Читать книгу The Notorious Marriage - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 9

‘This is ridiculous, my lord,’ Eleanor said in an outraged whisper as Kit, the candle clasped in one hand and his other firmly gripping her elbow, steered them up the rickety stairs to the bedchamber above. ‘Why can we not simply go back to London tonight?’

‘I do not care to do so,’ her husband said coolly. ‘It is dark and I cannot risk an accident to the wife I have so recently found again…’

Eleanor made a humphing sound. ‘I cannot believe that such matters can weigh with you, my lord! And if you think that I will get one minute of sleep in this flea pit—’

She broke off. It was not the fleas that were troubling her but the thought of sharing a chamber with Kit. She glanced at him apprehensively. His face was set, dark and brooding, and he did not look at her. Eleanor’s stomach did a little flip.

‘You may stay awake if you please,’ Kit said indifferently. ‘I assure you that I am tired from galloping across country to find you and will no doubt sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. Ah, a charming room…’ He pushed the bedroom door open.

‘The scene of your seduction, I imagine!’

Eleanor wrenched her arm free of his grip. ‘Enough, sir! I do not wish to hear another word from you on that subject! If you think that it has been pleasant for me to suffer Sir Charles’s attentions and then to be subject to your scorn as well…’ She stopped, sniffed hard and pressed a hand to her mouth. Now she was going to cry. She knew she should not have said anything.

Kit was watching her. He passed her a handkerchief as she angrily dashed her tears away.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘You will perhaps feel better once you have had some rest.’

Eleanor glared at him. ‘If you think that I will have a moment’s rest whilst you are here you are far and far out! Can you not sleep in the parlour or somewhere?’

‘Or somewhere?’ Kit raised his brows. ‘Somewhere away from you, I infer?’

‘Precisely!’ Eleanor scrunched the handkerchief into an angry ball.

Kit shook his head. ‘I fear I cannot leave you unprotected, my love…’

‘Fiddle!’ Eleanor marched across to the bed and looked at it unfavourably. The curtains were full of dust and the bedclothes none to clean. ‘There is no one here to be a danger to me…’

Except for you. Scarcely had the thought formed when she realised that Kit had read her mind and she blushed to the roots of her hair. He smiled gently, coming across to take the crumpled handkerchief from her hand. His touch was warm.

‘There is the landlord. He looks a villainous fellow…’

‘You are absurd.’ Eleanor found that her voice came out as a whisper. Kit was standing close now, his hand resting in hers. She found herself unable to move away, unable to look away from that shadowed blue gaze.

‘Your dress is still damp.’ Kit’s voice was as husky as hers. ‘You should not catch a chill…’

Suddenly Eleanor was back in the house in Upper Grosvenor Street, remembering with exquisite pain the only occasion on which they had made love. The night before their marriage. And the morning…She ached at the sweetness of the memories and recoiled at the naïve trust of the girl she had been.

‘I can manage very well on my own, my lord,’ she said, almost steadily, taking her hand from his and stepping back. ‘You will oblige me by sleeping in the armchair if the parlour does not suit.’

Kit looked at her in silence for a long moment, then he inclined his head. ‘As you wish, Eleanor. Good night.’

Before she realised what he intended he had raised a hand and touched her cheek. The feather-light touch shivered down her spine and made her tremble.

‘Good night, my lord,’ she said, with constraint.

After Kit had gone out she locked the door, removed her damp dress and lay down on the bed, curled into a ball. She did not cry, but lay staring dry-eyed into the darkness. And she tried to tell herself that she was glad he had left her alone.

Kit Mostyn closed the parlour door, moved over to the sofa and sat down. The fire was dying down now and the room was chill. The dinner plates had not been removed and sat on the table, the food congealing, and the smell of beef still in the air. There was also a slippery patch of blancmange just inside the parlour door.

Kit reached for the brandy bottle, poured a generous measure into a glass, and then paused. Truth to tell, he did not really want a drink, but the temptation to drown his sorrows was very strong.

The springs of the sofa dug into him. It was going to be an uncomfortable night, hard on the body but even harder on the mind. Which was why the brandy was so tempting. He could simply forget it all. Except it would all be waiting for him when he awoke…

Kit pushed the glass away and lay down, wincing as a spring burst and stabbed him in the ribs. Eleanor. His mind winced in much the same way as his body had just done, but he forced himself to think about her. It was only five months, yet she had changed so much. Previously she had had an artless self-confidence that had been the product of a privileged and sheltered upbringing. She had been bright and innocent and sweet. Now…Kit sighed. Now Eleanor had a shell of brittle sophistication and he was not entirely sure what was hidden beneath.

Kit shifted on the sofa as he tried to get more comfortable. The candles were burning down now and the old inn creaked. He wondered if Eleanor was asleep yet.

He thought about her and about the rumours that had assaulted him ever since he had returned to England, and about finding her in a cheap inn taking dinner with Sir Charles Paulet. He had been so angry to see all the rumours apparently confirmed. Angry and jealous. His innocent Eleanor, who had evidently not spent the waiting time alone.

Yet she had insisted that she was there under duress and there was the evidence of the blancmange…Kit turned his head and the arm of the sofa dug painfully into his neck. Perhaps it was true—but then what of the others; what of Grosvenor and Probyn and Darke?

Most telling of all was Eleanor’s fearful reaction when he had suggested that they should sit down and discuss matters calmly. Kit frowned. He knew that he should have explained himself much sooner, that he would have done so had his jealous anger not intervened. Yet when he had tried she had shied away from it. What had she said—‘I have no particular desire for us to become drawn into descriptions of what each has been doing’. He was all too afraid that he knew the reason why. There must be compelling reasons why Eleanor did not wish him to enquire too closely into what she had been doing in the past five months.

A huge, heavy sadness filled Kit’s heart. She need not worry—he would never force explanations from her, put her to the blush. Nor would he press her to accept his account of what had happened to him and thereby risk prompting any unfortunate disclosures from her. It seemed they were trapped within the modern marriage that Eleanor had decreed, each going their separate ways. It was not at all what he had hoped for when he had returned.

By the time that the carriage rolled into Montague Street the next day, Eleanor’s nerves were at screaming point. She had slept very little the previous night, had rejoined Kit for a poor breakfast of stale rolls and weak tea and had spent the journey mainly in silence, pretending to an interest in the countryside that she simply did not possess. It was raining again, and it seemed only appropriate. Kit had been as silent as she on the journey—Eleanor thought that he looked tired and he had seemed withdrawn. All in all it was enough to make her retreat even further into herself and to reflect that her life from now on would be a pattern card of superficial contentment. She and Kit would preserve a surface calm, and no one would know that underneath it her feelings were still aching. Least of all her husband. And one day, perhaps, she would feel better.

Eleanor could well remember her mother, the Dowager Viscountess of Trevithick, instilling in her day after day that a lady never gave way to any vulgar display of feeling and particularly not in public, but when the carriage steps were lowered and Kit helped her down, her composure was put to the test almost immediately.

‘But this is not Trevithick House!’

She saw Kit smile. ‘No. Naturally I would expect my wife to live with me in the house that I have rented for the Season!’

Eleanor stared. ‘But my clothes—all my possessions…’

Kit took her arm, urging her up the steps, out of the rain. ‘They were sent round from Trevithick House yesterday.’

Eleanor was outraged at this apparent conspiracy. ‘But I don’t want to stay here with you! Surely Marcus—’

‘Your brother,’ Kit said, with a certain grim humour, ‘whilst disapproving heartily of the whole matter, was not prepared to come between husband and wife! Come now, my dear, we are getting wet and achieving very little standing here…’

Eleanor allowed him to help her up the steps and through the door of the neat town house. The butler came to meet them; Eleanor recognised his face and flinched away. How could she fail to recognise Carrick, whom she had last seen fetching a hansom to take her back to Trevithick House five months before? She had been pale and exhausted from crying over Kit’s disappearance and Carrick’s face had mirrored the pity and concern he felt for her. Now, however, he was smiling.

‘Welcome home, my lady. I will show you to your room.’

Eleanor raised her chin, horrified to realise that she was almost crying again, uncertain if it was because of the unlooked-for warmth of his welcome or for other reasons. This was ridiculous. She was turning into a watering-pot and could not bear to be so feeble. This rented house, comfortable and welcoming as it looked, was not her home and she did not want to be here, especially not with Kit. She managed a shaky smile—for the benefit of the servants.

‘Thank you, Carrick.’

The butler looked gratified that she had remembered his name. Eleanor felt even worse. She followed him across the hall and up the staircase, very aware that Kit was bringing up the rear. She wanted to tell him to go away. Instead she ignored him. It was the best that she could do.

The house was small but extremely well appointed. Eleanor could not fail to notice that the carpet was a thick, rich red, the banisters polished to a deep mahogany gleam. There were fresh flowers on the windowsill and the smell of beeswax in the air. It was charming and she could not fault it. It was simply that she did not want to be there.

Her suite of rooms consisted of a large, airy bedroom and an adjoining dressing room decorated in cream, gold and palest pink. A small fire burned cheerfully in the grate though the May morning was promising to be warm.

Carrick bowed. ‘I will send your maid to you, my lady—’

‘In a little while, Carrick.’ It was Kit who answered, before Eleanor could even thank the butler. ‘There are some matters that Lady Mostyn and I have to discuss first.’

The butler bowed silently and withdrew. Eleanor straightened up, marshalling her forces. She looked at her husband as he lounged in the doorway.

‘Must we speak now, my lord?’ she asked, just managing to achieve the bored tone she strove for. ‘I am unconscionably tired and want nothing more than some hot water and a luncheon tray. Then I think I shall sleep. I fear that I had very little rest last night.’

Kit strolled forward into the room, swinging the door carelessly closed behind him.

‘It will not take long, my dear,’ he said, effortlessly matching her sang-froid. ‘I simply wanted to mention that I understand there is to be a ball at Trevithick House in a couple of days and we shall attend.’ His smile deepened. ‘It will be the perfect occasion to demonstrate our reconciliation!’

Eleanor grimaced. The Trevithick ball had been planned for some months but now it threatened to turn into more of an ordeal than ever.

‘I am not sure that I wish to attend…’

Kit wandered over to the window. ‘If you are as intent on presenting a good face to the Ton as you implied last night, you will have to be there.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘People will talk otherwise. Moreover, we shall have to be seen to pay at least a little attention to each other!’

Eleanor sighed. ‘This is all very difficult…’

‘It is indeed.’ Kit’s voice betrayed his tension. ‘But I am tolerably certain that we shall pull through—provided that we do not ask each other any difficult questions, of course!’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that is sufficient understanding between us?’

Eleanor clutched her reticule to her as though it was a lifeline. Her heart was beating fast and she felt panic course through her.

‘Lud, my lord, we do not need an understanding!’ she said, in a brittle tone. ‘We are married, after all! That should be understanding enough.’

Kit’s expression closed. ‘Very well. In that case I will just add that I do not expect to have to fight my way past every rake in the Ton in order to claim a dance with my wife! It may be unfashionable in me to expect it, but you will behave with circumspection, my dear. Is that understood?’

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. ‘I shall behave precisely as well as you do, my lord.’

Their gazes, dark blue and dark brown, met and locked, then Kit inclined his head. ‘Capital! Then we may preserve that excellent pretence that you alluded to so charmingly last night. Neither too warm, nor too cold! Delightfully mediocre, in fact.’

Just for a moment Eleanor thought that she had detected something else in his voice other than a bland lack of concern, a hint of bitterness, perhaps, which was gone so swiftly that she decided she must have been mistaken. She looked at him uncertainly. He was still looking at her, with a mixture of speculation and amusement.

‘Was there anything else, my lord?’

‘Just one more thing,’ Kit murmured. His gaze drifted from her face, which was becoming pinker all the while under his prolonged scrutiny, down her slender figure and back again. His eyes lingered, disturbingly, on her mouth. Eleanor stiffened.

‘I wished to disabuse you of any notion you might have of a marriage of convenience,’ Kit said slowly. ‘All this talk of going your own way and I going mine might lead you to imagine…erroneously…that ours would be a marriage in name only.’

Eleanor stared at him. Her face, so flushed a moment previously, was now drained of colour. Her heart fluttered and she felt a little faint.

‘But I…You…We cannot…’

‘No?’ Kit had come closer to her, unsettlingly close. ‘It would not be the first time.’

‘No,’ Eleanor snapped, moving away abruptly in order to conceal her nervousness, ‘only the third! It is out of the question, my lord! You may disabuse yourself that there is any likelihood of our marriage becoming a true one! I married you for your name and your protection, and just because I made a bad bargain I need not pay any more for it!’

Kit nodded thoughtfully. Eleanor was disconcerted to see that he did not look remotely convinced.

‘It is a point of view, certainly. But not one that I can share. Maybe it is old-fashioned in me to wish for a true marriage—and a family. However, that is how I feel.’

A family! Eleanor shivered convulsively. She walked across the room to her pretty little dressing-table, simply to put some distance between them. Kit’s proximity was too disturbing and his words even more so. She started to fiddle with some of the pots on the tabletop and kept her face averted.

‘I believe we are at an impasse, my lord,’ she said. ‘I cannot agree with you.’

Kit smiled a little mockingly. ‘I dare say it will take you a little time to grow used to the idea, Eleanor. And since I have no wish to force my attentions on an unwilling woman, you are quite safe—for the time being.’

Eleanor doubted it—not the truth of his words but the strength of her own determination. Already he had come dangerously close to undermining her resolve, or rather, she had been in danger from herself. It seemed that she could dislike Kit intensely—hate him for the way he had behaved to her, she told herself fiercely—and yet feel a confusing mixture of emotions that owed nothing to hatred. She shivered.

Kit raised her hand to his lips and she snatched it away, but not before his touch had sent a curious shiver along her nerve endings. Eleanor flushed with annoyance. She did not intend to give him the impression that he still had any power over her feelings.

‘I will send your maid to you, my dear,’ he said, and sauntered out of the room leaving Eleanor to let her breath out on a long sigh.

She heard his voice in the corridor, speaking to Carrick, then his footsteps died away and she was alone.

Two minutes later she was sitting on the end of the bed, staring into space, when the door opened and Lucy, her maid from Trevithick House, came in with an ewer of water. Eleanor thought that the girl looked excited. Goodness only knew the stories that were circulating in the servants’ quarters.

‘Oh milady! Is this not grand! The master returned and the two of you together again…’

Eleanor sighed. So that was the story—some highly coloured romance, no doubt encouraged by Kit to give the impression of a happy reunion! She knew that she should be grateful, appearance mattering above all, but it felt hollow and a sham.

Lucy was still chattering as she emptied the water into the bowl for Eleanor to wash her face.

‘They say that his lordship has been abroad for a space, ma’am…’

Eleanor nodded listlessly, not troubling to reply. What could she add? He was on the Continent with his opera singers. She started to unfasten her spencer.

‘In Ireland, ma’am…’

Eleanor frowned, her fingers stilling on the buttons.

‘On government business, I understand…’ Lucy nodded importantly. ‘Bromidge the first footman said that his lordship has done such work before, in France, for the War, ma’am…’

‘Nonsense!’ Eleanor said sharply, slipping the damp spencer from her shoulders and sighing with relief. She started to unpin her hair and Lucy came to help her. ‘I am sure that Lord Mostyn has been doing no such thing, and if he had it would be a secret…’

In the mirror her eyes met those of the maid. Lucy’s eyes were as round as saucers. She gave a little conspiratorial nod.

‘Oh no, of course he hasn’t been abroad or…or doing any such thing, ma’am!’

Eleanor sighed again. So now they were both involved in some imaginary conspiracy of silence to do with Kit’s absence. This was getting foolish. She really must tell him not to spin such tales to the servants.

To distract Lucy’s attention, she pointed to a door at the opposite end of the bedroom. ‘This is really a very pleasant house, but what is through that door, Lucy?’

‘That’s his lordship’s dressing-room, ma’am,’ the maid said, picking up the hairbrush again. ‘His suite of rooms is next door, and then the guest suite. It’s ever so pretty, ma’am, furnished in blue and gold…’

Eleanor was not listening. She had hurried across to the connecting door, only just managing to stop herself opening it through a sudden, belated realisation that she was now in her shift and Kit might well be on the other side.

‘His lordship’s dressing-room! But I had no idea he was so close…’

The maid smiled. Indeed it looked to Eleanor as though she almost winked, but thought better of it at the last moment.

‘Oh yes, ma’am! This is a most convenient house, if you take my meaning! Well-situated rooms—’ She broke off as she caught Eleanor’s quelling look. ‘Yes, ma’am, and may I fetch you anything else?’

‘Just a carpenter to fix a large bolt upon the door!’ Eleanor said brightly, happy to see that she had wiped the complacent smile from the girl’s face at last. ‘And if you cannot find one, Lucy, bring me a hammer and nails! I will do the job myself!’

‘Truly, Kit, what do you expect? A hero’s welcome?’

It was seldom that Lord Mostyn had to face the combined disapprobation of both his sister and his cousin, who were the only people on the face of the earth who could make him feel as though he were back in the nursery. He now reflected wryly that he had rather face Marshal Soult in the Peninsula again than take on the combined forces of his relatives. Not that anyone knew he had been in the Peninsula. That had been when he was supposed to be working for the East India Company, and before that…Kit sighed, and sat back, accepting the cup of tea that Charlotte passed him. She gave him a severe frown at the same time. Kit offered her a weak smile in return.

‘You look radiant now that you are a married woman again, sis—’

‘Gammon!’

‘And Beth…’ Kit manfully braved the glare that his cousin was directing his way ‘…increasing already! You are to be congratulated…’

‘Pray spare us, Kit!’ Beth said shortly. ‘You cannot be glad to see either of us married into the Trevithick family, but since you were not here to advise us you must just accept the consequences!’

Kit raised his brows. ‘Would you have accepted my advice, Beth?’

‘Certainly not! Especially with the example that you have set us!’

It showed all the signs of degenerating into a nursery tea party. Kit sipped his tea and wished he were at his club. He had hoped that his sister and cousin would be pleased to see him, fall on his neck with tears of joy, and provide the welcome that Eleanor had so singularly failed to do. He shifted uncomfortably. He was already grimly aware that he had no right to expect a warm reception from his wife and the fact that her coldness had hurt him was just too bad. He would learn to live with it.

To be fair to Charlotte and Beth, they had greeted him very warmly when he had first arrived at Charlotte’s town house that morning. Now, however, they were over their initial relief and pleasure and were full of questions—and recriminations.

‘How could you do that to poor Eleanor!’ Charlotte was saying, strongly for her. ‘To marry her and leave her all in the one day! To marry her in the first place so precipitately…’

‘To seduce her in the first place!’ Beth put in, eyes flashing. ‘Yes, Kit, I know that Eleanor ran away to you, but you could have exercised some restraint…’

Kit gave her a speaking look. Beth looked at him, looked down at her own swelling figure and after a moment, burst into a peal of laughter.

‘Oh, very well, I know I cannot upbraid you when my own behaviour has not been above reproach, but what an odious wretch you are to remind me, Kit! And I shall have you know that I am most respectably married now, and even if the tabbies count the months they can go hang—’

‘Beth!’ Charlotte said warningly. ‘You become ever more unbridled in your speech!’ She passed her brother a biscuit. ‘As for you, Kit, you know you have no defence. Your treatment of Eleanor has been truly dreadful!’

Kit sighed. He dipped the biscuit into his tea—it immediately broke off and sank to the bottom of the cup. It seemed all too apt.

‘I never intended to treat Eleanor so shabbily but matters fell out that way. I am not at liberty to explain…’

He shifted uncomfortably. They were watching him with scepticism and it made Kit feel both guilty and annoyed. He did not like the sensation of feeling in the wrong—and he felt it most strongly.

‘It was a difficulty relating to business that kept me away so long…’

‘Oh, please…’ Beth murmured, putting her teacup down with a disgusted clink of china.

‘I am sorry that I cannot be more precise…’

He thought he heard Beth say something that sounded like: ‘Pshaw!’

‘It is not important for you to explain to us, Kit,’ Charlotte said gently. ‘Eleanor is the one who requires an explanation—and an apology. I feel sure that you are able to take her into your confidence.’

Kit shrugged, hiding his frustration beneath a nonchalance he was far from feeling. ‘I have tried to offer Eleanor an explanation, sis! She would not let me speak. She has decreed a marriage of convenience and she says that she has been enjoying herself hugely as a married woman without the constraints of a husband!’

Kit cleared his throat and looked away from his sister’s penetrating eye. He had no wish to allude any more precisely to his wife’s disgrace and he hoped that he had not given away too much already. But perhaps Charlotte and Beth already knew all about Eleanor’s behaviour. It seemed that the whole of the Ton knew.

Charlotte and Beth exchanged glances over the teacups.

‘Oh dear,’ Beth said. ‘Eleanor has taken this every whit as badly as I would have expected.’

‘She is very young and has all the Trevithick pride,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘Besides, she has suffered a great deal. It is no wonder she is so adamant.’

Kit looked at them, mystified. They appeared to him to be speaking in riddles.

‘It seems quite simple to me. Eleanor is not interested in explanations…’

‘Nonsense!’ Beth said robustly. ‘She is hiding her hurt behind that confounded pride, Kit! I’ll wager she is positively expiring to know! If Marcus disappeared for five months without a word, the first thing that I would wish to know is where he had been—’

‘And the second would be who he had been with!’ Charlotte finished, nodding. ‘That would be after he had apologised, of course! Kit, I hope that the very first thing that you said to Eleanor was how sorry you were and how much you had missed her…’

Kit could feel the guilty expression spreading across his face. ‘Well…There was the matter of Paulet to deal with first…’

Charlotte sighed heavily. ‘Oh Kit—no! Tell me you did not blame Eleanor for her situation!’

Kit made a hopeless gesture. ‘I tried to explain matters to her later when my temper had cooled, but—’

‘Too late!’ Beth said, in a disgusted tone. ‘How like a man!’

There was a heavy silence.

‘There have been rumours about you, you know, Kit,’ Charlotte ventured. ‘It has been most distressing for Eleanor.’

Kit looked up, his attention arrested. ‘Rumours of what?’

‘Rumours of actresses—or was it opera singers?’ Charlotte looked vague. ‘You know how these tales spring up! People were forever claiming to have sighted you abroad and Eleanor has heard every one of the stories! The gossips made sure of that!’

Kit scowled. This was getting worse and worse. His guilt settled into a lump in his stomach. So Eleanor had heard rumours about him and he had heard scandal about her…And if he was unsure whether shehad been unfaithful, she must believe the same of him…What a confounded mess they had got themselves into!

‘Those stories are not true!’ he said coldly. ‘And I have heard plenty of stories about Eleanor, if it comes to that! Muse to Sir Charles Paulet, mistress to Lord George Darke—’

‘Poppycock! Club scandal!’ Beth’s silver eyes flashed. ‘Eleanor is as virtuous as on the day you married her!’

Kit frowned at her. ‘Beth, I admire you for defending Eleanor, but…’ he shifted his shoulders uncomfortably ‘…she practically admitted to me that she had encouraged the attentions of other men! Oh, not in so many words…’ he had heard Beth’s exasperated sigh ‘…but why else would she refuse to discuss what had happened during the last few months? She is afraid to tell me the whole truth!’

He thought that his cousin looked as though she would explode and he almost backed away. Beth could be awesome when her anger was roused.

‘Kit,’ Beth said, with reasonable restraint, ‘you are speaking nonsense!’ She took a deep breath. ‘We were not going to tell you this since we both agreed that it was Eleanor’s place to speak to you, but…’ she broke off at Charlotte’s murmured objection ‘…no, Lottie, I cannot keep quiet! For some extraordinary reason Kit thinks himself the injured party, when poor Eleanor is only nineteen and has been reviled and laughed at and ruined through the careless way in which he abandoned her—’ She ran out of breath and started again. ‘And now Kit adds his own voice to the chorus of disapproval! Oh, it makes me so cross!’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte said, in her customary, more measured tones. ‘Beth is correct, you know, Kit!’

Kit held a hand up in surrender. ‘Perhaps I have misjudged the situation…’

Beth glared at him. ‘You have, Kit! Indeed you have!’

‘I am sorry.’

There was a startled silence.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Beth said faintly.

Kit gave her a glimmer of a smile. ‘I know you think I can never apologise…’

‘No, I know it…’

‘Whatever the case…’ Kit grimaced. ‘I had no notion of any of this.’ He looked away. ‘I do not understand. How could Eleanor have been reviled when I was the one who deserted her?’

Beth raised her eyes to heaven.

Charlotte tutted. ‘For all your supposed experience of the world, Kit, I sometimes think you the veriest babe in arms! Do you not know that it is always the woman’s reputation that suffers? If you left her there must have been a reason—so goes the reckoning. In this case the favourite explanation is that you found her not to be virtuous…Which is where the rumours started!’