Or, What You Will - Chapter Eight
Apr. 25th, 2019 09:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
linneacarlsThe encounter left Maria ill-at-ease, and dissatisfied with herself as much as anyone. Perhaps she ought not to have taken Halifax’s hand, and spoken to him as though nothing had happened; perhaps she ought to have taken her husband’s part, and done it publicly. Yet she could not help thinking that they might have put it all behind them, and thought no more on the matter, if Chatham had only held his tongue. At the same time she knew this was a naive hope. She could not ask him to forget the injury done a beloved sister any more than she would ask Matthews to take up service in Halifax’s house.
For he did feel that injury, and it disturbed her to know how keenly; it felt as much an affront to his privacy as though she had walked in on him undressing. Though that ought not to be uncommon in a marriage, where surely intimacies of the heart as well as the body had their place? And if they did not share the one, did it mean they could not share the other?
But that had been no part of their bargain, and it was not as though Maria had made any painful disclosures. The closest she had come to vulnerability had been at the bottom of a glass of port. Chatham had been generous with her foolishness, but that was not the same as inviting her into his confidence, and welcoming her own.
She felt entirely unable to go to him with her concern, that their so-public scene would fan the flames of a scandal she had hoped to stifle. Equally she would not speak to Matthews; the subject hit too near to her, and Maria was determined that she would not even hint that she might regret her choice, or blame Matthews in any way for the sudden turn their lives had taken. (Matthews had been making herself quite at home at D- Street, turning Maria’s wardrobe inside-out as she had no doubt been longing to do since taking service with the Oakwoods and firmly establishing her place in the hierarchy. Maria did not know what sort of negotiation had been required with Chatham’s Ellis, or what degree of resentment or respect existed on either side; but she had just enough experience of household management, and enough understanding of her own maid, to know it was much better if the mistress of the house kept well out of the way.) So it was not until Mr. Lacey called the next morning, with his cousin in tow for the promised visit to the Elgin Marbles, that she was able to speak of it—if not unreservedly, then at least directly.
Felicity Northam was indeed very pretty, in the style Maria had always admired, with dark brows and lashes that stood out against very fair skin. She was, as Lacey had said, lately married, and to a major in the Marines; which as she pointed out was not quite the Navy, but surely gave them a topic of common interest! She was very cheerful, and not very clever, but too good-natured to be really tiresome; and what was better, easily distracted by a lapith’s half-severed marble genitalia for just long enough that Maria could snatch a quiet word with Lacey.
“Yes, I heard something of it,” he said, with the guardedness she had begun to expect of him; she harbored a strong suspicion that Chatham’s pleasure in calling him a gossip was something of a joke.
“From Chatham?”
“No, ma’am—I did not see him at the club last night. But it was the subject of discussion.”
She had not seen Chatham at home on Sunday night, and had assumed he was out; rising that morning she had found him already on his customary ride, and not yet returned when she left. Avoiding her, then; well, she could not blame him, and was not entirely sorry for it. “You know I need no delicate handling, Mr. Lacey. I will not repeat what was said yesterday, but I know others will have done. Is general sentiment for my husband, or against?”
He frowned up into the blank profile of a youth on horseback. “How much do you care for general sentiment?”
“How much do you care for my husband, sir?” she asked; at which he sighed and said, more bluntly than she had expected:
“He has done himself no good with that outburst, and no good to his sister’s memory. Diana Astley is dead and cannot speak for herself; that may earn her some degree of sympathy. But to lay such a charge, and so publicly, when there can be no legal sequel to the accusation? And to refuse the natural and accepted social sequel? It will not do, Lady Chatham. He is a man of many acquaintances and few real friends. If he comes to the club tonight, I do not know what will greet him.”
This surprised her not at all, and encouraged her still less. “Will you greet him, Mr. Lacey?”
“I said he had few friends,” said Lacey. “I hope I am one of them.”
At that point Felicity beckoned her over, and Maria managed to feign an interest in the friezes for long enough to be convincing; but when she returned home to a note from Mr. Barton saying his return of the four hundred pounds had been accepted without protest, she found this more ominous than reassuring.
Chatham’s own reticence at dinner—for he did eventually appear, and offered nothing more than bland courtesy—she found positively exasperating, but one could not expect to get through even a sham marriage without quarreling. She retired early and rose earlier, hoping to leave on a few errands before Chatham came down for his ride, but looked up startled from her tea when the footman came in mere moments after she had asked for the carriage.
“What is it, Terence?”
“My lady,” he said, as hesitant to deliver this news as he had been her invitation to church, “I did not know you were awake. His lordship is in the sitting room—with a young woman.”
“At this hour?” Maria asked blankly. Then she wondered at herself. Had she not only just reminded him she had made no claims on his fidelity, had in fact promised not to interfere? But she had not thought—she had at least demanded discretion, had she not? And while she supposed there were few places more private than his own home, might she not at least have been warned? And in the sitting room? “Very well,” she said. “I’ve no wish to interrupt. Let me know when his lordship is finished.”
“Oh no, my lady,” said Terence, going scarlet. “That is—she is a very young lady, and she would not give her name, but I think—she came to see you, my lady.”
To which the only response Maria could think of was, again, At this hour? For though it was her day to be at home, she could not imagine who would call so early. And then, with a horrible premonition, she could. “Oh, dear,” she said, and leaping to her feet she abandoned her tea, pushed past the footman, and pelted down the stairs at a pace far beyond the dignity of the lady of the house.
The door of the sitting room had been left open wide, almost pointedly so; and as she paused outside to catch her breath she heard voices. Her husband’s first, in the tones of peculiar courtesy that meant he was highly entertained; and then in reply, a youthful voice Maria knew better than her own. It was only with the most extreme effort that she was able to walk inside, without bursting in open them.
The golden-haired girl sitting there showed no such restraint. She looked up at once and broke off in the middle of a phrase; and the look that flashed across her expressive face mingled trepidation and delight. But she had committed herself, and with a cry of “Maria!”, sprang up from the couch and into her sister’s arms.
For a few long moments Maria could not speak. Her throat was closed, and her hands trembled. And then she gathered herself with a will to say, “Joan. What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Joan demanded, pulling back so Maria could see the tears starting in her eyes. “You have written twice; and each letter was so unsatisfactory that you might as well not have bothered!x And now mama says we must go into the country, and may not return for months or more; and it is not as though I like it here so very much, but am I not to see you in all that time? And are you well, Maria, truly? He said you were, but—“
“But she hasn’t believed a word I’ve said; which shows a degree of sense that can only be a family trait.” Chatham had not risen at Maria’s entrance, and was leant back in his high-backed chair like a dilettante halfway through the second act, lacking only his opera-glass to complete the illusion of detached interest. He offered Maria a slow, crooked smile. “There, you see, Miss Oakwood—I am not some ogre, keeping the princess locked in a tower. Your sister is allowed three square meals and regular exercise.”
“Joan,” said Maria, “I am well, and I wrote to say as much. But how did you come here? Does mama know?”
A slight touch of guilt colored Joan’s cheeks. “No; it was a very bad day yesterday, and I doubt whether she will rise before noon. I left nearly the moment I woke up, and I will be back before she knows I have gone.”
“But how? You cannot have borrowed Mr. Collins’ gig—“
“No, but I managed very well! I hired a cab. It was fortunate I knew the direction; I overheard Matthews telling Abigail where to send anything she had forgotten.”
“You hired a cab,” repeated Maria, faintly, as a vision painted itself across her mind of her sixteen-year-old sister walking out to the street, in broad daylight, and announcing the Viscount Chatham’s address to the driver in ringing tones. “Were you seen?”
“Was I—well I do not think so. Abigail has probably missed me by now, but she knows better than to worry mama.”
“That is not what I mean! Were you seen in the street—by an acquaintance, or—“ Maria pulled herself from Joan’s grasp and put a hand to her aching head. “You are here unchaperoned. What were you thinking?”
“That I must see you! And unchaperoned, what nonsense—I’ve come to my own sister’s house.”
“Which mama had no intention you should do, and particularly not without her.”
“Yes, for I understand she objects to your husband,” Joan said, favoring Chatham with a dubious look, “though she would not tell me why, in any detail. He does not seem so terribly wicked, you know.”
This appeared to delight Chatham. “I assure you, child; I improve on greater acquaintance.”
“Joan!” cried Maria, who could not in that moment have said which of them exasperated her more. “You must not be here!”
Joan stared at her, in hurt and obvious confusion; only then did Maria realize how loudly and urgently she had spoken.
“Miss Oakwood,” said Chatham. “I beg you will make yourself comfortable. May I borrow your sister for a moment?” And rising, he took Maria firmly by the arm and ushered her to the door.
She waited until it was closed behind them to say, “Am I the only one who understands what a disaster this might be? You ought to have sent for me at once!”
“Calm yourself,” he said, a little sternly. “There’s no need for dramatics.”
“How you can—“
“My dear girl! I was about to send for you. I came downstairs to find Terence wringing his hands over the anonymous chit in my sitting room, demanding she be shown up to my wife; and thought I ought to execute a little reconnaissance of my own to be sure I had the lay of the land. Now. What has you so upset?”
“She left the house, unaccompanied—traveled halfway across town, to the home of—“ Words failed her.
“To her sister’s house,” Chatham said. “Which also happens to be the home of a notorious philanderer, yes; but do you really believe anyone would imagine I had designs on her?”
Well, when he put it that way. “I am sorry. I do not say that you would. But I have determined that she will not be touched by any of this, and if anyone did see her I don’t know what will be said about it. It would be one thing if our mother brought her here. Oh, and if mama does find her gone—I must get her home at once.”
“Certainly,” said Chatham, “which is why I’ve ordered the carriage to be made ready. The closed carriage.”
“But I—“
“And we may send Matthews with her, if she needs a chaperone and you prefer not to be seen with her yourself. Though I think that is taking it a little far; you grossly overestimate your own infamy, and I say that as one who should know. I have ordered tea.”
“You have—what?“
“Or does Joan prefer chocolate?”
“Her preferences do not enter into it!”
“Lady Chatham,” he said, taking her gently by both shoulders. “The carriage cannot be ready in an instant. When it is ready, it will wait. Go, and sit with your sister, and put off for half an hour the notion that the world is balanced on your shoulders.” Maria bit her lip and nodded. He gave a final squeeze of his fingers, and released her. “Here,” he said, producing a fine cambric handkerchief. “You may have need of this.”
“I am not about to cry,” said Maria, who felt a hairsbreadth away from making herself a liar. “And—she will take chocolate. Thank you.”
Joan was still standing where they had left her, wringing her hands; she had graduated in the interim from damp eyes to open weeping, and when Maria came back in she choked, “I am sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You did not, at all,” said Maria, and crossed the room at once to clasp her hands. “It is only that I was surprised, and have had so much to worry me—but that is no fault of yours. Though you ought not to have left mama like that.”
“I know,” Joan admitted, accepting the handkerchief with a wet sniff. “But you did.” Which was unanswerable. “And I have heard the most terrible things, Maria, and no-one will tell me which of them are true. Why did you write at all, if you did not mean to answer any of my questions?”
“Then sit down, Joanie, and let me explain now. What is it you have heard?”
She suffered herself to be ushered to the sopha, but once seated she would not be put off. “Is it true? About Mr. Halifax?”
Maria did not want to introduce fears that might not already have taken root. “Is what true, exactly?”
“That he—was ungallant. To Lord Chatham’s sister.”
Ungallant—oh, well done! Their mother would certainly approve. And it covered a multitude of sins, so that they need not enter into specifics. “Yes, I think that he was.”
Joan’s face fell. “You think so? But—have you spoken to his sister? Has she sworn it to you?”
“She is long dead, and there is no-one to swear to it. But I cannot think why Chatham would put about such a tale, and risk harm to his sister’s memory, if it were a lie. And I have seen his face, speaking of it. I believe him.”
“But if it was so very long ago—we were not there. We cannot know what happened, or if he meant anything by it! What does Mr. Halifax say? I wanted to write to him as well, and ask, but mama said I must not; and I suppose it would not be proper.”
Maria nearly laughed aloud, in mingled amusement and dismay. “Mr. Halifax says nothing that need concern you. Listen to me, Joan. I tell you this in confidence, do you understand? I know myself that he has been—ungallant, as you say, and very lately. I have seen what he can be.”
Her sister stopped at first, uncertain, and then went very white. “Maria—he was not, with you—because I—“
“Oh! Oh Joanie, no, never fear that. He was ever a perfect gentleman, when he knew I was present.” She shivered a little, as she said this, but tried to hide it as she reached for Joan’s hand. “It is a lesson, you see, that a person may be one thing in company, and quite another in private. It is hard to really know someone, unless you have known them very well, and for quite a long time. And a lesson you may wish to consider when it comes time to find a husband of your own.” Though that would no longer be this coming season, as had always been intended. A sound at the door interrupted them, and they waited in silence for the tray to be brought in, while Maria bit down on her anger; she could not tell how much of it was for her mother, how much for Halifax, and how much for herself for risking her sister’s debut. Or how much—though unfairly!—for Chatham, for nurturing the reputation he had.
As though her thoughts were tending in the same direction, Joan sat with a dubious frown until the room was theirs again, and then said, “But you have not known your husband for so long, have you? Before mama told me what you had done, I had not even heard his name.”
Thank heaven for small mercies. “No, that is true; and it was rash of me, I admit that. I should not like to see you make so hurried a match. But I chose him with some care, and on the recommendation of those who have known him well, and in private.” Which was stretching the point a little, but this was not a topic on which she cared to elaborate in this company.
“And you don’t regret it, Maria?”
There had been moments of regret: on the staircase, staggering under the weight of several glasses of port and her own unruly tongue; standing in the aisle at St. George's, with gasps ringing in her ears; and not infrequently in the two days since. But the real regret was for the life she had so foolishly and insistently told her grandfather she would lead: in her own little house, somewhere near the sea, with friends in easy distance but no need of a husband at all.
Yet that life had never been on offer, not truly. There was no use mourning a hope she ought never to have harbored in the first place. “No,” lied Maria without remorse. “He has given me no cause to do so. And I do not think that he will.”
She turned the conversation then, though not easily; and they spoke for a while of Mrs. Oakwood’s plans to take Joan into the country, and where they might stay, and how soon they might leave. Maria plied her ruthlessly with the chocolate, which had been far too dear to make regular appearances in the Oakwood household; and the distress in her eyes had nearly dissolved when Terence put his head in the door to inform them the carriage was ready.
“Must I go?” said Joan, threatening a fresh storm of tears. “It is so quiet without you; only mama’s friends come by, and they have so little to say to me. There was a musicale at Jenny Hathaway’s last night, but mama was ill and so I could not go because there was no-one to take me. And she says it is better if we are not much in company, and I do not see why there was any need to come here in the first place; if we are to see less of people than we did in —shire. And I miss you!”
“And I you, of course, but it is only for a little while; and I am sure wherever she takes you, there will be society enough, and girls your age. Now here, before I forget—this is for Abigail, and this for the cook, and this for Mr. Collins’ groom. You are to be sure they get it on Boxing Day, in case Mama does not think of it. And this for you. But you mustn’t cry! Not over pin-money: you forget I am very rich now, and a viscountess besides. I can afford to be indulgent. And you shall be brought home in Chatham’s own carriage.” And deposited a block from the door, lest the damnable old thing be recognized, she thought silently. “See, we have come up in the world—though once you have had your bones shaken out of joint on those cushions you may not believe me. Now let me kiss you, and I will see if Matthews is ready to take you home.”
Joan was an Oakwood, but she was young; and if her eyes were dry when she stepped out into the hall, yet they were too red to be concealed. Chatham said nothing of this, but bowed over her hand and wished her well. Joan accepted this without enthusiasm but also without any outward sign of disfavor, and then ignored him, clinging to her sister, until Matthews could sweep her out into the cold morning.
Maria stood watching as they drove away, and stood a little longer until she could be certain of her own eyes; and returning to the sitting room found her husband waiting there with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding the unimaginative landscape hanging over the fireplace with what seemed an unlikely interest.
“Thank you.” He turned at the sound of her voice. “I’m sorry you were made to deal with that.”
“I am not, as it happens; she is less tiresome than most girls of that age. Though I must ask if you have any other immediate female relations! As if this pattern continues, I must expect the next lady of the Oakwood household to arrive unannounced shortly before dawn; and at that hour I may not be able to provide satisfactory conversation, much less a satisfactory tea.”
“Well, I am sorry in any case: it is not the way one ought to be introduced to family. I hope she was not impertinent.”
“In comparison with whom?” When she did not answer, he added, “I had intended to ask where you came by your sense of humor, as she did not seem to share it; but now I see it has fled you, as well.”
“My apologies. I ought not to neglect your entertainment.”
“It is embarrassing to say this, but I really cannot tell if that is sarcasm or genuine reproach.”
“The only embarrassment, my lord, is that you cannot conceive how it might be both.”
“There, that is much more the thing. I will accept the one apology for boring me, but not the other for Miss Joan. She was exceptionally diverting, though not I think meaning to be. And she was not impertinent: or at least I do not call it impertinence, to suspect the man who has just married your sister of hiding cloven hooves under his riding-boots.”
“She wanted a brother,” said Maria, resorting to blunt honesty when a cleverer response failed her. “And I disappointed her.”
“Ah,” he said; “I see.” And she wondered whether the correct thing was to reassure him that he was not himself a disappointment, or to apologize for implying it; but she felt herself incapable of that degree of untruth, and knew besides that he would only laugh. Whether he took it personally, she could not tell—and his next words put her on a different track entirely. “How old was she, when your father died?”
Maria had to think of the date, and count back. “Only just nine. But he had been abroad nearly a year at the time.”
“Was he so often away, during her childhood?”
“Less so after the war. He was more frequently on half-pay, once she was old enough to remember. Yes, you are probably right, if you mean to suggest she felt the lack of a gentleman in the house; I remember how she used to hang upon my uncle, when we stayed with my mother’s family.” Though he had not had much time for his nieces. Meanwhile Halifax had been tolerant of her; even kind. But these comparisons were not worth entertaining, and she did not want to talk about her father. “Well, if we can persuade my mother to reconcile herself to you, Joan will not be far behind. And you do have the advantage of experience, in that respect.”
“In what respect?”
“As a brother, I mean.”
“Oh—yes. I suppose I do. But Diana was my elder, you know. And if this morning is any indication, that does make a difference! I will endeavor to fill the role, though it may not be to her satisfaction; if Miss Joan will be reconciled, you must have her back. But do for God’s sake beg her to keep more reasonable hours.”
Maria was about to object, that if he really wished to maintain the pretense of indolent foppery, he ought occasionally to be still abed when she came down to breakfast, and not just returning from his morning ride; but this reminded her that they had been avoiding one another, and while she might have been willing to ignore difficulties in a marriage held separate from those dearest to her it was insupportable to let them fester between herself and a husband whom she might seriously consider for a brother to Joan. And so she said, “I wish to speak to you about what happened on Sunday.”
It was far from the most shocking thing she had said to him; likely did not come into the top dozen, in fact. But he gave the slow blink that she thought meant he was thinking or feeling furiously, and preferred not to show it. “We really must teach you the art of conversational transitions, Lady Chatham.”
“You are welcome to try, though I warn you it will be a waste of your energy entreating me to waste my time. I bring it forward because I have been angry with you.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling a little. “That is tolerably obvious.”
“And I think you have been not entirely pleased with me.”
“I am sure I never said so.”
“And yet it was tolerably obvious. Was it that I spoke to Halifax at all, or that I invoked your sister in the carriage afterward? Because the latter I will apologize for, and unreservedly; I did not know her, and have no way to tell what she would have wanted. And I did not intend to cause you pain.”
“That last, I do not think we need lay at your door. And speaking to Halifax?”
“I do not know whether I can apologize for that. Do not think I wish for his company, or his good opinion. But if I were believed to be publicly reconciled with him, it would be a great boon, and would give me tremendous peace of mind.”
“That seems unlikely at this juncture, unless you wish similarly to be thought to have broken with me,” he said, unhelpfully failing to indicate whether that might be a desired outcome. “Tell me this: did you know he would be there, when you asked me to come?”
Had he really thought that? “No,” she said at once. “Though perhaps I ought to have done; I had heard his grandmother say she attended, and that sometimes he escorted her. But I was as surprised as you, to see him there.”
“I am glad to hear it. We made few demands on one another, when we agreed to this arrangement; I am not inclined to add riders after the fact. And it would be ludicrous to call myself a jealous man. But still I will say: I cannot be expected stand by without comment while he consorts with my wife in a public space.”
“I have no desire to make a habit of that.”
“Then I believe we may consider ourselves in agreement.”
“Not just yet,” said Maria. “It is all very well to say you will not stand by quietly; but there is some middle ground, I hope, between giving your blessing and inviting a challenge. If you intend to make such scenes with any frequency I beg you will give me the opportunity to disarm them before they turn quite so savage. I have a particular hatred for the sort of masculine temper that sees a pistol as any kind of solution, and pretends to justify this by some notion of his honor.”
That slow blink, again. “Understood. I am to allow you to save me from my own worst impulses.”
“Only in public,” said Maria, with a conciliatory smile. “Is that an apology?”
He laughed, and offered his hand. She took it willingly. “If you like. I will endeavor not to shame you next time we leave the house together.”
“I was not—“ But she stopped herself, and he gave a knowing look. “I do understand, at least to at extent. And I share your anger, or at least some of it. But I hope you will not ask me to choose between my husband and my sister’s wellbeing.”
“No fear of that,” he said, rather lightly. “I know what the balance of that choice would fall. Do not look so stricken, my girl; you take things too much to heart, for a woman who has married a philanderer in cold blood. You ought to develop a thicker skin.”
“You must instruct me in that, along with the ability to babble my way more elegantly between topics of interest.”
“Oh, there are things I should much rather teach you than those,” he said, and before she could begin to wonder what he meant, he executed a conversational turn of his own. “And do you think your mother will be reconciled?”
“Not at once; not while Joan’s future is in question. But if she makes a good match, and if her intended will see you—will see us—then I have no doubt of it.”
“You are generous in your optimism.”
“I find generosity and optimism both, better motivators than despair,” she said. “And perhaps it will not take so very long, once she has been introduced to society. I shall have to start making plans. Your Mr. Lacey—is he in the market for a wife?”
“I must tell him you asked, and see if he takes you to view Grecian marbles again! But if any man is capable of marching a mother-in-law around to my camp, it is certainly he. We must have them both ‘round to dinner when your mother is back in town. Between his exquisite tact and your consummate lack of it, she is certain to be routed: and even if she is not, then at least the conversation won’t bore me.”
“I will see if Lacey is willing to make an engagement, so far in advance.”
“How soon does your family go into the country?” he asked, with no change in tone. His eyes had wandered back to the landscape on the wall.
“I do not think arrangements can be made until the new year; and even it may be some months. My mother hates to travel in the winter.”
“And do you?”
“I?”
“Prefer not to travel, at this time of year.”
“I have no strong objection,” she said with curiosity.
“It has occurred to me,” he replied, “that it might be as well to spend the Christmas holidays elsewhere, and that you ought at some point to be introduced to the family estate. And, while we are there, you may see how I mean to squander your money.”
“Oh,” said Maria, struck by the idea, and in particular that he had been thinking of it. “I should like that—very much.” And as she said so she realized the truth of it; that she would much prefer not to be so close to her mother and sister through the holidays, and thinking of the little traditions they shared, but unable to see them. “How soon do you think we might leave?”
He looked a little surprised at her quick agreement. “I must send word so we are expected; I should hate to arrive unannounced and find the place in what I am sure is its usual state of disorder, and be forced to replace my housekeeper and manager. But within the week, if we choose.”
“Very good,” she said. “And do give them ample warning. I have it on good authority that I am too rude a shock to spring upon the unwary; and I cannot imagine that you are much better.”
“On the contrary; no doubt the primary reaction will be relief, that I have finally done my duty and provided a lady of the house. Well, if you would like to go, I will write at once.”
“Do you often spend the holidays there?”
“Not in the winter, for the place does not show to its best advantage.”
“Are you so eager to be away from town, yourself?” she asked, not entirely without sympathy, and wondering if his reception at the club had been as cold as Lacey feared.
His eyebrows arched. “Do you mean to suggest I would let myself be driven out?”
“I mean to say if I am to be put to flight, I do not mind the company.”
“Though you take some satisfaction in watching the inevitable sequel to my poor conduct.”
“Less than you might think. Never mind that; going into the country is an excellent idea. Was it Lacey’s?”
“Ha! no, I am capable of embarking on a sensible course of action under my own recognizance, and do not require either his influence or yours; little though you may have cause to believe it. Lacey,” he added, with a touch of sourness she thought was totally genuine, “is of the opinion that I have done near-irretrievable harm to my own reputation—the wonder being that he thinks I had one to begin with—and that a prudent retreat will do very little good. So he may be less eager to become your brother-in-law than you imagine—or rather, mine. You, he approves of without reservation.”
“If you mean to flatter me, sir—“
“When I mean to flatter you, Lady Chatham,” said he, with a bow, “you will be in no doubt as to my intentions.”
For he did feel that injury, and it disturbed her to know how keenly; it felt as much an affront to his privacy as though she had walked in on him undressing. Though that ought not to be uncommon in a marriage, where surely intimacies of the heart as well as the body had their place? And if they did not share the one, did it mean they could not share the other?
But that had been no part of their bargain, and it was not as though Maria had made any painful disclosures. The closest she had come to vulnerability had been at the bottom of a glass of port. Chatham had been generous with her foolishness, but that was not the same as inviting her into his confidence, and welcoming her own.
She felt entirely unable to go to him with her concern, that their so-public scene would fan the flames of a scandal she had hoped to stifle. Equally she would not speak to Matthews; the subject hit too near to her, and Maria was determined that she would not even hint that she might regret her choice, or blame Matthews in any way for the sudden turn their lives had taken. (Matthews had been making herself quite at home at D- Street, turning Maria’s wardrobe inside-out as she had no doubt been longing to do since taking service with the Oakwoods and firmly establishing her place in the hierarchy. Maria did not know what sort of negotiation had been required with Chatham’s Ellis, or what degree of resentment or respect existed on either side; but she had just enough experience of household management, and enough understanding of her own maid, to know it was much better if the mistress of the house kept well out of the way.) So it was not until Mr. Lacey called the next morning, with his cousin in tow for the promised visit to the Elgin Marbles, that she was able to speak of it—if not unreservedly, then at least directly.
Felicity Northam was indeed very pretty, in the style Maria had always admired, with dark brows and lashes that stood out against very fair skin. She was, as Lacey had said, lately married, and to a major in the Marines; which as she pointed out was not quite the Navy, but surely gave them a topic of common interest! She was very cheerful, and not very clever, but too good-natured to be really tiresome; and what was better, easily distracted by a lapith’s half-severed marble genitalia for just long enough that Maria could snatch a quiet word with Lacey.
“Yes, I heard something of it,” he said, with the guardedness she had begun to expect of him; she harbored a strong suspicion that Chatham’s pleasure in calling him a gossip was something of a joke.
“From Chatham?”
“No, ma’am—I did not see him at the club last night. But it was the subject of discussion.”
She had not seen Chatham at home on Sunday night, and had assumed he was out; rising that morning she had found him already on his customary ride, and not yet returned when she left. Avoiding her, then; well, she could not blame him, and was not entirely sorry for it. “You know I need no delicate handling, Mr. Lacey. I will not repeat what was said yesterday, but I know others will have done. Is general sentiment for my husband, or against?”
He frowned up into the blank profile of a youth on horseback. “How much do you care for general sentiment?”
“How much do you care for my husband, sir?” she asked; at which he sighed and said, more bluntly than she had expected:
“He has done himself no good with that outburst, and no good to his sister’s memory. Diana Astley is dead and cannot speak for herself; that may earn her some degree of sympathy. But to lay such a charge, and so publicly, when there can be no legal sequel to the accusation? And to refuse the natural and accepted social sequel? It will not do, Lady Chatham. He is a man of many acquaintances and few real friends. If he comes to the club tonight, I do not know what will greet him.”
This surprised her not at all, and encouraged her still less. “Will you greet him, Mr. Lacey?”
“I said he had few friends,” said Lacey. “I hope I am one of them.”
At that point Felicity beckoned her over, and Maria managed to feign an interest in the friezes for long enough to be convincing; but when she returned home to a note from Mr. Barton saying his return of the four hundred pounds had been accepted without protest, she found this more ominous than reassuring.
Chatham’s own reticence at dinner—for he did eventually appear, and offered nothing more than bland courtesy—she found positively exasperating, but one could not expect to get through even a sham marriage without quarreling. She retired early and rose earlier, hoping to leave on a few errands before Chatham came down for his ride, but looked up startled from her tea when the footman came in mere moments after she had asked for the carriage.
“What is it, Terence?”
“My lady,” he said, as hesitant to deliver this news as he had been her invitation to church, “I did not know you were awake. His lordship is in the sitting room—with a young woman.”
“At this hour?” Maria asked blankly. Then she wondered at herself. Had she not only just reminded him she had made no claims on his fidelity, had in fact promised not to interfere? But she had not thought—she had at least demanded discretion, had she not? And while she supposed there were few places more private than his own home, might she not at least have been warned? And in the sitting room? “Very well,” she said. “I’ve no wish to interrupt. Let me know when his lordship is finished.”
“Oh no, my lady,” said Terence, going scarlet. “That is—she is a very young lady, and she would not give her name, but I think—she came to see you, my lady.”
To which the only response Maria could think of was, again, At this hour? For though it was her day to be at home, she could not imagine who would call so early. And then, with a horrible premonition, she could. “Oh, dear,” she said, and leaping to her feet she abandoned her tea, pushed past the footman, and pelted down the stairs at a pace far beyond the dignity of the lady of the house.
The door of the sitting room had been left open wide, almost pointedly so; and as she paused outside to catch her breath she heard voices. Her husband’s first, in the tones of peculiar courtesy that meant he was highly entertained; and then in reply, a youthful voice Maria knew better than her own. It was only with the most extreme effort that she was able to walk inside, without bursting in open them.
The golden-haired girl sitting there showed no such restraint. She looked up at once and broke off in the middle of a phrase; and the look that flashed across her expressive face mingled trepidation and delight. But she had committed herself, and with a cry of “Maria!”, sprang up from the couch and into her sister’s arms.
For a few long moments Maria could not speak. Her throat was closed, and her hands trembled. And then she gathered herself with a will to say, “Joan. What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Joan demanded, pulling back so Maria could see the tears starting in her eyes. “You have written twice; and each letter was so unsatisfactory that you might as well not have bothered!x And now mama says we must go into the country, and may not return for months or more; and it is not as though I like it here so very much, but am I not to see you in all that time? And are you well, Maria, truly? He said you were, but—“
“But she hasn’t believed a word I’ve said; which shows a degree of sense that can only be a family trait.” Chatham had not risen at Maria’s entrance, and was leant back in his high-backed chair like a dilettante halfway through the second act, lacking only his opera-glass to complete the illusion of detached interest. He offered Maria a slow, crooked smile. “There, you see, Miss Oakwood—I am not some ogre, keeping the princess locked in a tower. Your sister is allowed three square meals and regular exercise.”
“Joan,” said Maria, “I am well, and I wrote to say as much. But how did you come here? Does mama know?”
A slight touch of guilt colored Joan’s cheeks. “No; it was a very bad day yesterday, and I doubt whether she will rise before noon. I left nearly the moment I woke up, and I will be back before she knows I have gone.”
“But how? You cannot have borrowed Mr. Collins’ gig—“
“No, but I managed very well! I hired a cab. It was fortunate I knew the direction; I overheard Matthews telling Abigail where to send anything she had forgotten.”
“You hired a cab,” repeated Maria, faintly, as a vision painted itself across her mind of her sixteen-year-old sister walking out to the street, in broad daylight, and announcing the Viscount Chatham’s address to the driver in ringing tones. “Were you seen?”
“Was I—well I do not think so. Abigail has probably missed me by now, but she knows better than to worry mama.”
“That is not what I mean! Were you seen in the street—by an acquaintance, or—“ Maria pulled herself from Joan’s grasp and put a hand to her aching head. “You are here unchaperoned. What were you thinking?”
“That I must see you! And unchaperoned, what nonsense—I’ve come to my own sister’s house.”
“Which mama had no intention you should do, and particularly not without her.”
“Yes, for I understand she objects to your husband,” Joan said, favoring Chatham with a dubious look, “though she would not tell me why, in any detail. He does not seem so terribly wicked, you know.”
This appeared to delight Chatham. “I assure you, child; I improve on greater acquaintance.”
“Joan!” cried Maria, who could not in that moment have said which of them exasperated her more. “You must not be here!”
Joan stared at her, in hurt and obvious confusion; only then did Maria realize how loudly and urgently she had spoken.
“Miss Oakwood,” said Chatham. “I beg you will make yourself comfortable. May I borrow your sister for a moment?” And rising, he took Maria firmly by the arm and ushered her to the door.
She waited until it was closed behind them to say, “Am I the only one who understands what a disaster this might be? You ought to have sent for me at once!”
“Calm yourself,” he said, a little sternly. “There’s no need for dramatics.”
“How you can—“
“My dear girl! I was about to send for you. I came downstairs to find Terence wringing his hands over the anonymous chit in my sitting room, demanding she be shown up to my wife; and thought I ought to execute a little reconnaissance of my own to be sure I had the lay of the land. Now. What has you so upset?”
“She left the house, unaccompanied—traveled halfway across town, to the home of—“ Words failed her.
“To her sister’s house,” Chatham said. “Which also happens to be the home of a notorious philanderer, yes; but do you really believe anyone would imagine I had designs on her?”
Well, when he put it that way. “I am sorry. I do not say that you would. But I have determined that she will not be touched by any of this, and if anyone did see her I don’t know what will be said about it. It would be one thing if our mother brought her here. Oh, and if mama does find her gone—I must get her home at once.”
“Certainly,” said Chatham, “which is why I’ve ordered the carriage to be made ready. The closed carriage.”
“But I—“
“And we may send Matthews with her, if she needs a chaperone and you prefer not to be seen with her yourself. Though I think that is taking it a little far; you grossly overestimate your own infamy, and I say that as one who should know. I have ordered tea.”
“You have—what?“
“Or does Joan prefer chocolate?”
“Her preferences do not enter into it!”
“Lady Chatham,” he said, taking her gently by both shoulders. “The carriage cannot be ready in an instant. When it is ready, it will wait. Go, and sit with your sister, and put off for half an hour the notion that the world is balanced on your shoulders.” Maria bit her lip and nodded. He gave a final squeeze of his fingers, and released her. “Here,” he said, producing a fine cambric handkerchief. “You may have need of this.”
“I am not about to cry,” said Maria, who felt a hairsbreadth away from making herself a liar. “And—she will take chocolate. Thank you.”
Joan was still standing where they had left her, wringing her hands; she had graduated in the interim from damp eyes to open weeping, and when Maria came back in she choked, “I am sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You did not, at all,” said Maria, and crossed the room at once to clasp her hands. “It is only that I was surprised, and have had so much to worry me—but that is no fault of yours. Though you ought not to have left mama like that.”
“I know,” Joan admitted, accepting the handkerchief with a wet sniff. “But you did.” Which was unanswerable. “And I have heard the most terrible things, Maria, and no-one will tell me which of them are true. Why did you write at all, if you did not mean to answer any of my questions?”
“Then sit down, Joanie, and let me explain now. What is it you have heard?”
She suffered herself to be ushered to the sopha, but once seated she would not be put off. “Is it true? About Mr. Halifax?”
Maria did not want to introduce fears that might not already have taken root. “Is what true, exactly?”
“That he—was ungallant. To Lord Chatham’s sister.”
Ungallant—oh, well done! Their mother would certainly approve. And it covered a multitude of sins, so that they need not enter into specifics. “Yes, I think that he was.”
Joan’s face fell. “You think so? But—have you spoken to his sister? Has she sworn it to you?”
“She is long dead, and there is no-one to swear to it. But I cannot think why Chatham would put about such a tale, and risk harm to his sister’s memory, if it were a lie. And I have seen his face, speaking of it. I believe him.”
“But if it was so very long ago—we were not there. We cannot know what happened, or if he meant anything by it! What does Mr. Halifax say? I wanted to write to him as well, and ask, but mama said I must not; and I suppose it would not be proper.”
Maria nearly laughed aloud, in mingled amusement and dismay. “Mr. Halifax says nothing that need concern you. Listen to me, Joan. I tell you this in confidence, do you understand? I know myself that he has been—ungallant, as you say, and very lately. I have seen what he can be.”
Her sister stopped at first, uncertain, and then went very white. “Maria—he was not, with you—because I—“
“Oh! Oh Joanie, no, never fear that. He was ever a perfect gentleman, when he knew I was present.” She shivered a little, as she said this, but tried to hide it as she reached for Joan’s hand. “It is a lesson, you see, that a person may be one thing in company, and quite another in private. It is hard to really know someone, unless you have known them very well, and for quite a long time. And a lesson you may wish to consider when it comes time to find a husband of your own.” Though that would no longer be this coming season, as had always been intended. A sound at the door interrupted them, and they waited in silence for the tray to be brought in, while Maria bit down on her anger; she could not tell how much of it was for her mother, how much for Halifax, and how much for herself for risking her sister’s debut. Or how much—though unfairly!—for Chatham, for nurturing the reputation he had.
As though her thoughts were tending in the same direction, Joan sat with a dubious frown until the room was theirs again, and then said, “But you have not known your husband for so long, have you? Before mama told me what you had done, I had not even heard his name.”
Thank heaven for small mercies. “No, that is true; and it was rash of me, I admit that. I should not like to see you make so hurried a match. But I chose him with some care, and on the recommendation of those who have known him well, and in private.” Which was stretching the point a little, but this was not a topic on which she cared to elaborate in this company.
“And you don’t regret it, Maria?”
There had been moments of regret: on the staircase, staggering under the weight of several glasses of port and her own unruly tongue; standing in the aisle at St. George's, with gasps ringing in her ears; and not infrequently in the two days since. But the real regret was for the life she had so foolishly and insistently told her grandfather she would lead: in her own little house, somewhere near the sea, with friends in easy distance but no need of a husband at all.
Yet that life had never been on offer, not truly. There was no use mourning a hope she ought never to have harbored in the first place. “No,” lied Maria without remorse. “He has given me no cause to do so. And I do not think that he will.”
She turned the conversation then, though not easily; and they spoke for a while of Mrs. Oakwood’s plans to take Joan into the country, and where they might stay, and how soon they might leave. Maria plied her ruthlessly with the chocolate, which had been far too dear to make regular appearances in the Oakwood household; and the distress in her eyes had nearly dissolved when Terence put his head in the door to inform them the carriage was ready.
“Must I go?” said Joan, threatening a fresh storm of tears. “It is so quiet without you; only mama’s friends come by, and they have so little to say to me. There was a musicale at Jenny Hathaway’s last night, but mama was ill and so I could not go because there was no-one to take me. And she says it is better if we are not much in company, and I do not see why there was any need to come here in the first place; if we are to see less of people than we did in —shire. And I miss you!”
“And I you, of course, but it is only for a little while; and I am sure wherever she takes you, there will be society enough, and girls your age. Now here, before I forget—this is for Abigail, and this for the cook, and this for Mr. Collins’ groom. You are to be sure they get it on Boxing Day, in case Mama does not think of it. And this for you. But you mustn’t cry! Not over pin-money: you forget I am very rich now, and a viscountess besides. I can afford to be indulgent. And you shall be brought home in Chatham’s own carriage.” And deposited a block from the door, lest the damnable old thing be recognized, she thought silently. “See, we have come up in the world—though once you have had your bones shaken out of joint on those cushions you may not believe me. Now let me kiss you, and I will see if Matthews is ready to take you home.”
Joan was an Oakwood, but she was young; and if her eyes were dry when she stepped out into the hall, yet they were too red to be concealed. Chatham said nothing of this, but bowed over her hand and wished her well. Joan accepted this without enthusiasm but also without any outward sign of disfavor, and then ignored him, clinging to her sister, until Matthews could sweep her out into the cold morning.
Maria stood watching as they drove away, and stood a little longer until she could be certain of her own eyes; and returning to the sitting room found her husband waiting there with his hands clasped behind his back, regarding the unimaginative landscape hanging over the fireplace with what seemed an unlikely interest.
“Thank you.” He turned at the sound of her voice. “I’m sorry you were made to deal with that.”
“I am not, as it happens; she is less tiresome than most girls of that age. Though I must ask if you have any other immediate female relations! As if this pattern continues, I must expect the next lady of the Oakwood household to arrive unannounced shortly before dawn; and at that hour I may not be able to provide satisfactory conversation, much less a satisfactory tea.”
“Well, I am sorry in any case: it is not the way one ought to be introduced to family. I hope she was not impertinent.”
“In comparison with whom?” When she did not answer, he added, “I had intended to ask where you came by your sense of humor, as she did not seem to share it; but now I see it has fled you, as well.”
“My apologies. I ought not to neglect your entertainment.”
“It is embarrassing to say this, but I really cannot tell if that is sarcasm or genuine reproach.”
“The only embarrassment, my lord, is that you cannot conceive how it might be both.”
“There, that is much more the thing. I will accept the one apology for boring me, but not the other for Miss Joan. She was exceptionally diverting, though not I think meaning to be. And she was not impertinent: or at least I do not call it impertinence, to suspect the man who has just married your sister of hiding cloven hooves under his riding-boots.”
“She wanted a brother,” said Maria, resorting to blunt honesty when a cleverer response failed her. “And I disappointed her.”
“Ah,” he said; “I see.” And she wondered whether the correct thing was to reassure him that he was not himself a disappointment, or to apologize for implying it; but she felt herself incapable of that degree of untruth, and knew besides that he would only laugh. Whether he took it personally, she could not tell—and his next words put her on a different track entirely. “How old was she, when your father died?”
Maria had to think of the date, and count back. “Only just nine. But he had been abroad nearly a year at the time.”
“Was he so often away, during her childhood?”
“Less so after the war. He was more frequently on half-pay, once she was old enough to remember. Yes, you are probably right, if you mean to suggest she felt the lack of a gentleman in the house; I remember how she used to hang upon my uncle, when we stayed with my mother’s family.” Though he had not had much time for his nieces. Meanwhile Halifax had been tolerant of her; even kind. But these comparisons were not worth entertaining, and she did not want to talk about her father. “Well, if we can persuade my mother to reconcile herself to you, Joan will not be far behind. And you do have the advantage of experience, in that respect.”
“In what respect?”
“As a brother, I mean.”
“Oh—yes. I suppose I do. But Diana was my elder, you know. And if this morning is any indication, that does make a difference! I will endeavor to fill the role, though it may not be to her satisfaction; if Miss Joan will be reconciled, you must have her back. But do for God’s sake beg her to keep more reasonable hours.”
Maria was about to object, that if he really wished to maintain the pretense of indolent foppery, he ought occasionally to be still abed when she came down to breakfast, and not just returning from his morning ride; but this reminded her that they had been avoiding one another, and while she might have been willing to ignore difficulties in a marriage held separate from those dearest to her it was insupportable to let them fester between herself and a husband whom she might seriously consider for a brother to Joan. And so she said, “I wish to speak to you about what happened on Sunday.”
It was far from the most shocking thing she had said to him; likely did not come into the top dozen, in fact. But he gave the slow blink that she thought meant he was thinking or feeling furiously, and preferred not to show it. “We really must teach you the art of conversational transitions, Lady Chatham.”
“You are welcome to try, though I warn you it will be a waste of your energy entreating me to waste my time. I bring it forward because I have been angry with you.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling a little. “That is tolerably obvious.”
“And I think you have been not entirely pleased with me.”
“I am sure I never said so.”
“And yet it was tolerably obvious. Was it that I spoke to Halifax at all, or that I invoked your sister in the carriage afterward? Because the latter I will apologize for, and unreservedly; I did not know her, and have no way to tell what she would have wanted. And I did not intend to cause you pain.”
“That last, I do not think we need lay at your door. And speaking to Halifax?”
“I do not know whether I can apologize for that. Do not think I wish for his company, or his good opinion. But if I were believed to be publicly reconciled with him, it would be a great boon, and would give me tremendous peace of mind.”
“That seems unlikely at this juncture, unless you wish similarly to be thought to have broken with me,” he said, unhelpfully failing to indicate whether that might be a desired outcome. “Tell me this: did you know he would be there, when you asked me to come?”
Had he really thought that? “No,” she said at once. “Though perhaps I ought to have done; I had heard his grandmother say she attended, and that sometimes he escorted her. But I was as surprised as you, to see him there.”
“I am glad to hear it. We made few demands on one another, when we agreed to this arrangement; I am not inclined to add riders after the fact. And it would be ludicrous to call myself a jealous man. But still I will say: I cannot be expected stand by without comment while he consorts with my wife in a public space.”
“I have no desire to make a habit of that.”
“Then I believe we may consider ourselves in agreement.”
“Not just yet,” said Maria. “It is all very well to say you will not stand by quietly; but there is some middle ground, I hope, between giving your blessing and inviting a challenge. If you intend to make such scenes with any frequency I beg you will give me the opportunity to disarm them before they turn quite so savage. I have a particular hatred for the sort of masculine temper that sees a pistol as any kind of solution, and pretends to justify this by some notion of his honor.”
That slow blink, again. “Understood. I am to allow you to save me from my own worst impulses.”
“Only in public,” said Maria, with a conciliatory smile. “Is that an apology?”
He laughed, and offered his hand. She took it willingly. “If you like. I will endeavor not to shame you next time we leave the house together.”
“I was not—“ But she stopped herself, and he gave a knowing look. “I do understand, at least to at extent. And I share your anger, or at least some of it. But I hope you will not ask me to choose between my husband and my sister’s wellbeing.”
“No fear of that,” he said, rather lightly. “I know what the balance of that choice would fall. Do not look so stricken, my girl; you take things too much to heart, for a woman who has married a philanderer in cold blood. You ought to develop a thicker skin.”
“You must instruct me in that, along with the ability to babble my way more elegantly between topics of interest.”
“Oh, there are things I should much rather teach you than those,” he said, and before she could begin to wonder what he meant, he executed a conversational turn of his own. “And do you think your mother will be reconciled?”
“Not at once; not while Joan’s future is in question. But if she makes a good match, and if her intended will see you—will see us—then I have no doubt of it.”
“You are generous in your optimism.”
“I find generosity and optimism both, better motivators than despair,” she said. “And perhaps it will not take so very long, once she has been introduced to society. I shall have to start making plans. Your Mr. Lacey—is he in the market for a wife?”
“I must tell him you asked, and see if he takes you to view Grecian marbles again! But if any man is capable of marching a mother-in-law around to my camp, it is certainly he. We must have them both ‘round to dinner when your mother is back in town. Between his exquisite tact and your consummate lack of it, she is certain to be routed: and even if she is not, then at least the conversation won’t bore me.”
“I will see if Lacey is willing to make an engagement, so far in advance.”
“How soon does your family go into the country?” he asked, with no change in tone. His eyes had wandered back to the landscape on the wall.
“I do not think arrangements can be made until the new year; and even it may be some months. My mother hates to travel in the winter.”
“And do you?”
“I?”
“Prefer not to travel, at this time of year.”
“I have no strong objection,” she said with curiosity.
“It has occurred to me,” he replied, “that it might be as well to spend the Christmas holidays elsewhere, and that you ought at some point to be introduced to the family estate. And, while we are there, you may see how I mean to squander your money.”
“Oh,” said Maria, struck by the idea, and in particular that he had been thinking of it. “I should like that—very much.” And as she said so she realized the truth of it; that she would much prefer not to be so close to her mother and sister through the holidays, and thinking of the little traditions they shared, but unable to see them. “How soon do you think we might leave?”
He looked a little surprised at her quick agreement. “I must send word so we are expected; I should hate to arrive unannounced and find the place in what I am sure is its usual state of disorder, and be forced to replace my housekeeper and manager. But within the week, if we choose.”
“Very good,” she said. “And do give them ample warning. I have it on good authority that I am too rude a shock to spring upon the unwary; and I cannot imagine that you are much better.”
“On the contrary; no doubt the primary reaction will be relief, that I have finally done my duty and provided a lady of the house. Well, if you would like to go, I will write at once.”
“Do you often spend the holidays there?”
“Not in the winter, for the place does not show to its best advantage.”
“Are you so eager to be away from town, yourself?” she asked, not entirely without sympathy, and wondering if his reception at the club had been as cold as Lacey feared.
His eyebrows arched. “Do you mean to suggest I would let myself be driven out?”
“I mean to say if I am to be put to flight, I do not mind the company.”
“Though you take some satisfaction in watching the inevitable sequel to my poor conduct.”
“Less than you might think. Never mind that; going into the country is an excellent idea. Was it Lacey’s?”
“Ha! no, I am capable of embarking on a sensible course of action under my own recognizance, and do not require either his influence or yours; little though you may have cause to believe it. Lacey,” he added, with a touch of sourness she thought was totally genuine, “is of the opinion that I have done near-irretrievable harm to my own reputation—the wonder being that he thinks I had one to begin with—and that a prudent retreat will do very little good. So he may be less eager to become your brother-in-law than you imagine—or rather, mine. You, he approves of without reservation.”
“If you mean to flatter me, sir—“
“When I mean to flatter you, Lady Chatham,” said he, with a bow, “you will be in no doubt as to my intentions.”
