As to the shambles of milady’s chamber with broken glass and blood all over—well! And now this; bolted on him, plain as the nose on your face. It looked black indeed. Anyone who hadn’t known the Marquis forever would be forgiven for thinking he’d misused the poor girl, but that she did not believe. Oh, he had the devil’s own temper and would
say
mean things when he got riled up, but as to laying a hand on a lady, it was no such a thing. No, and a body couldn’t credit that the brass-faced young lady he’d married would put up with any bullying from him or anyone else either. Still, he must have done something to set her off in such a pelter.
Claymore was only half listening; the greater part of his mind was occupied with figuring where the devil she’d gone off to this time. “Accident?” he asked, as the word finally penetrated. “What accident?”
“The broken glass in her room. And the blood all over. . . .”
At this recital, all other preoccupations left him, and he came to rigid attention. “What blood? How does it come I wasn’t informed of this?”
“I thought you knew,” Mrs. Meecham replied. “Betty said there was blood all over the carpet and the sheets. She got it cleaned up before I saw it You must have noticed milady was limping.”
“No! That is, I did notice—but it was only a very little, surely.”
“She was crying with the pain, but wouldn’t let me call the doctor.”
“You should have called him,” Claymore said, visions of his wife dragging around London, her foot all but severed from her leg, coming into his head.
“I wanted to, but she wouldn’t have it. Well, I fancy you know she’s not one to be told what to do.”
“My wife is shy,” he said. “Her abrupt manner is a result of shyness merely. You ought certainly to have called a doctor, Mrs. Meecham.”
She did not take well to being charged with negligence, and bristled. “Too late now.” She clamped her lips shut upon the deliverance of this platitude. She awaited instructions, but as Claymore fell into a daze of concentration, she spoke again. “What are we to do?”
“Bring me some wine,” he said. “I’ll be in the little parlor.”
She could only stare. His wife cut to shreds and bleeding all over the place, lying herself blue and peeling off on him the very day after the wedding, and he orders himself up a bottle of wine. Loony. The man had taken leave of his senses. She’d better get the wine, or he might become violent.
This taking of wine was not quite so cavalier a gesture as she supposed. Claymore’s mind was working furiously. It had many things to sort out, and he wished peace and quiet to do so. The little parlor was his thinking room. Chair tilted back, feet on the desk was his thinking posture, so that is how she found him a moment later when she brought the wine.
“Quite comfortable, my lord?” she asked in a voice of deep sarcasm. Having known him since he was breeched, she dared say what other menials would not.
“Shut the door when you go,” was her only reply. Claymore poured a glass, retilted his chair to a dangerous angle, closed his eyes, and sipped the madeira. He had wanted port or claret. This dashed stuff was sickeningly sweet. So, she had gone again. Where to this time? Rex? Hardly, after her last encounter with him. Taking the traveling carriage indicated a longish trip. Not, he was certain, to Somerset. She’d said she wouldn’t go, and he was fool enough to think she hadn’t meant it. Making up that Banbury story about his mama being ill, and having got a note from himself was all fudge, to deceive the servants. Wanted them to tell him where she was gone, so clearly she had gone off in another direction entirely.
He realized how little he knew his bride when he tried to think where she could possibly have gone. Doubtless she had many friends to whom she might run in this case, but he knew none of them. Only her family. If she hadn’t gone to one of her own sisters or to her home in Sussex, he was sunk. He hadn’t the faintest notion where to start looking. There were the Homberlys, too. She and Missie were chums. Might plan to join Mrs. Homberly and Missie at Bath; they were going to return there after the wedding. She knew his mama planned to go there though, and she went rigid at any mention of his mother. Probably not Bath. His possibilities quickly reduced themselves to three locations: the Siderows’, Tamesons’, or directly to her father’s house in Sussex.
He cringed in his boots to show up at the Siderows’ and ask if Ellie were there. God, what would they think? What could she possibly have told them to account for so unlikely a circumstance as leaving him the very day after their wedding? The embarrassment, the shame of it, made him writhe, and he felt a pronounced desire to have his wife’s white throat between his hands. He was mad enough to kill her. This tender thought called to mind the accident of which Mrs. Meecham had spoken. But he brushed it aside—stepped on a bit of glass very likely. It wouldn’t kill her. He took the ring box out of his pocket and admired the many-faceted stone, sitting majestically in Lady Teasdale’s setting. She wouldn’t have gone scooting off if she’d known this was waiting for her at home. Maybe he should have told her; he always seemed to do the wrong thing. No, dash it! Why should he have to bribe her with diamonds and riches? She was his wife. He opened the drawer and put the box inside the desk. He wouldn’t even give it to her for a while, that’d show her.
No matter how long he kept putting it off in this fashion, there still remained before him the humiliating job of going to Ellie’s family and confessing that she had left him. He heard some commotion in the hall, a deep voice, and he jumped up. Siderow must have brought her back! Thank God. He opened the door.
“Hallo, Clay,” Rex said, and ambled in. “Thought I’d drop by and see how you and Ellie’s making out. Got her back all right, did you?”
“Oh, it’s only you,” Clay said, disappointment visible on his drawn face.
“Who was you expecting?” Rex walked past Claymore and deposited his chubby frame in a chair. “I feel like the very devil today,” he continued, rubbing his eyes. “Too much wine at your wedding, that’s the trouble. That, and Ellie having me dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Where is she? Off catching up on her rest, I expect. Don’t call her on my account. Fancy she won’t want to receive me for a while.”
Clay slumped on to a sofa. “She’s not here,” he said.
“Good. Gone trotting over to Siderows’ to say goodbye to the family, I suppose? I came at a good time. How come you didn’t go with her? Ought to have, you know, Clay. Really ought to have gone the first time. No need to go every time, but today it seems to me you should have gone along for the looks of it.”
“I don’t know where she is. She’s run off on me again,” Clay admitted shamefacedly.
“Eh?” Rex jerked to attention, his little blue eyes fairly starting from their sockets. “You don’t mean it! You haven’t let her get away again. Deuce take it, Clay, you’ll have to mount a guard on that girl. Gone again.” He shook his head in amazement. “How come you ain’t out bringing her back?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Well, dash it, man, you can’t sit here slugging wine when your bride’s out careering all over town for all you know, making a show of the pair of you. Don’t know what you’re thinking about, sitting here moping.”
“I don’t think she’s careering around town. She took the traveling carriage, all loaded for a trip.”
“Hmph, that’s odd. Would she have gone on to Somerset, do you think?”
“No, I do not, though she would like me to think so.”
“Must have gone home then. To Sussex, I mean. Nowhere else she could have gone, is there?”
“I guess not,” Clay sighed. Just as the sigh was expiring, he was visited with a very face-saving idea. His eyes brightened, and he settled back, smiling fondly on his visitor. “Have a glass of wine,
Rex,” he said, and poured as he spoke.
“Huh, don’t mind if I do. Madeira, eh? Sweet, sticky stuff. Never could stand it,” he stated, just before tossing off the glass at a gulp.
“Yes, poor stuff,” Clay agreed, refilling his glass.
“Do
you know.
Rex, I am glad you came by. You’re the very chap to help me out a little.”
“Any time. Always glad to oblige a friend,” he said, sipping on the much-maligned madeira with apparent relish. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to make sure my wife is not with her family before I set out in pursuit. Perhaps you would be so kind as to call at the Siderows’—her parents and Wanda are staying there, too—and see if she is there. If she’s not, drop by the Tamesons’ and see if she is by any chance with them.”
“All right. I’ll do that. Come back here and let you know.”
“Thank you, Rex. Oh, and by the way, there is no point in giving them a fright. Don’t say you’ve been here first, or mention anything about her disappearance.”
“Oh, so that’s why you don’t want to go yourself? Can’t say I blame you. Must be a lowering thing to be so repulsive your wife can’t stand one night with you. I won’t say a word. Trust me. Can’t undertake to bring Ellie back, though. She wouldn’t come with me after this morning.”
“I’m not asking that. Just let me know if she’s there. You’d better get right along.”
“Ain’t finished this rotten wine yet.”
“Leave it.”
“Huh? What’s the rush? Didn’t see
you
bestirring yourself to find her. You know what, Clay, I think Ellie might have a point. You
do
use people.” On this defiant note he arose, finished the wine, and stomped from the room, feeling he had put Claymore in his place, for once.
Neither chastened nor repentant, Claymore went to the door with him, dictating orders all the way. “Don’t sit around chatting for half an hour, Rex, or stop for wine. Just nip in smartly and find out if she’s there, without letting on she’s gone. Can you remember all that?”
“Ain’t a complete dunce,” Rex replied. “Course I can. First Siderows’, then Tamesons’. Far as that goes, Tamesons’ is a waste of time. She won’t be there. Don’t care for Caroline above half. It’ll be Siderows’, or she’s dashed straight off to Sussex.”
“Go, anyway, just to be sure.”
“All right, all right. Your own fault. Don’t see why you couldn’t have got the poor soul a diamond ring.”
“Hurry!”
“I’m going!”
He went, finally. Claymore returned to his little parlor, but found himself unable to sit still, or to think coherently. Either she was there, with Joan or Caroline, or, she was not. He forced himself to concentrate. All right, so if she was there, he’d have to go, tail between his legs, and get her. They’d set out for Somerset immediately, without even waiting to hire a guard. If she wasn’t there— Siderows’ or Tamesons’—he’d assume she’d gone directly to Sussex, and have to go after her.
He’d take his curricle. They might enjoy driving in the open carriage if the good weather held up. Why were these irrelevant thoughts intruding at a time like this? Images of himself and Ellie, cutting along in the curricle with the sun in their faces and the wind in their hair. He recalled his curricle ride with Wanda, that fiasco that had turned him against her entirely, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. He had never ridden with Ellie—never done anything with her. And Rex said she was a bruising rider, too. Their curricle was replaced, in his mind, by a pair of bays, and they were dashing through fields, side by side, over hedges and ditches. Oh dammit, why couldn’t he concentrate? He had to get her back.
All right—one way or the other, he’d be traveling. Get ready then. His valet would have a light traveling case packed. Lord, he hadn’t even shaved, in his mad morning’s excitement. He dashed up to his room, made his preparations, got some money from the safe in the study, and was just coming into the hall when Homberly was admitted again.
“In here,” Clay said, and hustled
Rex into privacy before he opened his budget
.
“She ain’t there,” Rex said, coming right to the point for once. “Went to Siderows’ and Tamesons’, and she ain’t with either one. Hasn’t been there. Had my groom take a look around the stables, too, in case they was lying for her, and there was no sign of your carriage. She ain’t there.”
“Sussex then. I’d better get going.”
“I wonder. . . .” Homberly assumed his wise face, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.
“What, have you thought of something?”
“Thing is, Clay, I don’t see Ellie going back home. Besides her mama cutting up stiff—which she
would,
you know—there’d be Wanda’s taunting to put up with. All I can say is, she must have been awful desperate to go pitching herself into that cauldron.”
“But where else could she be?”
“Your place. Somerset.”
“No, I’m convinced she’s not gone there. She always pokered up at any mention of my mother. Besides, she’s
left
me; she wouldn’t go to
my
house, would she?”
“No, but I can’t see her going to hers either. She was always wonderful close with my sister. Used to talk of going on the stage together. Was going to pretend they was sisters. Just foolish child’s talk, of course, but . . .”
“You are not seriously saying you think my wife plans to go on the stage!”
“No, but she might have gone to Bath with Mama and Missie. They left about an hour ago, before I came here. I was there to see ‘em off.”
“Well, was my wife with them?”
“No. No, I’d have told you if she was, but she might have been planning to meet ‘em along the way.”
“I don’t think so. Mama will be going there. I told you, my wife is afraid of her.”
Rex was frowning at Claymore, an intent spark in his blue eyes. “That’s three times you’ve said it inside of a minute.”
“Said what?”
“My wife.”
“Well, what of it?
We are discussing my wife; why should I not use her name?”
“You never do, though, use her name. You always say ‘my wife.’ Slides off your tongue as easy as if you’d been married a decade. I should think it’d take you a while to get used to it.”
“No, I am used to it already.” He stood a moment considering this speech. He was not at all used to it, of course; how could he be when to all intents and purposes he was not married, did not have a wife? It was only the frequent and repeated uttering of the mystical words “my wife” that brought any feeling of reality to that charade that had been performed at St. George’s.