Or, What You Will - Chapter Four

[linneacarls]

The next morning found Maria far better rested, and able to greet Matthews' delivery of tea and hot water with something like her usual smile. As she drank the tea, she reviewed her actions of the day before with a critical eye. She might, in retrospect, have handled her first appeal to the viscount more gracefully, but one could not argue with results; the altercation with Halifax had been regrettable but also unavoidable, and she only wished it had been less public; she had acquitted herself as well as she might have expected, if not as well as she might have hoped, at supper; and the awkwardness with Matthews at bed-time was Maria's fault entirely, but that was easily mended. The one memory that plagued her was summoning Chatham before the ceremony. If she had only known he didn't mean to impose on her after they were married, she might have omitted that episode, and lived in happy ignorance of her ability to tolerate his attentions. Well, there was no use in dwelling on what she could not change.

Having completed both these reflections and her tea, she began to wash and to consider almost cheerfully her next course of action. To begin with, she must not approach anyone, from her family to her husband to her wider acquaintance, with an air of apology, for she had done nothing worth apologizing for. In a single stroke, she had rendered herself secure, Chatham rich, Matthews protected, her mother comfortable, and her sister well-dowered. The only person of her acquaintance who had come to any real harm yesterday was Halifax, and he had no-one to blame for that but himself.

So, no apologies. Delicate expressions of regret, perhaps, delivered to all those well-wishers who had been denied the wedding breakfast. She would ask her mother for the guest list when she called that morning. And then she must prepare for her own callers. Lady Chatham, she decided, would be at home to wedding visits beginning the following day; a wearying task, but not one to be avoided for long. A day's grace would give the news time to make the rounds, for Maria to write to those she needed to, and for Chatham to send out his card to whomever he cared to honor with that distinction. The thought gave her pause, as she realized she had no idea who his intimates were. He seemed on good enough terms with a number of gentlemen of her acquaintance, but she did not know whether these were real friendships. When she thought of her husband's social circle, the first names that came to her mind were all women.

She amused herself for a moment with the mental picture of herself playing hostess to a parade of his former--and current?--lovers. The image was as delightful as it was absurd, and it was a pity she had no-one to share it with. She raised her face from the towel, cleansed of sleep and self-doubt, and met her own gaze squarely in the mirror. There, that was well enough; her complexion was, as ever, too brown to be fashionable, but clear and unsullied by obvious strain. Her mouth was curved with good humor, and if the corners betrayed a hint of stubbornness, that too was nothing new. And while her features were still a little drawn, she thought Chatham need not fear her mother's censure today.

As though on cue, a knock came at the dressing-room door, and when Maria bid him enter the footman offered his deepest apologies for disturbing her before breakfast, but Mrs. Francis Oakwood was downstairs, and was her ladyship at home?

"Of course; I am always at home to my mother," she said. Would Lady Chatham receive her in the dressing room? "No, do not ask her to try the stairs. Tell her I will be down at once, and see she is offered tea or anything else she would like. And send Matthews to me immediately." The notion of wandering downstairs in such a state of undress, when she might come without warning upon an early caller or the severe Ellis or even her own husband, was unacceptable; but she would not do more than put on a tea gown, and allow Matthews to pin up her hair in a loose knot, before she threw on the borrowed dressing-gown from the day before and all but ran down to the sitting room.

Mrs. Oakwood was a pale, fragile-looking woman, who might have passed for Maria's older sister if not for the liberal streaks of grey that had threaded her hair for as long as Maria could remember. She was sitting when Maria came in, and Maria watched anxiously as she leant heavily on her cane and rose. It was not one of her bad days. “Maria,” she said, putting out a hand.

“Mama,” Maria replied, hesitated, and went to her.

She felt the surprising strength of her mother’s arms, there and gone for the span of a brief but close embrace, and drew back as much to keep herself from weeping as to let Mrs. Oakwood sit again.

“Maria,” she said, looking up into her daughter’s face, “what have you done?” They were the exact words Halifax had used on the steps of the church, said now in tones of resignation rather than astonishment, but betraying the same degree of disbelief.

Maria opened her mouth, closed it; put her thoughts in order and began again. “I am married, as I planned to be. Mr. Barton told you the details of the settlement, did he not?”

“He did.”

“Then you know our position is better even than we had hoped. Ten thousand at least for Joan’s dowry—more than that, if the funds come out right—and—”

“That is not what I am here to ask about,” said Mrs. Oakwood. “Angus Barton is more than capable of explaining the financial matters. What he could not explain is why he lent his support not to the son-in-law I expected—”

“Mama,” Maria said, low and rapid, as though her words would carry more weight if she could discharge them quickly enough, “I told you, I could not marry him. I could not trust him, I cannot even think of him without it turning my stomach.”

“So you left him at the altar, exposing him to ridicule—”

“But I did not! I told him, as I told you, that he need not come.”

“Every woman has second thoughts the night before her wedding! You had expressed no concerns, none at all, while you were engaged to the man for nearly a year. What was I meant to think?”

“You were meant to think what I told you. Mama.” Maria put her hands over her mother’s where they were folded atop the head of the cane. “You wouldn’t really see me the wife of a man I despise.”

“You know I would not,” said Mrs. Oakwood, as though it pained her even to say it. “I had much rather never see you married at all, than married to John Halifax, if that is what you think of him. As I had much rather not see you married now.” And here they had come to it. “Maria, my love, what were you thinking? You know what Chatham is. All of London knows what Chatham is.”

“I know exactly what he is,” Maria agreed, “and am more grateful than I can tell you, not to be under any illusions as to his character. I know what I have with him. He is not ungenerous. He agreed to everything I asked. There is money for you to live on, and enough to make Joan an excellent match.”

Her mother shook her head, wondering. “You keep talking of the money as though it signifies.”

“Of course it does!” When Maria thought of the penny-pinching years since her father’s death, of the gradual sacrifice of her mother’s comfort and the ever-present fear of the future, she could have screamed. “It means security, for you, for me, for all of us.”

“At the cost of nothing more than our good name.”

Her mother’s tones were soft as ever, but Maria flinched as though struck. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“That is not what society will see. They will see that you have jilted an upstanding man of excellent family and taken up with a shameless philanderer, and what will they think?”

“I can live with whatever they think.”

“I am sure you can,” Mrs. Oakwood said, a fond smile passing like a shadow across her face. It did not reach her grave and worried eyes. “But can your sister?”

It was so far from what she had expected, that Maria could not think how to reply. “Joan had nothing to do with any of this.”

“I know that, but you must see this is a scandal, and she cannot help being tainted by association. It is a mercy she is not out yet. I have been considering what to do about it, and I think the best thing is not to bring her out this year as we had planned; it will give some time for the talk to die down and for you to establish yourself as a respectable matron.” Maria took back her hands. They were suddenly very cold. “If you and your husband can avoid undue attention for a time, that will go a long way. I don’t suppose you can vouch for his conduct.”

“He has been everything that is reasonable. I am sure—”

“I am not, if that weighs at all with you,” said Mrs. Oakwood. “The character of the reformed rake does very well in a romance, but we cannot expect him to materialize in reality.”

“I am not so naive, mama. I requested his discretion, not his fidelity.”

“Your fortune may be some inducement to good behavior. Though having secured it, I cannot see that he has much reason to honor any agreement.”

That fanned a spark of defensiveness in Maria’s breast, though whether it was on behalf of her own judgment or, absurdly, of Chatham himself, she could not tell. “I do believe he will try. He has no reputation for breaking his word, and so far as I have heard he conducts all his affairs with care for the lady’s position.”

Mrs. Oakwood closed her eyes. “Maria, listen to yourself. How much care could be involved, if you have heard of it at all?”

“Yes,” Maria said, aware even as she did that this was a step too far, “I had forgotten the overwhelming importance of appearances, and that a husband’s chief duty is not to his family’s happiness, but to the illusion of propriety.”

Her mother’s face went a shade whiter. Maria stood abruptly and crossed to the window, looking out on the sun-drenched street. The sky had cleared overnight. It showed every sign of being a fine, crisp day.

“The facts are these,” she said, sounding to herself very cool and remote, and uncertain whether to be glad of this. “Halifax conducts himself irreproachably in public, but in private he has proven himself the most despicable man of my acquaintance. I needed a husband and had no time to make a careful selection. Chatham was available, and willing, and promised me honesty. It is not an ideal situation, I grant you, but neither is it disastrous. He is received in society; I will hardly be turned away at every door.”

“No doubt you’re right. Your experience of society has been much broader than mine, for some years. But I will still be taking Joan into the country, once I can make the arrangements for it, and postponing her debut; and I am going to ask that you refrain from visiting us while we are yet in London.”

The foundations of her argument, so carefully laid over the course of that terrible sleepless night, turned to dust on Maria’s tongue. She turned slowly from the window. “You—you are punishing me?”

“I am not,” said Mrs. Oakwood, soft and steady. “I am attempting to do the best thing for my daughters. I do not mean forever, only until we know what the reaction will be, and until the gossips have found something else to interest them. It is—how did you put it? Not ideal, but not disastrous.”

“You are punishing me,” Maria said, disbelieving. “First you would not listen when I told you there would be no wedding, and now—”

“Maria, that is not fair. I listened; I did not know how to respond. One minute you told me you had decided to join Matthews in looking over the rooms at Halifax’s one final time before the wedding; the next thing I knew you were throwing about wild accusations—”

“Not wild, mama, I did not dream it up.”

“Now it is you who will not listen.” Maria knew those weary tones all too well, and the pang of guilt and pain they caused was equally familiar. “You were badly shaken. I hardly knew what you were saying.”

“You knew I would not marry him.”

“Yes, that at least was clear enough; but you gave me no time, Maria! You scarcely gave yourself any time. I do not think, under the circumstances, it was so wrong of me to suggest that we take the evening to think, to consider our options, and for you to make a decision in the morning when you were less distraught and better rested.”

“If I had done that, I would have had no options to consider, and today we would all be destitute.”

For the first time, Mrs. Oakwood’s expression strayed closer to irritation than worry. “You are being theatrical.”

“Sensible. We have been borrowing in expectation of my inheritance for months.” A flicker in her mother’s eyes showed that, at least, had hit home. Maria went to her and knelt at her side, grasping one hand in both of her own. “Mama. Please don’t be angry. I did this for you and for Joan, you know that.”

Mrs. Oakwood laid her cool palm against Maria’s cheek. “I never asked you to. But I am not angry, not truly; only let me adjust.”

“While you keep me from my sister.”

Her touch was withdrawn. “It will not be for long. And you may write, of course; she will want you to. It is only the public attention I wish to avoid.” She leant her weight on her cane, preparing to rise, and Maria sat back, resisting as she always had to the urge to help.

“How soon will you leave town?” Maria asked; she knew she was stalling, but she could not help it. “And where will you go?”

“Certainly not before the new year, and then it will depend on the roads. Do not fuss, Maria, we will do quite well, and I don’t imagine we will travel far. I have long hoped to establish a small country place, where I might stay when I am not visiting my daughters. Would you get the door, my dear?”

Distracted by her troubles, Maria had all but forgotten where she was and why, so when she opened the door and revealed Chatham standing in the hall with one hand raised to knock, it startled her too badly to prevent a quick glance over her shoulder. So it was that she saw her mother’s reaction rather than her husband’s, as Mrs. Oakwood drew her slight frame as straight it would go, and fixed her clear eyes on her new son-in-law. But she did not speak.

“Madam,” Chatham said, when it became clear no-one else would break the silence. Maria, resolutely not turning to him, heard a rustle of fabric she interpreted as a bow. “I have been trying to recall whether we were ever formally introduced.”

“I think I would remember it,” said Mrs. Oakwood. There was nothing overtly hostile in her voice, but Maria would have been deceiving herself if she said there was any warmth.

Maria cleared her throat. “My lord, this is my mother, Mrs. Francis Oakwood. Mama, Lord Chatham.” She must, at some point in her life, have performed the social obligation with less grace than she did now; but she could not recall ever having done so.

“My lord.” Her mother dropped a slight curtsey. It was perfectly correct, though somewhat awkward on account of her cane.

“Mrs. Oakwood. May I say that I wish I already enjoyed your better acquaintance, but look forward to the opportunity to develop it in the near future.”

“You may,” said Mrs. Oakwood, “and I will say in turn, sir, that I hope you do not intend to embarrass my daughter.”

“That is understood,” he said. Maria did look at him now, searching for any hint of mockery, but she found neither that nor the exaggerated gravity she knew by now to mistrust. “Will you breakfast with us?”

Mrs. Oakwood seemed actually to be considering it, and for a moment Maria allowed herself to hope; but in the end she shook her head. “Thank you, no. I must be leaving.”

“Then I hope I may walk you out.”

This, too, required consideration. “Yes. Maria—” And she took her daughter in her arms again, to say low in her ear, “It will not be so bad as all that. No tears, child; just think, if you had not come with me to Matlock Bath we should not have seen one another for much longer than this. I will write as soon as I know where we will stay.”

Maria had meant to walk with her mother to the door, and to be sure the driver helped her into the carriage, but now she stood back and left it to Chatham, biting her lip as she clung to her composure. And when some minutes later he returned to tap lightly on the open door, she was able to address him quite calmly. “I am sorry, sir; I did not expect to have visitors so early.”

“The women of your family do seem to make their social visits at unusual hours,” he said; though she noticed, as she had been to distracted to do the morning before, that he was already shaved and immaculately attired, and in riding dress too. “At what time should I expect your sister tomorrow? I warn you if she calls much before five, she will probably have to wait for her tea.”

“I do not,” said Maria, “expect to see Joan. My mother came to tell me they will be going into the country as soon as it can be arranged.”

“Ah,” said he, markedly noncommittal. “And are these plans of long standing?”

“They are not.”

“I see.”

“I am sure you do.”

He regarded her a moment before saying, “If you are having second thoughts, I advise you to make them known sooner rather than later.”

She blinked, then offered what she knew better than to hope was a convincing smile. “Am I to assume you have decided you no longer have a use for twenty thousand pounds?”

“I am not in the habit of making commitments lightly, my dear wife. Though I grant you, I am not in the habit of making commitments. But I am greatly enjoying the novelty of it.”

“Then we are both satisfied.”

“I am delighted to hear you say so.” Maria could not entirely hide her skepticism, and his lip twitched. Then he made a show of taking her in from head to foot. She could not tell whether his final appraisal was amused or appreciative. “It suits you.”

‘It’ being the dressing gown of dubious origin. She colored and pulled it closer about her waist, telling herself it was, at least, very warm. “A little long for me, I think.”

“Nevertheless.”

In the spirit of reciprocity, she turned her attention to his own clothing. The breeches and tall boots were of particular note; despite the care that had clearly been lavished on them and in contrast to his spotless coat, they had seen real use. “You are going out?”

“I like some air before breakfast, when I can get it. The weather yesterday was damned miserable, and of course I had other business to attend to.”

“I will not detain you today, at least.”

“Do you ride, at all?”

“Not well,” Maria said absently, her mind already turned toward what she might do while he was out of the house. He had nodded, bowed, and moved to the door before it occurred to her first that she might have declined an invitation, and second that she wanted to accept. "Though I do like the fresh air. Perhaps a drive...?"

He did not, exactly, brighten, but she thought she had pleased him, and was surprised. “That can be arranged. Would you care to dress now? It is not a fashionable hour; the parks will be almost empty.”

He clearly meant this as an advantage. They might go out and be back again before most of her acquaintance had even come down to breakfast. But Maria, sifting through her mother’s fears for the kernels of truth, had come to precisely the opposite conclusion: that it was better by far to hold her head high, and face whatever scandal followed as soon as it materialized. If she hid herself away, she would admit there was reason to be ashamed.

At least, this sounded very well when she explained it to herself. It was equally possible she was angry, and wished her mother to know it. “The morning looks favorable, but the sun has scarcely had time to dry off yesterday’s rain. I would rather wait until this afternoon, if that would be convenient.”

He did not quite smile. "You have nerve, Lady Chatham. This afternoon it is. And--allow me to wish you joy of the day."

"Thank you," she said to his well-tailored back, as he left her. She had entirely forgot it was her birthday.

Maria had been looking forward to breakfast, where she would be alone with her thoughts, but in the event she found them poor company, and concluded she must give herself some occupation. After the last sip of coffee, which she was glad to find was made very strong and dark, she summoned Ellis. "I do not wish to disrupt your routine," she said upon his prompt appearance. "Only I was not as attentive as I ought to have been yesterday, and need to better acquaint myself with the household. There is no butler?"

"No, my lady. This has always been a modest establishment."

“Out of necessity, or due to Chatham's preference? I know I am being indelicate,” she added, when he hesitated, “but I have come into this situation without any preparation whatever, and I would rather ask an awkward question than take make some terrible misstep.”

"I understand, my lady. I would say it is something of both. His lordship purchased this house in '17, after spending some years on the continent and then at the family estate; he thought it was adequate to his needs without requiring a staff that would exceed his means. There is more space than we currently need in the servants' quarters, if your ladyship plans to make changes.”

“I have no plans as yet. That is why I wished to speak to you. I will of course sit down with the housekeeper and cook as soon as may be, but I thought you would be better able than either of them to give me some insight into his lordship's preferences. Does that suit you?”

"Certainly it does, my lady," said the valet. He did not add that he could hardly have said anything else.

"Ellis."

"Yes, my lady."

"I would rather you give me an awkward answer than allow me to irritate Lord Chatham."

"Yes, my lady," he replied, with slight emphasis; it was enough to satisfy her.

"Very good. You are probably aware I have brought some money into this marriage, and Chatham's means are greater than they once were. Do you think he wants to expand the household?"

"Not significantly, my lady. There are some areas that require attention. The stables have been sadly neglected." Maria was not surprised to hear it; tender spots on her shoulder and hip were a sad testament to the condition of Chatham’s carriage. "But his lordship has no interest in entertaining on a grand scale, and he places great value on his privacy. I am extraordinarily careful about admitting new members to this house.”

That would be necessary, if Chatham preferred entertaining on the intimate scale Maria had reason to suppose. “I imagine I came as an unwelcome surprise.”

“Your ladyship could never be anything but welcome here.”

His tone was that of the consummate professional, but she would have expected nothing less. Maria suppressed a sigh. If it was not an absolute necessity to make an ally out of her husband's valet, it would have made things easier. “Thank you, Ellis. If you can be spared from your other duties for half an hour, would you take me through the house and introduce me once again to the staff?”

It was not, as she had been warned, an extravagant house, with just three bedrooms for the family and any guests. Until Matthews had arrived, only Ellis and the youngest of the maids had lived in. That did not distress Maria, who was used to a more modest home by far.

She had been brought up in an elegant country house, and Mrs. Oakwood had always expected her daughters would be mistresses of substantial establishments; it had been a reasonable expectation, between her own gentle birth, her father-in-law's wealth, and her husband's prospects in the Navy. But by the time she received news of Captain Oakwood's death, that career had become worse than worthless; his death itself put an end to the certainty of a substantial inheritance; and her own claim to a good family had done nothing to lend comfort or even security to their circumstances. Whenever they were in London, they had satisfied themselves renting part of a small home in an unfashionable neighborhood; and aside from that, their greatest household expenses for years had been Matthews' wages and Maria's wardrobe for each season, for as Mrs. Oakwood had said, if she made a comfortable match, it would all come right in the end.
The unspoken implication, of course, was that if she did not marry, mere economy could not save their situation.

The result was, that the mere presence of a housekeeper was an unaccustomed luxury. No doubt Ellis had an idea of this, but Maria had no intention of emphasizing the fact. She took each introduction in stride, from the housekeeper to the maid-of-all work, and hoped she projected an air of easy self-confidence.

The cook and the housekeeper, in particular, appeared ready to be pleased with their new mistress; Maria suspected a bachelor establishment offered little scope for the talents of the former, and Chatham did not seem the sort to pay much attention to the needs of the latter. To Mrs. Wilson, sovereign of the kitchen, she said, "Your meals so far have been extremely good; I should be proud to share them with guests. What is the state of our stores? Are we prepared for entertaining?"

Mrs. Wilson's brows furrowed in calculation. "How soon, my lady?"

"Tomorrow," said Maria, provoking something that was very nearly a reaction from Ellis. "I have it in mind to host a small luncheon, but if it is too much trouble--"

She was assured that it was not; the haste with which Mrs. Wilson disappeared into her domain suggested it would at least be a challenge, but Maria was left with the impression that it was hardly an unwelcome one.

Ellis cleared his throat. "Tomorrow, my lady?"

"It is only an idea," Maria said. An idea sparked by a stray thought over her tea, kindled by her mother's visit, and fanned into flame as she considered how best to make her public debut as the Viscountess Chatham. She smiled at Ellis; he did not appear reassured. "I will of course speak to Chatham before I send any invitations."

"A luncheon?" said Chatham himself, appearing for his breakfast as she was finishing hers. "I have never hosted a luncheon before."

"You need not host one now," said Maria; "it would be a very informal affair for some ladies of my acquaintance.”

“And would my presence be embargoed or required?”

She could not tell which of those appealed to him less. “Neither. I would consider it a courtesy if you would greet my guests, but there is a certain freedom that comes in the exclusive company of one’s own sex.”

“And in the absence of the subject of your conversation.”

“I did not say so.”

“The words were unnecessary. Married just a day, and already our minds are as one. Very well, I will undertake to show my face for five minutes precisely, and to be on my best behavior. Though I warn you my watch keeps excellent time, and you are not promised a second longer than that.”

“You offer excellent terms, my lord. I accept. And while we are on the subject of your schedule—“ He looked as though he was about to object, and she raised a hand to forestall him. “Not a social engagement, I promise you, but one much to your advantage. We—that is, you must make an appointment with Mr. Barton, and your man of business, to discuss my dowry, and what arrangements you wish to be made.”

Chatham’s brows rose. “And what do you imagine I know about arranging for the disposal of twenty thousand pounds?”

“Oh, very little; but I understand that is why one has a man of business in the first place.”

“Well, then, you may make the appointment at your earliest convenience. I am quite at leisure to receive a fortune.”

Maria did not quite trust her first reading of this. It had been an uphill battle, convincing Halifax to admit her to any discussion of money beyond the budget of their future household. “At my convenience?”

“Yes, you had certainly better attend. If I am to be subjected to the headache of our finances, I don’t see why you should escape it. For better for worse, you know.” More satisfied by far than she would have believed possible only two hours before, she left him to his breakfast, though not before she heard him mutter, “Luncheon!” in quiet incredulity.

She had earlier asked Matthews to inquire about a writing desk, and now found that someone had produced a serviceable if grossly unattractive secretary and matching high-backed chair in the French style of the previous century, which had been placed before the window next to her dressing-table. She eased into the chair with some trepidation. It creaked, but not alarmingly, and the overstuffed cushions did not give off the cloud of dust she had anticipated.

She began her correspondence with a short note to Mr. Barton. That flowed easily enough from her pen, as it was written to a clear purpose and couched in purely businesslike language. When she had set it aside to dry, however, and started upon the next letter, she got no further than the salutation before the crisp black strokes comprising, “My dear Joan,” began to blur upon the clean white page, and she had to put it away for a time and think of other things.

The first of these things, Maria told herself, blowing her nose rather messily into Ellis’ handkerchief, must be the guest list for tomorrow’s luncheon, which must be very carefully prepared. She had a particular set of women in mind to suit her purposes; but she was keenly aware that an invitation to Chatham’s home might be received with anything from mild offense to grave embarrassment, so after beginning with quite a long list she struck through name after name on the grounds that the lady it belonged to was the sort who might take insult, or who had reason to be shy of scandal, or in who one or two cases was married to a man Maria believed at risk of reading his wife’s correspondence and making unfortunate inferences.

The remaining list was still lengthy enough to divert and discomfit her in equal measure, and would no doubt discomfit Mrs. Wilson still more; but Maria knew some of these ladies would have left town until the spring, and still more of them would have social calendars far too full to accept an invitation at a day’s notice. And some might prefer not to accept in the first place. She considered whether it would be better to set the date for the following week, but having set her mind to a thing she generally preferred to see it through to an immediate conclusion, and in any case she could not bear the thought of sitting idle on D- street as she waited for callers who might never come, with nothing to distract from her troubles.

So she began on the invitations. There was no time to have a copper-plate made up, but she did not mind writing each out herself in her clear, if not very elegant, hand. It gave her the opportunity to add a short personal line to each card, which she thought might be necessary, as in some cases she was presuming on very slight acquaintance.

She had to write the first several over again to correct her signature. By the time she was finished, the name “Maria Astley” felt almost natural under her pen, though a queer sensation came over her if she looked at it for very long.

When this was done, she looked up from her desk to discover it was well past noon, and upon summoning the footman to post the cards she was informed that Chatham was ready to call for the phaeton, and waited only on her pleasure.

She dressed at once for a cold but sunny day and went downstairs. Remembering all too well the condition of the closed carriage from the day before, she did not hold high hopes for the phaeton, and was agreeably surprised by the neat, if decidedly outmoded, conveyance that waited for her. It was harnessed to a pair of grays. As the groomsman made no objection Maria approached the one nearest her, careful to remain within its field of vision. She was no judge of a horse's quality, but she thought she knew a good-tempered animal when she saw one, and laid a cautious hand on its neck. One clever ear twitched in her direction, and it let out a low, unconcerned huff of breath that steamed in the crisp air.

She was watching the motion of the horse's eye behind its blinker and the swiveling of its ears, so Chatham's voice from behind did not startle her. "That's Maxwell, and beside him is Maurice."

"Those are good, respectable names."

"After the two most insufferable commanding officers I ever served under. You cannot imagine my enjoyment at leading them by the nose, rather than the other way around." He returned her skeptical look with a bland smile, then offered his hand to help her up.

The streets were quite busy for so late in the year, as all of London took advantage of a few hours of sunlight in good weather. Maria caught herself glancing restlessly at every passing carriage and realized she was waiting to meet someone she knew, and dreading the inevitability. She wrapped her pelisse more firmly about her shoulders and cast about for some opening to conversation. “I trust you have passed your day so far in pleasant occupation.”

“I see we have returned to platitudes.”

“I was trying, my lord, to ascertain just how badly I have disrupted your daily routine.”

“Were you really? Subtlety does not suit you. I thought we had agreed on plain speaking.”

“Very well,” said Maria, caught between amusement and exasperation, “then let me speak plainly: ours is a marriage of convenience, and I have no wish to inconvenience you any more than necessary.”

“Unless it is because you are planning luncheons,” he agreed.

“You might have refused your permission.”

“If I thought it would have done me any good in the face of your clear intentions, I might have tried. No—” he overrode her protests—”I am not complaining. Rest assured, my dear, when you truly begin to inconvenience me, I will let you know it.”

She was not particularly reassured. “I hope you will. I mention it because I have been meeting with your staff.”

“So I am informed.”

Maria found herself acutely curious about what, exactly, Ellis had said to his master; but thought it was better not to ask. “I should like to arrive at a clear understanding of the role you see me playing in your home. I have a good grasp of household economy and am willing—”

“Our home.”

“Excuse me?”

“I married you, God help me,” he said, easing the carriage around a turn. “Since we are speaking plainly. It is our home, unless you are about to tell me you would rather move to Cumbria.”

“I have never been to Cumbria.”

“Well then, do as you like with the household. Within reason. Ellis is accustomed to having the final word in any decisions regarding the staff; I would advise you to consult him before you undertake to hire anyone, or to let any of them go.”

“I thought, actually, that a general increase in salary might be in order.” That caught his attention; she could see him split it between her, and the busy street ahead. “I am very willing to speak to Mr. Ellis about whether that would be appropriate in all cases, and hear his suggestions as to the precise amounts. But your—our—household seems generally well-managed, and it is my belief that prudent generosity is the best way to secure a competent staff.” Also, she knew very well that Matthews might easily have found another, more lucrative place at any time in the last year, while she waited on Maria’s interminable engagement; and Maria did not think it wise to increase her own maid’s wages out of proportion with Mr. Ellis’, or the housekeeper’s. Which put her in mind of a promise she had entirely forgotten the evening before. “I have been meaning to thank you.”

He had been watching her out of the corner of his eye in something that looked like fascination; now he blinked. “What for?”

“For your consideration to my maid. I was told you made particular arrangements for her comfort, and I am very grateful.”

Chatham nodded once, his eyes back on the road. He drove in silence for some time, then said with sudden and unexpected force, “Plain speaking, indeed! Damn him. If there is a child, we will make provision for it. You may tell her so.”

She was not at first sure what to say, but managed, “I do not think there is much chance of that. Matters had not progressed so far, when I—but I will tell her.”

He appeared more genuinely agitated in that moment than she had yet seen him, and she stretched out her hand, laying it nearly on his wrist before she thought better of the impulse and withdrew. It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask about his sister.

Chatham was still too intent on his task, or pretending to be so, to notice the abortive movement. He did look over when she twisted about to wave at a pair of ladies just coming out of a milliner's. She hoped the stiffness of her smile would be put down to the cold, and not the hastiness with which she had assembled her expression or the fact that she had leaned farther than she meant to out of the high perch of the phaeton. Chatham seized her by the elbow and held firm until she was settled once again in her seat.

“Who was that?” he demanded.

"The wife and daughter of some Naval connexion of my father's," Maria replied, tucking both hands demurely into her muffler. “I will introduce you if they call on us, but I rather doubt they will, though they were invited to my wedding breakfast.”

“I hope greeting them was worth risking your neck.” Maria did not reply. It had been worth it, to see those prim mouths drop open. “You said you do not ride. Can you drive?”

“Not with any skill.” As she had just demonstrated; she awaited his trenchant observation of the fact.

“You ought to learn,” he said, to her surprise, then overwrote surprise with outright astonishment by adding, “It can only be a good thing, for a woman to be self-sufficient in that regard.”

“You are the first man I have heard express such an opinion, my lord.”

“Do you disagree?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever considered it. With respect to transportation, I mean.” Self-sufficiency in other respects she had considered at length.

“Well, do. Though I would not recommend starting in the London streets, nor with this particular pair.”

She frowned at the two horses, who moved along under his hands at a docile pace. “Are they very headstrong?”

He snorted. “They were some years ago, when I first bought them; now they have settled into a complacent middle age. You’d have more trouble waking them up than holding them in. No, you want something biddable, I think, but not entirely without energy.” He said it as though he was giving genuine thought to the question, then spoilt it by adding, “And a carriage much lower to the ground, until you’re broken of the urge to fling yourself out of it. I begin to think it is not your widowhood that need concern us.”

The smile she turned on him, at least, did not feel artificial. “I hope you will not let it worry you. You’ve only to keep me alive until we have met with Mr. Barton.”

“A little longer than that, I hope. I would like to survive my next meeting with your mother.” Likely he recognized this as a misstep as soon as he said it. Maria could find no agreeable response, and the conversation flagged until they reached the park.

She had readied herself by then to meet others of her acquaintance, but it was Chatham’s name and not hers that brought them to a halt, as a man on horseback drew up beside them. “Chatham,” he said again, after bowing to Maria, “there you are. We missed you at the Tankerville yesterday evening.” Which told her what plans Chatham had abandoned for the anticlimax of their wedding night.

The gentleman, meanwhile, was of course watching Maria, while trying not to give the appearance of this; and doing a commendable job of it, too. Maria was inclined to credit him with manners. “Mr. Lacey, I think?” she said. “We met last year at Almack’s—but I would not expect you to remember, there was such a crowd.”

“You did me the honor of a dance, Miss Oakwood. I have not forgotten.” Halifax had not liked him, and Maria now wondered if this was because of an association with Chatham; but her fiancee had never said a word against Maria dancing with whomever she liked. It had been a point in his favor.

“Not Oakwood any longer,” said Chatham. “Lacey, you are in high luck—you will be well ahead of the gossip. This is my wife.”

If Chatham had expected to be gratified by Lacey’s reaction, he was disappointed. Lacey only bowed again and said, “I am honored, Lady Chatham. I offer my sincerest congratulations—and my condolences, too.”
As she had so far received none at all of the former and more than her fill of the latter, she was pleased to do so in the same good humor with which both were offered. “Thank you, sir. I see you are well acquainted with my husband.”

Lacey smiled. He was a pleasant-looking man not at all in either Chatham’s or Halifax’s styles: fair-haired and clear-eyed, and, she thought, not much senior to Maria herself, but with a soberness to his dress and demeanor that made him seem older at first glance. “If you would count several years opposite one another at the card table toward friendship, then I believe I may claim it.”

“You presume a great deal on a few rubbers of whist.” Chatham did not seem to mind, however; his address lacked the warmth that might indicate true intimacy, but there was a familiar rhythm to their conversation, which Maria decided would justify some presumption of her own.

“I hope you will call on us very soon,” she said. “I know so few of Chatham’s friends; you must help me rectify that.”

“I should be delighted. When are you at home?”

“Oh—on Tuesdays,” Maria replied, somewhat at random, resisting the urge to glance at Chatham and see how badly this had put him out.

"You may expect me then. And now I will not keep you much longer; three can only be a crowd, when two of them are newly wed. Chatham, I suppose we will not see you tonight."

Maria shook her head. "If you don't, let it not be on my account. No, you ought to go," she said to Chatham, though she did not in fact think he meant to protest. "I'll not keep you from company two nights in a row. "

"Well, you heard her, Lacey--I will be there, and we shall see if we can make up a table."

"I expect you will be much in demand," said Lacey, glancing at Maria. He appeared for an indecisive moment to be waging some internal debate, until candor won out over delicacy. To Chatham he said: "I must tell you, I am not so far ahead of the gossip as you seem to think. I had word of your marriage from Fanshaw last night, who had it from his sister, and Lord only knows what path the news traveled to her ears." And to Maria: "I do not mean to distress you, ma'am."

"Not at all," Maria said, projecting cheerful carelessness as best she could. "I can hardly complain of causing some small excitement. There is so little to talk of right now, with every-one leaving town. But when you say Fanshaw, and speak of his sister, do you mean Sophia Fanshaw? Or Sophia Grant, now, of course. I am glad to hear she has not gone into the country. I have invited her to a luncheon tomorrow; though more than likely she has a prior engagement." Ignoring Chatham's quiet start of surprise, she watched Lacey's face as she spoke, curious if he would catch the significance of her words. He did not, though whether he was ignorant of the facts or too well-bred to reveal otherwise, she could not tell.

Chatham waited until Lacey had taken his leave and they had progressed some distance through the park before he asked, "Are you on familiar terms with George Fanshaw?"

"We have met once or twice."

"I see; and his sister?"

"I do not know her well, but I think I should like to. She has always struck me as being good company, and would be a great asset at a dinner-party, as a corrective against unstimulating conversation. Besides, now we have something in common." She kept her gaze fixed on the horses ahead, and entertained herself by imagining his expression.

"Do you?" he asked, as though he did not really want to hear the answer.

"Why yes, as we are both so lately married." Maria took pity on him and turned the conversation. "I believe I like your Mr. Lacey. His manners are very nice, but they don't prevent him from saying a thing that needs to be said."

"Neither will they prevent him from carrying the tale to the next person he meets, you know."

"And when he does, will he tell it to inform or to titillate?"

"Oh, to inform, I have no doubt; but it will gratify him to do so."

"One can hardly blame him," Maria observed mildly.

"No," Chatham agreed. "And he'll tell it charitably enough, when he does. Those nice manners are his livelihood--he works for the Foreign Office."

"That does explain it." Though not, she reflected, how he had come to be on easy terms with Chatham; but then a touch of scandal in one man need not taint the reputation of the man next to him, an advantage they clearly held over her own sex. This brought her back to her mother and to Joan. She put the thought aside. "You do not mind if he calls?"

"Not at all. See him as often as you like. And when you host a dinner-party, you must seat him beside Sophy Grant, to put a check on her stimulating conversation."

"A marvellous idea. You are members of the same club? And Mr. Fanshaw?"

"I am. But my attendance is not so regular that they will expect me tonight. In fact, it will excite more talk than otherwise, if I go."

"No-one will believe you are tied to my apron strings, my lord; I see no need to put that fiction about. And it is my judgment that a marriage can only benefit when both parties maintain some outside interests."

"I bow to your opinions on the married state," Chatham said, adding dryly, "No doubt they are far more considered than my own."

"Have you never considered it?" she asked, turning to him in sudden interest. "You cannot blame me for asking, having subjected me to that interrogation last night. A man in your position, of your age--how old are you, exactly?"

"Thirty-seven," he said. "And no, I never gave it serious thought."

"Why not?"

"Because--and I really cannot account for this--before yesterday no-one had thought to ask me."

She laughed aloud, and was able to show an untroubled countenance to the next members of her circle they came upon; and by the time they turned toward D- Street—toward home—she could look upon the afternoon’s efforts with satisfaction.