyard around which the house was built. The fountain, which was on the housekeeper’s list of repairs, was just outside the window. It would make a very soothing background noise once she got a plumber in to get it working again.

She rang for the housekeeper at once.

When Mrs Romsey arrived, Mary told her that from now on, she wanted to have all her meals served there. And between them, they decided how best to rearrange what furniture there was, to make such a change of use possible.

And then, having started to put her own stamp on the place, Mary suddenly felt bone-weary.

Though she went upstairs, she wasn’t yet ready to climb into the bed where she was going to be sleeping alone for the foreseeable future.

Instead, she went into the sitting room that adjoined her bedroom, where she’d earlier seen a writing desk. Mrs Romsey had told her that the desk contained a supply of paper, should she wish to write any letters. Now that she’d calmed down, she couldn’t believe she’d left that note for Lord Havelock to find. By letting him know exactly how upset she was, she’d sacrificed what little pride she might have held on to. She’d hoped to leave Mayfield with her dignity intact. Instead, she’d made herself look utterly ridiculous. Emotional and attention-seeking. Why, she’d always despised women who created scenes in futile attempts to get bored husbands to notice them. And wasn’t that more or less what she’d done, staking her list of complaints to his pillow in that melodramtic fashion? Oh, if only she’d ripped it up and thrown it on the fire before she left.

A cold chill slithered down her spine and took root in her stomach as she saw that there were far worse things than being secretly in love with a man who didn’t handle sentiment well. Forfeiting his respect, to start with. At least before she’d written her stupid list of complaints, she’d had that much.

But there was no undoing it. She’d written it. He’d no doubt found it and read it by now.

And probably despised her for getting all emotional about what was supposed to have been a practical arrangement.

With feet like lead, Mary went to the writing desk and sank on to the chair. She’d known she’d be alone in London, but now she’d made her husband despise her, she felt it twice as keenly.

She’d write to her aunt Pargetter, that’s what she’d do. She needn’t admit she’d made a total mess of her marriage. She could focus on all the jobs that needed doing at Durant House and ask her for practical advice on that score. She was, after all, the very person to know where she could find everything and everyone she might need.

She carefully refrained from saying anything about her state of mind, but couldn’t help ending with just one sentence stressing how very glad she would be to see her aunt and that she would be at home whenever her aunt wished to call round.

Then she rang for Susan, who said she would give the letter to one of the footmen to take round immediately. It was on the tip of her tongue to say there was no need for the man to turn out at this time of night, when it occurred to her that it might be better to have the servants falling over themselves to impress her. Better than having them virtually ignore her, the way they’d done at Mayfield, in any event.

She’d regretted uttering that veiled threat about dismissing staff, upon arrival, because in truth she didn’t have the heart to turn a single one of them out, not when she knew only too well what it felt like to get evicted. Particularly not after Mrs Romsey had told her the peculiar nature of their contracts. When there were no tenants her husband’s agent had let them all stay on, for bed and board, rather than go to the inconvenience of laying them all off, only to have to hire a fresh set all over again when the next tenants were due, making each of them regard Durant House as their home.

Eventually they’d realise there was plenty of work for them all, since she meant to restore Durant House to its former glory. They’d probably even realise she was too soft-hearted to carry through on her vague threat of dismissals. But for now, at least, they’d treat her with respect.

So it was with a cool smile that she handed the letter to Susan, then wearily succumbed to the maid’s suggestion she help her get ready for bed.

She was exhausted. The past couple of days had completely drained her. And yet, once Susan had left, Mary lay wide awake in her magnificent bed. The harder she strove to relax, the more her mind ran hither and thither, the same way the shadows flickered over the network of cracks in what had once been ornately decorated plaster. What was he doing, right now? Chatting away happily with his sister, no doubt. Talking about horses and people she didn’t know. He wouldn’t be aching to feel her in his arms, the way she was aching for him. Wishing she could curl into his big warm body. She’d got used to him rolling her into his side and keeping her plastered to him right through the night. As though he couldn’t bear the thought of letting so much as an inch creep between them. It had been bad enough sleeping alone when he’d been just along the corridor.

But it was far worse thinking of him in a different building altogether.

For a moment or two she couldn’t even recall why it had seemed so important to leave him. So what if he did prefer his sister? Couldn’t she have learned to live with that? Couldn’t she have put up with him only visiting her in bed from time to time? At least it would have been preferable to this...this distance she’d created. This vast gulf. A gulf he might never deign to cross, now she’d made such a fool of herself.

The thought that the only person she’d hurt, by writing that list and flouncing off to London, had been herself, was so painful that she curled into a ball and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

She’d always hated the months between Christmas and spring, but this year those months were going to be almost unbearable.

Each day she’d have to drag herself out of bed to face yet another seemingly endless day.

But drag herself out of bed she did. By the time Susan came in with her breakfast next morning, Mary was up and almost dressed. No matter how low she’d felt during the night, she was not going to lay about in bed all day wallowing in misery. She had a home, she had the security she’d always craved, more money than she’d ever dreamed of. And a title, to boot.

There were many people far worse off than her. And it would be downright ungrateful to dismiss all she did have because she was hankering after the one thing she could not have.

Anyway, it was bad enough knowing she’d made a mess of her marriage, without drawing attention to the fact and having people pity her.

It would be far better if nobody could guess, by looking at her, that she felt so dead inside.

In fact, it was a jolly good thing Durant House was such a wreck. Restoring it would be a project that would keep her busy, as well as gain favour from her husband. He’d said he would be for ever in her debt if she could make it more like a home....

She gave herself a mental slap. That was no way to get over him. Planning ways to gain his favour! She ought instead to use this time in London to get used to living without him. It was why she’d come, after all. Without him around, prodding at her bruised heart every five minutes with shows of indifference, it would soon start to heal.

Wouldn’t it?

Yes. The longer she stayed away from her husband, the easier it would become to be his wife. Hadn’t she always suspected that was the only sort of marriage that could work? She certainly hadn’t wanted the kind of clinging, cloying relationship she’d seen destroy her parents. That was what had made her tell him, at the outset, that the only man she might consider marrying would be a sailor, because she’d thought that when a man wasn’t around, he couldn’t hurt his wife.

Well, she knew now that was a load of rubbish. She still hurt, even though she’d created a distance between them. Perhaps even because she’d created a distance between them.

And now she couldn’t help recalling that those sailors’ wives she’d envied so much in her youth for having charge of a man’s income without having to put up with his beastly nature, never had looked as happy as she’d thought they should.

Because they were lonely. Lonely and miserable without the men they loved.

* * *

When Susan came to take away her breakfast tray, she also brought the news that Mary had visitors.

‘Mrs Pargetter. And her daughters. Say they are some sort of relations of yours,’ said Susan as if she wasn’t totally convinced. ‘Mrs Romsey has shown them to the white drawing room.’

‘Oh!’ When she’d sent an invitation to call whenever they liked, she’d never imagined they would come at once.

As if they couldn’t wait to see her again.

Forgetting all her resolutions to behave like a lady and impress the servants, Mary hitched up her skirts and ran along the corridor to the room Mrs Romsey described as white, but which was in reality a patchwork of twenty years’ accumulation of stains.

Her cousins, Dotty and Lotty, were poking rather gingerly at the worn coverings on some spindly-legged chairs that looked as though they’d collapse if anyone sat on them. Her aunt was running her gloved finger along the mantelpiece, with an expression of disgust.

Mary had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

‘Mary, my dear!’ Aunt Pargetter smiled with genuine pleasure. And then executed a clumsy curtsy. ‘I suppose I should address you as my lady now. Old habits die hard.’

‘Oh, no. No, you must never call me anything but Mary,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t feel a bit like a my lady.’

She felt her face crumple.

‘My dear girl, whatever is the matter?’

And Mary, who’d vowed that nobody, but nobody, would ever know what a mess she’d made of what should have been the perfect marriage, let out a wail.

‘I’ve left him!’

Then she flew across the room, flung herself into her aunt’s outstretched arms and burst into tears.